GEMINOID VOID

by
Xanadu Xero

* * *

How can Humankind be so frickin important (as we ourselves define it) in the Omni-Galactic Fractalicious Dimension Squared Scheme Of Things when we can only minimally control our bodies' functions and forget the brain, yo.

A female body will deplete its own resources to develop a fetus. She will, if necessary, self-destruct.

Women can reproduce without their consent or awareness or conscious participation. We are biologically expendable once the womb bails. Men, don't snigger. You're good as obsolete once your sons' bullets go live.

Brothers and Sisters, we are all just pods.
Uppity pods, cursed with emotions.
More or less than that is our call.

SO

If the Euro's 'Elite' kabal Margin Scam Gangstas tweak up to

*G L O B A L*

if THEY propose ANY kind of Global Currency, however disguised or divided... THEY (whoever 'They' are) are consolidating into the One World Government alllll them fruitcakes nattered on about and fuck were we stupid to buy the 'loony conspiracy' browbeating shit.

Why would the thought of an 'Elite' global conspiracy be loony? Why can't it be seen as a plausible theory, right or wrong? Because human beings - especially the powerful - are too Moral, Responsible, Compassionate, Respectful, God-Fearing for such things?

As if!

We all know that's a dolt's thought, but we're taught 'conspiracy' means loony and we are just sooo teachable.

In real life no one is CONFIDENT! about their choice in a hard decision, and mostly they're all hard. Why are politicians, businessmen, anyone who stands to profit from a move involving WE THE PEOPLE absolutely convinced, always, that they are right?

That's not a truthful human response. We know it, we're outraged an shizz but... we just blog.

The 'Elite' push what flows best for them and work hard to obscure that - war games.

And why do WE consider them to be elite over, say, you? WE are the ones honoring their sociopathy and enabling their crimes. Are we hard-wired to Follow, brainwashed to value manipulative skill an bling an shizz over help for all or are we just too fucking weak to change anything?

Modern society ignores/deplores our irrefutable animal natures. It structured in a way to make us fail. Change, like Power, is just a collective decision. We could (fill in the blank). We don't.

How does life NOT look like a Members Only chess game with a biiiiiiig clump o'niggers, US, as the grand prize?

WTF, 'McMONEY SHOT' MEGHAN McCAIN?

by
Xanadu Xero

* * *

Meghan McCain's ghastly ubiquity well disproves Lincoln's bon mot: "'Tis better to be silent and be thought a fool, than to speak and remove all doubt."

Not in the U.S. Abe-izzle, no mo. McMaverick FemmeBot just powered through alllll that dead president shit and it worked just fine. Touchdown, in fact: Meghan's been MADE, PAID and LAID for just 'being herself' (with a wink to Shirley Temple.) She gets to be happy and aroused all of the time while you watch and pay to do it, panties wet with media goo and your own special je ne sais quoi. Your kids think she's cool!

So: since I've slipped down This Mortal Coil to mid middle-age against my will, careening 'round those last concours before The Bell Tolls For Me, WTF - the gloves are off. I'm taking Meghan down with me.

*

There's no way that Bleached Brioche got in or through Columbia U. wielding her brains. Which, by the way, I have no problem with. It's that she can't even fake it. On Twitter:

@McCainBlogette Best quote ever: "when a
girl tells me she's into twilight, its like her
telling me shes into goosebump books."

@McCainBlogette I put up a picture of myself
with priests, and the majority of the feedback
is about my boobs...

@McCainBlogette Until mankind is peaceful enough
not to have violence on the news, there's no point
in taking it out of shows that need it for
entertainment value.

@McCainBlogette
Betsey Johnson shoes are like porn to me.

Whoops! My bad. One of those tweets was Cher Horowitz from 'Clueless'.

You guess which.

Ms. McCain's gospelz'n'creedz align with the answer to: "what groups are awesome & amazing & won't interrupt me watching twilight & get me lots of attention and have the best most awesome & amazing parties?????"

A: Why, the Gays and Filthy Rich of course!

One one hand McMaverique fluffs her mover/shaker HenleyFabulou$ GOP muffin with the galas, South of France and the Dior. On the other, she shakes those groceries at Homos erectus ("Work it, GRRRL, loooove the ass - KILLER!) da Right's Lady Gaga, livin' the lyrics of 'Beautiful Dirty Rich'.

I mean, I get it.

Who wants to spark Barb's inevitable fifteen filter seizure on The View yakking about violent, bored, drugged high schoolers who can't read because of your own dad's votes? I mean, bamma. Thats not a party. Or as Meghan herself would say, "xoxoxox!!"

*

I skulked on to Twitter last night itchy for fish, I will admit. I was not, however, looking for Meghan. She just happened to be a-dangling there and kept thrashing. I plead entrapment:

@McCainBlogette I like "Megaliscious"!
it's like Fergaliscious - but less awesome...

@McCainBlogette people that question my experience
and history with the republican party: my mom was on stage
prenant w/ me with Reagan at the 84 conventn

@McCainBlogette OK, all of htis end of the world
Mayan Calender 2012 stuff is freaking me out...what is
with all these movies about armageddon in 2 yrs?!?!

It dawned on me that just like Advil will 'take care of fever AND body ache', shanking McMuffin out here on the Nowhere Pondarosa would soothe all of my 'social, political and religious hostilities' in one fell, economical swoop!

@McCainBlogette ... my shoes are steve madden,
my nail polish is essie punchy pink for those that asked

Those WHO asked, dear.

Meghan McCain - Columbia University graduate, role model, hot media gash - feels a responsibility, noblesse oblige, to touch the lives of her fifty-five thousand Twitter FOLLOWERS. As for why she's so compelling to tailgate, here's the list: her mom's money, her big boobs and butt, her Big Paleface Chief dad, her shopping, parties, clothes, her love of True Blood and Twilight, her fame for nothing, her lack of conscience (save admitting gays are human) and tattoos.

I say Red Alert for our country's present and future. Won't you join me? At least Kim Kardashian had a sex tape.

*

Please note when reading the following that I Stayed Classy and did not broach How-Dad-Met-Mom-Dumped-Disabled-Wife-And-Kids or Mom's Painkiller/Larceny Years.


Thinking it through though, I'm not sure why I held back.
Meghan is twenty-four, not a kid. And
if an apple is lauded because it fell from
that tree, it only seems fair to examine the tree.

*

@McCainBlogette pamela anderson, miranda
lambert, shakira, jessica harp RT@allytx I
totally have a girl crush on u, who is one of urs?

@McCainBlogette shooting my book cover soon....
brainstorming hair, the title of my book
is so fabulous it makes me giddy...

@McCainBlogette "GOP is realizing
it's survival depends on... expanding gay rights."

... SMELL A PLAN?

@McCainBlogette and I assure you, no bloggers
questioning my loyalty can go back to being in
utero to their ties to the republican party like I can...

@McCainBlogette together, ALL OF US, can bring this
party back to what we know it can be. have my by
back and know that I have yours. -love Meghan

@McCainBlogette my ties run deep and
I love being a republican.
<3 style="font-style: italic;">
@xanadu_xero @McCainBlogette but would you
"love being a Republican" if you were a poor black
widow w kids in Tennessee
w no Hen$ley pile?

@xanadu_xero 2. @McCainBlogette but would you
"love being a Republican" if you were a poor black
widow w kids in Tennessee
w no Hen$ley pile
AND NO HEALTH CARE?
Hmm?

As usual, no one in Twitter's dork chorus of 'tweens backed me up. Even though I've explained time and again that no matter what, no matter how much arse licking they do for however many years - even if they resurrect The Savior - Meghan McCain will never invite them to a party. Never.

@McCainBlogette I've got lots of enthusiasm
and lots of faith! Its so much more
useful that negativity and anger!

Useful for what? Perhaps that was for me. Whatev.

@xanadu_xero A. @McCainBlogette Faith=kaCHING!:
"The first clergyman was the first rascal who met
the first fool" - Voltaire. And without "negativity

@xanadu_xero B. @McCainBlogette and anger"
our country wouldn't be here.

And may I add, Meg, off the record, that without 'negativity and anger' your dad would not have had his 'War Hero' teat to drain, scored your mom, or fooled some of the people all of the time.

@McCainBlogette why do people always ask
"what's your fav hero of fiction"? And
then why do they look disappointed/confused
when I say Tyler Durden..

Tyler Durden from Fight Club? I'll answer that!

TYLER DURDEN
... God damn it, an entire generation pumping
gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars...

See, most young adults in the U.S. Meg, your age, are in bad, sad situations.

TYLER DURDEN (con't)
Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working
jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don't need...

The future's been trashed by, among others, Bush pere et fils, the "amazing" Joe Lieberman, and, of course, your dad. :o(

TYLER DURDEN (cont)
We're the middle children of history, man.
No purpose or place.
We have no Great War.
No Great Depression...

New Yorker cartoon: a businessman looks into a room with a colleague. A frantic crowd is inside, faded grey. Businessman: "Oh them - they're just the ghosts of all the people we've terminated." Hahahaha!

TYLER DURDEN
Our Great War's a spiritual war...
our Great Depression is our lives.

But in real life Meg, so many unemployed people, living ghosts, isn't funny.

@McCainBlogette I guest host The View
starting September 9th thru the week. Make
sure to tun in, Im gonna bring it!! xoxox

I'm sure you will if 'it' will make Mom and Dad smile. So strut that big ass on The View, Girl, cheer Gay Marriage to revive the GOP and let your "amazing" gay "friends" help your parents keep their cash.

PARADIGM GRIFT

by

Xanadu Xero

* * *


"Pretend To Will The Transformation"

- Bilk Copyright 2008 RealSand (TM) Inc.

If I were a little or immensely more talented (mit schvantz) I'd be Ricky Gervais. I'm aware I am graisse de canard, he is fowlicious, Peking, but he thinks like me. I'd say I think like him, but I'm older. I know I flatter myself, but fuck.

In point of fact I've been contemplating blogicide. Between Ricky, Doug Stanhope and some dead wacks of yesteryear, I have scant left to say. What's the point of going on then, one might ask? Masturbation?

Exactly.

Plus no man jack of(f) them swank brains can lay out in lurid detail DID I SAY 'LURID'? the fervent tales of my indie-wack pasts, including this pert crumb I now toss to you. (Crumb = no sex.)

HOW MAYA MACKIN'
*2012*
VIVA GLAM!
Impresario

DANIEL PINCHBECK
of the UBE (United Pinchebeckistan Emirates)

self-knighted "Sacred" Warrior, Shame Man, whoops,
'Shaman,' Virgin Issue of OGs Tim Leary and Terence McKenna,
DRUGZ' very own MARY and GOD
(legit!)
P.R. Agency Deigned Heir Apparent to their

*P*s*y*c*h*e*d*e*l*i*c*

Spirito-Cerebradelicool MulitverCivic Crowns

(or what-ever)
with an "I" on the Causal World'$ prize...

How that dude,

Pinchbeck,

THREW ME OFF his circle jerk blog site, Reality Sandwich (www.RealitysandwI(T)CH.com - 'rich itch')

and (chortle) why.

WAIT. Hold that thought...

*>Flashback!<*

INT. COOLEST SCENE IN THE MULTIVERSE - NIGHT

Smoky. Sultry. Sacred. DANIEL, a middle aged capitalist, leans against exposed beams in chakra toned silks, posing like Young Einstein. You can almost see the Crop Circles in his eyes. He is a Dadra of causal and metaphorical texture.

He has cornered a FEMALE, half his age, who appears to be biological. She sips a Red Bulltini.

FEMALE
'Reality Sandwich?' Whoa. Great name for a site, Daniel.
Isn't that from, like, Kerouac?

DANIEL

A Ginsberg poem.
(pause)
My mom fucked Kerouac. I sat in Ginsberg's lap.

(Author's note: I'll bet! Allen Ginsberg was quite the pro-NAMBLA pedophile. HOWL indeed haha! Kerouac, the plot's dissolute mom-boning gay boy, but(t) a smidge behind.

Good parenting Mrs. Pinchbeck, oy vey iz mir. Your kid's so meshugeh he BRAGS about it.)

DANIEL (con't)

Once, on an Ayahuasca journey in the Brazilian
Rainforest, an Indiginous Shaman used my cock for a sundial.

FEMALE
Wow.

DANIEL
Are you a model?

*>End Flashback!<*

And yet again the valiant Purple Helmet Sacred Warrior begins a Vision Quest to smash the Pink Cookie!

It's always the same Avant-Garde.

* * * * *

PINCHBECK, YOU'RE A MIRROR OF ALL YOU CLAIM TO DESPISE

That was the 'SUBJECT' of one Reality Sandwich comment - Submitted by xanaduxero on Wed, 10/15/2008 - 20:17.

I say "was" because the comment - commentS (there were a lot of them, including that which sparked this snort) disappeared shortly before I was kicked off the site. Now, they may have been censored... but then again they may have spontaneously combusted and gone to Spirit, cauz ka-raayzeee things happen when Pimpsational "Paradigm" Pinch b in da house yo, bringin SexyBack!

Thank Jah (Jahmal) I willed the transformation to manifest my Yiddishe Totemic Swine, Shmulick, from the astral plane.

"Shmul," I mewled in waves through the pith of each chakra, starting, sadly, with the best one, the Orange. Cosmic Morse Code blast thru my Sahasrara's pupick.

Of course Shmuly already knew. He oinked in Aramaic, "Shlimazel! Make a paper trail!" So I embalmed the comment's 'BODY':

STOP CENSORING ME, YOU SHAM.

YOU DO NOT ENTERTAIN NEW IDEAS.

YOU ARE CLOSED TO EXPANSION.

YOU ARE MINUTE MINDED AND ARROGANT.

YOU PIGGYBACK OTHERS' IDEAS AND, I'LL LAY ODDS THAT YOU'RE A LOUSY FATHER.

I'M NOT GOING AWAY UNTIL YOU ANSWER ME.

Nope. And the longer you don't, the more public I'll be.

YOU are more dangerous than the RIGHT, because at least they have the BALLS to stand by what they're about.

This protest is not about me. It's about FLACCID MESSIAHS influencing the young, grasping for power and money pretending they're not, CENSORSHIP, mirroring the "Paradigm" you claim to be replacing, and, frankly, prosaic thoughts and bad writing.**

Daniel and NWO sitting in a tree... K-i-s-s-i-n-g!

Word out.

*

(** Example A: "Toward the end of his life, Thomas Jefferson realized the American Revolution had failed to provide institutional mechanisms to keep the creative spirit of insurrection alive in the populace.")

*

You may have found the above comment to be less than optimally feminine. You may feel I lobbed a supernova when a feather would have singed. Plus (you may muse) the latter approach would have been "classy." And perhaps you thought, fleeting, "What a bitch, who'd fuck her?" Or, "That old hag should Get A Life."

Gotcha. Really. Grokkit. I understand. But you see, Gods/Goddesses/Deities Gender Neutral and/or Original, that spunk spewed at the end of the end, geyser-esque. All backed up because I queried this:

What if we just commit to The Golden Rule?
Do we really need anything else?

"Do Unto Others As You Would Have Them Do Unto You."
Isn't that verbatim-esque what every other "sacred" text & whatnot says?

or

is the "But Only People Like You, Those You Want Something From
& Those You're Sexually Attracted To So You Can Get Something Or Get Laid" implied?

That is all I wanted a response to.

Danno refused, lugubriously ignoring me time and again while every fucktard query ("Daniel how strongly do you feel that the word SACRED has a dynastic symbiosis with the SACRUM? Blessings.") got our Psychedelic Martha Stewart's full attention.

As for why a Sacred Warrior would wield such limp douchebaggery ... I'd say the answer is from the same file as 'if Medicine's focus was on curing disease, not treating disease, no one would make any money.'

Here's the Pinchster in his own soporific words. Note the recurring theme:

"Ignorant people have been tossing the word revolution around like a used Hustler Magazine on this blog. > (Sorry Larry Flynt. You were good to me and you saved the First Amendment. I was your "Hustler" interview of the month twice.)" <

> "Over the past decade, I have engaged in an intellectual and spiritual odyssey that began when I was in my late twenties, in the depths of an existential crisis. At that time I was a journalist whose work had appeared in The New York Times Magazine, Esquire, Wired, among others, and the editor of a New York-based literary magazine, Open City. <

I tried ayahuasca, the sacred “medicine” of the Amazon basin, brewed from two jungle plants, in a ceremony in downtown Manhattan. > I also took an assignment from a music magazine to go through a tribal initiation in Gabon <, on the West African equator, using a psychedelic rootbark, iboga, that sent me on a long trip back through my childhood,

> also featuring prophetic hints and telepathic views. I wrote about these experiences, and many others, in my first book, Breaking Open the Head: A Psychedelic Journey into the Heart of Contemporary Shamanism, published by Random House, in 2002." <

> "I am an avatar and messenger sent at the end of a kalpa, a world age, to bring a new dispensation for humanity – a new covenant, and new consciousness." < (via 'transmission')

"The more who can read the "map"... the more will survive. > We aren't charging for this and I ask is that you buy my old book and soon, my new one... frequently."<

> "Suffering from nihilism, I found that > I desperately needed to interrogate my world view, and to see if there were any other options." <

And he found them! Blessed be!

Classic options that have lit up the lives of Bush, Cheney, Hitler, L. Ron Hubbard, Stalin, Bernie Madoff, the Pope - among other celebs. It is Self-Aggrandizement + Claims Of Superior Knowledge in a blend customized to cash in on and manipulate others by preying on their fears.

One wor(l)d - $EMINAR$.

The mantra: KA-CHING!

*

"It was his notion that the moment one of the people took one of the truths to himself, called it his truth, and tried to live his life by it, he became a grotesque and the truth he embraced became a falsehood." --Winesburg, Ohio, Sherwood Anderson, 1919

*

Hey Pinchbeck! What if you *emulated* Jesus, Buddha and the rest of the boy band, not in theory but MOMENT BY MOMENT instead of dissecting them? It's always the same message, with this or that ego torquing the skew.

We Humans waste years playing nyah nyah with piffle. Why?

What if we all, starting RIGHT NOW - just fucking behaved?

I will now limn what BEHAVING means with examples tailored for you and the Pinchbeckistan(TM) citizenry.

1.) When you're in the bathroom at a party, YOU DO NOT look through cabinets and drawers for Vicodin, even if you were going to 'only take one.'

2.) If you accept money for a service, say, building a website, IT IS NOT OKAY to disappear to Costa Rica for a month, even if you think that 'time' is a grotesque man-made construct, and "only when the clock stops does time come to life." (William Faulkner)

3.) If you have a child, (attn: Daniel) YOU DO NOT spend time/money traipsing to the Amazon AGAIN to take drugs and fuck bimbos - sorry, 'priestesses' - AGAIN when your last three 'enlightening' ayahuasca 'journeys' could not solve your self-absorbed prick problem.

Instead do something quantifiably constructive for World Consciousness, like supporting your kid in her world with the choice to find her own path, and not cram her into a myopic, prurient trip like your parents did with you.

Daniel: "I would have no problem with my daughter attending a Daime ritual when she is a bit older, perhaps nine or ten, if we go down to Brazil together." Dude, why don't you take her to Disney World instead?

3.) From evidence you see live every day and in media, YES IT IS WRONG to fuck your buddy's girlfriend.

It Is Wrong for the moderne homo-sapien to have sex with people he does not intend to honor in the future with his future. The outcome is almost always negative for fucker or fuckee, it does NOT advance what is fine in Humankind, and it wastes time we cannot spare in this endgame of our species' disintegration.

And no, monogamy is not 'natural' to the human animal. That's my point.

