I AM AN APE MAN

By Xanadu Xero


***** ***** *****


SCIENCE SECTION, 4/29/08, NEW YORK TIMES: (This Tuesday truffle is my favorite pretentious, biased morning coffee reading. The Thursday Home Section, licking the clit of my inner JAPinista, nips its heels at a close clip.)

Lead article, Queen Size headlines, by William J. Broad (who I'm pretty sure ain't Billy Idol.)

INSIDE AN ENIGMA
Is Iran's nuclear program peaceful or not?

NIGGA, PLEASE!

I, Xanadizzle - faux Negro, activist manque, menopausal mutant, college drop-out - cannot even dimly feign The Last Word in Sophistication... yet EVEN I look at your words, Willy, and think:

Are you a fucking moron?

Or maybe just astoundingly naive? An Ivy League Dwight Schrute, perhaps? A Pulitzer Panel tochis leker? Or just MAYBE... you are influenced by 'forces' you don't know about, ergo cannot understand?

Might your (you're a metaphor, Willy, chill) dunder-head kinder 'tude have been caibrated so subtly, surreptitiously subconsciously by...

*THE POWERS THAT BE*

...that you don't have a clue you've been had? Were you slipped that special Rohypnol, custom made for vainglorious big shots - MK ULTRA? (No, it's not Ashley Olsen. Look it up.)

And if none of the above apply, William, why, pray tell, does The Fourth Estate consistently eschew... the obvious?

* * * * * *

Apeman
(By The Kinks)

I think I'm sophisticated
'Cos I'm living my life like a good homosapien
But all around me everybody's multiplying
'Till they're walking 'round like flies man
So I'm no better that the animals sitting in their cages
In the zoo, man
'Cos compared to the flowers and the birds and the trees
I am an ape man.

* * * * * *

It is and will be useless, now and forever ('forever' ending perhaps by 2800 A.D. when Asteroid 1950DA is due to whup our collective ass so hard it squirts out our collective snout. Hey - 'asSterHoid haha) to discuss Iran's "nuclear program" as its own topic, because, ladies and germs - it's not about Iran.

It's about MAN. Men. Homosapiens. Homos. And Chicks. We are arrogant and deluded. We are Ape-Adjacent. And at this rate, not long for this earth - think KABOOOM or, what would be my max hell: gasping for breath forfuckingEVER as we all watch ourselves die like Harriett Andersson in Cries and Whispers (Harriett: "CCCHHHRAAAHHHAAAUUUGGGHHH!") There's just no other way to put it.

We're grandiose, but so far, really, we're a blow and go species. We are conceited AND unimportant (below earthworms, on par with The Real Housewives of New York) in advancing this planet in any direction, even towards destruction.

We are not destroying, and will not destroy, The Earth.
No, no, no.
We are too stupid.
We say "Our Earth." IT'S FUCKING NOT OUR EARTH.

Do we think we, like, own it because we're the most larcenous species (pistol-whip globe, steal wallet?) We think we 'conquered' the whole thing (not even!) so we can fuck it in any hole any pervy way we want to?

Ooo us Humans b so blingin' fly we can DNA puree our own ass if it strike r edjukated fancy, yo!

HOW LAME IS THAT? This is the Family Of Man? Ugh! We're hideous!

Remember, passivity is assent, not ascent.

We'll soon be puerile and putrid if we don't wise up, but instead of dying from the dust of an asteroid hit, WE will - us Biiig Ballas, like a frickin' Will Ferrell flop - die from the dust of the 'asteroids' WE BUILT OURSELVES and hurled upon OURSELVES, ON PURPOSE OF OUR OWN FREE WILL!

The Earth will shrug us off like horseflies, shudder and regenerate. Get real.

Is humanity one big horny, drunk, hazing, barfing Delta House luau? SIGNS POINT TO YES! says the 8 Ball!

We refuse to acknowledge our beeline to looming demise. Such Victoriana! We talk about "The Earth", a euphemism, like "The Ladies' Room." We do not say "Excuse me, Mr. President, I'm going to go fart and shit" or "Yeah, I'm giving my kids the water I poisoned myself because the money was worth it to me. I don't really care about my grandchildren's lives. I mean, I'll be DEAD. They'll be more advanced then. Let the little fucks figure it out for themselves."

We crash and burn hours each day of our finite, fragile lives OCD-ing our tepid vaudeville routines and OD-ing on them, and we know it, and we know we're killing ourselves, and we change nothing. And worse, we don't even enjoy life this way.

Quite a South Park reflection for Narcissus to see in the pond.

* * * * *

END OF PART ONE

(Please check back next week for the meat course. And thank you for being here.)

WILL WORK FOR PORN

By Xanadu Xero


***** ***** *****


I’ve lurched through my days out-of-phase lately, way over my median peculiarity. My memories seem to have collapsed into compressed files, nano-nuggets. No, not even ‘nuggets’, more like real collapsed files. Well, ‘real’ on here, the computer, which is only real sorta.

“Where IS cyberspace?” I have learned to stop asking, because replies made me yearn to be sociopathic and armed. They were, mostly a. a deigning, phlegmy snort, b. akin to: “Its ENERGY through WIRES. Duh.” Or c. (smug:) “I’m an artist.”

