Get a used small electronic drum set. Drumming is so f***in fun

oh damn I never played those

It's a good workout

Get an electronic kit with a way to connect to your phone charging port and you can play along with anything

new user who this??

I was here in 2019 and then another time at some point before that

RIP Cormac McCarthy. My absolute, indisputable GOAT

Ahh damn RIP

Sick drumming gets me ing just as much as riffs do

This is why I love Zach hill to death

damn RIP the last great American author

Condolences

No Pynchon?

You read any of the big Pynchons? I liked Inherent Vice and Crying of Lot 49 but I feel like his longer books would irreparably damage my brain

Ellroy still kicking

Looking at my copy of V right now but haven't read it yet

too deep into this dadcore Genghis Khan series rn

I didn’t mean it to sound official but Cormac was probably my fav author. As for Pynchon I only read IV which I know is light but his style isn’t really me. Idk maybe I’ll dig deeper one day.

Yeah I probably won't finish Tears of the Kingdom Team Cherry need to get their s*** straight, I need Silksong by years end

As much as I'm living the new Squid I don't think I'd take it over the Wednesday album this year

God the first page of Gravity's Rainbow is so :chefskiss:

Should I watch von Triers Europe trilogy in order? @Aruji or can i kinda do it however

I'm just learning this. This is devastating. He had a lot more in him. Thank god he finished his last 2 novels. Most devastating news since Toni Morrison. I'll miss saying he's my favorite living author

Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.

They were watching, out there past men's knowing, where stars are drowning and whales ferry their vast souls through the black and seamless sea.

In the dawn there is a man progressing over the plain by means of holes which he is making in the ground. He uses an implement with two handles and he chucks it into the hole and he enkindles the stone in the hole with his steel hole by hole striking the fire out of the rocks which God has put there. On the plain behind him are the wanderers in search of bones and those who do not search and they move haltingly in the light like mechanisms whose movements are monitored with escapement and pallet so that they appear restrained by a prudence or reflectiveness which has no inner reality and they cross in their progress one by one that track of holes that runs to the rim of the visible ground and which seems less the pursuit of some continuance than the verification of a principle, a validation of sequence and causality as if each round and perfect hole owed its existence to the one before it there on that prairie upon which are the bones and the gatherers of bones and those who do not gather. He strikes fire in the hole and draws out his steel. Then they all move on again.

Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.