We must, by will, override our Animal at this carrefour in time like we did back when with shitting outdoors. It wasn't 'natural' for us to poop inside a building but we knew that was part of growing a civilization as we, ourselves, defined it. We made the collective decision to defecate in private and, with that, moved Humanity forward

Looking to the sky, earth, 'shamans,' gods, 'spirit guides', totems, 'ancient wisdom' or drugs for SIGNS to indicate direction for every fucking move is ARCHAIC thinking. We must leave that way back in Animal and step up.

We, Humanity, have evolved to an amazing point. We can now make substantial Darwinian decisions ourselves, consciously, as evolving human beings, for the Higher Good.

Or not.

We say we don't want our Beast to win but REALITY CHECK - it's winning. It's winning in you, Daniel, with your bullshit loft partie$, $eminars, celeb courting, self-lauding, media whoring, eliteist behavior, promiscuity, fame/money driven views, exploitation$ of '2012' based on the few Mayan codices that survived... ignoring their possible invalidation by the many that did not.

Humans are ape-adjacent, so INCREDIBLY far from a wave. We're simple life forms still, mold in a petri dish. It's LUDICROUS for us to pimp walk around like we da Big Brains, da shizz - SEZ WHO?

Clearly, there is Other out there. Clearly we cannot understand it, agree what it is, or interpret it beyond the confines of our obvious limits.

Howzabout we bag the crap and go to work on building Human harmony on this Earth which we - including you, Daniel - are trashing, insuring the death or living hell of our descendants?

Which brings me to...

4.) When someone asks legitimate questions that challenge your views, Daniel, IT IS WRONG to throw them off of your website. Especially if you bill yourself as an open souled and minded 'Sacred Warrior' questing for truth.

*

My questions started with a whisper. Well, a 'whisper' for me. I mean it had a little cha-cha, yeah, I self-amused, but Reality Sandwich is boring as hell. Here it is:

AYAHUASCA IS THE NEW ABSINTHE! VISIONS ARE THE NEW BLACK!
Submitted by xanaduxero on Mon, 03/31/2008 - 14:28.

I'm old, like a gazillion in dog years, and I've heard The Newly Expanded's 'MO BETTA CONSCIOUS THAN THOU' Ayahuasca babblings for, like, two decades now. The Church of Diame (sp?) devotees, the South American "I lived with the Shamans" crowd, the "I went on a raft and met _______ who recognized I was a Special Whitey so he shared his ancient secrets and ______ with me" gaggle etc. What strikes me like a 2x4 of collapsed star-like dense matter is that NONE of these people, NONE (with the exception of mah man, good ol' Daniel P., who co-brewed this site, who I don't know)** have done JACK SHIT with their astounding expansions, JACK SHIT but verbally jack off at cool soirees, say "Namaste" a lot and try to get laid. WHAT GOOD IS CONSCIOUSNESS, EXPANSION, ENLIGHTENMENT, FAME, "GNOSIS" et al if it doesn't further humanity as a whole? It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing. You see jaguars? BIG FUCKING WHOOP. If you really have an edge here - APPLY IT. Selflessly and relentlessly. OR... you are just a 2.0 version of all that you claim to despise.**

Q: What was I even doing on Reality Sandwich if I think it's so frickin dull? A: Trying to kiss ass. (**Ass kiss Ex. 1.) Sigh. That never works for me.

I had submitted an article to Reality Sandwich (sounds like a three-way with ugly people), and they accepted it. I was thrilled because every hot guy on the SpriChill Global Downtown rave scene thinks that Pinch is the shit. Also, quite frankly, my inner Olivia Twist simpered, "Maybe THIS is my place... Maybe this kind of writing is what I was meant to do!"

I kept signing on to see if my piece was up yet, and while I was there, since I no doubt would become a regular contributor why not make my presence known? HA, to quote Stanley Kowalski.

I started responding to articles. Some were nice, and I praised them. Some were inane. It never occured to me that on an EXPAND YOUR MIND site run by visionaries with a mission to aid the ascention of Earth's sentient creatures, any point of view would be off limits. Plus, I'm no teenage tweaker. I'm a middle-aged mom.

Yet... my comments began disappearing. Comments like this about a piece on "Synchromysticism" with content like, "I was thinking of a parking space - and there it was!":

"OY FRICKIN' VEY Submitted by xanaduxero on Thu, 04/24/2008 - 23:28. The art of realizing meaningful coincidence in the seemingly mundane with mystical or esoteric significance." Oh, how chic-ly metaphysical. Makes me crave a Mapplethorpe retrospective with poi twirling and a merlot rated 90+. Sometimes, gods and goddesses, a cigar is just a cigar. Sometimes it's more, but trolling for magic in "mundane" circumstances is most often - pardon my synaptic bourgeoisity - cerebral chicken choking, vanity, a waste of time. Please, define 'art' here and, while you're at it, 'mystical' and 'esoteric'. Like 'hot' those words can mean a zillion things. Actually, scrap that. Explain instead why (writer's name) takes such Hollywood credit for musings that dock in most everyone's head from the age of six. And why they really matter when one can simply practice The Golden Rule and examine our own actions with a goal to improve.

That was termed "A PERSONAL ATTACK" and expunged by the Pinchbeckistan musketeers.

HUH?

So I pursued, dogging them about their censorship, hypocricy and the fact they were behaving like the Christian Right with cooler dogmas and hotter outfits.

Here's another post, not even my words - direct from Wikepedia:

AH, CHILDREN, ITS JUST A KISS AWAY...
Submitted by xanaduxero (not verified) on Tue, 07/08/2008 - 21:38.

"The Thought Police (thinkpol in Newspeak) are the secret police of Oceania in George Orwell's dystopian novel Nineteen Eighty-Four.

It is the job of the Thought Police to uncover and punish thoughtcrime and thought-criminals, using psychology and omnipresent surveillance from telescreens to find and eliminate members of society who were capable of the mere thought of challenging ruling authority.

The government attempts to control not only the speech and actions, but also the thoughts of its subjects, labeling unapproved thoughts with the term thoughtcrime, or, in Newspeak, crimethink.

It also had much to do with Orwell's own "power of facing unpleasant facts", as he called it, and his willingness to criticize prevailing ideas which brought him into conflict with others and their "smelly little orthodoxies".

The term "Thought Police", by extension, has come to refer to real or perceived enforcement of ideological correctness.

- Wikipedia

Its so easy to be all you claim to despise.

They canned it. It disappeared.

Comment after comment CENSORED. I wrote Daniel e mails, many, asking why. What I got back was silence, but for a cyber smirk in the form of of Nurse Ratched's - pardon, Sacred Lackey Jonathan 'Shy-Of-XY' Phillips' - recurring regurgitation of comment "rules."

I then inquired why a comment trouncing me for my thoughts wasn't censored too, if crowd control was so strict.

At last, Sacred J. reared back and POUNCED:

Hi Xanadu, I've removed the comment you tagged below as it was indeed a personal attack. However, I wanted to inform you that after sending you the comments guidelines a number of times and reminding you of the comments policy of the site, you've continued to make personal attacks against members of the community. We have received many, many complaints from RS participants from these attacks** and since you've continually refused to follow the guidelines of the site, we have decided to delete your account. It seems apparent that your interests are different than those of this site and I'm sure there's many other places on the web you can turn to for news, discussion and information that's a better fit for you. I wish you the best in your future journeys. Sincerely, Jonathan

(** Yeah, right.)

I wrote back:

"You are not god, how can you know my "interests"? Your interests, may I surmise then? Sex with girls you can't get with looks or charm, power and money. Fuck you, Jonathan and your Sacred Bullshit persona. Enjoy the knowledge that your ass licking skills have just netted you this sorry gig brown nosing a fraud."

*

I am THRILLED to announce to you, dear readers, that THIS... IS NOT THE GOOD PART OF THE STORY.

The good part of the story comes NEXT... when I re-joined the mostly All White All Male Reality Sandwich az Ghetto Sista LaVondelle.

*

TO BE CONTINUED...

Q: What's a paradigm?
A: Twenty cents.

CHENEY: PUTTIN' THE DICK IN 'WAR CRIMINAL'

by
Xanadu Xero

* * *

I lost my relish for Satan about the time I realized that Goth, for all it's sirocco cha-cha, was just another laborious way for high school nerds to flip the bird, be okay fat and lay pipe.

But the S-Man, that irrepressible Archfiend, has shimmied back into my nut these last eight years, thanks to the vivacious political stylings of 1 smashmouth Urban Cowboy, you know it, Dick Cheney.

If 'Serial Killer' is a Sociopathic Yang, Dick Cheney is it's Yin. His WTF? LOL! 'Too Big To Fail' (haha) is most disturbing.

Did Dickizzle kipe a chihuahua or is he thinking 'bout Lynne's bi-curious tang-app? Let us pray the chub ain't due to the brat at his feet or the ice cream man - though the Vice-President's smile does appear to be paired with a Larry Craig-ian 'wide stance'.

FunFact: Dick held the douse bucket for Lynne's flaming baton act in Caspar Wyoming, fifty years ago. He flit about, vigilant, awaiting his cue. Wheee-HA!

As Methodists of course The Cheneys must accept blame for daughter Mary's, uh, Vagitarianism. The
concept of 'gay' as bio-based, well, not tight. In fact it's a slalom to

hell

palpations away from endorsing gay marriage. And you know what that would mean...

Their Own Private Waterboarding: legal ties to scary Blago doppelganger Heather Poe.

I HATE THE LEFT!

by
Xanadu Xero

"All energy flows according to the whims of the Great Magnet."
- Hunter Thompson

* * *

At no time in history have people had to wonder if their children would get to live out their life span without some man-made apocalypse ending it gruesomely or pitching it to blAAAzing hell.

WHOA... what if I'm still, you know, around? Cripes! No wonder I'm stressed!

I've fandango'd through two plus generations so far, and I've seen, irrefutably, that Americans must eat more shit each year to survive in a world that

WE
WATCH
bleed us dry

and toss our carcass to the compost.
Wait - THEY don't compost. The trash.

And how do we respond to that? Minimally, eh, Slacktivists? In fact, we help! Our response in the face of this hot, throbbing, engorged disaster is to fractionalize, whine about Whose God B More Fly and race against each other up THEIR butt. First one to touch the duodenum wins!

"THEM" = The "Exploiters," the Ruling Class, a.k.a. people who are SMARTER THAN WE ARE because, brothas and sistas, their 'Paradigm' don't have a dent. A few nicks, maybe. We have plunged past 'Passive' to 'Docile.' Next stop, what - 'Sexually Aroused?' Ugh! Cowards! Cravens! Poltroons! All of us! Or way too many.

We buy 'the end justifies the means' no prob when we pierce the law to smuggle in ayahuasca or even drop frickin' acid for Our World's Collective Greater Good (cough), so what's the BFD about Violence For Light, If That's The Fire We Have To Fight?

Here's the horrifying answer: We secretly DO buy the congruence of those examples, though we say, "One involves only me... the other involves the sacred life of another person. I don't have that right." * What we don't have, my Karmic Blossoms, is the balls.

(* BS, because every day we allow a decadent war to go on, WE ARE RESPONSIBLE for the dead as much as THEY are.)

We care an shizz, but fuck, we're tired! Free Market's a tough gig! We loathe the war in Iraq of course and it sucks that those innocent people (love their crafts!) are victims of U.S. megalomania (fuckin' Bush!) but come on, they, like, tend goats! I'm going to hit the streets like a frickin' hippie and risk my life for the rights of some illiterate peasant who was raised to hate me?

Maybe Obama is wrong. Maybe we aren't 'better than that'.

Maybe we're just 'round this rock to provide energy and entertainment for Those Who Actually ARE On The Darwin Express. Who are, at this very moment, ACTIVELY FORMING OUR FUTURE. Dim and Dimmer.

Us Leftys, on the other hand, buoyant in Dreamtime, are Growing Ourselves - a wildflower garden - competitive eating Shamanic Wisdom, Mayan mind melding, cursing the plight of the transgendered, toning with yoga, branding ourselves with dead tribes' tattoos, eating raw-ish, recycling sorta, polyamorously caressing Our Godly Natures While Embracing Our Shadows to 'raise the vibration' of the consciousness of mankind.

How's it going? At best - slowly.

There HAVE ALWAYS BEEN lugubrious, well-spoken, Beta Male Leftys working for "change", with incremental advancements.

Sigh. It's always the same Avant-Garde.

How can we motivate THEM, the Powers That Be, to NON-VIOLENTLY 'evolve' to a mindset of peace and plenty? We CANNOT. It will never happen because IT NEVER HAS, and the best predictor of the future is the past.

Our problem is not the lack of cohesive plans (which we don't frickin' have) it is HUMAN NATURE.

Man, homo sapiens (+ homos/chicks/Gender Neutral, yada yada) *WANT* to fight and see who dominates. We are hard wired for Alpha jostling. If there is no conflict, Man creates one. We are animals, ape adjacent, driven by forces we don't understand, like salmon swimming upstream or dogs circling before they lie down.

The Powers That Be won't change. We have to. If we really want to transform society beyond driving hybrids to Diame 'church' to purge garbed in hemp we must amp up OR down to their level because THEY'RE WINNING.

Yeah, it's a slippery slope, but it's the only slope.

We seem to think Evolution means 'change for the better' so we bathe in the conceit that we'll prevail. WE are in the Light, after all - according to us. Lefty Artist Free Sprits (LAFS) wank our lack of power by mutual log rolling - we're Better, Deeper, Wider, In Tune With The Universe (oh pardon me, the Sacred Universe) morally correct. Namaste!

Whether we are or not (and from what perspective) is irrelevant. EVOLUTION DON'T GIVE A SHIT. Evolution just IS. As one of MMA champ Kimbo Slice's trainers chuckled, "Rocky don't win in Real Life."

We could lay off porn and use the Web to prioritize organizing, set goals and meet them, in or outside the law - JUST LIKE BIG BUSINESS - but we don't. We're too frickin' lazy, scattered and self-involved. (AND unmotivated. My theory is that our last century's Radical Movements were the Adult Friend Finders of their day. Edge players, reckless - passions high! The alibi of "social change!" Brilliant! Ah, the grace of days gone by...)

Perhaps we are the Rabbits of our Life Form Catagory, i.e. Humans and Above (whatever that is.) And Beta Humans - Leftys - Us, feed'n'fertilize the Skilluminati. We are the nethermost caste. That is not a belief, it's an observation. Unless you're off the grid, THEY run your life. Fact. You don't run theirs.

We're trying to tear down their playground, not vice versa. But we just mouth off, bitch slap and flounce away! We're like the cute dunce of the class. Airhead ho-s. Easily manipulated and distracted, easily amused. THEY find us fun in small, controlled doses.

Will our self-coronated 'morally superior' brains get a clue that our inertia is at odds with the probability of a continued plausible existence? *Or* will we think of a thousand ways to talk ourselves out of the collective miasma flashing and screaming before us?

Yes, and... yes!

Yes #1: Look around. Yes #2: Look around!

But whut tha... What's that about?

If WE ALL LIVE huddled together in the dank, orgiastic Truth that Things Aren't Working for the majority of people in our country, the majority of Mankind... if we feel that their pain is our pain - our Cosmic Homies who we yell loud/proud that WE ARE ONE WITH - (while, of course, honoring the Beauty and Lessons of Blessed Mother Nature) - WHY THE FUCK don't we

JUST SAY NO

GRAB the fucking power from the Sociopathic NarcisSystem's ManiacMoneyTrons trashing our planet for personal gain, and change things by any and all means necessary?

Do we lay down our lives for the Future, the spotted owl, the friendly manatee, our grandchildren? Isn't our compassion is that deep? Won't we collapse to chaos if necessary, for the subsequent good of the whole? Aren't we proud to serve as the stepping stones to a better life for those in the future?

Uh...

But DUDES - isn't "Paradigm Collapse" what we want? What the One World mishegas is all about?

Well... kinda, yeah, but we don't want it to collapse so, you know, uncomfortably.

It's so much cooler to go to seminars in Guaymas, have 'meaningful connections', compare 'synchronicities' and Shamanic Journeys then back a few shots of Anejo (price included in seminar fee) and basically, look to get laid. (Or just flirt and maybe just kiss a little, really drunk, if we're "faithful." People don't own other people, after all.)

And, as we go about our Life Of Meaning, why the heck not see, long as we're at it, if we can't score-a-roonie some moolah in THEIR world, the world we say we cannot/will not tolerate and live to transform?

We're thrilled to go to their zillion buck parties, saying, of course, we felt "uncomfortable" in the oppressive millieu and flatter ourselves that we just there to plant Seeds of Change. But my, that Cristal really rings the Root Chakra, heh heh, n'est pas? So refreshing with the gravlax.

We, THE LEFT, are invertebrate Mollusks attached to Them, the Rocks. Our only real directive is to worm in and feed from the tit of THAT WORLD while trying to sell what 'vision' or 'knowledge' we say we have not only TO IT - the soulless, near fascist American o(i)ligarchy - but we want THE HIGHEST BIDDER we can scam... to buy what WE think they need to justify the wildly Yang animal madness and brutality they wield in matters love and war.

Justify it TO US (i.e. "He's a lawyer, but he's cool, he fasts and teaches yoga") so we'll leave them alone! It's a pay-off. Hush money. I mean, how much is it to build a GLT Counseling Center from cement blocks when you pit it against the fees of all those lawyers in court? We live on the Orb of Bought Ass.

Hey, don't sneer at me, my Spirit Guides told me to write that.

OH - The Left has one more purpose - to be decorative. And amusing. Amusant. Without that, nothing goes, and that, we all know, hella blows.

* * *

ALL IS ONE

That phrase actually bores us. We see and say that all the time. For us LAFS (Lefty Artist Free Spirits) it's reflexive, in the same berth as "Have a good day."

Whenever I see ALL IS ONE, I brace for a tedious read. The phrase is hollow, clearly. We bark it but don't live it, yet convince ourselves we mean it, a sleight-of-hand trick our minds love to trot out to cha-cha.

We are not morally superior. "The only thing for evil to flourish is for good people to do nothing." Or very little. Or even 'not much'.

"Jesus! Did you see what God just did to us?"
"God didn't do it. We did it to ourselves."
- Hunter Thompson

FILTHY AND FREAKY * Rush Limbaugh Unzipped!

by

Xanadu Xero

* * *

I once owned a photo of Marlon Brando with a schvartze schvantz in his mouth (PC translation: penis of color.) It was prodigiously similar to the pic of Rush sucking the swisher on your left.

Oddly, Brando and Limbaugh share some remarkable traits. Both men had/have a flair for publicity, and trouble with chicks. Both worship(ped) their demons, and both did/do some twisted shizz to make a buck.

The main differences between them are (a.) Brando was not an OxyContin addict (b.) Brando was not a double for Augustus Gloop (c.) Brando never gave a Dirty Sanchez to our nation with his bullshit and (d.) Brando fulfilled his homosexual fantasies near cameras. OH and (e.) Brando didn't shirk army duty by flossin' a richly metaphorical Pilonidal cyst (most often caused by repeat trauma and pressure to the, uh, cornhole.)

I'm not ginormously oracular, but I can call every single position The Dittoest will sputter, Yosemite Sam style, on any subject. Maybe cauz I'm a dropout too. Or maybe cauz, like any skeezer, he'll grab negative attention over none at all.

Wait, someone's talking to me. Hold on.

...WHAT?

Oy.

Okaaaay Ladies and Germs, brake time, a little lane switch. Looks like we got us a special guest tonight. Let's just say he's Earth's... dedicated server. Yes, indeedy, right here right now Our Planet's Very Own Associative Identity Disordered Od-gay (the prissy get pissy if you say His name) IZ IN DA HOUSE!

