...I know it looks like it's all "Ooh, he's Mr. Eclectic - what a complete pretentious bastard!" (as I've been called. Thanks, mom), but it's only because I'm genre-agnostic and have no refined taste at all that I like everything as much as I do.
If I really wanted to impress anyone here, I'd post a photo of my celebrity-nosehair collection. Rihanna's is guarded by the lasers.

An excerpt from "vonFrankenstein - A Very Special Autobiography" (cont'd from pg. 236)

...as they were grey and pasty and tasted nothing like Crab Rangoon. For this transgression, the priest had to die. It was that simple and the girls were quick to agree with me.
Perhaps a little too quick.

A week after these events I turned 10 years old, an anniversary made all the more remarkable when I found my older-by-nine-years brother's record collection in the soiled and beaten metal trash bins out by the wooden shed in the far southeastern corner behind the house.
I was removing some extraneous material from the lower depths of the household and almost covered the audiophilic abundance in human-unfriendly waste-product when I stopped, releasing my grasp from the double-sealed container with absolutely no regard for what happened to the ground (or to whomever would traipse unwittingly across the gory puddle) should the enclosure become ruptured in the fall, and peered over the edge at the cardboard-and-vinyl riches laying haphazard and forgotten at the rank bottom of the biohazardous shell.
(The year was Nineteen Hundred and... something, and I was on the breaking edge of new and unfamiliar ground.)
Slowly, I leant forward in an attempt to retrieve the pellumularated plunderage and allowed the rim to cut into my belly - a small price to pay for what must surely be a gift from the Elders, and, looking back in awe at the entire episode, realized it was the first destiny-riddled sign of what was to eventually be - as I struggled with the largest payload my arms could handle and then properly navigate from the strict and grease-laden confines of that abhorrant structure.
Shaken and feverish with giddy delight, skin rent from my finger- and elbow-joints, I withdrew from that pit with pure ignorance of the forces suddenly around me. A shuffle of foreign feet, a quick rustle of overcoat, and I seemed to fall backward softly into the embrace of unconsciousness.

"Yeah? Well, what'ja get?", Little K said to vonFrankie over the line from about a quarter-mile away. You could tell he was just humoring his pal and not exactly interested - just a pre-teen way of near-familial politeness to get to the point and get off the phone and back to his damn Colecovision. Surely the thing could only be on 'pause' for so long until smoke or sparks started pouring out of the console.
"Well...", and vonFrank paused with immaculate timing, something he had honed to his best-pal's chagrin to near-perfection in their short-yet-ageless friendship.
"Lemme see. I got some Who, some Led Zepp'lin, I gotta buncha Alice Cooper... hmm, Rollin' Stones, oh a pile of Aerosmith... what the hell's an aero-smith? Huh. I got a Joe Walsh, an' some Black Sabbath - but I dunno if my mom's gonna let me keep those...".
Little K bit his nails and stared vacantly and dust-eyed at a point somewhere between his just-starting-to-realize-acne face and his mother's crochet plant-holder at the foot of the slightly-twisted stairway. Somewhere in another room Donkey Kong was growing impatient.
"Wow, that's cool. Maybe I'll come by tomorrow after school and look atem."
"Yeah! I..."
"What!? Oh, sorry - my mom's calling me for supper... I'lltalktoyalater,bye!"
"Meatlo...?"
VonFrankie never got the oaf out of his mouth.
Little K had slyly put an act on as if his mother really HAD called his presence to the TV-room for eats. It was a ruse well-played, for he had gotten rid of his pesky buddy's annoying banter (something he stopped only for a second to feel guilty about) and then literally bolted down the avocado-shag steps, around the corner and into the playroom, avoiding the forgotten crayons and art-supplies and nimbly dodging the deflated-as-if-by-grief basketball and football and other normally-active-childhood detritus and slid into home base, game-paddle in its molded-in position in his hands before he even lost any momentum.
His best friend and his records would always be there. Mario would not.

As the barrels rolled forth, vonFrank still clutched the avocado-hued Princess telephone-receiver to his ear, once again denied the knowledge as to whether his friend was having meatloaf - that delicacy he only savoured once a month, mouth-watering fumes emanating from within the avocado-greenoven, and quested unendingly for with a "Mom! Can I go have supper at K's house? Pleeeeze!", which was always answered not by a nurturing human voice, but by the sharp crackle of a taser-gun."

Photos of stuff I've seen are here; http://cliqueofone.deviantart.com/ and here.

Personal library: https://www.goodreads.com/review/list/38427877?shelf=read




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