Very few of us who virtually (ha) live our lives online understand a fucking thing about it. We were all like chimps when we first laid eyes on the Web. I remember. Our eyes widened, mouths puckering to O-s, Flintstone style, as we jumped, screeching: ”LOOKY! PICTURES-AND-WORDS-IN-BOX!” Then of course we got pissed that we had to learn stuff to use it and then we were pissed that we had to fucking use it all the time.

That inelegant start doesn’t begin to compare, however, to how inane we have been since we aced those skills.

Ladies and Gentlemen and Gender Neutral of the jury: Did we, the privileged First World, take the Internet, this de facto MIRACLE, fragrant fruit of efficiency, this tool of planet-wide connection and simultaneous experience, of zeitgeist control, wrought by our own (SUCH PRIDE!) human ingenuity…

Did we take this miracle and honor mankind, hearts akimbo, hands fused to manifest, concretely, THE DREAM of Jesus and Buddha, of stage and screen, of Dr., Rodney and Larry King … the Dream Of Pandemic Bliss and World Peace and John Lennon Pure Brotherly Love?

Did we use our new SOTA custom twelve-gage magic wand to galvanize Our Brothers = Ourselves = All Of Humanity…

AWAKE?

Did we use it To Shift The Oppressive Paternal Paradigm, to love'n'laugh the Aquarian Age…

ALIVE?

Did we drop our bitty bent pecker ‘tudes and bust ass to ascend for the CHILDREN? Don’t we love The Children? All The Children Of The World? Wouldn’t we die to protect their FUTURE? Aren’t we All One OOOOOOOOOOMMM? Isn’t that THE WILL OF GOD or Wise Aliens or The Prime Directive or Yoda or your lefty mom or (Insert Pagan Diety)?

Did WE THE PEOPLE commandeer the Internet, that frisky filly, use our human ingenuity yet again to organize and ACT and ride off into a collectively calibrated sunset?

Fuck no.

We used it for porn. “Black on Blonde”. “Piss Party”. “Donkey Dong”, “Stoned, Slutty, Screaming and Sodomized” can all be, anytime, your personal bitches, panting for you at the TIPS of your fingers 24/7! It’s Awesome! No more driving or stupid clerks and you never know who the clerks are. Shit, you can jerk off at work if you’re quiet!

* * *

I used to be ashamed to be white sometimes, but now I’m rather mortified to be a Homosapien at all, and believe you me, I’m no homo.

IS THIS REAL WORLD OR IS IT EXERCISE?

by Xanadu Xero


“The hard part of science is finding the right questions."
--Max Tegmark, MIT Physicist


***** ***** *****


Waterboarding. Banzai!

Sounds like a kicky, kooky, cool new summer surf thang, yo!

"Surf's Up! Dudes - grab your waterboards! The big mama is mackin' some gnarly grinders!"

I hear the words ‘water’ and ‘board’ entwined and my brain quantum pops me – ZZZAP! - by rote back to Malibu, August, high noon. I’m fifteen, on a frayed Ziggy Stardust towel, scarfing a BLT.

Waterboard - it’s a friendly word (“He’s soooo cute! I met him Boarding!”) Leave it to English to tie ‘torture’ with such toothsome tortes. I say “waterboard”, and nothing alarming shoots through me. Nothing pulses or races or drains from my face. My thoughts move on.

Words, like mushrooms, absorb the flavor of what else is in the pan… and “torture”, my countrymen, has simmered with sugar for countless moons.

‘Torture’ is bi-tex(t)ual - ‘exquisite’, for instance, if one is grinding whoo-hoos with a hot hunk or ho. That stabs its guts out right there, don’t you think? Turning a word for mutilation, pain, fear and death into a word for pre-orgasmic lust?

Extreme Makeover, Abomination Edition!

We’ve all known lust, oh yeah, and think of it fondly, often skidding past all sense to do so. Visions of lust are way more ambrosial than pondering buzz kills like, say, beatings with pipes, simulated drowning, or power drills up the rectums of near-children. To most.

Wouldn’t the busy brain circuits of the modern sophisticate - so overworked juggling work, home, social life and whatnot – wouldn’t they rather default that thick belfry file ‘torture’ to a folder that’s ruttish and moist, not so, you know, icky?

Well, of course they would!

The Torture Garden is the name of a chic, international fetish club. How cool is that? Cutting edge (haha.) They probably serve absinthe!

More great news is that even those of us too principled to sexualize words for mutilation and/or life-shredding agony – good people - don’t have to feel guilt or pain either. We can just bleach a few of them hot potatoes in the old subconscious and we too can board the Novocain train.

Our all-heart animas simply geld ‘torture’ by injecting it into such bathetic whining as “That chlorine, like, tortured my hair!” No perv stuff whatsoever.

"The Bush administration renewed its call for a constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage. So I guess they feel the only time that guys should be on top of each other naked is in an Iraqi prison." —Jay Leno

What a SCREAM, that Jay – a nice, thinking liberal! Worth every cent of his mucho mazuma to help The American People process the toxins of our collective global misdeeds before sleepytime. Otherwise, nightmares, sleepwalking, dybbuks – who knows?