You're doubting? FU. Of course it's legit. It's not like I'm the only one around here he raps with. Open the Whole Earth Times and you'll find legions. So simmer down now, here we go.

GOD TO CHIEF WAGA-WAGA EL RUSHBO OF THE EL CONSERVO TRIBE:

GOD
(offstage)

It's the Right that "throws money at problems" - your own.
The crap you live to accrue are false gods of self-esteem. And sexuality.

You, personally, also lob food at your lubbering abyss.
I mean, look down Sport.
You're a drug addict, newly "recovering" at best and we allll know
that dropping the drugs does not necessarily mean fixing the behavior.

You cannot sustain a man/woman bond so you have no family.
Everyone who failed in youth is haunted, including you.
And you're taking advantage of people, now that you've flipped
the equation and learned to prey on their fears .

Dawg, that's nasty.

Would your shit be so unyielding if you weren't your shit's bondservant,
if your bills, bling an bitches weren't tied to your yoke?

HOW DO I LOVE THEE, MMA?

by

Xanadu Xero

* * *

How do I love thee, MMA? Let me count the ways:

1. "MMA" is a brilliant letter combo, mestizo of the assuasive (AMA), the evocative (MDMA), the epic (MIA), the phallic vibration of the letter M, and, of course, it spells "MA." "MAMA."

2. It has a pithy Mission Statement. Hear it mirrored in the intensely personal creed of the sport's resplendent Philosopher King, Ken Shamrock: " I will beat you into a living death".

YEAH! No poof-y bullshit about 'sportsmanship' or 'modesty' or 'heart of a champ'! There are rules, sorta, so there's 'sportsmanship', okay, but modesty - what the fuck for? Our Quaker Roots have long outlived their shelf life. Only the Champ has 'the heart of a champ.' The other guy fucking LOST and much of the time he submits while unconscious, ear stumps on skin strings, so it is pretty clear why.

3. It saves money. Life-changing amounts. For instance, $210,592,590. That's how much it cost to produce the film "300." 300's two hours were the last time I enjoyed the same voltage of (non-participatory) Testosterotic Jolt that MMA provides FOR FREE. And in 300, shit, the abs were airbrushed on.

4. It's Family Friendly. As a mother myself I'm stirred, for instance, by the love shining from Carlos "The Natural Born Killer" Condit's mom as she cheers her moppet on to rip some motherfucker's face off. (Note to mom: Make sure that tasty little mansnack of yours doesn't eff up his ears.)

5. It teaches Tolerance. All aboard the Compassion Train as drooling announce-o-perv Mauro Renallo either fights or indulges his maricón temblors.

6. It is profoundly Spiritual. The cage is called an octagon, which is, like, a bless-ed & chakra-esque shape, representing rebirth and transition. The number 'eight' is symbolic of renewal, not to mention evocation of the Buddhist "Eightfold Path." 'Nuff said? I think so.

7. It is, surprisingly, quite highbrow. "Pain is just opinion" says fighter Randy Couture. Or, as Tim Sylvia sums it up, "Half of this game is 90% mental."

WILL WORK FOR PORN

by

Xanadu Xero

* * *

“Where IS cyberspace?” I no longer ask as replies made me yearn to be psycho and armed.

They were, mostly a.) a deigning, phlegmy snort, b.) “Its ENERGY through WIRES.” Or c.) (smug:) “I’m artistic.”

Few of us who virtually (HA!) live our lives online understand a fucking thing about it.

We were all chimps when we first laid eyes on the Web - I was there. Eyes billowed, mouths puckering to O-s, as we lurched, screeching: "LOOKY! WORDS-AND-FACE-IN-BOX!” Then of course we got pissed we had to learn stuff to use it and then we were pissed we had to use it all the time.

That piteous start doesn’t begin to compare, however, to how inane Humanity has been since accruing Cyber Savvy.

Ladies, Gentlemen, Gender Neutral and/or Original 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! Valhalla!

* * *

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.

IF A TWITTA GET A ATTITUDE

by

Xanadu Xero

* * *

1. I know you know already but these pneumatic thumb-doppelganger white men on here are unbelievable. You know when someone's 'house proud'

2. & they Give You A Tour braying on about every damn thing and it *blows*? And you're stunned and you're starting to sweat because you

3. have this putrid satori: I WILL NEVER BE AS CONFIDENT AS THEY ARE. Invisible subtitle, "And FUCK I'll never be rich. All I want is a

4. free vacation (seminar bullshit) like these bozos score all the time. Fuck." -- Oh dear, I slid into my next point back-asswards. I was about

5. going to floss the fact that I feel exactly like that reading these guys. It's like when Hobson said to Arthur, "Shall I wash your dick

6. sir?" but these guys would say yes.

*

7. '50% Leave Twitter After The First Month' because Twitter is… then BAM! Ten articles. Twitter gives you space on a computer. There are no

8. tablets engraved with what you should do once you're there. Here. Humankind is fucking dying - have you heard? "Pictures of my book

9. tour, such fun!" & "This NYT fellow groks my works' nuance... NOT" & "At the Star Trek premiere" & "it's worth becoming gay -- just to

10. annoy the republicans" That last Czar Cyberski is too important to capitalize, or even punctuate. I'm not at my point yet. Later.

*

*INTERMISSION ENTERTAINMENT BY LIMP BIZKIT!*

A. it's a fucked up world a fucked up place
everybody's judged by their fucked up face fucked up dreams

B. fucked up life a fucked up kid with a fucked up knife
fucked up moms and fucked up dads a fucked up cop with a fucked up

C. badge fucked up job with fucked up pay
and a fucked up boss is a fucked up day...

D. fucked up aids from fucked up sex fake ass titties on a fucked up chest.

We're all fucked up so whatcha wanna do

with fucked up me and fucked up you?

*

11. My point...s like stars, fractals of one another! Namaste! Macro point is fuck you all you elitest Liberals, who need a banner just

12. like Them, who see our infrastructure as the spoils in team sports just like Them, who are only Open Minded within their particular

13. gates, who are status obsessive, elitest and who - and this is the worst of all - COSMETICALLY CENSOR. They don't answer me beca

14. ause I'm not within their 'Branding Curve'. Meaning it's not really what I say that they want to shut down - though that too. It's the

15. *perceived* Lack Of Respect with which I say it. They want a formal Court. Whatever light glares their grandeur, kaput. The Cult Of Pers

16. onality has dribbled down and now festers at the bottom.

*

17. Hey, nice tits or what?

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?

HOW TO BE FAMOUS IN TWO WEEKS OR LESS!

By Xanadu Xero

* * * * *

How can you really get famous in two weeks or less?

As a basic entrée, shooting up public buildings is failsafe, if short-lived. Feigning horror at the release of home porn is useless if you’re not renowned already. Killing your pregnant wife has proven its media staying power, but it’s just been done and, frankly, won’t be hot unless you resemble a star who could play you on HBO (e.g. Scott Peterson/Ben Affleck).

Cripes, that limits one’s options. Thank God the game plan of American Can-Do is to find a need, then fill it.

When I saw the ad for a class on how to hustle two-week fame, I couldn’t wait to slam down forty bucks. I mean, look at poor, stupid Vincent Van Gogh. What a chump. Worked his whole damn life painting his ‘vision’ — to what end? Poverty? Madness? No one gave a rat’s ass in his lifetime. He even cut off his ear privately. Cameras weren’t around then, but he could have whacked it in the town square or something for a little P.R.

And Mother Teresa, another head case. By the time she got famous, she looked like hell squared. A sea of Botox couldn’t help that mug. Was she invited to Cannes? To Diddy’s yacht? Did Dolce & Gabanna even know she was alive?
“The nice thing about being a celebrity is that when you bore people, they think it's their fault,” said major bore-cum-dickhead Henry Kissinger. Those sylvan words gassed my brain as I entered the class and, looking something like a strung-out newsboy, crept to the back.

Fame’s fugleman, instructor Melissa de la Cruz, was very late. I was seething until I considered that perhaps this was our first golden lesson: Make ‘em wait.

In L.A., promptness is seen as subservience, and when you wait for someone, you’re a beta dog showing your belly, flopping your toady paws.

The swarm of eager studentry before me twitched with anticipation. Its coiled spring of latent star power was stirring, in a Mall of America way. I saw, among others, funky-lite Top 40 hopefuls, models — all smiles — with caps in Lab Rat White, a large cruise ship chanteuse awash in rayon tie-dye, a male-to-female transvestite kissy-poo with a female-to-male, some pimply junior agents, party girls past their shelf life, a slob with sandals/socks and smelly take-out, a Japanese matron who no speak English, a slutty, well-proportioned dwarf in a cloud of patchouli, and a sebaceous young man Going Places, with a mien swiped from daytime TV.

When Ms. de la Cruz, at last, arrived, a collective disappointment ricocheted like pinballs off the walls. Stubby and lumpen, her Latin/Asian genes lent her no exotic flair whatsoever. She was dressed in jeans and a top that must have been ‘designer’ as its ugliness was profound. It looked like a flouncy straight jacket made from Amish curtains.

“Sorry I’m late,” she mumbled. “I just moved here from New York.” Oh. Perhaps traffic was bad from the airport.

Actually, I was buoyed by the sight of our éclat apostle. If Melissa got herself famous in just two weeks, surely I can too! Screw writing; it’s hard. Good-bye to you all!

De la Cruz, a free-lance ‘journalist,’ originally pursued fame as an article assignment from Marie-Claire magazine. She competed with her writing partner, Karen Robinovitz, to see who could get where in fourteen days. They subsequently bloated their exploits into a perky, big font book. Here is its pith:

First, you have to ‘Brand’ yourself. Who will you be? A tortured poet? The urbane intellectual? That naughty ingénue? Color branding is good. “Choose an M&M color you hate,” says de la Cruz, “and stick with it.”

Wit and whimsy – an integral part of the game!

“Add a ‘von’ or (cough) ‘de’ to your last name,” she continues. Xanadu von Xero. Cool. Then, pursue the two commandments: Cozy up to gossip columnists, and get a P.R. agent.

Melissa knew gossip columnists in New York, and had a friend in P.R. My karma denies me collusion with such aristocracy. Yours may as well. Oh, no — will fame take us longer? Shit.

Fame is basically a scam, a grift, a Ponzi scheme. For example: Your P.R. agent contacts the newest scenester restaurant and offers them the ‘opportunity’ to sponsor a birthday party for you, THE famous (fill in blank) and rising social star. Lots of celebrities will be there, says s/he, lots of press.

Once place and grub are secured, you obsessively call hot celebrities’ ‘people’ (manager, agent, P.R., production company), leaning on any and all contacts past the point of post-obnoxiousness. You tell them that the hottest place in town is throwing a hot ‘do for the hottest new celestial body, you. So much hotness that the LAFD is on call. There will be oodles of other celebs and infinite, no doubt international, coverage.

Once you get a firm ‘yes’ from someone — anyone — famous, you can monkey-bar with ease. When you’ve assembled a luminous guest list, move down to the semi-famous - magazine editors, gossip mavens and the like, who will be disposed to ride your train.

On you’ll go to score free everything, booze, gift bag stuff, a spa day, a makeover, borrowed designer gown, a limo.

Invite reporters and paparazzi. Consult a ‘media coach’ about how to pose, stand and talk. (Be upbeat! Positive!) Then, darlings, prepare to be fabulous!

(Important Note: You can’t afford to waste a thought on family, friends, or your word or bond with ANYONE [unless it helps you get laid]. If you’re Bound for Glory, that crap is bad cholesterol. You’re born alone and you’ll die alone, right? Would they turn down fame for you? I think not. Fuck ‘em.)

Now at your shindig, baby, WORK IT. Butt into celebrity photos, and remember: Visine in the eyes makes them sparkle; Vaseline on the teeth makes them shine.

Apres le fete, (Pretentious for ‘after the party’), court gossip writers morning, noon and night. Melissa says, “If you make them think you think they’re great, they’ll respond.” Flowers and gifts never hurt, unless they’re, you know, not that cool.

Finagle invitations, but pick and choose where to manifest; don’t overexpose. Let talk show bookers know that you’re available to wield your area of expertise, even if that area is ‘lip gloss’ or ‘magenta.’ They need to fill airtime. You’re doing them a favor.

Soon… with care’n’prayer… Presto! Fate will turn on a dime. Life will be honey-tongued, a warm, fragrant breeze…

If, of course, you’re a total moron.

“When you look at the kind of people who chase the spotlight,” says my pal Silver, “how can you not think of obnoxious little kids who start screaming as soon as they’re in a public place? Celebrities are just the calculating version of sports fans who paint team colors on their beer guts, take their shirts off, and jiggle at games.”

“And in Hell-Lay,” added my friend Tricks “nothing’s worth doing unless others watch you do it, envy you, and feel inferior.” He sighed. “Fame… is just a bad hallucination.”

Funny Strange, Or Funny 'Ha-Ha?'

by Xanadu Xero

It looked like an AA meeting, but without the Higher Power. It was a swamp of white men with poor hygiene and me, as I had so sagely divined.

A hirsute butt crack, long as the Nile, squinted my way through a folding chair. Third-billed sitcom ‘guest star’ types bragged about their 8x10s up at a carwash. A bony old rooster in an ascot trilled “Aye ham Bel-jeen, nut French!” An egg shaped goon sporting head-to-toe orange babbled like a talking traffic cone. A Jack Black doppelganger sang ‘Hey Ya’ while Afro-picking his weed-like toupee. A fallen Bar Mitzvah boy nattered, spitting, “I drive a limo and WHOOO-boy I’ve seen a lot of blow-jobs!”

I was, needless to say, at a Stand-Up Comedy seminar. I’ll bet a lot of Unemployment checks were gouged to pay this tab.

The general ADHD deportment of these larval superstars was amped by the entrance of our two instructors, Dan and Dan. This was depressing because the Dans were titanically younger than most of the crowd who pranced to impress them.

They informed us, chop-chop, that they had Big Managers cookin’ Big Deals and were, as we speak, skidding on oil to the Big Time. Actually, just one Dan did; we’ll call him
Demonic Dan. I’m not sure that he’s actually demonic, but what he represented, to me, is. Decent Dan, a darling geek, just sputtered info when asked.

Demonic Dan is blandly good-looking with a snaky smile. He’d be top ten in a Masonic draft — what might be called a ‘Winner’. You just know he’s going to Make It — no matter what. He wields entitlement like Kung Fu nunchucks, as if ‘tis heaven’s will. The ‘my dad’s in corporate law’ vibe spurts from his pores. He can simultaneously command and patronize a crowd, cocksure he’s a champ. He tours. He’ll be hosting a show for MTV. He has a big balla web$ite with streaming video. He has everything but… talent.

Au contraire — like an old movie plot — shy, nerdy Decent Dan really is funny. Smart funny. His website is just a dorky photo. Demonic D. says that they often perform together “because we play off each other well, we’re such opposites.” The real reason, I submit, is that Demonic D. wants to hitch to Decent D.’s star, in case he gets famous first. I don’t think he needs to fret, though — as I said, Decent Dan is smart.

We learned (for fifty bucks) that clubs like The Comedy Store and the Ha Ha (Ugh) Café have open mic nights. That you will endure two years of silence and boos before you “destroy ‘em!” and “kill ‘em!” which, relatively speaking, might mean that some drunks in the audience cough.

At that point you invite your Mom and best friend from first grade to “give their opinion.” Gosh, I wonder what they’ll say.

Also, when you’re on the road, you have to stay in bad hotels. And Carrot Top makes ten million a year, which reminded me, with anguish, that our culture’s in a toilet that’s already been flushed.

“Phyllis Dill-eer and Rod-nee Dangerfield — they are not very young, yes?” the old Belgian guy chimed out. “You see, there iss no age limit to have fun!” The guy beside me hissed and clicked his pen.

“I know how college works,” added the orange traffic cone. “I know all the new majors, like Afro Studies and that woman shit. Does that compensate for being old?”

“Will bodybuilding negatively affect your career?” asked Herr Butt Crack who, at this point, should feel free to dwell on other things. “I mean, did it hurt Joe Piscopo?”

After a break, the Dans performed a bit of their routines. Demonic Dan’s ventured bravely into the uncharted waters of horniness and masturbation.

The bulk of Part Two was a ‘workshop.’ Everyone but me had a prepared joke to perform. As I told Demonic Dan that I’d be sitting this out, he looked past my shoulder in true Hollywood style.

Hello, ladies and germs! My name is Xanadu Xero — how y’all doing tonight? Anyone here from Chicago? I just flew in from Chicago and boy, are my arms tired! Hear about the new corduroy pillows? They’re making headlines! I now have the honor of presenting to you the comedy stylings of the cream of the seminar ‘workshop,’ those inimitable Tinsel Townies - the Pouting White Men!

Hissing Pen Clicker: “What are steroids for fags called? Assteroids.”

Butt Crack: “I called my brother and said, ‘I’ve got some good news and some bad news. The good news is that my cock is huge, but the bad news is that Mom died.”

Traffic Cone: “Anyone here from the INS? Oh, that’s okay, I’m legal.”

Old Belgian Guy: “I do not like a woman with breasts smaller than my nuts.”

Weedy Toupee: “Confucius say if you drop watch in toilet you have shitty time.”

Bar Mitzvah Boy: “I was driving cross-country recently and I felt the urge so I pulled out my dick and got caught by the toll booth collector. She said it wasn’t a good thing. Thank you.”

Did anyone, uh, get that last one?

“Whenever I see stand-up, I feel like ‘The King Who Couldn’t Laugh’” said my boyfriend, Aap. “There used to be five good comics, now there are five million who suck. The bar’s gotten so low it’s subterranean.”

Aap is flammable on this subject. He stood up and started to pace. “People go to these clubs because they don’t have a damn thing to say to each other. Americans will laugh at anything. They’re like pissing dogs. They’re unable to wait for anything, they cannot tolerate suspense.”

My confrere Silver threw her quarter into the well. “The best comedy comes from a dark place and is supposed to fuck with your perceptions.” Her eyes went all steely, contrasting with her fluffy hair. “Institutionalized dullness has choked the life from what is supposed to be a subversive art form. Give me ‘American Chopper’ any day if the alternative is some asexual ‘regular guy’ acting all befuddled’n’hostile in the presence of women and groceries.”

“Girls all say that they want guys with a sense of humor,” responded Aap. “And that’s what they get with these ‘comedians’ — a sense of humor. At best they can sense it. Perhaps.”

Silver continued, spirit seized: “The entertainment business is owned by corporations. If the check signers don’t want the boat rocked, the boat rockers won’t get onboard, so we wind up with some jackass blathering about appliances, or his wiener. And people pay to hear this, and yuck it up, as civilization is crumbling around them.”

She paused. “Now that… is kind of funny.”

'NIFONGED' IN SERBIAN CYRILLIC: Милорад Благојевић

by Xanadu Xero

Milorad Blagojevich, (or Blagojević) an Orthodox Serb, grew up in Chicago, unlucky. Well, unlucky for a white boy with snazzy aspirations. His parents were FOB, poor laborers, not just from the 'wrong' part of Europe, but the 'wrong' part of Yugoslavia.

Shrewd young 'Rod', however, reforged himself as a gold-standard American, bulldozing speed-of-light past immigrant parents, tech school and Golden Gloves boxing, alllll the way to posh puss Malibu, where he went to (cough) law school.

Back in Chicago he charmed, then married a Big Macher's daughter (In Chicago. Let's see you do it) and became a *Player* in the sparkling, once alien world he turned into (bongo roll:) his world. It's a Frank Sinatra movie.

Then Rod fucked up the sequel.

