Sweating out booze in a cardigan sweater. If that isn’t my weekday aesthetic, I don’t know what is. I’m not about to lie. I’ve been both working hard and hardly working since I accidentally moved to New Orleans two weeks ago (long story). Even scarier than the fact that they actually let me out of Baltimore is the fact that I’m actually happy. NOLA’s been nothing short of amazing to me and I don’t know what the fuck I did to deserve it. I got a place in a matter of hours and a no bullshit job in a matter of days. My roommates are lovely, I met Daddy on Monday, and I had a dude give me a free tat (and it was, like, not in kitchen and his name wasn’t Booboo, Pooky, or Crocket). No, seriously, I’m fucking suspicious. I need something to go wrong because otherwise I’m just going to start assuming I’ll be waking back up in Bmore to the sound of the roof of my trap house finally caving in.
But, I guess if I had to pinpoint one hardship it’s that the grind hard-run the streets harder lifestyle I’ve come to adopt has caused me to become negligent towards the quieter aspects of life that are low key just as important as the loud. Yano, like sleeping. Finding the top to your phone charger. Handwashing the delicates. Not going to bed with a family sized bag of Chex Mix. Is that with the Self Care movement is? Or does that involve eating a quarter pound of fair trade cacao in a bathtub? I’m still not too sure. But what I do know is that I only made it 1.5 bands in at last night’s show before I started nodding off right there in the middle of Siberia, just to follow up by shitting dead out in the Uber home. If that isn’t my weeknight aesthetic, I don’t know what is.
So, what I’m trying to say on this mellow night that I’m forcing myself to take out on this charmingly malarial Starbucks veranda is that my mind is floating in an exhaustion sack and I haven’t prepared any dope interviews or show writeups this week. Further, I think my relationship with writing is going to change now that I’m not cripplingly miserable and desperate for escape. It’s going to be an adjustment. But, in the meantime, I don’t want to leave you, the DIAG fam, or myself hanging.
For those of you who aren’t aware, YouTube is fucking dying, partly because it got too meta for its own good, and partly because Google implemented all of these whack new policies which label any kind of content of substance as being unfriendly to advertisers. In any event, all of these former all-star creators are either disillusioned with money and fame or are hemorrhaging money and fame, leading to a slew of spacey videos “explaining” why their content has been lacking in quantity or quality.
And that’s my worst fear creatively. Well, not the fame part obviously. I ain’t Jenna Marbles. But in terms of cramping up and tapering off…losing touch with something I love and have invested so much in. Fortunately, there was a gem in the comment section in one of these tragic vlogs that’s helped me combat some of my paranoia. It was a Stephen King quote, the gist being that inspiration is for pussies. You just have to get into your stride and keep producing. And so, that’s what I’m doing. Just after a few paragraphs, I feel like I’m relearning my rhythm, and that’s pretty cool.
So, I’d like to use my remaining time this week to share two new fixtures in my life because the underratedness is too real. The first is the new Lil Peep banger Benz Truck, pun intended. You either fuck with Peep hard or you got a problem. For me, it’s the former. As I’ve casually mentioned over the course of the past couple months, I’ve become a big fan of his ilk. Sad boy, or whatever you want to label it is. Goth trap on syrup would be another shorthand. Again, you either get it or you don’t, but I still encourage you to give it a chance nevertheless, because hey, if this shit appeals to a Xasthur hipsthur like myself, it might just speak to you, too. Still, I’ve been hesitant about speaking more about Peep and his colleagues out of fear that they’re not on-brand enough for a metal readership. But then again, you weren’t a trill scene kid if you don’t nut to Smrtdeath dropping rhymes over a Silverstein sample. Go ahead and peep that Jack Skeleton shirt. The other is a beauty mark in the sea of blemishes that is Netlix’s oversaturated crime doc collection — Occult Crimes, or the program the world has been waiting for. It’s a so bad it’s good situation, pure blundering informative murder porn that links kids being lured into Satanism to unresolved Freudian trauma. Overall, it’s a journey best comparable to that video of the girl who can’t stop tripping at the movies. The season starts out on a somewhat respectable note, exploring a false Mormon idol and brujeria in Mexico. But there must have been a ratings spike about three episodes in when it first introduces the concept of gothic cultures, as things take a stark and recurring tumble down the fear-mongering Satanism PSA stairway to Hot Topic and Clamato juice like a goddamned episode of Geraldo. Much like Peep’s goth boy clique, Occult’s alleged epidemic of goth kid blood play is the tbt I signed up for, and I really find it necessary to initiate a dialogu. It’s kind of mind-blowing how the topic of goth kids in this decade can be approached with such different levels of self-awareness. On a scale of New Balance 608V4 to vaporwave house show, Benz Truck and Occult Crimes are definitely working to hold up their respective bookends. Peep is gratuitously flexing his daddy tat on top of a grave while Occult explains how the Ripper Crew, notorious for titty wound fucking, “couldn’t penetrate the Asian girl’s breast because it was too small.” Hello, what is tone? But whether it’s intelligently trying to be silly or sillily trying to be intelligent, I appreciate Peep and Occult’s contributions nevertheless. Insight to consider, and nostalgia to hold on to. Together, two halves make a rad whole ~coffin emoji~
And as always, for y’all still readin, thank you.