Other Reposted Ravings

(Also from May 2004. Hee hee hee.) Globalist Sex Ravings From A Drug-Addled Subversive, vol. 666

I have imbibed roughly four times the recommended dosage of the hallucinogenic compound 2-CI (still legal, as of 6:15 this morning, folks). Sweet rampant returning Messiah, I am absolutely fucked to the gills. I spent five minutes staring at the print of Munch’s The Scream that we keep on our bathroom wall (apparently as some sort of gastrointestinal inspiration). The goddamned electric blue highlights kept popping out at me.

Stereolab is playing on the surround sound system and I am feeling terribly Pop right now — probably not least of all because I’ve been reading my favorite issue of Grant Morrison’s The Invisibles, “And We Are All Policemen”. Somewhere in this blog I once quoted that issue — “Pop, like Chronos the Titan, always eats its’ own darlings.”

Goddamned right. King Mob is Jerry Cornelius and so am I. I am a Dangerous Subversive, goddamnit. I am a refugee of the Prada-Meinhof generation. Terrorism is acceptable so long as it is Eurotrash. Actually, anything is acceptable so long as it is Eurotrash.

I am a Furniture Terrorist! I bring the dangerous ideas of Scandanavian industrial designers into this country via revolutionary samizdat and spread them to the unwashed masses of lumpenWalMartariats who cringe in their upholstered deck chairs and look in wonder upon my Chic! Republican girls want to slather my penis with their unholy corrosive saliva! Somewhere, one random nubile Bush girl or another (Jenna or Barbara, I care not) thinks of me when she slips her Official Ollie North Bath Soap (in the shape of an illegally sold Scud missile) below the waterline of her pampered toilette!

I am heavily into Rock Star self-identification right now, oh my droogs and droogettes — and why the fuck not? If that little M. Butterfly motherfucker William Hung can get the Bling-Bling tossed at him by a nation grateful for his witless crooning, why not Dr. Ellis? Why not, indeed!

The world needs a baritone right now. This is a baritonic millenium! Not the fey sopranos of Icelandic sissy-boys for this era, nossir! Men! With balls! Singing songs about self-abusive German society women and the depersonalized geek culture of Northern California!

(And be grateful that I’m documenting my scattered train of thought with the sacred A HREF, you peasants. I’m trying to help you. But don’t buy those songs yet, until I upload the new remastered versions, which are Definitive. Brian Wilson can smiley-smile on my beautiful lingam.)

Christ, my skull is soaring and my stomach is swooping and these goddamned French women are babbling at me in their heathen tongue over extremely sociopathic Moog disco. Why have I chosen this terrible music? It’s the sound of a Charles de Gaulle airport lounge in 2015 if the Nazis had won and taken over all those years ago. “Somewhere, somewhere, somewhere,” they are singing in between their horrible Gallic ravings…somewhere, Merhan Nasseri is hiding under a plastic lounge chair in a frenzy, surrounded by Freedom Fries from the departure terminal’s McDonalds and praying to Allah in frenzied Farsi. Or Iranian. Or whatever the fuck it is he speaks.

Have I ever told you, my interglobal audience, of my uncontrollable desire during the mid to late 1990s to bang the holy ass off of Sporty Spice? I’m talking full on Mickey Rourke sex here, in some anonymous Third World five star hotel where all the furnishings are covered in cheap brown wood Con-Tact paper and the waiters all wear black gloves. Me and Mel C, under the orange paisley sheets, feeding each other lox and opium bagels off of one another’s shaved genitalia…her moans as I trace the lines of her track pants with my tongue before removing them with a straight razor…the horrified whispers of her fellow Spiceians when she returns from her sojourn in Addis Ababa with a triply-pierced perineum and a sudden devotion to the more baroque practices of Sufism…my absolute refusal to speak of her in interviews, only looking fondly out the window and playing Leonard Cohen’s “Chelsea Hotel No. 2” on a boombox whenever the subject is mentioned…. Melanie, I still haven’t forgotten you, though Blighty and the scattered remnants of Empire might have. I love my girlfriend but you are ever in my thoughts, mein liebchen.