There are some Melvins like me who want to sustain our fury for malfeasance on this earth, but Lord, it ain’t easy. Take this dizzy quote from the film Borat:

“Torture is universally condemned, and whatever its actual practice, no country publicly supports torture or opposes its eradication.”

Whoops – no, not Borat, I think it’s from Mad TV. Oh, wait, no – it’s from the Human Rights Watch website, big frickin’ article: “The Legal Prohibition Against Torture”. Catchy title. But clearly untrue.

My loving Mommyland (Land Of Free/Home Of Brave) would never participate in illegal torture. Ergo, whatever we do as a nation must be legal, right?

What does ‘illegal’ mean anyway? It’s “illegal” to throw pickle juice on a trolley in Rhode Island. It’s ‘illegal’ to have oral sex in Tennessee. If there are more than five Native Americans on your property in South Dakota, legally, for heck’s sake - you can shoot ‘em!

Whoa... I’m ZZZaping back to second grade now - L.A., pre-smog - at Westlake School For Girls. The ‘air raid’ sirens scream through the intercom, prompting “drills” lest the Commies try to bomb us to tarnation - “try” being the operative word. Little do they know
that in the U.S. of A, even WE, the Debutantes of Tomorrow, are crack-trained, with Swiss precision, in contra-bomb defense. This is the First World, Khrushchev, baby! Lenin ain’t embalmed sitting in no casket here!

We lunge under our desks, head to knees, interlaced fingers protecting our necks. We know, because we’re told, that with this method we’ll be safe.

Is waterboarding ‘torture’?

“Are you telling me the man who try to put a rubber fist in my anus was a homosexual?” asked the Human Rights Watch website - I mean, Borat.

A Torture Bill Haiku:

The Constitution
Was cast aside by Congress.
Hideous corpus!

But that’s just some nutball’s take. Forget it. Maybe we should debate this some more. Let’s not jump to conclusions.

"THE FINER THINGS" CLUB * Quietus of 'MAKE ME A SUPERMODEL'

By Xanadu Xero


***** ***** *****


This is about the finale of MAKE ME A SUPERMODEL, but first, a little detour.

Since I got me that free as fuck Ego E-Meter (Hair's too short, Katie. I hate to say it, but you ARE looking scary) - Sitemeter - I realize that I can absolutely drive traffic to the ol' farm here when I work real hard at my Slacker's Armchair Guerilla People's Marketing System (posting triple-milled dance-y snippets, honed-ish, rant-y letters on VOX POPULI news sites to provoke and stand out, planting this "addy" as well (as the too many "bohemian", flatulent, oily, dandrufficus English I've had to endure would say, or rather, spit.)

It's like, bamma, of course, but it's kind of great too because I don't ever invent my umbrage, it's organic. I simply choose to react to the articles that bring it out, so that the dander upping is absolutely real.

The only 'phony, striver' part of this is that I calculate what to respond to. Really, the phoniest part is that I write comments at all. Who gives a fuck what some slag mewls who's brain is more bilious than mine, but who's (sarcastic here:) AMBITIOUS. AMBIIII-TIOUS. Oooooh - Priests of God's work on earth. I usually don't read much of that. I have my own stupid thoughts. But, since I am reading it, yeah, it's pissing me off.

All this to announce that I'm going to do whatever the fuck I want here, say whatever I want - even if my ten readers a day (here by mistake) don't like it. I've tried to conform, I've tried to wedge my nose up that Zeitgeist/Bank Continuum's butt, but (haha) clearly, I cannot. I'm ambition autistic. Hrundi V. Bakshi at the First World's par-taay, and my name ain't on the list.

So now, since I'm half a corpse I'm so old - what the fuck. Viewer Discretion Is Advised. As St. Trent of NIN would say: "Nothing Can Stop Me Now Cause I Don't Care Anymore." (Yes I AM feeling operatically adolescent. So?)

I didn't get anywhere near SUPERMODEL, dammit, and I'm tired. And I have a lot to say. But I'll say this now:

When Ben opened the door and saw April's face, Jesus F. Christ I guffawed so hard I blast back in my bed. Bitch puts the 'Ape' in April! One word: Madeleine Kahn.

When she simped, "Oh Ben, I'm ready for everything to be normal again, aren't you?" I thought: Fuckin' A, man, it's good to be alive - This Is First Class TV.

BDSM: Is It Sex... Or Is It Confusion?

by Xanadu Xero

***** ***** *****

A part of all Sensation Play is, of course, sheerly sexual. For those drawn to it only by that, the Libertine Glitterati, here’s your quickie:

Q: When is it “Adventure” and not “Abuse”?
A: When you daydream about it, swooning. Duh.

Now, for the rest of us, the epicurean, slow-hand, hedo(nist)heads who make a lush life, don’t ‘find’ or buy it… (Barry White voice:) I will unfold the petals of that flower.

*The Myth About Dominance*

The myth about dominance… is that it is established most effectively by struggle and violence, bruising the term “dominant” with a sinister smack.

That is incorrect.

“In reality, the leader of a social group – canine, human or mixed,” writes Pat Miller, a dog trainer for thirty-five years, “is the one who controls the others’ access to resources they want.” And yet savagery usually occurs, even in wolf groups, only between territorial strangers. As for leadership, “This is ideally done with benevolence rather than violence.”*

Half of us bipeds – the penis bearing half - admit they’re dogs. I say that shows the kind of guts that the rest of us should stockpile. And, lest the clit comporting flinch at my riposte, ladies, remember why dogs are ‘man’s best friend’ - they communicate, profoundly, without words.