"Hey, Blagobitch - don't sit on a wall if you're an egg!" guffawed I, heartily, along with the cool kids, Rachel and Keith.

But no no NO, that was wrong, my fellow doomed-almost-for-sure Americans.

Rod's fall was a dehumanizing sacrifice spectacle. Ghastly.

*

When our brains Primal Scream, Humanity JUMPS.

We become activated sleeper cells, feral, our collective unconscious slaughtering sense. Much of human behavior confounds and enslaves us. We will repeat defeating actions as we watch them ruin us, then do them again, like polluting the water that we, ourselves, drink. “Kill the pig! Drink his blood! Bash him in!” Sometimes our "bashing" loops back on ourselves. We are like problem dogs. We work from the black hole chakra.

Our social machine eats blood and ruin and dead flesh. After a sacrifice, literal or symbolic, there's celebration. Phrenzy. Pandemically - world/color/class-wide.

Ancient Jews burned entire animals in holocausts ('holocaust' actually means 'sacrifice by fire.') Christians were fed to lions, the virgin thing, you've got your J.C., Malcolm X, Saddam, Britney, Ted Haggard - a steady drip. Someone gets killed and someone gets fed - dwarf hookers head to head in the UFC Global Octagon!

Maimonides felt that God's tolerance for sacrifice was "a concession to human psychological limitations" (Wikipedia.) To God I say, wrong call, Dawg - spare the rod (ha!) and spoil the child. Now look - we're a mess. Humans were crafty enough to break through the 'ceiling' of nature's check and balance system, but too dumb to grasp that 'balance' is not a stoner pipe dream, it's the password for our species' life on Earth to continue.

We are all Sid Vicious, trashing, in concert, our metaphorical hotel room - shanking mankind to shoot up the Seven Deadly Sins. And we're lazy and selfish and don't want to change.

*

So Blago, the doof, the yokel, Gospodin Big Shot, got too uppity. Is that new? His first power abuse? Or did no one have the balls to call it out before? If so, who's guilty here?

Meanwhile, The Fed has lent out TWO TRILLION dollars since September - TO WHO and FOR WHAT remains a mystery. Henry "Playa 4 Real" Paulson snuck in a(n arguably illegal) tax code rewrite worth 140 BILLION for big banks, to help them snuff the little ones, like fish in a barrel.

But that's like, ugh, you know, complex. So we savage Blago instead to blast some steam, like beating gays with chains, or tripping fatsos.

We need to get hold of ourselves.

Blagojevich seemed to me, for all his E-Z Fun value, in STAT need of help, mentally ill. His faux-Kennedy oratories, his dead-eyed trills of moral high ground, his press courting - creepy. Sad. Sick. As was the stupendous amount of time that our brains, beguiled by shiny things, spent upon it.

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.

MSNBC B Da SHIZNIT 4 ELECTION 'O8!

* * * * *

By Xanadu Xero

Wassap wanna give a shout-out to my frends at MSNBC fo' rockin that erection. ELection. Yo. Gonna slide some primo domo arigato up atcha on da real fo shizzle homesleeCES. That B some tiiiiiight shit.

* * * * *

I tried to rotate other channels with MSNBC mid Election Spectre, but their rivals were appalling, clown nightmares. Besides, my five fave middle school geeks were leading Assembly!

Keith, Chris, Eugene, Dennis the Menace in his church suit - I mean David - and Rachel at one desk? Who could turn away? I'm always surprised that Rachel doesn't have braces with peanut butter ground in. Her smile is so sunny, so scampy, so punk, so wanna hear something wack? so they made me wear these gross clothes bleech that I DO want to hear, always, and I always smile back.

The Fab Five were absolutely the smartest team reporting on Election Night. They were frickin' illuminated. Adorable. Zen. I felt like the john in an orgy at the Moonlite Brainy Ranch.

I will also, perhaps, admit a nano-twingette of revenge-by-proxy. Here's some Election Night subtext from each one of them for those of you who can't read minds: So Homecoming King, you like working at Auto Zone? Yeah it's really me, the fat one with the stupid lunchbox - now I'm broadcast world-wide. I could buy and sell you like I pick my nose. So who's the geek now, motherfucker?

***

I'd like to present, if I may, a bit of what spat from my soul last Tuesday night as our Rendezvous With Destiny 2.0 bloomed like a moon lily vine. I'll leave that politickin' yada to the tickers, okay? and present you with what is uniquely mine:

The triumph of trivia... over even the siren call of Hope.

1. Thank goDog we at last have a President and First Lady who vibe that they actually FUCK. Work that booty, Michelle!

2. Keith Olbermann's pink tie looked like a penis peeking out of unzipped pants. Maybe on purpose. I adore, revere Keith and he seems like a serious perv. That's a compliment.

3. I'd talk to Chris Matthews for hours and hours at a party... if I were absolutely sure no one was there I wanted to hit on.

4. Jesse Jackson crying looked like someone's prison bitch.

5. I felt Obama's win portended a boundary smashing liberation for Eugene Robinson, who's clearly a White Nerd trapped in a black man's body.

6. I want to squeeze Bishop Jakes. I love the way he speaks. I was surprised by his gentle voice, his tender face. I've seen him preach. He's awesome.

7. Rachel Maddow is the man I'd like to marry. She's just missing one thing.

8. Joe Biden was a better V.P. selection than a chick could have been or another brown dude. Youth need to see the white 'establishment' as friendly, and the White Establishment needs to become those friends. When the families, white and black, came onstage and embraced, DAMN I haven't wept so much since the first time my hard drive crashed.

9. Michelle doll, mom-to-mom here - keep an eye on that little Malia. She's way too comely for my comfort. Do not let her become a model (oy, God forbid!) We'll talk about your Sasha in a couple of years.

10. Pat Buchannan is A-OK by me.

11. My Nonny, Grandma Rose (R.I.P.) came down from that Great Sukkot in the sky and spake unto me. I could actually smell the Divine Herring on her breath. "Barack Schmarack" she said, "the man was raised by White People who called him 'Barry.' And the strategist, the REAL brains, ya heard HIS name, ya little momser? Axelrod. That's right - AXELROD.

***

Causal life is a simply a phantasm. All it takes for the world to change is for you and I to shift our collective illusion.

Have at it. I'll start now.

FASCISM FOR DUMMIES!

By Xanadu Xero

* * *

I'm writing this just 44 minutes into Debate '08, The Sequel! and I've been chomping at the bit.

Elmer Fudd doppelganger John McCain proposed easing the gruesome problems of the abused middle-class with "double tax exemption for every dependent." Seven thousand dollars? Is that Catskills schtick?

I'm almost stupid enough to go for such a thing, but he underestimated even me a.k.a. the Mistake Machine, brain long singed from disco poppers, 'Ms.' Heretofore Easily Led. Not very bright of him because, obviously, I'm not very bright.

We'd get a seven thou exemption per rugrat per year from McCain, PLUS that JUMBO five thousand dollar 'rebate' for what, ice cream? ("Please sir," spake Oliver Twist, softly, holding his gruel bowl aloft, "may I have... some more?") WTF DYD (Do You Do) if you're single or support people not legally recognized as "dependents?" I'd call that some lube-less back door entry.

There ya have it (wink) - the tone and timbre of "help" for the middle class under McCain's proposed 'leadership', with "Middle Class" of course, remaining undefined. Say it ain't so, Shmo!

The five Gs are earmarked for Health Insurance, so we can 'choose our own,' freedom fueled fillys that Americans are. But doggone it, John, when people have huge festering debts, health insurance just ain't Number One on the pay list.

That health "plan" is vicious, a set-up for most of US to fail. And when we fail, dropping dead in ERs and such, we'll be told that it was OUR "Don't Tread On Me" Freedom of Choice to pay our (unaffordable) property tax with the 'rebate' (so our kids would have a frickin' roof) instead of buying health insurance, like we were s'posed to.

Naughty American People. Where is your Personal Responsibility? Government can't legislate that. Should have planned better. 'Better' meaning, like, sleep in tents and eat roadkill?

Plus get real - if you're a family of four, will five thousand dollars buy you quality QUALITY health care with accidents covered, transplants, a lifetime of medicine, lengthy hospital stays? I THINK NOT. Don't We The People want Presidential care, first class? That IS what we want, isn't it?

Gee, GUESS NOT cauz so many of *US* are thinkin' bout votin' McCain - the ticket that won't pronounce 'Gs'. That's REALLLY DUMM. Do the numbers. I count on my fingers but even I can add that.

McCain pitched us blatant sleaze in funereal tones more suitable for the phrase, "I'm so sorry for your loss," but John does not seem to be sorry.

His behavior reeks of Amotivational Syndrome, or maybe he kiped some Atavans from Cindy. His efforts to woo us has been insultingly minimal. In point of fact, the whole Republican Party seems to be suffering from ennui. Them cowboys just ain't slammin' deep into this tight, squirming Sham '08.

The Republican Party, in power and lovin' it!, spit us a tired, selfish old Yes Man who can't assuage shit or limbo under a high jump. How is it even possible that alta kocker "Melanoma" John McCain, with THAT WIFE is The Forbes 500's choice to Lead The Free World? Something is very wrong with that.

McCain has a bad synergy of weaknesses - he is cowardly and he is sociopathic, (obvious with one peek at how demonically he dumped first wife Carol for the Dee-LUX Sex Doll/Meal Ticket Combo. Ride 'em, Maverick!) We saw him try to turn the first two debates into a mall rat bitch snit. Was that the Republican Party's objective? What's up with that?

I think McCain seems tortured lately because he IS. I say "lately" as opposed to the past - no, no, not that P.O.W. thang, later, like when the vivacious Cindy stole drugs from her own, high profile charity. Wait, whoopsie! my bad - he wasn't tortured then. It was when she was caught.

Either Reppie arrogance is EPIC this year ("Hey, Johnny, we can always count on you to be a sport, right? We got all the young 'uns tied up with that newfangled crap") or, perhaps there only IS one team. Perhaps THEY *DO* play Good Cop/Bad Cop, Yin/Yang, bop us around. Smooth sure as fuck is Democrat in '08. That's so blatant it scares me.

We The People are clearly seen by Republican politicos as an Occupational Hazard. We're the Bad Gig, traffic school, the meeting they, oh fuck, have to hold in Toledo. We're the least interesting part of their job, the not-clean coal they need to drive the locomotive.

Campaigning dilutes focus. THEY can't wait to get this election stuff over so they can return to the COOL part of their trade, the rush - the global, three-dimensional chess game.

WE ARE TO BLAME for this.

Really.

Our weakness, passivity, indulgence are the culprits. We don't fight the evils we already KNOW are here (ex: mass surveillance) that will INEVITABLY lead to our total submission. We deserve the world we wait and hope to "GET" (image here: kneeling in church.)

GET is the whole problem.

We are programmed to wait and hope to get.
Down, boy. Woof! THEM:

"We are not content with negative obedience, nor even with the most abject submission. When finally you surrender to us, it must be of your own free will."

That was from George Orwell's 1984, which B lookin' mo' an 'mo like Fascism For Dummies!

THEY're working on it right now, whoever THEY are - shuttling US from here to that point. We're watching it happen.

"It's a strange world. Some people get rich and others eat shit and die."
-- Hunter Thompson

Ain't it the Truth, Uncle Hunty. Aint it the truth.

SARAH PALIN IS A WHITE TRASH HO(E)-DOWN

by
Xanadu Xero

* * *

Three things I thought me the ninstant (nano instant) I first saw Sarah Palin:

1. Girlfrien' seen more than her share of pick-up flat beds (unh-huh.)

2. I'll bet a C-note she needs a bikini wax.

3. She's the most dangerous kind of moron - "intelligent." Those 'smarts' have grossed her a pregnant teen and a man best described as a skilled snomobiler with live sperm. Also on her tab, three more mom-starved, not brilliant future tweaker bear-hunters and, to cap it off, a TOTALLY IGNORED DOWN SYNDROME INFANT.

Are there roofies in the chem trails now? Hey, Droogs - that's FUCKING AWFUL!

If *ELECTION '08!* was a movie, I'd sit that rootin' tootin' tomato down for a heart-wrenching, heart warming chat. She'd spring to a satori, fueled by my pith. The Right Thing To Do would beckon clearly. Our Girl would raise her own damn bar and choose Compassion (as played by Sandra Bullock.)

When I wrote TV Movies as a whippersnapette, they made us write sappy endings - People Do Right. That's not what happens. Break it down: Palin's life decisions have caused complex and stressful consequences that demand time BITCH DO NOT HAVE.

So: Should Spunky Political Iditarod Musher Governor Sarah Palin (R Alaska)
(A.) Show character and focus on attending to her in situ roiling miasma, OR
(B.) Should she add to it?

Jeepers! What's your opinion on that?

That bovine pisher Bristol knocked up, oy vey - BAD PARENTING. There is no reason for a seventeen year old to concieve unless the XY is God, she doesn't know how babies happen or doesn't have enough self-esteem to STOP A MOMENT that is proceeding irresponsibly. A moment for which only SHE could pay, not the shmuck with the boner. I've seen a lot of like family values - mostly on 'COPS'.

I think I'd saw off half a finger to have watched The Men In Black knock on snag-fishing ejaculator Levi Johnston's lean-to, shove a suit at him and announce He Is Engaged. Could Sasha Baron Cohen write anything better?

As for baby Trig, WTF? Why is he even here? The Barracuda had four ignored kids already. Should Her Honor have indulged herself in a bareback dicking, you know, considering? Do you imagine this, by moonlight:

SARAH: "Toddy, my lamb, husband, hero... should we create another life from God's Love to further divide the Pie Scrap of my Attention that all of our children must share?"

TODD (if it was Todd:) "Why YES, my flower, lady-wife who rouses my loins! Brilliant!

If Palin opposes abortion, FINE, that's not the point. The point is that she was SCREWING IRRESPONSIBLY, without behavioral or birth control, JUST LIKE BRISTOL!

Sista ignored lotsa shizz to GIT HER PARTY ON! Hey Sarah - let's see your tits!

You want THAT mindset to be "a heartbeat away from the presidency" when the heartbeat belongs to McCorpse (72 years young!) the Melanoma Man? NYET!

Debate wise, was she a twinkly, Eddie Haskell suck-up or what?

Her eyes got kind of moist when Biden was mean enough to talk Afghanistan and not see that Senator John McCain was no Bush lacky but, gosh, a Maverick, with his own darn mind! Then - PRESTO - her face snapped dark. It was like one of those Disney Haunted House portraits that, as lightning strikes, flicker Good/Evil/Good.

Meanwhile, Joe Biden, who I knew little about, impressed the HECK out of me. Perhaps it's gross to say of a man his age, but... I got a strong sense that he knew how to fuck. Same with Obama, of course. I like that in a ticket.

Biden was cool, courtly, polite, in command of his facts, and even had the grace to be amused by Palin's undaunted pyrotechnic display of baseless chutzpah. Oh, and he used the word 'contemporaneously'. I might be in constituent love.

The Vice Presidential Debate last night, my compadres, was a live-action production of All About Eve.

SARAH PALIN IS EVE. WE, THE AMERICAN PEOPLE, ARE BETTE DAVIS.

Buyer beware.

SPARKY AND SCHEDULE 2

By Xanadu Xero

* * *

"To be an addict is to be something of a cognitive acrobat. You spread versions of yourself around, giving each person the truth he or she needs - you need, actually - to keep them at a remove."
- David Carr

* * * * *

Hey Sparky, I was talking to some guy at a party last week and when it became clear he could not pick me up he didn't want to talk anymore! Is that a frickin' hoot or what? I mean, no one was fifteen, especially me.

Driving home, my mind left Ground Control, my heart got damp and I craved you - BUT - I reined it back in. Yes! I thought of others I 'craved' in the past, and how I don't remember why now. So Fuck You. I won't let myself unravel for you or tapout. I won't rot in my Female/Yin for you and wither and lapse, and put work into 'recovering' and lose a year. I won't give you that honor.

I'm going to do what YOU taught me to do, Spark, O bailing ace of my heart, O Tube Steak Bonanaza I leaped to believe was not just in my grasp but holding me, O Multiplex Man who I dreamed I was helping, through MY U-NEEK sizzlin' fizzin' Supersonic Love (Lemme hear U say YEAH!!), to be so relaxed within himself he could and would blossom and grow. What Girl porno. Connection! Conception! Deep thrusts for a sistah, and of course, now I know what that means. Hee hee.

"Why shouldn't I be paid back energetically by whatever Higher Power everyone insists is there? For all of my fine daughter work at least?" That was the mantra. Why shouldn't I win the lottery rocking my socket unto death with someone as funny, as smart, as badass as you, who I found perpetually fascinating and who, even filthy, smells like cinnamon musk? "Why NOT me?" I eructed 'till you fucking HAD to cross the ever-moving line I shoved before you like a hockey puck until it slammed into the big wall of: SHIT. NOW IT REALLY IS THAT THING.

"That Thing" being, of course, mendacity, a thousand lies - the Searing Selfishness of Substance Servility. I.E. SSSS - the sound a snake makes, striking when cornered. I.E. Cowardice. You know - wanking, not loving (wink wink.) Sin cajones.

I'll mourn if I think about it, so ya know what, I won't (much.) I will squeegee that flop sweat off my brain guy style, like you do. Instant tabula rasa. Laser soul rejuvenation. I moved my ad hoc Emergency Synapse Command Center to The Male Mind - which was dormant in me 'till you unlocked it my friend, and showed me the ropes. And you, Mega-Dude, are a master.

I just watched you switch off the kleig lights of two plus years, then blame me. Double play! WOW! So I think I can scam it. I think I've groked enough to white-out 'now', though I don't have your crystalline Compassion Expunger to guide my chemistry.

Maleness is just so handy, like the perfect black belt! It lubes all things to ingress easy because men make sure THEY THINK THEY WIN no matter how something goes down. Wherever a man is, that's where the party's at. According, of course, to him - though he's often an Army Of One.

Si Cholito - I am moronically naive and yeah I saw it coming, but just in ONE version. I saw several versions of our story, and I didn't want to leave your smell. Plus I like that part of me, the part that can embrace sweetness without irony. I want to adore my man and crave his warmth and believe in triumph of the spirit. I don't want to be so worldly that I'd take one look at you and pass. God is the details - well, to me. Causal World crap is just that, in jagged perpetual loops, and once you've spun 'round a few by middle age - big whoop. So some jerk likes my writing, for instance, and gives me a job. That would be most agreeable, to get the pro strokes again, money, but underneath that, for all space and time - who fucking cares?

It's the Chrome Rims that make a life, yo. Soul sex, fun, sharing, memories, nurturing, conquering and submitting, and, of course love with that je ne sais quoi, that ZZZZZZZAP (and in our case, pandemic pervitude. Damn I'll miss that.) Without it, why stay? On earth, I mean. What's the frickin' point?

I invested in love's famous 'transformational power' but yet again, Spark, you bucked the system and trumped my ass. You transformed me however with, perhaps, a perfect imitation - until you resented what it was keeping you from. Thanks for what you did do though. Really. You changed my life.

A Heart of Gold but it lost its pride
Beautiful veins and bloodshot eyes
I've seen your face in another light
Why'd you have to go and let it die?
(Foo Fighters)

Those lyrics were to be to be presented for real, with pain, until I accepted the fact that the feral scrambling, the Prime Directive of an addict is to maintain his status-quo. Ouch. I never really had a chance.