I never fancied any of the other Spice Girls, though Geri Halliwell looked like she might be good for a tumble or two — the Baby one was far too Roman Polanski, the Scary one was just too unthreatening and the…who’s the other one, still famous but now for no apparent reason, married some homosexual rugby player or something…she was just…ugh. Looked like all the girls I used to sport-fuck in high school. Student Council types who were all stuck up until you got their panties off, at which point they turned into total skanks, as it should be.

Christ. Too many horrible perverted thoughts in high school. It was that horrible Trent Reznor that did it — all those nights sitting around in my trailer in the snows of Montana, listening to “The Only Time” over and over and jacking off furiously, wishing I could tap the ass of one of the local alterna-rock girls, though I never did. (I’d name names, believe me, but you wouldn’t give a mad fuck and more to the point I’m terrified that they read the Interweb, and that I’d subject them to the vision of the 14 year old me, chubby and half my head shaven, my bleach-spattered Bugle Boy overalls around my ankles as I sweatily wanked into sweet oblivion with their pimply adolescent faces scrawled across my corpus callosum, writhing in utterly imaginary yet semi-realistic ecstasy at my very touch. Shit, you know who you are, take it as a compliment and move on with your life. You’ll never have better at any rate, and you never even got to touch me.)

The French women are stimulating me unnecessarily. Must switch music. Over to iTunes….

Shit! Almost clicked over to John Lee Hooker, at which point I would have had to have moved to New Orleans and had sex with half the Goth population immediately, including the literary ones. Luckily I managed to get on the Jesus and Mary Chain’s Psychocandy in time. This still reminds me of early 90s alterna-chick-sex, though.

But then again, what doesn’t, these days? Those were heady times for those of us who were 13 and 14 when Nirvana came out. I was just hip enough to see Nirvana as the rising crest of a tide I’d already caught, with the Pixies and the Femmes and the Lemonheads and Concrete Blonde and Nine Inch Nails. Back then, all the girls had purple hair and black fingernails and would dance around lazily in the basements of their parents’ houses to “Bloodletting” while the rest of us smoked pot and talked about how fucking intricate H.R. Giger’s paintings were and how cool Robert Anton Wilson was. And I was 14, folks. I was fucking hep, lemme tell you.

But those days are long gone; alterna-Pop has been Balkanized, and none of you remember it or give a fuck about it anyway, those dead days when all we wanted was to fuck Juliana Hatfield and work as an A&R geek for SubPop. You love your Britney and your Justin and your masturbatory pop icons.

All I ever wanted was to be Dave Kendall. I wanted to be the sleek-headed Eurotrash guy who got to hang out with the rock stars. I spent a few years doing that in the 1990s, and you know what? Rock stars are dicks. They have an overinflated sense of self-worth which is as totally undeserved in their cases as it is justly deserved in mine.

So Evan Dando actually did get to fuck Juliana Hatfield, so what? He was a prick to me at a big Almost-Acoustic Christmas show in San Jose in ’96, and nobody remembered who he was but me, anyway. The audience was there for Lou Barlow, who totally replaced Evan as Alternahunk of the Decade, and the only person who sang along with “It’s A Shame About Ray” was my sorry ass, sitting in the press area with my Mondo 2000 credentials and my memories — only a few years old then — of sitting around in my friend Sarah’s laundry room with my friends Nate Varnum and Jeremy Snyder, tentatively playing that self-same song on my mom’s acoustic guitar and wishing I could be Evan Dando. He got to fuck Juliana Hatfield (while vehemently denying it all the while) and hang out with Johnny Depp and be on the cover of cool magazines, and I was some dorky fat kid living in Hamilton, Montana. The least the motherfucker could have been was gracious when I went backstage to tell him thanks.

Of course now he’s off milking his blood for heroin remnants in Australia or something and I’m here, tripping my balls off and babbling at you with my PowerBook while the Reid brothers yell over my surround sound system. My drugs are better, Evan, the sun is good and truly risen, and I’d like to think I’ve gotten it out of my system…but I haven’t really and, God willing, I never will. I have replaced Evan Dando and Lou Barlow as the Counterculture Sexy Boy of this coming aeon, and I will rise to my ascendancy on a wave of mutilation. Wa-a-a-a-ave. W-a-a-a-ave.

I am a deranged cocksucker and plan to be until the Man finally kicks the door down and comes to haul me away…at which point I will laugh at him and demand to see his papers. For I am nothing if not thorough.

Good morning to you all.

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