Men think women talk too much (WHAT?) and yearn for us to share their less verbal style. And chicks inevitably grow up wanting a Disney Prince archetype we don’t ‘have’ to talk to, who, psychically, buys just the right gifts, reads our eyes and knows our soul.

But really, aren’t those two dreams the same thing, Venus and Mars style? Aren’t both sexes just saying that we crave to be known and accepted in a place of trust for everything we are – flawed, refined, lovely and unlovely, both in 3-D life and on subconscious levels too?

"Without a real urge to submit, there is no way to truly feel what a submissive feels." --Unknown

There are things in the realm of human experience that the English language won’t design words for, or can’t. The term “bondage”, for instance, was plucked from a context of spiritual death, and it’s uphill to try and express its consequences, psychically, spiritually and emotionally, beyond the generic “sub space.” What is in there? What can be?

This is where trust gets so erotic. When we trust our partner, we can forge a Sexual Temporary Autonomous Zone (STAZ) – turf in and outside our brains that “eludes formal structures of control.,, releasing one’s mind from the mechanisms (of society) that have been imposed upon it.”**

In other words, a ‘place’ where Anything Goes, but with a twist: no fear. Complete abandon without fear is pretty damn spectacular. That is what separates a healthy “urge to submit” from an unsound one.

Once dancing with my boyfriend I tripped backwards, dorky, flailing towards craggy concrete. I remember thinking, “I wonder what he’ll do?” What he did was dive to wrap his arms around my spine and head and take the blow himself.

That, compadres, money shot a freaking wad of rainbows into our sex life. My defenses began to chillax and twitter sweetly. Now, two years later, those defenses are ghosts. We have been on some piebald, off-road sexual safaris, but I know that, literally and figuratively, he will always have my back.

Limits and tastes vary with BDSM/Sensation Play, like anything else. The first time I was flogged (and by a master, may I say) I was deep into the concept of ‘subservience’, but really, the percussive leather felt like a warm, breezy rain. It didn’t register as ‘pain’ to me. Another person might have crumbled, and still another might have sought more force.

My first flogging practice as a domme was on a buff ex-Marine Ken Doll twenty years my junior who told me to “go full out.” With one lash he was on the floor, fetal position, howling. While I will admit to a highly unevolved split second ping of “Wow! I got this rooster to collapse!” I was completely remiss.

As the ‘top’ I was responsible for his experience. I should have learned before any interaction what “full out” meant to him, and worked from his mindset, not mine. If he had yearned to be floor-bound, wailing, and I itched to put him there, that would have been cool, but I didn’t know. Ignorance is wrong – unless it’s consensual. And every scene needs to have a ‘safe’ word that pulls the brakes.

We are animals; ape-adjacent, driven by forces we don’t understand which can blend in our primal mind – violence to lust, for example, and vice versa. But we’re also humans with heart, and the power of reason. BDSM can be a luscious way to merge Our Two Selves and satisfy both.

Plus, as any wanton adventurer knows… Once you’ve been a pickle, you can never be a cucumber again.


***** ***** *****

* “Forget Being The Dominant Leader Of Your Canine Pack”
by Pat Miller, Your Dog Magazine, January, 2008

** “Temporary Autonomous Zone”, definition from Wikipedia

Dr. Strangelove: The Notorious Laura Schlessinger

* * * * *

Dr. Strangelove: The Notorious Laura Schlessinger

by Xanadu Xero

Of course I had to see Dr. Laura’s naked pictures the micro-trice they hit the Net.

I tore over to my friend Master Geek Zack’s sty, I mean apartment. Zack’s appetite for poor taste exceeds mine, a fair feat. I was still recovering from our last playdate, a mind-meld over an Icelandic website starring elderly nuns, a crucifix, vegetables and farm fauna.

I remember kicking through take-out remains as I surged to Zack’s computer. Some porn was already on there, its caliber matching his housekeeping skills. An aging cheerleader type was aerating the pink on a white shag carpet by an unmade bed.

“Ugh,” I said. “You’ve got problems, dude. Where’s Dr. Laura?”

“That is Dr. Laura.”

Zack clicked through the whole, um, spread, guffawing along the way. I was, truly, nonplussed. I had expected a midnight cable kind of thing — chiaroscuro silhouettes by gauzy curtains, come-hither smiles, legs coyly draped.

Instead, I saw Hoochie Mama in gruesome prison yard light, flaming the goods. If she wasn’t loaded, I run Baptist bake sales.
And, on a personal note, I hope that somewhere in the subsequent years, Dr. Schlessinger, half Italian, has embraced the bikini wax.

My relationship with Laura has been complex. In days of old I had to drive a lot, and I’d flip between her show and Dr. Toni Grant’s. Dr. Toni was another radio shrink who had a sexy voice and did cool stuff like suggest bored couples take up tantra. Grant is actually a clinical psychologist, while Schlessinger’s PhD is in… physiology.