* * *

METH Recovery & Treatment

Detox

Detox within 4 to 6 weeks. Users report physical cravings (physical de-ja-vu’s) for up to a year, often intensifying at three month intervals. Likelihood of relapse increases with length and severity of use. Users must also deal with a strong psychological addiction, triggered by common sights, conversations, and thoughts. Which if not kept under control can lead to quick relapse when accompanied by recurring physical cravings. Methamphetamine users are considered the hardest type of addicts to treat. Most do not suffer significant physical or psychological symptoms until they are firmly addicted, and then try to deny they have20a problem for as long as they can, because they do not want to give up something that makes them feel "so good".

Treatment

At this time the most effective treatments for methamphetamine addiction are Cognitive Behavioral interventions. These approaches are designed to help modify the patients' thinking, expectancies, and behaviors and to increase skills in coping with various life stressors. Methamphetamine recovery support groups also appear to be effective adjuncts to behavioral interventions that can lead to long-term drug-free recovery. There are currently no particular pharmacological treatments for dependence on amphetamine or amphetamine-like drugs such as methamph etamine. The current pharmacological approach is borrowed from experience with treatment of cocaine dependence. Unfortunately, this approach has not met with much success since no single agent has proven efficacious in controlled clinical studies. Antidepressant medications are helpful in combating the depressive symptoms frequently seen in methamphetamine users who recently have become abstinent. There are some established protocols that emergency room physicians use to treat individuals who have had a methamphetamine overdose. Because hyperthermia and convulsions are common and often fatal complications of such overdoses, emergency room treatment focuses on the immediate physical symptoms. Overdose patients are cooled off in ice baths, and anticonvulsant drugs may be administered also. Acute methamphetamin e intoxication can often be handled by observation in a safe, quiet environment. In cases of extreme excitement or panic, treatment with antianxiety agents such as benzodiazepines has been helpful, and in cases of methamphetamine-induced psychoses, short-term use of neuroleptics has proven successful.

Treatment Obstacles

Insomnia , depression, suicidal feelings.
Recurring hallucinations, and delusions.
Disorganized lifestyle, poor coping abilities, decreased social skills.
20 Permanent psychological problems.
Disturbance of normal personality development.
Ongoing violent and aggressive behavior.
Weight loss, malnutrition, body image fixations.
Lowered resistance to illnesses.
Physical complications, such as: kidney and lung disorders, liver damage.
Possible brain damage due to the destruction (loss) of nerve cells.
Behavior resembling paranoid schizophrenia.

WHITE MEN CAN'T HUMP *

* Some Exceptions Apply, but not too freaking many.
(PART 3 OF "I AM AN APE MAN")

By Xanadu Xero


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


There is no way for me to ease into things without dying of boredom - that's my curse - so give it up 4 my homeboy Geor-G "FresHelll" OrWell who gonna b wild now freestylin, an busta veradicality atch'yall 2 open up 4 me here:

"Do you begin to see, then, what kind of world we are creating? It is the exact opposite of the stupid hedonistic Utopias that the old reformers imagined. A world of fear and treachery and torment, a world of trampling and being trampled upon, a world which will grow not less but more merciless as it refines itself. Progress in our world will be progress toward more pain."
- 1984

Sound asTOUNdingly familiar? Like, say, an average day in the U S of A?

Mad props to yo dead ass, G-to-the-O my nigga! We already b at "Progress in our world will be progress towards more pain" waaaay past that tight thang 'bout a world (whirlled) "more merciless as it refines itself."

Man wrote that shit in Nineteen Forty-Nine! I mean Mick Jagger that old! I mean Shut The Fuck Up!

* * *

How do I love thee, MMA? (Should I explain that means 'Mixed Martial Arts', or should I stick with 'fuck you' ?) Let me count the ways:

1. "MMA" is a brilliant letter combo, mestizo of the assuasive (AMA), the evocative (MDMA), the epic (MIA), the phallic vibration of the letter M, and, of course, it spells "MA." "MAMA."

2. It has a pithy Mission Statement. Hear it mirrored in the intensely personal creed of the sport's resplendent Philosopher King, Kimbo Slice: "If you try and break my neck, when I get out of it, you bet I'm gonna break yours. And that's wassap."

YEAH! No faggy bullshit about 'sportsmanship' or 'modesty' or 'heart of a champ'! There are rules, sorta, so if that's 'sportsmanship', um, okay, but modesty - what the heck for? Our Quaker Roots crap has long outlived it's shelf life. And only the Champ has 'the heart of a champ.' The other guy fucking LOST and much of the time he submits while unconscious, ear stumps on skin strings, so it is pretty clear why.

(Note: The word 'faggy' is used here as it's own entity, divorced from fags. However, Political Correctness is dumb. It is voluntary Tourette's. Do not let an emotional reaction be reflexive. That's CREEPY, like being programmed. Or we *are* programmed. If you've just blurped out 'that's ridiculous', you just demonstrated the kind of reflexive emotional knee-jerk we must kneebar pronto. We do not know any truths about that, or much else. There is no context of certainty. None.)

3. It saves money. Life-changing amounts. For instance, $210,592,590. That's how much it cost to produce the film "300." 300's two hours were the last time I enjoyed the same voltage of (non-participatory) Testosterotic Jolt that MMA provides FOR FREE. And shit, in 300, the abs were airbrushed on.

4. It's Family Friendly. As a mother myself I'm stirred, for instance, by the love shining from Carlos "The Natural Born Killer" Condit's mom as she cheers her moppet on to rip some motherfucker's face off. (Note to mom: Make sure that tasty little mansnack of yours doesn't eff up his ears.)

5. It is profoundly spiritual. The cage is called an octagon, which is, like, a bless-ed & chakra-esque shape, representing regeneration, rebirth and transition as the number 'eight' is symbolic of renewal. Not to mention its reference to the Buddhist "Eightfold Path." AND it looks like an old toy race track. 'Nuff said? I think so.

6. It teaches Tolerance. All aboard the Compassion Train as drooling announce-o-perv Mauro Renallo either fights or indulges his maricón temblors.

7. It provides the lively fairgrounds to present my next point:

BIPED 1 (B1) and BIPED 2 (B2) are competitors in an upcoming, much anticipated, to-be-televised MMA fight. Compare & Contrast, please, the gestalts of B1 and B2 as evidenced by the following exchanges.

They're being interviewed by REPORTER for a media pool. Reporter starts by asking B1 if he has anything to say.

B1: Wassap?

REPORTER: Tell them whatever you want.

B1: That’s it.

REPORTER: That’s it. I hope you heard that, B2. He said that’s it for you and the reporters. So, B2, take it away.

B2: I’ll tell you what’s up. B1 is going to be on his back. This fight is going to last about as long as his interview opening did. ‘Wassap’ is about how long it’s going to take for him to end up on his back knocked out.

B1: Did you have a 6‑pack or 12‑pack before you said something?

B2: I don’t drink beer. I can afford vodka.

B1: OK, even better

REPORTER: B2, do you honestly believe you’re going to knock B1 out?

B2: I don’t see it going any other way. I can do anything I want to him, but what fun is that? I like to knock people out.

REPORTER: Do you think it’s a short fight or do you think it’s going to take a couple of rounds?

B2: Doesn’t matter. I can go 15 minutes holding my breath standing on my head. So it could be the 14th minute or the first minute, whenever he runs into one.

REPORTER: How do you feel about fighting in B1's hometown?

B2: I kind of like that. I don’t like beating up people in my hometown. I like to go to their hometown, so they can see what they’re all about.

B1: You better wear a pad with that cup cause I’m gonna have you pissing blood, homie.

(White, heterosexual men, please skip to the next paragraph; the rest of this one is OT. Extraneous girlish frippery. Really. Don't waste your time. Spare yourselves. GO already. Thanks. Bye. Okay, To Whom It May Apply - which one would YOU rather fuck? It's a DUH, right?)

SO WHAT HAPPENED? B1 had B2 pissing blood, knocked out at 0:43 of Round 1.

B2 (yadaBLAHblahBLAHblahblah) is WHITE and middle-class. He was an All-American in college and earned a history degree. B1 (blunt) is BLACK, from the streets. B2 reached the MMA cages after a long career in more conventional fighting. B1 ascended via You Tube, where videos of his backyard brawls gained a cult following.

B2 was dominant at the dawn of the fight... until a look crossed B1's snared face that frickin' SCREAMED "I ain't going back to no streets" and he flipped that sucker right around, tearing half of B2's scalp off. Less than five minutes had passed.

Freeze that image. We'll BRB.

***

ATTENTION: THIS IS HOW YOU SOLVE RACISM AND INSTANTLY ACTIVATE A GLOBAL HUMAN UNITY (I'll get back to shanking Whitey, but even that leads here):

We all, simultaneously, intentionally, re-boot our thought patterns to prioritize the Good Of The Whole.

Oh, yes we can. Yessiree. The problem is, dammit, we can. THAT'S THE JOKE. We could technically do it. It would simply take a collective decision and resolve. A COLLECTIVE DECISION AND RESOLVE. (I hear you: "Oh, shit, not resolve. Ugh.") Our modern technology could serve, not master us.

We Humans, have every capacity to will ourselves into a simultaneous re-booting of our belief systems *OR* we are just scrounging, farting, fucking mammals, the mansionette on Microbe Street, idiot savants for inventing the Internet, which we will not put to use to save our species.

(Or, perhaps, we did not invent the Internet but had it spoon-fed to our subconscious by Other Beings ('being' defined as a Force With A Clear Intent.) Perhaps we have no capacity to prioritize the Cerebral but are told we do so that we'll be in a perpetual state of shame which makes us easy to control. Perhaps we are simple-celled creatures to the SOMEGROOVETHANG ELSE wh(o/ich) is doing the html (you know, kinda bored, flipping back/forth between our brains and porn.) But I'll get to No Spectators PKD another time.)

We have every technical ability to change our world to save Humanity. We don't do it but we pretend we can't. Of course we CAN. We don't want to. Obviously. Because we will only prioritize our Cerebral "half" (Yin) if it holds or promises to hold an Animal "half" charge (Yang,) which is the payoff of 'pleasurable' emotions (including the zap charge of dominance through torture etc. Sorry, Gods and Goddesses.)

The key is that our Cerebral and Animal are NOT "half and half." The Yin/Yang things are wrong as descriptions. Its more like 51 - 53% Animal Yang, depending.

***

Now: We could all exercise obsessively and turn into bodybuilders if we wanted to ('all' means 'most', yes) but how many of us, even KNOWING that drastically changing our lives to body build would probablize (?) the flourishing of our descendants and Earth... how many of us would do it, righthererightnow?

Pas beaucoup, mes pauvres. It doesn't work that way.

WE ARE DEFAULT ANIMAL, but we can train ourselves to Call Forward destructive impulse to CEREBRAL. We teach children not to hit in class! We could strategize a protocol that would override our Animal in unhelpful situations if we have the collective self discipline to sustain it.

And frankly, we kinda have to. Not even cauz of our descendants an shit, but because at this point in time, if we don't, we are ON DA REAL collectively, willfully Fiddling While Rome Burns, greatly untouched by the planet's impending disasters which we wish we didn't know about, intellectually accept, but won't think much about or feel.

We don't care enough to put the fiddles down. We've all made the Quarter Finals here, we've beat the odds and this modern, nuclear Natural Selection game is, well, kind of exciting! We KNOW there's gonna be a big BOOM and we all love that! Because so far in movies and TV and books and games AFTER the boom nothing bad happened. We got up and went for sushi.

That will not be happening in this forthcoming round of the live action version. There will be some SERIOUS bliss-harshing Virtual Reality at least. SO bruthas and sistas, we've got 2 take this Racial Strife shit, which we invented, WAAAY DOWN, even if we don't want to, because our Yang grabbed the hard drive, and it's too much car for him to handle.

It's not even about Loving Your Brother. It's pretty clear we cannot. It's about logrolling for mutual gain against a worse looming oppressor, like Bruce Willis and Marcellus Wallace did in Pulp Fiction when they dropped the crap and made an exit plan (hee hee.)

Our brains can design a grid of action. I have a rough first draft idea to throw out but really, this is quite enough for tonight.

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.

ALIEN BANKSY EXHIBITS WORLDWIDE!

(I AM AN APE MAN ain't done. Parts 1 - 3 (3 is spankin' new) + a Bonus Prize under this post. I just had to wiggle this puppy in.)

By Xanadu Xero (after some stuff below. You kind of have to see all of it.)

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

PSYCHE

Crop Circle Season Begins

Kal Cobalt

On June 1, a 300-foot crop circle was found near Barbury Castle, a hotbed for crop circle activity. Though initially appearing somewhat more humble than circles which have come before, analysis of the "ratchet" design has left many experts breathless with the complexity hidden within its angles.

Crop circle followers who find this new pattern vaguely familiar may recall the stunning 1991 triangle pictogram formed in the same location. The pictogram depicted the same ratchet extending from one corner of the triangle.

Mathematicians studying the new formation have made the startling discovery that pi to the tenth decimal point is encoded within the ratchet (3.14159265358), although there is some debate over whether this is "all" the ratchet has to say on pi-related matters. The number 666 also seems to be relevant to this formation.

Other experts also locate a solar system map within the ratchet, possibly pointing toward August 9, 2014.

Reports from the ground indicate that the lay of the formation is quite clean and bears no boot or plank marks. Throughout the formation, barley was observed bent close to the ground but not broken, and the famous "bent node" phenomenon was also observed.

Image by Steve Alexander of Temporary Temples.

it would have been 17 decimal places...

Submitted by vivifidal on Wed, 06/25/2008 - 07:41.

if it hadn't been for those darn grasshoppers. Regardless of their origin, and frankly I myself don't give a rats ass where they come from, cropcircles are cool!

• reply

True" title="To sleep, to dream" height="85" width="85">

To sleep, to dream

Submitted by True on Wed, 06/25/2008 - 09:32.

The fact that crop circles like this are not headline news around the world is to me indicative of how heavily controlled and sanitized our consensual reality is.

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Keith M Judge" title="Three Circles" height="85" width="70">

Three Circles

Submitted by Keith M Judge on Wed, 06/25/2008 - 11:22.

I wonder what the three circles near the end of the "ratchet tail" could symbolize . . . any thoughts?

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Ellipsis.

Submitted by Maneoplyse on Wed, 06/25/2008 - 11:33.

[. . .]

I was thinking about these three circle too. The best I could come up with was 3.141592653. . .

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John Topp" title="Yes" height="85" width="85">

Yes

Submitted by John Topp on Thu, 06/26/2008 - 15:50.

indeed

(this was intended to reply to True's comment)

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ST Frequency" title="More links please!" height="80" width="80">

More links please!

Submitted by ST Frequency on Wed, 06/25/2008 - 13:45.

Hi Kal,

Can you provide links to explanations of the solar map and 666 connection? I read the Earthfiles report, but didn't see this discussed there.

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cjmoore" title="the medium is the message" height="85" width="82">

the medium is the message

Submitted by cjmoore on Wed, 06/25/2008 - 15:34.

here the message is in the foreground of the background of being.It's like if beings from another dimension are seeing if we ever look away from the three-ring circus of politics and religion.666 is a solar number, like all your 6's are in the up position, like the first hexagram of I-Ching.So you can look at what changes, and how the "changes" revolve, and evolve.A ratcheting up or down, in or out, like a calendar in the face of a sun, or if you see ufo's they are in a three group, or the star group in certain part of the sky.

Then you get the responses of important people like scientists and or science buffs that are like "oh at least the circle artists know algebra now" oh hum.

"The most complex crop circle ever found"

the scientist pops another peanut into his mouth, and looks at the crop circle like some Sherlock Holmes with a magnifying glass looking for arcane knowledge on the ceiling.

if we could just be...like"bent nodes" in the great interlocking gismo-cosmo cognitive in the circle eating it's tail.It gets a little ragged on the end, so, the next one that comes along can find some frayed thread to begin the weave again.

the most complex circle...ever...the season...

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Barbury: http://www.cropcirc

Submitted by Daniel Pinchbeck on Wed, 06/25/2008 - 19:10.

Barbury: http://www.cropcircleconnector.com/2008/barbury/barbury2008a.html 2 other crop circles with similarly impressive mathematical knowledge relating to eclipses have appeared in the last two weeks:

http://www.cropcircleconnector.com/2008/westkennett/westkennett2008.html

http://www.cropcircleconnector.com/2008/ridgeway/ridgeway2008a.html

This is interesting in regard to the recent piece on the election suggesting that the August eclipse might have significance. One more:

http://www.cropcircleconnector.com/2008/furze/furze2008.html

Quite amazing how persistent the circlemakers are in projecting this message about eclipses.

"Will the transformation."-Rilke

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John Topp" title="Public pathway" height="85" width="85">

Public pathway

Submitted by John Topp on Thu, 06/26/2008 - 06:32.

In the Barbury circle, I find the overlapping and perfect alignment with a public pathway interesting and not accidental, as if anything about these things could be accidental. Potentially there is a suggestion of mysterious, complex information becoming comprehensible and accessible by the public.

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doan" title="Crop Circle in S. Korea" height="85" width="71">

Crop Circle in S. Korea

Submitted by doan on Thu, 06/26/2008 - 10:46.

Apparently, the first crop circle appeared in South Korea earlier this month. It was a rather large one, somewhere between 450-600 feet in diameter. It is quite beautiful: http://www.cropcircleconnector.com/inter2008/southkorea/southkorea2008.h...

DoAn

Interstitial Artist

www.doanart.blogspot.com

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xanaduxero" title="ALIEN BANKSY EXHIBITS WORLDWIDE! " height="64" width="85">

ALIEN BANKSY EXHIBITS WORLDWIDE!

Submitted by xanaduxero on Thu, 06/26/2008 - 18:21.

I wish I believed in a Guerilla Alien Art Collective, responsibly biodegradable, peppered with human mathematics (hey! us humanz b smart! even aliens use our mathematics!)

but alas... I saw a program where those irrepresible English not only explained, but demonstrated, crop circle construction (no boot or plank marks) after which they snickered while the 'spiritually attuned' trilled "Do you believe in fairies? Say quick that you believe! If you believe, clap your hands!" (J.M. Barrie)

http://xanaduxero.blogspot.com

*******

PANARCHY!

It alllll has to go - even Anarchy.

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Richard Merrick" title="Clapping my hands" height="85" width="67">

Clapping my hands

Submitted by Richard Merrick on Thu, 06/26/2008 - 19:59.

The thing that seems difficult to dismiss about crop circles is they occur all over the world. Same is true for the high strangeness of UFOs, alien abductions, apparitions and, yes, even fairies. What could be behind all of these things? (and if you say its those zany Brits, I would only agree as it concerns Monty Python)

For many years I became practiced at dismissing these things, but they seem too pervasive to ignore anymore. I don't have an explanation, but I take the phenomena seriously.The thing that just does not seem right to me is why all the mystery? Why flash strange colored lights in the sky and create Gnostic geometry in crops? Why not just do a little sky and earth writing in a human language to tell us exactly what's going on and what we should do? Seems to me the world situation warrants a little plain speaking, wouldn't you say?

If I had to guess the motivation of these ET folks I'd have to say they are just jacking with us while they're on vacation, sort of like heckling the monkeys at the zoo to make yourself feel superior. As for PI in a ratchet spiral, I would have been much more impressed if it has been ascending Fibonacci proportions, since that is more relevant to a damping spiral than the circular resonance of PI.

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xanaduxero" title="There are no "these things."" height="64" width="85">

new

There are no "these things."

Submitted by xanaduxero on Thu, 06/26/2008 - 22:38.

There is not necessarily a collective 'phenomena.' AnythingANYTHING is possible. Strange things happen, or were we trained to find them "strange"?

Everything could be connected but everything could be absolutely separate, it's own entity/environment completely. And/or any fraction or gradation in between. Each item must be treated separately. But why? Life is short. What else could you be doing with your time? There may be more realms and combinations than our bitty brains have the capacity to process.

We are very, very arrogant. WE KNOW NOTHING. I'll stop here, maybe rave more at my own place, if you want to stop by: http://xanaduxero.blogspot.com

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

Yeah, I know that was bitchy but Fuck that Boys' Club. So frickin' self righteous, tortured and supernal and AS ALWAYS with this shit, really it's just a brilliant grift for smart, sneaky geeky and/or broke guys to get laid Class A and manipulate people. "Same as the other one" as alta cocker David Byrne would nasally intone. Between those guys there's a Conspiracy Of Silence that beats Skull and Bones to shit, because without the fire-breathing, the rap, the Fibonacci, the dousing - no hos would be flashing their tits and they wouldn't be at cool parties. Don't even try to tell me that's not true.

So... here's the rest of it:

***

WE KNOW NOTHING. We waste time searching for meaning and clues to interpret and categorize that which maybe can't be, or is in another realm completely. Perhaps it all connects with NOTHING of importance for us. WE DON'T KNOW. Just because we see something, or sense it, that does not mean it is relevant for us. We suck wispy meanings from this stuff the same way I... Uh, never mind.

Since obviously we're unable to easily understand these 'mysterious phenomena', perhaps that MEANS they are not for us. Perhaps that's nature's plan to turn us away from wasting time on that which is non-productive and towards what is, i.e. NOW - evolving harmonically, standing up to the hard work and shit eating it takes to construct a meaningful life, 'meaningful' defined as nourishing to others and the whole *EVEN IF* it means your own discomfort and discontent.

We use this stuff like a video game. Namaste so not. It's escape, a snazzy Vegas-y Virtual World. The lazy man's way to 'meaningful experience.' Because unlike a real family for instance, this shit doesn't matter much in any scenario or hold timely information. We all KNOW how we should be living this life, come ON, and we don't do it. We see horrible things but rarely do we stop them. Mostly just fizzling attempts. Instead, we hide in this Virtual Reality, on a (cough) "Path", the Spidey of our custom video saga.

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

"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.

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.”

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

******

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.”

How To Shoot A 'Live' Adult Video

(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:)


******


How To Shoot A 'Live' Adult Video

By Xanadu Xero

"The most important thing about a porno is its 'whackability,'" intoned our sage teacher Dave, as if channeling a spirit guide. "You know, it's basically for jerking off."

Wow. This divination alone justifies the course fee. What a privilege to be here.

I am in a chic film school lecture hall, the lone gal in a glut of aspiring auteurs here for the class, "How To Shoot Your Own Live Adult Video — For Fun Or Profit!" ('Live' as opposed to…?) My boyfriend, Aap, has squired me to this sanctum of learning, half due to his courtly Afrikaans manners, half due to a macabre curiosity about Teacher Dave that I stoked in case the manners thing didn't work. This bio did the trick:

"Dave Cummings, the 63-year old Adult Performer who has been in over 500 sex scenes (and still counting!) and is a retired U.S. Army Lieutenant Colonel holder of the Bronze Star from service in Vietnam during the Tet Offensive, is also an acclaimed Producer and Director. Dave is an avid supporter of the First Amendment, and his contention that sex between consenting adults is a natural, normal, and healthy gift from God to mankind."

"Ugh, how sordid," Aap recoiled. "After killing children, shooting up, and screwing chickens in 'Nam, I guess porno's the only high left."

Aap can be very proper, foiling his Goth Pirate attire.

"I see Robert Duvall in the role," I said. "A sequel: Apocalypse Now, The Golden Years."

We were late to class. Luckily, Dave ran on "porno time," which, as we learned, is indistinct. The student body was already in situ. Arrayed before us was a Rainbow Coalition of sleazeballs, all colors and creeds subsumed to the cause. They were 'studying' the handout packet; scant information stapled to glossy porn pages promoting Dave's oeuvre and his new series, Kneepad Nymphos.

One pupil was darting around — a lumpy white guy who kept chirping (parrot voice:) "I'm gay! I'm gonna do gay porno!"

Aap's face turned a mottled grey. His skin changes with moods, like an octopus. This grey tone is always accompanied by Clint Eastwood's eyes when he says, "Go ahead. Make my day."

"Afgryslike mense," (Horrible people) he growled. He took a seat, way off to the side, and willed himself, instantly, to sleep.

I examined my packet to Aap's gentle snores. There must have been a hundred pictures of Dave dorking mostly what I would call Two Baggers (so ugly you need one for her head, one for yours.) Those with implants had wall-eyed cheap ones of the stale muffins-on-a-plate variety. This reaction must have been due to that ol' party-pooper, estrogen. The Rainbow Coalition seemed to like them just fine.

Dave, for the most part, beamed into the camera just, gosh, thrilled to be there with the mild smile of the grandpa he is. I would venture to guess that he had a slow, tender hand with the Vietnam fowl.

"Today's my birthday!" Dave began. "I'm sixty-four!" The class eked out faint applause; the kind that clergy get when they torture the homeless with sermons before they dish out food. Dave's ding-dong was unfettered under his thin, drawstring pants, flapping like a bell clapper. He looks more like Ohio's mattress superstore king than anything else.

"Do you know the term 'fluffers'?" he asked. Fluffers are B-quality girls who suck the guys before scenes for wood. But with this economy — they're just too costly."

Take heart, Dave, hang tough. I hear the economy is on the upswing! Oh. Right. That's without jobs.

"Viagra screws everything up," Dave tsks. "Those guys are on the clock, you know? They get these red faces, their hearts are thumping and they're no good for the cum shot. There's a drug you can inject into the penis, but its like, 'Damn! We need make-up! Blemish on the dick!'"

"Excuse me sir, but how long does it take to come with Viagra?" screeched I'm Gay officiously.

"Depends," Dave clacked back, peeved. He had been on a roll. Continuing:

"So this one shoot, this young guy had blue pill wood. His scene comes up and DING, he loses it. Outta time. Gone. That's it." Dave draws a finger across his neck. "Another pill would take, like, half an hour. So guess what?" he grins, "The sixty-three year old stunt cock stepped in."

Dave's sexagenarian priapics were the de facto core of the class. Yessir, the old Brass Hat is a circus quality freak of nature. His precision Big Bertha can flip off gravity wherever/whenever, stay aloft and pop on cue. He can direct and shoot scenes he 'acts' in while getting a blowjob - mirrors positioned around him for thrifty, all-angle coverage. After each morning run he has to pull the pickle.

You are an American treasure, Lt. Colonel! We salute you! Carry on!

The students save me (and Aap, in the Land of Nod) were mesmerized. They gazed at Dave as if at the Great Oz. I was squirming in my seat… and it wasn't vibrating.

We learned a few things not easily found on the web, like that a Pina Colada can double as joint juice if a gent is spent and you realize that you need to film a "facial" spray. But for me, more questions were raised than answered. Such as:

What's with the "cum "shots? Women hate them. There's something way gay about "straight" men's demand for them 'as proof.' Effing proof? Aren't they supposed to be watching the girls? The girls fake it; why don't they rail about that? Actually, the answer to that one lies in this joke: Q. How can a man tell if a woman has an orgasm? A. Who cares?

I must say, though, that I left this class with some inspirational words. Dave gave us porn biz advice that serves beautifully as a holistic life motto. "Don't lose your shirt," he said. "Have fun. Maybe get laid."

Add forty acres and a mule and I'm down with that.

The Passion of Angelyne

by

Xanadu Xero

* * *
"The image of Angelyne is said to be as much a part of Hollywood as the Hollywood sign."—CNN

"Barbie wishes she were me." —Angelyne

In the dank pith of night I followed Angelyne, who flounced to the trunk of her world-famous pink Corvette. It gleamed, galvanic, like a nuclear Good’N’Plenty. We were in the parking lot of a Hollywood mini-mall; neon signs set her cleavage ablaze.

She was hell-bent to change my status from ‘Democrat’ to ‘Independent’ so that I could Vote Pink in the gubernatorial primary — a race that a more seasoned statesman, The Terminator, eventually won (Angelyne was a candidate for the governorship of California).

Angelyne popped the trunk. I was utterly athrill. I was about to behold the true Eighth Wonder of the World, L.A.’s very own Great Pyramid of Giza, a sight that few alive have seen.

“This won’t take long,” she said in the kittenish voice that’s really her voice.

The trunk’s catacombs revealed stalactites of pink and clear balloons, pink totes, and pink puffy/fluffy things. I think I saw a fairy bear. She pulled a black, CEO type briefcase from underneath, setting her accoutrements into a tempest.

“Angelyne, uh… why are you running for office?” I asked her. Publicity, duh, but I was wondering what she’d say. I knew that the campaign was costing her a fortune. People think she’s broke, but she makes some nice gelt abroad.

Angelyne was thoughtful. “The artist’s job is to illuminate.” She paused. “Otherwise, there’s no purpose to art.”

Now, unlike Bush, God ain’t my bitch, so I doubt things. I bored into the eyes of this pale, chimeric icon with my fiercest poisoned spear, past the stalag of lashes, looking for blood.

I was socks-knocked-off gobsmacked to find that… there was nothing to kill. The woman is guileless. Starkly sincere. And, believe me, not dumb.

Andy Warhol was a piker next to Angelyne. He did a pretty good job of the Blank Thing, ‘reflecting society back on itself.’ He pioneered pandemic use of the vague non-comment (for which I’d like to dig him up and mince him.) But he was a sham.

Warhol had a little clan-ette with whom he dropped the crap. He was a call girl for the good life. In the end, his own dry soul dispersed into the jet (set) stream around him. Not longer outsider or artist, he fully reflected himself — empty and opaque, with nothing to say.

Angelyne is the real deal. I’ve gotten to know her. Her life is 24/7 performance art, and yet it’s no act. What you see is, absolutely, what she is.

It’s just that… there’s more.

“At four years old, I knew I was an avatar’ Angelyne croons over Saag Paneer. “I knew I was sent to Earth from somewhere else. I’m here on a mission.”

We’re at one of her ‘lucky’ spots, a Beverly Hills Indian café. Through the years Angelyne has pretty well cased L.A. and sussed out the ‘lucky’ and ‘power’ spots, as well as the portals to other worlds.

One main portal is the parking lot of ‘Rock’n’Roll Ralphs,’ a Ralphs market on the Sunset Strip. It is so nicknamed because it’s a favorite wee hours stop for the rich, famous and loaded. I challenge you to find me another market with eight limos by the door at four A.M.

(NOTE: If you’re smirking please remember that there are world-wide ‘holy’ holidays for an oddly pale middle-eastern Jewish slacker who rose from the dead and whose invisible Dad knocked up a married chick.)

“Earth is like a bus bench for cosmic bums,” Angelyne continues, “and the bus never comes. We’re trapped in some kind of awful terrarium.” She picks up the pepper shaker. Our spirits are caught, like the pepper grains in here. We’re all slaves in a syndrome that we have to break.”

She stops talking and looks down. Her hair trimming, a pink butterfly on a pink spring, is now in an air vent’s path, and bobs wildly. Moments pass. When I emit my rude-ish JAP ‘nudge’ sigh, Angelyne does ‘time out’ with her hands and says, “I have to think of how to put this!”

I scarf two pappadums while Angelyne excogitates. I only now notice that people are drooling, goose-necked, to grab a glimpse of her. (There’s a whole website devoted to ‘Angelyne sightings’.) Noses are pressed on a window, spouting breath steam. A couple of wives pout as their hubbys stare.

Eventually, Angelyne looks up. “My mission is only revealed to me step-by-step, as I go. But I know now that I was ‘hired’ by I’m not sure who to be a kind of ‘Social Worker.” She leans forward, intense, “My job is to help people get out of here.”

She turns the pepper shaker over, and the grains escape. “Tyranny is unheard of where I come from. Here, life itself is a tyrant.”

The obvious question throbbed. I strained to tiptoe, “If your task on Earth is, uh, spiritual, why do you present yourself, you know, the boobs, the sexpot thing…?

“Well,” she suspired, tiny-soft, “When Sherlock Holmes wanted to find a murderer he would lie in bed and try to get inside his head; think like a murderer would think. I just figured that with earthlings,” — her eyes seemed to quintuple in size — “I’d grab ‘em by the groin and work up.”

Allow me to pause here, gentlepeople, and inform you that Angelyne’s face is, actually, kind and delicate. Her get-ups, please note, are their own, separate, oracular trip.

I was raised in Beverly Hills, and learned at my mother’s knee the local craft of discerning plastic surgery at twenty yards. I’m a master. I’m also renowned as a black-belt psycho magnet, but I’d say my eye for augmentation edges even that out.

While Angelyne has clearly had ‘work’ done (L.A. patois) I submit that the amount is only on par or less than your average, local Jaguar-driving matron. Her age is a pan-dimensional secret, but to me, ‘unseemly’ is chicken-breasted grandma Goldie Hawn giggling, cutesy-biting her lip.

“When I get up in the morning, I feel a hundred feet tall,” our lost world’s Billboard Queen continues, “and then I realize I have to POUR my spirit into this body-vessel I was assigned… and slog through another day on earth.” She sighs. “I can’t wait to get out of here.”

“But Angelyne,” I say, “No one knows about this stuff. You’ve never said a word. There’s not a thing about this on your website.”

“I don’t want to scare people. My bosses are so vague.” Angelyne sips her tea. “But see — I’m telling you, and news tumbleweeds. I figure everyone will come to me eventually.”

Tour Hollywood with Angelyne on her website:
http://www.angelyne.com


* * * * *

Addendum (12/03/07): Angelyne never spoke to me again. She was FURIOUS that I brought up the topic of 'age'.

The Vampire Agenda: Part One

(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:)


* * * * * *


The Vampire Agenda: Part One

By Xanadu Xero

The word ‘vampire’ really sends me. Just reading it. It’s a visual onomatopoeia; one look and I tumble to midnight. A cruel breeze cat-licks my neck; I feel adrenaline, danger. Not to mention, you know, a little something down there.

I was told, at a party, that ‘real’ vampires walk among us — here and now.

“Where? Let me at ‘em!” I believe was my response.

‘Real’ means self-proclaimed, of course, but who cares? Grown-ups who think they’re vampires sounded good enough to me. Damn if I wasn’t going to corner me some of them caped varmints and make ‘em talk.

I was even prepared, yes, to use feminine wiles, if necessary. Its wartime, after all, and I had a job to do.

The Web upchucked six million listings of fanged fodder, a braw start. Even after weeding out the Anne Rice canon, Buffy fanzines and vampire porn (not bad), there was queerness (old definition) to burn.

While the ‘vampires’ in these covens/churches/schools/’safe’ houses remind me of nothing more than loony Civil War Re-enactors, they have a lot more pizzazz. Some of the websites are sheer Broadway, with cool dripping blood an’ stuff.

When I read their histrionic, world-weary prose, I hear Vincent Price’s voice. Or maybe Eeyore’s.

Like Civil War Re-enactors, Senators and rappers, ‘vampires’ take themselves verrrry seriously. Some have their canine teeth filed into ‘fangs’ (don’t vampires come with fangs?) Ne’er a sunbeam will singe their flesh. They avoid laughing. They sleep in caskets. They divide themselves into two categories: The Psychics and The Sanguinarians.

Psychic vampires ‘feed’ upon the energy of others, and leave them drained. Jeez, I know about ten thousand of those — some in my very own family! Sanguinarians, as you Latin wonks already figured, drink blood. This is as safe as bareback sex with ‘Customer Of The Year’ from a Calcutta bathhouse.

To ‘avoid illness’ (as if), Sanguinarians make an avocation of elaborate precautions. This ranges from bribing Red Cross employees to ‘sacred’ sterility rituals when drawing blood from each other.

Drinking one another’s blood is, apparently, the ultimate erotic act. The whole scene, in point of fact, reeks of fetish. As do all scenes, really. As an old sage drunk once told me, “The only reason ‘clubs’ exist is for people to get laid.”

Yet, another twist occurred to me, when I closed my jaundiced eyes. Perhaps some of these ‘vampires’ were seekers of sorts. Perhaps their schtick shot them into an altered state, out of our three oft-oppressing dimensions.

But… wait a frickin’ minute here! Talk about burying the lead!

‘Eternal Life’ — that’s the headline! Where is it? Eternal Life is the pith of a vampire’s soul, his (or her, but let’s not be tiresome) kismet and doom. It is what defines him. Why doesn’t Today’s Modern Vampire proselytize about that?

“Because, blond-brain,” a voice boomed from on-high, “real vampires, if they exist, would not be on the Internet!”

Oh. Right.

Instantly, my goal grew more complex. ‘Grown-ups who think they’re vampires’ orbit us in profusion, but even they know they’re playing Barbie’s Death House.

I needed to find someone who believed, utterly-utterly, with abandon, gut and spleen, 24/7, hook, line and sinker, that he was a true vampire, classic, of legend, accursed.

In other words, a psychopath.

“I’ll help!” effervesced my gay Goth friend, Tricks. Tricks has a vampire thing too. I was thrilled to give him a project, as he completely wastes his brain. He employs his Ivy PhD to bartend and cruise for facsimiles of Johnny Depp.

After weeks upon weeks, Tricks came through. He can hide all he wants, but he is a type A.

“Through friends of friends of friends,” was all he would say, vaguely, to torture me, when I asked him how he scored. “I’ve never met Signor Vampire, but I hear he’s cute. I’m assured he won’t bite. A pity. And — you may kiss my ring — he wants to meet us at a graveyard!” This last part was squealed.

“Me. Not ‘us’. Good try.”

“Okay, I’ll wait in the car. You can’t go there alone! Please, Mommy, please please please…”

SMASH CUT TO: EXT. GRAVEYARD – NIGHT (That’s screenplay format. Or in this case, cinema verite.)

Near eleven p.m. This graveyard is old, full, small - not in a bad part of town but a weird part of town. It’s blocks from the beach, in an industrial building sprawl that’s not quite gentrified.

Tonight is light, starry; scant smog. There is, actually, a full moon; Signor V. scheduled the meeting to coincide. As Tricks and I pull in, we see a tall man’s dark silhouette under an oak tree. I swear.

“Does he have long hair? I love long hair.” says Tricks, parking. “Is it black? It doesn’t look black. Remember, his name is Ned. The Vampire LeNed.”

“I’m creeped out,” I respond.

“Well at least you can talk tough. Now move your ass or I’m going myself.”

Ned stared at me the entire time I was approaching. I looked back at Tricks who had pulled out binoculars. He gave me a thumbs-up.

I imagined that a real vampire would look like Alan Rickman (Prof. Snape) in the Harry Potter movies. Ned had some of that vibe, but who wouldn’t in a graveyard? He was blond. He did have long hair. He wore a black outfit — but not ‘vampire’ style, more like he was A&R for a major label.

We said hi and shook hands, then sat on a bench next to Homer Bledell (1888-1972). Ned was silent. I couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.

“Uh… do you drink blood?” tripped out of me, finally.

“No.” He was indulgently polite.

“Why are you here? I mean, you know, on earth?”

“I don’t really know,” he said softly, “whether its to pay for karmic problems… or to really help people… or whether I’m just here to… do a job.”

“Like what?”

He thought. “Telling people about it.” A pause. “That there is a door. When you die, the white light is seductive. You must not go to the light.”


TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK.

The Aesthetic Wonders of God Hates Fags, and Furniture Porn

by
Xanadu Xero

“What is man? A miserable little pile of secrets,” wrote Andre Malreaux.

No more, baby. In the good old days, humans were protected from each other’s ghastliness, at least in daily life, by a nice, thick layer of Shame.

Shame, my friends, is a magnificent thing. It’s Mother Nature’s way of saying, “Shut the fuck up and behave yourself!”