That means frick-all in/of itself as some of the world’s most thorough dopes have big degrees in their ‘field’ — and Laura’s no dope. In point of fact, it is her brave, incisive mind, coupled with its weirdo turns, its bait-and-switch, that intrigues me.

No one is better than Dr. Laura at swatting mosquitoes of self-indulgence, our country’s scourge. I feel the thrill of hockey fans at a brawl when she says things like, “You don’t have a drinking problem… you have a character problem.” I love to hear her dismember deadbeat dads, ‘Christians’ sliming in the name of God, whiners playing ‘victim.’ When she booms, “Its none of your business,” to snooty numbnuts, happy chills trill down my spine.

Yet, like another doctor — Hannibal Lecter — she can turn on a dime.

“No. DON’T get your nose fixed.” I remember her browbeating a sad girl who clearly had a mega-honker. “God gave you that nose. Wear it with pride.” Gosh, did God turn Laura’s hair blonde? Powder her lids with Fawn Taupe? Does He fly her to work? Did He tie her tubes so that she could enjoy, pregnancy free, her vast knowledge of physiology? Did he then untie them so that she could make The Kid who’s Mom she so fervently is?

Sometimes, when Dr. Laura is in what I call ‘Mood Disorder Mode,’ I crave a Vicodin. I’ve got to station-bail, anywhere, even into the flabby arms of NPR. She can get like a tweaked-out gang banger mid-binge. Even though Dr. L ‘devotes her life’ to the ‘welfare of children,’ woe betide the kid who gets on her air in this head space.

“My mommy and daddy got divorced and my mommy moved away and now I don’t see her anymore and I miss her,” says some small, scared child. I’ve heard this, in myriad variations, a zillion times.

“Well, that’s what happens when people don’t honor the covenant of marriage” Dr. Laura will bark. Now there’s a helpful comment. “Call your mom and tell her how you feel.” Why of course! Something easy for an eight year old to do, and sure to bring results!

Another five star M.D.M. fave is The Meek Broad Sex Call. A young matron, audibly trembling, stammers something like, “I… I just never want to have sex with my husband...”

Something snaps in Dr. L. She amps up to Feral. Her voice dilates slowly, eventually choking the stratosphere.

“Well, dear, he doesn’t want to take out the garbage, but he does it, right?? You have a WIFELY DUTY! DON’T YOU LIKE TO HAVE AN ORGASM???

Earth to Dr. Laura: If a woman never wants to have sex, she can’t have an orgasm. And no doubt she’s married to #1 Coors fan, Minute Man Mike.

When Dr. L called gay people “a biological mistake,” I didn’t have a cow. She’s as entitled (under our battered first amendment) to spout her creed just like Howard Stern. One, allegedly, can use one’s brain to consider the source. It’s the death of independent thought that’s the problem, not what one highly strung Piece of Work says.

More witless is what that Piece of Work does.

Laura gets all unctuous when she talks about (trumpets, please) the Dr. Laura Foundation. The Foundation’s purpose is to provide what she calls ‘My Stuff’ bags, with teddy bears, blankies, etc. for ‘abused and neglected children’ who have been taken from bad homes, to be put into worse, by Child Protective Services.

A nice cause. Not on par with finding loving parents for all the abused, neglected and abandoned children from women she insists made the “right moral choice” not to abort… but nice.

The maggoty truth, however, is that despite the grandiose name, the Dr. Laura Foundation is not funded by Dr. Laura. Ms. On High pickpockets the dough from her badgered listeners — mostly exhausted underdogs who slave to stay middle class.

Schlessinger is worth at least a hundred million. She laments that while the Foundation provided 50,000 bags in 2003, “I’m sad to tell you that we’ve only begun to scratch the surface of need… 300,000 children must be rescued from their homes each year.”

Well Jesus H., lady, sell those planet size diamonds you wear — thanks to your fortune built from others’ pain — and you can ‘My Stuff’ all twelve fucking dimensions!

Laura hates ‘feminism’ but by 99 percent of its varied definitions she’s the Grand Lodge Poobah, for better and worse. She is independent and unstoppable. She lives life on her own high testosterone terms. While she was out slaying dragons and dragging them home, her milder hubby watched The Kid, who has her last name, not his.

She imposes a quirky, despotic, agenda-laden template on others’ minds, while accusing ‘feminists’ of doing the same.

When Dr. Laura became an Orthodox Jew, listeners had to endure perpetual ‘kosher’ homilies, oft times with Catskills accent. Since she abandoned Hebedom (I’m Hebeish; relax) for sailboat racing we must now sustain the slaps of life/boat metaphors. Oy vey.

Which reminds me: Someone might mention to Laura that her fans, scrambling to pay rent, don’t all appreciate the sailboat racing updates. Most don’t get down to their yachts that often.

In the end, however, I must belaud Dr. Laura Schlessinger. Her greatest job, motherhood, has been a raving success.

Deryk Schlessinger, by all accounts a lovely guy, just dropped out of college and is opening a hookah bar in Hillsdale, Michigan, far away from L.A., its darkness, and Mom.

* * * * *

Addendum: Alas, young Deryk never opened that bar but, infected with a virulent strain of Stockholm Syndrome, doubled back into the reedy coils of Mama's clutch to be pitched, at warp speed, into the Army. He now 'serves his country', and her ego, as a Special Forces target - I mean 'paratrooper' in Iraq.