Shame doesn’t oppress people; people do. And even that can work to society’s advantage. Back When, there were no grandmas in tube tops. There was no whuppin’ upside the head on Rikki Lake. It was gauche to be out of control, so, if righteously loaded, one stayed decorously put.

Television made a bloody gash in the grace of the world… and then the Internet, that psycho skinhead, dealt the fatal blow and ruined everything.

The Net smashed Shame’s Last Stands — eye contact and the fear of live altercation.

Once online, you’re in a rave of disembodied spirits. Anonymous. Impunity assured. Any pissant bully/coward can spew lunacy or poison from a cyber fort, metaphorical dong now huge without surgery, or drugs!

The real tragedy of all this, to me, is my fascination with it.

Torrents of useless data have roared from my screen to my brain, dwarfing even old song lyrics, overwriting those already fragile programs “Sense of Direction’ and ‘How To Make Money.’

Why do I continue to pursue this, uh… information? So you don’t have to. Yeah. That’s right.

I now present to you two elite filleted selections from my Web Id Jungle Safaris (Part One.) Strap in or on; whatever suits.

* * * * *

GOD HATES AMERICA
(to the tune of ‘God Bless America’)

God hates America!
Home of the fags!
He abhors them!
Deplores them!
Day and night, all his might, all his days!

AMERICA THE BURNING
(to the tune of ‘America the Beautiful’)

O wicked land of sodomites
God struck the shuttle down
With body parts and broken hearts
He scattered them around (all over Texas)

* * * * *

There are more finely crafted verses for each tune, but you get the gist. These snappy re-mixes are courtesy of that kicky, kooky web world, GOD HATES FAGS, the cyber Versailles of Calvinist Baptist Pastor Fred Phelps.

God may hate Fags, but evidently He does not hate plastic surgery. Phelps, 75, has snug, waxy skin and eyelids big enough to post a billboard. He was #5 in George Magazine’s ‘Top Fascinating Men In Politics of 1999’ and is dancin’ proud of it, even though God Hates The Filthy Fag Media, too.

I guess there weren’t any you-know-whats on the George staff.

Mention GOD HATES FAGS and Leftys go frickin’ wacko, like slugs with salt poured on ‘em. This is a knee-jerk mistake.

Phelps’ Homey G(od) doesn’t just hate ‘Fags,’ mind you, or the Left. He hates the Right. Reagan. Bush. Rumsfeld. Cheney. He hates Canada. Tahiti. Nuns. Outer Mongolian toddlers. The Amish. Eskimos. He hates Baptists five atoms more liberal. In fact, he hates every man who isn’t exactly like him, which pretty much makes him an average Joe.

Opinions of Pastor Phelps’ vision vary, yet few really bother to plumb his site — a scan of his phantasmic brain. I tell you, riches lie within. Not only is there gratis poetry and song (no sweat to download a party’s worth of fun!), but free art as well.

GHF’s sister site, GOD HATES AMERICA, boasts dozens of ‘fliers,’ screaming to be framed, any one distinctive gilding for an aesthete’s home. They are printed on what seems to be an antique press, with pleasing old-fashioned fonts, text uneven in the style of yesteryear. Their layout is charming, each a masterpiece of wordplay and craft. Try to print just one!

My favorite flier thus far declares that our country’s military was “sodomized by Clinton” and now those cockamamie Fags’n’Dykes run wild “on every level.” Such tsuris, oy vey iz mir!

It is adorned by an utterly gratuitous, waaay too graphic illustration (apparently by Phelps) of a U.S. soldier raping a little boy. Grenades and bullets fly from his person, yet he is oblivious. “Butt Lube” is strapped to his helmet. Batman-like words float around the backside of our man-at-arms: HUMP. PANT. BAM. SLAM. WHAM.

Prurience level: Off The Charts.

Hey, perverts — what’s the web’s #1 Nastiest, Jammin’ Steamy Super Freak FREE Fetish Website? GOD HATES FAGS!

In a cut-and-dried case of ‘protesteth too much,’ Phelps always bypasses PG descriptions of What He Objects To for XXX, everywhere, on endless loop.

This even transcends the Fag Kingdom! There is a page with the names and detailed vignettes of Godless fetishes, far out as klismaphelia. Look it up. There are ceaseless references throughout the sites of… lower body emissions. All of them. Especially the, um, darkest. Smeared on the Bible. And worse. Ugh.

Pastor Sicko clearly spends oodles of time ‘researching.’ One wonders if God Hates Masturbation. Sigmund Freud is guffawing in heaven — oh, I mean burning in hell for all eternity. Excuse me.

“It’s really creepy for a ‘Man of God’ to be putting this stuff out there,” I said to my boyfriend, Aap.

“He’s not a ‘Man of God,’” Aap laughed, “He’s just a fucking asshole.”

* * * * *

Every parent wonders what their teenagers do when they’re not around… and teens, you sons-of-guns — you know what you do.

Most people’s worries, inanely, stop there. And the childless, in their fool’s paradise, think, all smug-like, that they can leave their homes and do errands with no consequence.

HA! Denial, you know, ain’t just a river in Egypt.

Ever wonder what your furniture is up to? Yeah, go on — pretend that you have no idea what I’m talking about.

All of us have had the experience of coming home and feeling that things just aren’t… right. Sofas, tables, plants seem a tad off mark. Not quite as we left them. You find sunglasses on the floor — you could have sworn that you left them on the nightstand. And so on.

Throughout history, this universal phenomenon has been (conveniently) attributed to supernatural sprites, mischievous spirits, leprechauns, etc. But here and now, I reveal to you the whole truth. Don’t shoot the messenger.

Here’s a hint: Hot chair on chair action.

Furniture Porn (.com) reinforces the theory — yet again — that ‘the answer’ is most often the obvious one. Quite simply, your possessions live the life you dream of, while we idiot humans slave away to pay the tab.

And we cluck we’re the ‘top of the food chain.’ Furniture doesn’t even need food! It parties all day! Who’s more evolved now?

I recommend that when you enter the site, you get down with wassap by watching the Furniture Porn Movie. Once oriented, you’ll be prepared to assimilate such sections as All Amateur Seating, The Office Party, and the very special Chairlie's Angels.

By all means, take a stroll through their links (Wild Wicker, Fast Food Fornication, Hot Knob Photos) if you’ve stout of heart and have the stuff to really want to know, gloves off, man, What Time It Is.

Wild Web Surfin' Safari, Part Deux

(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:)


* * * * * *


Wild Web Surfin' safari, part deux

By Xanadu Xero

Do you have yipping banshees trapped in your brain, bouncing like pinballs lobe to lobe, pushing agit-prop for The Abyss, wailing doom?

Duh, yo. Doesn’t everyone?

On the tail end of the old, senile millennium, Western Culture saw fit to insult the Systemically Haunted (a.k.a. Nutballs) with such crude fixes as electroshock ‘therapy’ and drugs that sort of work, sometimes, for some people, somehow. (No one is truly sure what they do.)

So how barbarous, really, is trepanning?

Trepanning is the process of drilling a hole in your head. Yes, you heard me. It is one of earth’s oldest medical therapies, along with Botox injections.

No, WAIT! Damn. I got lost in the space/time continuum for a mini-scoot there. Sorry.

‘Trepanning’ is the ancient, crude procedure, where a small skull hole ‘cures’ mental illness, migraines, fatigue, and can ‘restore,’ to anyone, the health, gusto and cosmic one-ness of the childhood mind.

‘Botox’ is the modern, advanced procedure where a small dose of lethal poison is injected into a healthy person’s face, paralyzing natural muscle motion to ‘cure’ an obsession with one’s youth and, for three months, bolster self-esteem.

One of them, clearly, is ridiculous.

Evidence of trepanning dates back to about 3000 B.C. The drillin’s been thrillin’ around the world, but is illegal in the U.S. “Rogue neurosurgeons” have pulled its practice underground, according to one site. Call me old-fashioned, but I feel that the words ‘rogue’ and ‘neurosurgeon’ simply should not mix.

If one’s need to Outlaw Trepan is like flowers’ need for rain, hopefully one finds an un-disbarred doctor, unimpaired by Tourette’s, indifferent to smoking crack, whose M.D. doesn’t mean ‘mutilation death’ from practicing on kittens.

If not, however, you have two options. The, like, obvious one is to do it yourself.

Trepanning’s modern prophet, Bart Hughes, is a Dutch scientist who dropped out of med school in the early ‘60s to pursue a vanguard enthrallment with hallucinogenics. ‘Scleened, (translation for the tiresome, old and young: ‘After the advent of taking mescaline’) he had this satori:

Our skulls stop growing after we are twenty(ish). The brain’s ‘server cage’ becomes hardened. Finite. Blood flow to the brain becomes constricted; its pulse sabotaged. Gravity’s no help, that son-of-a-bitch. Remember, we were built to die at thirty.

Somewhere in early adulthood, most of us stop living expansively. Humankind goes humanoid, losing its emotional/spiritual… buoyance. Once spinning rims on the wheel of All, we’re now hubcaps in the street. Our concerns drop to the petty. Life moves from adventure to pain.

(What’s that? Yours hasn’t? Oh, shut the fuck up.)

Hughes felt that a rigid skull and life force depletion were connected. He searched for a doctor to uncork his head. The medicos, even in Amsterdam, thought he was eight cans shy of a six-pack. Imagine. So what could the man do but self-trepan?

There’s a photo of Bart, post-op, sporting his trepanning scar and stitches. I’m not sure if it was snapped before or after he was thrown in the looney bin.

The wound is on Bart Hughes’ forehead, since he did it himself. If that famous close-up of Charles Manson was put next to this photo of Bart, and you were asked which one you’d rather have baby-sit, you just might pick Chuck.

Option two is to fly down to polluted, industrial, Monterrey, Mexico where trepanning advocate and entrepreneur Pete Halvorson has a clinic. I must say that the articles and testimonials on his goth-y site (www.trepan.com) entice the flaming horns out of me. Pete has chosen, however, to reveal nothing of substance about himself on it, and his photo is rather… police line-up-esque, muting any, you know, gung-ho feelings.

You can buy cool, creepy stuff there too, like black t-shirts with drilled skulls on them and a mega-raw, gory, skank video of Bart’s acolyte, Amanda Fielding, trepanning herself.

From what I’ve read about her at that time in her life, she is probably on acid. She wears sunglasses to keep the blood from pooling in her eyes. A little vidiot treat for the gross teenage boy in all of us. Some of us. Well, at least me.

* * * * *

I was going to take the High Road for this entire column, but I’m afraid that plan just didn’t work out. The following subject is so oddly disgusting that… I had to share it with you.

WARNING: You may subsequently view Pooh, Mickey Mouse, and Barney as sociopathic predators. Toy stores may grow dark as fetid abscesses of vice. If you are a minor, or if you believe you may be offended by descriptions of erotic acts with plush stuffed animals please stop reading this text now.

First, some words from a leading online expert!

* What is a 'plushie'? What is a 'plushophile'?

A 'plushie' is a plush stuffed animal, like a teddy bear. 'Plushie' is also sometimes used as a short form for ‘plushophile’: an adult who loves or is otherwise attracted to stuffed animals.

* Why be intimate with plushies instead of with people?

The great thing about stuffed animals is that they can always be there for you, whenever you feel the need for intimacy. People can be ‘too busy’ ‘too tired’ or 'have a headache', but a plushie will never say 'No!' when you crave closeness. Stuffed animals can be truly ideal companions. No plush partner will ever break your heart, give you a disease, or hurt you in any way, unless you trip on them, or cram them in both nose and mouth. Plushies can bring pure, unfettered happiness into your life, and if you're open to it, wonderful sensual experiences, as well.

Some may view their plushies as just sex toys, while other plushophiles love, even venerate their stuffed animals.

When I read the above, I heard Mr. Rogers’ voice.

Love is a beautiful thing, of course, never should it be discounted. Love can come from unexpected places, and gosh knows it helps to have a devoted partner along life’s bumpy road. Right?

So what’s wrong with having DOZENS of devoted partners at your fingertips, never bitching about ‘faithfulness’, adoring all of your slobby, disgusting habits with that First Lady (bar Hillary) smile? Wouldn’t that be INCREDIBLE?

Guys — get a clue and bag those ballbuster human broads. Lay pipe 24/7 with a stable of hot furry hos. They can’t cook, but these workaholic modern women will burn frickin’ water, eh? And Plushies — they’re all bi, man! They do ‘back door’! Check it out!

Gals — can’t find a man without commitment problems? Tired of pretending size doesn’t matter? Thinking about all of the shoes you could buy if Mr. Sub-Genus didn’t blow your cash on Rogaine and beer? Plushies won’t buy you flowers, but face it — does your man?

Gays — why not live a promiscuous lifestyle since the media is sure you do anyway?

My plush web walkabout first took me to sites I ‘d hoped were parody, but alas, no. Centerfolds of a ‘spreading’ wolf. A Harpo Marx-like dog with pierced ‘nipples,’ chains connecting the rings, in black bondage gear. Big Bird with a fat, black rubber hard-on.

There are umpteen porno sites of women having plushie ‘sex,’ but they can barely keep a straight face. What a way to pay the bills. We really do need to create more jobs.

You can learn how to best modify your plushie for ‘intimate access,’ or ‘peak penetration.’ Get steamy Tantra tips for plush ecstacy, or nasty booty pix of “spooged”(plushie lingo) post-coital faux-fauna. Some plushophiles like to have orgies in fuzzy animal suits. They go to Disney World the way normal perverts go to Bangkok.

Scads of gay sites are available too (Bert and Ernie?), but I left them unexplored. By that point, I was queasily info-gorged, like when I read too many Enquirers. Make that plays of Sophocles in the original Greek.

So I closed my laptop, threw back a Mescal, and tried to think about the majesty of man.

A Fascist Party: Totalitarian Goth

(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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A Fascist Party: Totalitarian Goth

By Xanadu Xero

“Hippies tried to change society, Punks tried to destroy it; Goths turned their backs on it.”
— X. (no relation)

Goth agrees with me. My default state of mind is always Brooding Melancholia. I get brain hernias straining to see any cup as half full.

I like dark colors, bleak music, night, and the poetry of dead junkies. I feel as at home with that headspace as politicos feel with Masonic creed.

Math equation: L.A. + Goth = K.K.K. + Black Panthers.

Los Angeles is deliriously perky. I’d go so far as to say that some angry god must have cursed it with ad nauseum mania. If L.A. was a cartoon character, it would be The Joker, with his fifth facelift perma-smile, bad lip-liner and ice pick eyes.

“How ya doin’? Everything good?” is the standard Black Hummer 2 crowd Hollywood greeting, usually shaking both hands to be super sincere.

“Abso-fucking-LUTEly! Every SINGLE thing in my life is faaaaaan-TASTIC!!” I’ve been known to reply. Perhaps this is a clue to why I don’t do well in groups.

The ‘Devil’s Chords’ — chords in minor keys — are the Third Eye of Goth music. The Church outlawed the Devil’s Chords in Medieval times for a viable reason, as science has since proven.

Sound and frequency are all powerful, and when Satan slings them nasty notes they provoke the unthinkable… Thought.

Minor key music induces self-reflection. It reveals/revels in the shadow side of our souls. It can blend earthly life with cosmic mystery, its scope and terror, beyond the circumscribed fenced tract yards of heaven and hell.

Independent thought is Authority’s kryptonite. Forbidding minor chords was our Wacky Western World’s first organized mind control.

“Oh, my Lordy-Lord — what’s this?” growled Tricks, my gay Goth friend. “What a vibe killer.”

We were walking towards Necromance, a club tucked away down a candlelit alley, and there was a … line?

Spiritual Anarchy and Lines are mortal frickin’ enemies. Gangs scrapping for soul control. In the end one will triumph, one eats teeth. “Feh!” as my Grandma Rose would say.

I hadn’t been to the club in a couple of years. A snazzy restaurant has since erupted next door, and two valet’d parking lots popped up across the street. The valets smirked-to-guffawed at the flow of casket-ready get-ups slinking past them.

Hitherto, I’d always shined to this place because it lured the primordial‘80s Goths out of their pits, not just the off-brand acolytes. Real Goths don’t wear mail order vinyl. Real Goths don’t need white make-up. The original guys make Keith Richards look like the baby Jesus, even in dim light. The women, well, whip Cruella de Ville in with Harvey Fierstein, and drain the blood.

When our turn in line came, a bored, un-spectral bark shot from a velvet-clad chimera: “Picture I.D.”

“I look under eighteen?” Tricks gasped, hand to chest. “I adore you dear — how thrilling!”

The chimera, stone faced, “It’s the law.”

“I live for such laws — don’t you?” Tricks smiled, cold-eyed, with his hit man ‘teapot’ war stance (one hand on hip, one arm in air, elbow bent, soft wrist), then swept past. I bounded after. “The Free World is in retrograde, my darling Xanax,” Tricks bewailed. “Due to go direct, I fear, not in our lifetimes.”

It was past midnight now; the club was packed — nay, impacted. Tricks, moth-to-flame, flew upstairs to the S/M lounge, as I meandered to the bar. ‘Oscillated’ is more like it, since en route I weaved and bobbed like a dashboard hula dancer skewed with Shock and Awe.

Shock and Awe inflamed by the club’s viperous, Stygian air, bleak with occult tidings, suffused with galvanic off-world frequencies beamed to our brains by Dark Masters — shadow shamans — blessing/cursing us with cosmic insight, inciting the embrace of death and its wake, our greatest earthly fear…

N O T !

“What the fuck is going on here?” I said to the rake-haired bartender. Skeet. I didn’t have to waste more breath; he knew exactly what I meant.

For one skank thing, ‘Tainted Love’ was booming to distortion, interring us in 4/4 time. This ‘80’s ditty poses as a dirge, but is, in fact, chirpy disco, one of the first annoying uses of a drum machine.

Two years ago the dance floor was a carpet ride, at least for me. The vibe with Goth is ‘inner journey,’ not ‘sex,’ and most people tripped to the music alone, even with a partner. That group mind-meld phenomenon happened a lot, without eye contact, or a word. It was nice.

Now, the place looked like American Bandstand’s Halloween Special. People boppin’, flirtin’, shakin’ that thang in the tiresome way of our country’s scourge, the under-educated, Pizza Hut gorged cypher-brained. The dark sea had become a plastic wading pool.

“The Goons.” Skeet pointed to a hale, hearty Goth manqué with his arms crossed on some stairs. Another at the end of the bar. Another by the bathrooms. “They drove us all away. The rave law.”

The ‘rave law’ states that promoters, business owners, et al are responsible for any drug use on their premises. While drugs are REALLY (cough) BAD (save rip-off prescriptions from the Republican Cartel, taxed tobacco and alcohol) I don’t think that is the point.

I say that our Neo-Soviet leaders have plumed their hat, yet again, with another way to curb radical thought, ergo deed. People must gather to bond through ideas. Especially now that the internet is never private, nor are your phones. No communication, no idea exchange — no action, no trouble. Truly brilliant.

(Cell phones, F.Y.I., have chips in them that allow you to be tracked. This is allegedly ‘in case of emergency’ but the last time I called 911, I got a recording. Once through, I had to spell my location to a monkey three times.)

“So what’s this Absinte stuff I hear you have now?” I said.

Skeet, weary, “It’s the legal version of Absinthe.” Notice the added ‘h’. AbsintHe is a legendary drink made from wormwood, with opiate, ‘visionary,’ properties.

“So it does nothing.”

“Oh, no — it makes you nauseous.” Skeet poured me a Patron on the house, our little bitty People’s rebellion.