The 'Little Black Dress' of Spirituality

by Xanadu Xero

The Little Black Dress of Spirituality can carry you from day to evening, and is deceptively simple; so chic, so understated, that some consider it drab.

It is this, a.k.a The Golden Rule - yes, that corny kindergarten concept:

DO UNTO OTHERS AS YOU WOULD HAVE THEM DO UNTO YOU.

Not uber glam, but sooo handy, like make-up, powder and cover-up all in one sleek compact! And instantaneous, you just DO it. No seminars in Costa Rica, yoga, DMT ‘Intentions’, ‘Aggreements’, or kooky slut outfits are necessary. You can, however, accessorize it any way you want – with Buddhism, Christianity, Drum Circles, Paganism, Foot Worship - whatever rocks your clock - to make your own, personal fashion statement.

Now: This season (i.e. all seasons, as time is simultaneous) you simply MUST have this core staple one-size-fits-all Fashion ‘Do’ in your Spiritual Wardrobe. Without it, really, all the chanting and gongs and Kabballah and “Community” and Relationships With Jesus are nada, null and void. Without it, they’re just veneers that need lighting; sit-com sets.

Granted, the idea of a “Process” to Get To The Spirit is a lot more fun’n’sexy. Yoga class, for instance – hot little outfits, hot little teachers with vacuum packed genitalia, bodies streaming sweat pearls tweaked in nasty positions, sunset beach classes, spinal electricity – FUCK, yeah; awesome.

But spiritual methods are like training wheels; eventually you’ve got to take them off, show your white ass to the All, rise up and ride the fucking bike yourself.

Some view Spirituality as a competitive sport (“You merged with God? Fuck, I didn’t. What exactly did you take?”) I think of those old county fairs where men swung a mallet on a plate, and if they were strong enough, a metal slug flew up and rang a bell.

‘Enlightenment’ is not supposed to be a goal; it’s a by-product. Reaching God in and of itself… I think that’s the wrong ‘brag’; that part’s easy.

God/Spirit/All is accessible everywhere. Think of it like meeting Johnny Depp (or whoever.) He’ll smile and shake your hand… but that doesn’t mean he wants to fuck you.

You’ve got to fill that metaphorical breast tissue with the silicone of selflessness, generosity, sacrifice, character and substance. To paraphrase John F. Kennedy, “Ask not how The Spirit’s light in others can serve you… but how you can serve others in the light of The Spirit.”

Exploring The Illuminati: Reptiles One, Humans Zero

(While I fluff some fresh flesh for y'all, I hope to amuse with a few pieces I wrote as a columnist for Raw Story (www.rawstory.com) a succulent liberal news site. Open wide now... Cyber-Savor, Spit or Swallow:)

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Exploring the Illuminati: Reptiles One, Humans Zero

By Xanadu Xero

“Oh no — my foxy Davey’s gained weight!” Tricks whined. “But the hair is better, if not optimal.” He growled like Austin Powers, “and look at those lips!” Tricks is my gay Goth friend who hides his brains nicely. We had just blitzed in from feral sun to the cool ooze of a theatre’s darkness.

We could see nothing but David Icke onstage and the omni-pierced usher beside us who sniggered, “Do you believe this shit?”

Onstage, David was surfing a tube: “Osama bin Laden was a ‘prime suspect’ for 9/11 just two days after it happened.” he crooned. “I’m not even sure if Bush had finished reading to that second grade about the goat!” The audience laughed.

Dave walked a line of potted plants with a charismatic smile. “Your government reached that conclusion after — quote — ‘looking at the terrorist organizations that have the capacity to conduct such actions.’”

He paused here with perfect timing. Mock astonished: “Like the CIA and the Pentagon?”

Big laughs, and applause.

David Icke is a classic English charmer. He’s an alpha male, with the voice and moves of Dudley Moore in an aging rock star package. He’s got that ‘thing’ Clinton has, a kind of erotic multi-tasking, seducing the ear with agile ideas and wordplay while his eyes say I Could Fuck You For Days With No Mercy.

A prophet, an opportunist, a danger, a kook — Icke is one or a combo of these, depending whose dogma is barking. He is earth’s most credible voice touting earth’s most incredible theories. For instance:

‘The Illuminati,’ an elite cabal, controls all of humanity and the direction of the world. They are descended from a few, interbred families — hybrids of humans and Reptilians, an alien race that lives in the fourth dimension. The Reptilians easily puppeteer these space-time mulattos, as they are ‘vibrationally compatible.’

They work through secret societies, like the Masons. Yale’s Skull and Bones is a ‘feeder’ group, one of many examples. Members are chosen after research confirms the right bloodlines.

Our country is in senseless, endless decline because the Reptilians are setting the U.S. up to destroy itself. The goal is to erode humans’ power and will, castrate the Superpowers, install a World Government and dominate all.

“You know those Reptiles are, like, Alien trailer trash,” Tricks stage-whispered as we found our seats. The theatre was packed, at least a couple of thousand. “They’ve basically hijacked the earth. The other Aliens can’t bear them, and neither can God, the Force — whatever. They’re ashamed of the whole damn mess.”

A cheerless Women’s Studies major type turned to glare, but aborted the plan when she saw Tricks’ black, spiked cheesecloth cape, African earlobe extenders, and headband embroidered with ‘Namaste, Dickhead.’

“And the Illuminati,” Tricks continued, “They’re like those hairy hillbillies where the brother marries the sister. I mean, look at Dubya’s filmy little crossed eyes.”

We went outside at a break to inspect the crowd, passing an ad-hoc boutique of Icke munitions — books, videotapes, audiotapes, even posters and t-shirts. The prices were more ‘I want a private plane’ than ‘I’m here to save the world.’ People swarmed the tables of wares like drunk Bar Mitzvah guests at the smoked fish buffet.

Sunlight revealed that the Icke aficionados were a hash of old hippies, new hippies, scenesters bored of Kaballah, chicks who only do anal for guys with Ferraris, a dose of (seemingly) true seekers, nutballs and a few hot men with poetic scowls who, if they play their cards right, could parlay Dave’s vision into lucrative careers as ‘gurus’ for rich, unhappy wives.

“You know, that intense, ‘I’m Dangerous’ glare thing really works for me,” said Tricks, eyes super-glued to a dreadlocked Adonis. “And if a man can fuck up the planet, it’s even hotter.” He dropped his voice. “I mean, I know I’m not alone in thinking that Osama was dope sexy in those nasty ‘Die American Dogs’ videos. I’m just brave enough to say it.”

“Not just brave,” I exhaled, “Heroic. Hmm — was Jeffrey Dahmer sexy too?”

“Don’t be a stooge,” Tricks replied. “Who wants to kiss a guy with, like, toes on his breath?”

Icke was back onstage when we re-entered the sanctum. Images of our Commander-in-Chief and Fashion Don’t poster girl Queen Elizabeth popped onscreen. Both photos were cyber-patched with reptile skin and some lizardy features. The audience found this hilarious.

“We are all told that the United States is the most powerful country in the world,” Dave said when the chuckles died down. “But the U.S. has always been controlled from London, and still is. The Bush and Windsor clans are, in fact, related. They share ancestors that go back to the Egyptian Pharoahs, including Ramses II.”

How piquant that the glorious Ramses is now best known as a condom brand, and that the name of his temple, the Luxor, brings to most minds the slimy image of the Vegas hotel.

David Icke started out as a pro soccer player, but arthritis felled his career. He became a journalist, then scored big as a BBC sportscaster. He left that job because either (a) it bored him or (b) he was canned when, suddenly, he would only wear turquoise and declared himself the Son of God.

Dave went on to become Britain’s Green Party spokesman. He left that job because either (a) he found them corrupt or (b) he was canned when, suddenly, he would only wear turquoise, declared himself the Son of God and knocked up his personal assistant (wife not happy), in order to ‘heal Earth’s energy spots.’

Accounts vary.

Tucked into those years were several transforming hallucinogenic experiences. Ultimately, Icke was pulled, by some instinct, to Peru’s Lake Titicaca, where he received the sacred transmission of knowledge that really revved up his jets.

I have zero problem with Dave’s past, or path. I will even admit a certain enthusiasm for his theories, especially the one that describes how your brain can be invaded/re-programmed to suit the Reptilian Agenda without your knowledge or will.

Clearly, that’s what happened to David Icke.

If the earth is under siege, if we have devolved into automatons, if our way of life is dying, if our future holds scant hope … why the FUCK is this ‘Prophet’ big pimpin’, living the glam life, charging fifty plus bucks to do vaudeville in chic cities for rich fans who use his schtick at art openings to try and get laid?

Why ain’t ol’ Chosen Dave in the streets every second, minute, day enlightening us oppressed chumps, haunted by his purpose, preaching for free, brawling with skeptics, world-wide, selflessly, constantly?

This ‘Son of God’ should really steal the moves of his more famous ‘brother’ if he’s no shill… because if Icke doesn’t care enough about earth’s doom to lie his life down for our souls — why should we?

The House of Love: A Visit to The Gipper's Final Resting Place

(While I fluff some fresh flesh for y'all, I hope to amuse with a few pieces I wrote as a columnist for Raw Story (www.rawstory.com) a succulent liberal news site. Open wide now... Cyber-Savor, Spit or Swallow:)


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The House of Love: A Visit to the Gipper's Final Resting Place

By Xanadu Xero

From afar, it looked like a flag in a blender. As I drew near, it morphed into the kind of scene one might dream, sweating, after too much Thai food.

As an incremate sun bludgeoned swells of gibbous rock forms, gals who bake pie with real lard — and the men in shorts who love them — wept in packs.

They adjusted their Dacron waistbands above or below God-fearing guts to bend forward and lay floral tributes in red, white and blue, Big Gulps all but forgotten. Little Jessicas and Joe Don Jr.’s, completely bewildered, added homemade signs like: ‘We Love You Ronnie’ and ‘Christ Loves You, Love, The Millers.’

Yea, for I, a weary pilgrim, had at last reached the gate to Mount Olympus — or at least America’s Technicolor edition — the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library. It had reopened a scant hour before, after a week’s closure, to mourn and plant the Gipper after his final D.C. party with the world’s noblesse.