Right then, I felt rain — yet I was inside and bone sober. I turned. A Goon was spraying the bar crowd with water from a Windex bottle. Evidently, the crowd was so thick that it blocked a fire exit route; this was a fast way to disperse us. After all, it works for dogs.

I dragged upstairs to the S/M lounge, wondering if the water had stained my strategically sleazy silk teddy thing. Thank tarnation that the first thing I saw was Tricks, who always cracks me up.

The S/M displays here have been, historically, a famously poor show, due to the introverted Goth disposition. But that was then and this is now. The mood had morphed to well-nigh giddy.

Tricks was spanking a squeaking lesbian, while her partner cooed with joy. Several hot gay guys egged him on.

When he finally saw me, he skipped over. “What’s wrong?”

Me, morose: “Our beloved country is becoming a fascist regime. What does the ‘Pledge of Allegiance’ really mean now?”

Tricks did a double take. “Say what? Yo — zip it, Sister, bag it Bitch — it's Friday night!” He scooped me up like Tarzan and twirled me around. “Wanna come whup Esmeralda with me?”

I tried not to laugh, but I did.

He put me down, took my hand and led me over to the crowd.

Liberals Anonymous

(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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Liberals Anonymous: The Reason For Right

By Xanadu Xero

This may surprise some of you, but last night I realized that I’m a Republican!

As I gazed up at the dry, brown sky — smog filching star and moon light — it occurred to me that, in fact, pollution is not really the Mr. Nastypants it’s made out to be. Pollution is Progress’ l’il buddy!

You relish the mall and the multi-plex, right? Without oil refineries, there’d be no Vaseline. And where were we before the blessed advent of Laser Vaginal Rejuvenation?
Let’s keep it real here: only snob-butts and girly-men (rhymes with ‘FEMME-ocrats’) actually want to eat fish. Ocean swimming gets sand up your whoopsie. Yuck. Yeah, I’ve seen photos of mutated frogs but I’ve seen mutated organic tomatoes. As for those deformed kids the New York Times likes to trot out… before we blame the Progress family, let’s shake those Welfare hos off the crack pipes, shall we?

I used to call myself an ‘Independent.’ This meant, to me, that I would consider each issue singly and form an opinion my own damn self, without a party’s guiding light. What a moron. I mean, who the fuck am I?

People need rock-ribbed contexts or society will fall. It’s now been proven that planets circle other stars. If I were still a bovine Independent, I would conclude that there are probably extra-galactic civilizations out there. Thank God clergymen in dresses set me straight. I still wonder why Jesus is always white if he was Middle Eastern, but that’s neither here nor there.

Everyone knows, save the deluded themselves, that ‘Independent’, in any context, means ‘Loser’. For example:

Independent Film – no money, no audience.
Independent Press – ditto squared, with gag-me graphics.
Independent Spirit (usually female) – unmarried, wacko, bad body, no money.
Declaration of Independence – like, soooooo over!

To wit, here’s a piece of the D of I (D.U.I. is one letter away) and excuse the freaky English (Colonybonics?):

“…governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed… whenever any form of government becomes destructive to these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it…”

But no one does. Leftys bitch and whine, but its, like, all blogs, no action. I guess that liberal types, really, just lack mother-love or something. They marinate in outrage, make Dumbo Dubya jokes at mojito ‘Bushwhacks’ and act all superior, like their shams don’t stink.

Kerry doesn’t roll up sleeves, sweat, or put on a Texas accent. What a Nancy-Boy. I just can’t see him masturbating in Yale’s Skull and Bones coffin. His hair – what’s with the yeast, man? I think I could take him down in two seconds with one knee to the groin.

I’m tired of being an underdog. I’m tired of shopping ‘Last Call!’ sales. I want to know God knows I’m right. I’m tired of cheering the losing team. “It’s the journey, not the destination…” Blah, blah, blah. Hey, Buddha, if you do low-carb you’ll lose the gut.

9/15/2004: 10 A.M. So excited! A new life’s dawn.

I called Bush/Cheney headquarters to see how I could help out. They suggested that I first ‘re-program’ at a Liberals Anonymous meeting. Unlike that lame Anarchy thing I went to at a gang turf drug park, the LA (apt initials) meetings are held at the Beverly Hills Hotel, with a buffet.

And the best part – its free! Well, paid for by the teeniest little nip out of the public school lunch budget. Teeny tiny.

9:38 P.M. Just got back. Here’s the dope — I mean 411:

The place was packed, pink-lit by vast chandeliers, and a contrite crowd it was: Kids who had had their fun (Leftys are easier lays) and now wanted to insure their inheritance. Employees who yearned to play golf with the boss. Prostitutes who wanted to change careers and use their honed skills in business. Teachers who ached to feel proud of illiterate teens. Those whose jobs had been outsourced abroad and, frankly, just needed a meal.

I was late and missed the Rev. Anglo White’s opening sermon, but I understand it was a rousing allocution about how all of earth’s wondrous Worker Honeybees are female, how they all can juggle kids plus jobs… and how, if they can do it without men, money or a golden faith in the Lord… we can too.

When the Rev. asked new pilgrims to declare themselves, I stood up and said, “Hi. I’m Xanadu Xero, and I’m a Liberal.”

“Hi, Xanadu!” the crowd roared back. It felt good.

We opened then our Hymnals and sang, “Less Government Includeth Not The Patriot Act”, “Yea, Invade Thee Lands For Naught” and my fave, with a jammin’ beat, “Let Them Eat Cake With Poisons Banned From Europe For Thy Gain.”

Next, the Rev. introduced ‘Brother’ Kennedy P. Jones, who apologized for his first name, to cooing “awwws” and applause. He was a proud young man, white as night (in Norway in summer).

Brother Jones, an Alabaman, had strayed from his Christian roots when he moved to L.A. He fell from Grace and tried marijuana and — unlike that horny, bulb-nosed, Harlem haunting liberal Whoozits — declared with courage that he had inhaled not once… but three times.

Said inhalation seized the brain of Brother Jones. It peeled like a leper’s skin and flamed out urges — vise-like, taunting, cackling — from the pith of Satan’s dank, black heart… to have congress with females without the covenant of marriage.

Afterwards, collapsed in shame, down a well of sorrow, Brother Jones heard the voice of his God, and He said this:

“Pharmaceuticals, my sheep, will also buzz yo’ ass, and they are righteous. Pay well for All-American prescriptions. Profits and tax will praise your wise Elders, ergo Yours Truly, ergo your sinning soul. Remember, ‘lucre’ is ‘sucre,’ which is ‘sugar’ in French.”

The crowd was in tears.

After a super fun ‘recovery break’ where we threw darts at a big screen of Abraham Lincoln, Rev. White again commanded the stage.

“When the liberal enemies of this country say to you, (sing-song:) ‘But Iraq haaad no Weapons of Mass Destruction,’ your answer is, ‘Ah – but they had the potential.’”

I’m not sure what was wrong with me. I was tired from throwing darts and wasn’t thinking. I stood up. “But Reverend” I said. All eyes zapped my way. “Dozens of countries have the ‘Potential’. Should we invade them all?

I then truly understood the saying, “Loose Lips Sink Ships,” because I, Ms. Doofus Flapjaw, was sinking my own. The crowd hissed like hungry cobras.

“What was that??” the Reverend sneered. Suddenly, I felt afraid. Clergy are, after all, God’s Made Men.

“I… I just thought that you might explain… I mean, it could appear, you know, to the uneducated, that there might be some nefarious reason for… you know…” I felt very small. “…Invading…?”

“Get out oh ye tramp of little Faith!” bellowed the Rev, his words a stormy gale.

“AMEN!” the crowd yelled.

Call me Ishmaela. I fled. No one would even validate my parking.

Back home, post-mescal, I lay down in my closet, bereft.

My future was clear. No A-List Oscar parties. No Bahamian bank accounts. No spreads in Gourmet extolling my hostess skills. No private planes. No baseless optimism. No unequivocal certainty. Fuck.

What Would Jesus Have Done?

“WELL, I WOULD HAVE LEFT THE MEETING, ASSHOLE…” a deep voice filled the air like a thunderclap, with a force that shook to the core of the earth - “AS SOON AS I WALKED IN.”

Tattoo Zoo

(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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Tattoo Zoo

By Xanadu Xero


I knew that the extragalactic ferry was on approach when we passed through the Auto Plaza Dimension. The surrounding rings of corroded suburbia grew blinding, and even more parched.

Large billboards, like hairless leviathans, leered down at our craft, beaming in codes (MOFO BAIL BONDS, DENTISST IN MINI-MALL) that The End Is Near.

“This is gang territory,” said my boyfriend Aap, with his accusatory eyebrow raised.

We were scudding along, fleet of tire, to the L.A. Tattoo Expo on the almost inconceivably depressing 10 Freeway. I hadn’t mentioned to Aap that the Expo poster said, in big letters, NO COLORS, NO PATCHES, but I figured that if ‘1995 Playmate of the Year Julie Cialini!’ was going to appear ‘LIVE!’ as a Body Art Model, we’d be okay.

The parking guys sniggered when I paid an extra three bucks for ‘preferred’ parking. It got us two hundred feet closer to the Expo hangar, which was, in fact, a mile away. The schlep, however, was its own Vision Quest.

First, we swagged through a dank tunnel (rich with metaphor) hot-footing to avoid the spray of humanity shooting towards us. It was a pungent mix of DNA. The pierced and tattooed were a strange hash scrambled in with the most X-treme… geeks?

Geeks with pale, plaid shirts, fast food skin, white socks, cowlicks and the requisite glasses, some, of course, broken and taped, were trotting alongside the sinistral Body Art Community… looking pretty damn scared. It was sweating hot, and the flesh frescoes of monsters and skulls, antic in the tunnel’s counterglow, seemed to shed real tears.
Post-underpass, sadly, I saw signs for a Computer Expo as well, dashing my hopes of One World Through Pain and Needles.

The Herpes Simplex — I mean, Pomona Fairplex — boasts the aesthetics of an anxiety dream. Acres of concrete, mottled with anguished flora, erupt in fountains sneezing water of mold-toned grey. We wound through a thicket of ominous structures, past a dead Olde Fashioned Western Towne until — hallelujah! — Expo ahoy.

Greeting us was the specter of a living Tarot Card — The Hanged Man. The palest of fat white guys had his tattoos upstaged by his six implanted… hooks. The hooks were anchored inside his pudge shrouded shoulder muscles, three on each side.

The hooks’ outer portions were threaded with black nylon twine, and Fat White hung, beatific, feet off ground, from a rafter above. The tents of skin around each hook were lobster red, like an Englishman’s ‘tan.’ He looked like a bleached side of beef.

Only cash could pay for the entrance tickets, saying a lot for the promoter’s knowledge of his public. It was, as well, a gesture of solidarity. Can you say “tax evasion?”

Once through the Expo portal, thunderous sights and sounds deluged us with their pounding, psychic surf. I’ve always had tsunami nightmares, but I wake up as I drown. I was not so lucky here. I knew I was awake because no brain’s art direction could match the filigree of Aap’s scowl… which I ignored until he forced my hand.

“What a fucking PIT! Look — its Wall Street in reverse. Bad Ink, Inc.“

I like to call men in suits ‘Clones,’ if only to piss off my family. But I’ve rarely seen the supine, pack-like conformity I was witnessing here.

The young males had shaved heads and drifted churlishly, sporting one of three physiques: meth bony, fat or ‘roid ‘cut.’ Home Depot chains draped three-yard jeans, sunk low to flash butt cracks, some even on purpose. The alpha dogs had neck tattoos and dangling chicks. Chicks without bras or chins, accessorized by calf butterflies above six-inch platform shoes. Some toted screaming brats in ‘Born To Lose’ footie sleepers.

The middle-aged guys were mostly sulking, possum-like slobs with lush nose hair, emblems of the serial unemployed. Their ‘old ladies’ — lank tresses an oxidized red — seemed to wish they had listened to Mom, who warned them that the jerk was a loser.

The true freaks of the Expo were the few old bucks, inked from stem to stern, scalps often included. Natty and energetic, they zipped around, shakin’ hands, makin’ friends — speedy bees in a slo-mo garden.

A thick, life-as-art ‘West Side Story’ thing pulsed in the background, adding texture. The gangbangers were easy to spot, even without ‘colors’ or ‘patches’. They circled each other like that tense scene where the rival gangs agree to all go to a dance at the gym (old, old movie!)

Cops-in-bad-disguise scanned the Expo troops. And everyone kept tabs on Aap, whose long (and clean) blonde hair, Afrikaans accent, non-visible tattoo, shrouding clothes and palpable disgust made him a neon sore thumb.

Aap jerked his chin towards a voluminous lardo in a tattoo booth, who belched while getting his gut festooned with the face of Axl Rose. His other tummy tats had barely daubed the abdominal real estate.

“Now there is something useful for the new administration to promise”, Aap said. “Free tattoos for all stupid and obese Americans.” Then, official: “Fellow Citizens… Help the U.S. cover up its halt of Darwinism due to our worship of ease, outsourced technology and the status quo. Smother your body in Freeway Bridge ‘art’ to steer attention away from your rotting brain.”

“I think that the tattoos look more like velvet paintings.” I replied.

What they really looked like, in point of fact, were bruises. Them pesky tats — those mothers spread eventually, kindred to open pens on Kleenex. Colors fade too, but for that hell-hue, Black Eye Green.

The tattoo designs in the scores of booths were almost the same, which, philosophically, is frightening. All had five distinct ilks:

• Skulls’n’Death, trying for lurid yet reminiscent of an eighth grade Halloween.
• Tribal. Castrated, abridged glyphs. (“Tribal-R-Us”, Aap growled)
• Portraits. Drunk school fair ‘sketch artist’ style: Mom, Satan, Sluts, Saddam Hussein (?)
• Girl Crap: Flowers, cute l’il bugs, etc.
• Words: DAMAGED, FUCK YOU FUCKER, PERV, among the poetics.

I went to the Expo to breathe smog with rebels, dammit! Anarchists! Eccentrics off the grid! What I saw was… a new genus of petty bourgeoisie.

‘Tattoo Enthusiasts’, by chance or plan, have lost their mainstream identity. That can be a beautiful thing… but these microchip souls have regrouped in an alternate ‘mainstream’ not even bound by dreams, or creed.

They’re bound by the fact that they paid a stranger to force ink, sub-epidermis, with a needle.

“So Xan — how come you don’t have a tattoo?” some actor asked me Nyah Nyah Nyah while wondering how to hit on my boyfriend.

“Because I… am a nonconformist,” I said, snotty. “Not a sheep.”

While that is, of course, absolutely, well, pretty true, I, uh… I… still kinda sort of want to get one.

Psychobiology

(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:)

* * * * * *

Psychobiology

By Xanadu Xero

Holy Toledo, a girl could die of boredom around here. By ‘here’ I mean Earth, or at least L.A.

I’m not talking about the ‘Take up gardening! Learn Chinese! Do charity work!’ kind of boredom, so spare me.

I’m talking about that night/day metronomic pulsing itch-ache blighting your chi, your groove thang, anchored deep. And don’t say you don’t know what I mean, unless you’re a lawyer.

The only thing, for me, that really blasts through the toxic drone of modern life, with its water torture of red tape and repetition, its arcade game of spirit shooting, its antic evil clown persona, is a brilliant, singular, id-driven… bad boy. I mean ‘novel’.

Okay, I mean bad boy.

Now, humans are strange brews, real pieces of work, and monkey-adjacent, let’s face it. We dangle, fairly hairlessly, a fiber-optic thread above orangutans, maybe. It depends on one’s definition of ‘above.’

Monkeys laugh a lot, touch without lawsuits, find snacks in their fur and are fully Enlightened—merged with the Force in the ‘now.’ Humans, conversely, are like yammering brats (I see South Park) who lost their house keys and bang on the door, in perpetuity, to no answer. There’s no answer, I submit, for one or more of these reasons:

• God, a fat, grunting leather-boy sadist, created us for his own perverse amusement.

I stopped playing with dolls once I tired of making Winston Churchill (‘collectible’ from London) have screaming scenes and make-up sex with the buxom Senorita (‘collectible from Acapulco.) God, however, has so many live action figures to scramble, his interest is omni-piqued.

• Alternate scenario: God can’t hear the door-banging. He’s in the basement with the real Mr. Universe, Satan, doing lines. No, wait! If you listen closely you can hear that God and Satan, whoa, have the same voice! They’re actually the same per… whatever the fuck they are, with MPD!

• It’s the wrong door.

• Humans are not native Earthlings. We were ‘seeded’ here from Beyond.

Us bleating, joy-bashing, cell phone flipping bipeds are the only fauna that can’t thrive on the Earth as it is. That’s why we so often feel outside of life, can’t sort things out, are at dis-ease. Do manatees live lives of ‘quiet desperation?’ I think not.

We also hold the distinction of craving sex outside of a reproductive season. We’re hide-the-salami obsessed. We build cultures around IT; exploiting it, suppressing it, legislating it, selling it, perverting it. We go broke for it. We have plastic surgery for it (heard of ‘designer labioplasty?’) We take drugs for it.

Wow, how ascended. Just writing this fills me with heavenly light.

“Psychobiology” is the study of the biological foundations of the mind; emotions and behavior. Humans love to flatter themselves that they’re so complex, but we’re so not.

We all know that the male brain is hard wired to want to impregnate as many young, fertile chi-chis as possible. It just is. Sorry, girls. I was at a café once, near Cameron Diaz. Two guys were at the table next to me. One of them says to his friend, “Just think… there’s some guy somewhere who’s sick of fucking her.”

Men struggle to keep a lid on their natural slut-dom to “preserve the family structure” in our Stalag Society. It ain’t working so well, yo.

My people (chi-chis) of course, have a different M.O. WE are pre-set to be selective, to drag the lake for a male with the best possible genes to fecundate our uteri (knock our ho asses up.) In other words, we seek an Alpha Male. But what , pray tell, is an Alpha Male post hunter-gatherer?

To ambitious gynecoids (broads), especially the implanted (silicone, not alien), the Alpha Male is determined by credit line and egregious possessions. Those markers, however, can be a ruse. Rich guys are usually older, over-groomed, self-besotted and funny-looking. The cash that’s supposed to supercede those wussy traits is often held by the ex-wives, a.k.a. ‘the bitches’, who are always, according to them, “mentally unstable.”

Then there’s that other big Alpha Male template—a hard left turn—the bad boy. You know, the outlaw, the pirate, the biker, the artist, the explorer, the revolutionary, the autodidact, the Special Forces hit man, the occult master, the spy, the visionary. The scoffers of consequence.

The Heathcliffs. The Rhett Butlers. Guys Johnny Depp would play. You got it.

These men won’t fly you to the Maldives, but if somebody looks at you wrong, they’ll kick his face in. It all goes back to the cavemen, baby.

Women (most) need partners to bloom. Real un-P.C., but again, blame biology. Some chicks trounce the odds and find that perfect mate, or so they think until the Celestial Puppeteer wants to rumble.

For the rest of us, to be frank, its either forks or chopsticks, no matter what the spin.

Choose ‘security’ and relax into a solid if not soaring downtempo bond. Split the chores. Sleep in your tooth-bleaching molds. Croon over the new TV. Navigate our three dimensions with the ease and pleasures conformity can bring. Risk thinking, “What the fuck am I doing?”

Choose ‘star tripping’ and blast off with a wild brain to parts unknown. Merge sparks and ignite so fiercely, its mutual arson. Touch other worlds. Feel rare. Forget meals. Burn hard, maybe burn out. Fall back to Earth and make a crater. Risk thinking, “What the fuck am I doing?”

Some of us, however, oddly, have no choice. Whenever I eat a lobster, I always scarf the claw first.