The parking lots were already jammed. I had to wedge my car, the lone Japanese-made, between flag-smothered Fords at the base of ‘Presidential Drive.’ I angled it to hide my bumper stickers — ‘Eviscerate Authority ’ and ‘How am I driving? Call 1-800-EAT SHIT’ — lest it meet the same fate as its country’s quaint port, Nagasaki.

The Library was a mile away. It crests a dry mountain, out of view.

“Wait for the shuttle,” a guard barked. No shuttle ever came. Maybe the absent bus was, like, an Art Thing – to honor Reagan’s commitment to ‘less government’ and ‘more personal responsibility.’ Perhaps Nancy thought it up. She loves art.

I joined dozens of other lauded Americans, some aged and unwell, on the scorching, vertical trek. Our ‘pioneer spirit’ brought us, half-dead, to a splendiferous spread in the middle of ugly, freakin’ nowhere. We shelled out two bucks for each small bottle of water and seven more for the honor of glimpsing detritus from the Reagans’ lavish life.

One might find, in this, a metaphor.

“If someone comes up to you on the street and says, ‘Hey, want to do some drugs?’ what do you say?” trilled the rectangular docent.

“Just… Say… NO!” shrieked Mrs. Polkanbroomer’s third grade class. A brilliant response: If strangers offer you free drugs on the street, they’re probably Feds.

Actually, the little no-necks were parroting the logic-free slogan of Nancy Reagan’s famous anti-drug campaign, clumped around its exhibit’s hangdog diorama. This campaign, fueled by our taxes, reached at least thirteen people, more if you count the severely retarded and kids under five.

In the ‘Better Late Than Never’ category, former groupie/drug ho daughter Patti [Reagan] Davis finally embodies the ‘Just Say No’ philosophy. While Mom is eighty-one and poised to check out, she’s still sharp enough to change her will.

To my left, fans jostled to snap photos of each other with a large, bronze statue of Cowboy Ron. His face, as in life, sported the same slaphappy grin as my demented mutt, Roscoe.

Reagan wore that grin while he trashed the environment. Roscoe wore that grin while he trashed my lawn. Reagan thought that ketchup was a vegetable. Roscoe thinks that ketchup is dog food. Coincidence? The mind reels.

Physicists theorize that time is simultaneous, not linear. This was, astoundingly, all but proven as I strolled towards the Reagan Theatre.

The Gipper’s portentous movie posters mirrored his political life: ‘Going Places,’‘The Winning Team,’‘Dark Victory,’‘The Bad Man,’‘International Squadron,’‘Murder in the Air,’‘Smashing the Money Ring’ (then taking it), ‘Brother Rat’ and ‘Desperate Journey.’ Uncanny.

The olde-fashioned Reagan Theatre presents an endless loop of Ron’s movie highlights, which, if played long enough, would make even Osama spill the beans.

Something about Ronnie’s onscreen behavior was disconcertingly odd, until what it was hit me. Spontaneity! Scripted, directed, multiple-take spontaneity! Reagan was clearly underrated as an interpretive artist. He could certainly portray the frightening and unknown.

After Showtime, I explored a brand-new room containing only a phony Declaration of Independence and brass repros of our presidents’ autographs. A room of fakes; how Hollywood. How Washington. The tourists were fascinated. “Look, Dear,” said a sixty-ish man to his bulbous Better Half, “they wrote back then like we do today.”

Duh.

I meandered from there through a gallery of presidential portraits, noting the recent Democrats. Jimmy Carter looked like an affable hayseed (which ain’t off mark) Kennedy stared down — ostensibly at his dick — and Clinton appeared as he would in a police-booking photo.

I couldn’t shake Bill from my mind as I toured Reagan’s reconstructed Oval Office. Which door led to the Monica vestibule? And was that fabled cigar, dammit, in or out of a metal case? (I wrote Matt Drudge and asked, but he didn’t reply.)

Our bald eagle insignia anchored the Oval Office carpet. The eagle’s head is turned away from its talon of war arrows, to its talon with the olive branch of peace. Maybe that’s not hypocrisy. Since the Nicaraguan War Ron hatched was illegal, perhaps it doesn’t count.

I felt sufficiently braced at this point to step outside and go toe to tomb with The Great Communicator. And communicate he did, even in death, through his surroundings:

The Reagan Library has no visible books. It’s big and flashy, but not well built. One of its largest rooms is the understaffed gift shop with static Twilight Zone lines. Its location, the Simi (pronounced: ‘seamy’) Valley, looks like a dehydrated potato dotted with mold-like sprawl.

Except, bizarrely, from the garden where Ron is interred. That view is a Grant Wood landscape. Therein must lie some key to his magic.

Reagan’s tomb resembles a handball court, flat cement with a wall. The cement appears to be poured, but it really consists of removable blocks; another sleight-of-hand.

In the hour I’d been inside, Gipp-o-mania had swagged to Madonna-like proportions. News crews had arrived, stoking the crowd to amp up their grief. Some black and Hispanic teens hopped from a school bus and loped, delighted, towards the cameras.

I stopped one girl and said, “Do you know that Reagan didn’t give a rat’s ass about minority concerns, trashed social programs, and ignored AIDS?”

Her response echoed the true Reagan legacy.

“Leave me alone,” she scoffed. “I want to be on TV.”