| (no subject) |
[Dec. 18th, 2009|04:20 pm] |
| [ | Tags | | | real life | ] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | exile | ] |
| [ | mood |
| | Blank | ] |
| [ | music |
| | The motor whir of the portable heater, the clack of the keyboard | ] |
Struggling against my two biggest enemies - fear and laziness - in a desperate attempt to create something worthwhile. It would be easy enough to surrender, give up, walk away... if not for this nagging voice in my head telling me to keep going. Still somedays the empty page wins and all you can do is take a pale satisfaction in knowing that at least you showed up for the fight. |
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| Goodnight, LJ! |
[Dec. 18th, 2009|12:44 am] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | exile | ] |
| [ | music |
| | "Coffee and Sushi" ~ 91.1 @ www.wrek.org | ] |
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| Now where? |
[Dec. 17th, 2009|12:48 am] |
That night we went down to Diabolique. Like any other club the low lights would allow us to pretend we would never grow old while the drink specials ensured our remaining wise beyond our years. Unlike any other club, however, I could sneak in with a plus one because the door woman owed me a favor. In the parking lot we sipped vodka straight from a bagged bottle while watching the transexual prostitues shiver in their fur lined jackets and plastic mini-skirts. One of them is wearing a red Santa Hat but it doesn't seem to be doing much for her holiday spirit. Sometimes a car would cruise crawl by for inspection and the girls would flock around the corner expectantly. Long thighs thrusted and amplified torsos arched forward, midnight meat market bargains cooed and purred. But the drivers are just window shopping tonight. We kill the bottle and make our way in.
DJ's Apophenia and Vociferious are tag teaming up in the booth. Their dropping beats that fall somewhere between trip-hop sci-fi and industrial horrorshow with a series of captured EVP's flowing off their laptops straight into the mix. There on the floor everybody dances to the language of the dead. We decide to join them but only after a drink. At the bar a few tittering catamites mingle with the drama royalty. They melt around our approach giving us a clear shot at the bartender. Two Vodka-Crans... and whatever you want, Baby. I inhale the first one down to steady my nerves and nurse the second. Just in time too. They're playing your song and playing the Orpheus to my Eurydice you lead me by the hand to the floor.
Christ, I miss when clubs let you smoke inside...
... and there you go. Dancing vertically the same as you do horizontally. All eyes on you while I shut mine. Out of the depths of the song, a wave of disembodied voices washes over me. I can't tell which are real and which are the 'dead'. It doesn't matter. By tomorrow they'll all be ghosts in my memory... and where will you be, my love?
In a ravaged bed curled deep into my arms? In your car passing the state border, finally giving a long overdue goodbye to this puddle of a scene and the job that barely pays the bills? On the rooftop of that unfinished parking lot in Mid-Town perhaps, where we'll down the last drops of Vodka and shout obscenities to the waking city?
Back home with him, maybe?
Ah, but I forget... it's already tomorrow and here you are right by my side. |
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| 5: Death-Tripping Balls |
[Dec. 16th, 2009|01:58 am] |
| [ | Tags | | | metromancer | ] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | exile | ] |
| [ | mood |
| | Sick, exhausted... still here | ] |
| [ | music |
| | "Premonition (Giant Empty Iron Vessel)" ~ David Sylvian | ] |
Continued from...
4:Walk into Hell with a joke on your lips
3:Strawberry Mansion
2:Crusty Pete
1:Enochian Acid & Other Distractions
Big Bob the Eunuch. A walking tower of a man, fortified with chiseled muscle and stone eyes narrowed into crenellations through which the bolts of his stare takes aim. Skin of burnt terracotta, as if tanned by the blaze of an inner sun. Bare chest exposed under an unbuttoned fur-lined brown corduroy coat just one size too small. Purple camo parachute pants tucked into scuffed up steel toed jack boots. Scalp shaved to a dull shine, as well as throat, brow and face. Smooth forehead with a tattooed purple circle, one baring an upside down triangle within its belly and coin wide circumference flanked by a pair of petal-wings. A Mardi Gras commando, dressed somewhere between Sanskrit pimp and rave thug chic.
Word is Bob was once one of the more powerful tantric magickians operating on the East Coast Current. Hung not by the inch but by the foot and blessed with that rarest gift to be found amongst magickians of any grade – a sense of humor. All was well on Planet Bob until the day he got caught dipping the lingam into some jail bait flavored yoni by his old lady. Naturally pissed his woman retaliated. Feigning all was forgiven at first, she lured him into bed under pretenses of some good hard makeup sex but instead had in mind one last grudge fuck to end all grudge fucks. She rode Bob’s Kundalini Express for a three day tour de force, fueled by equal doses of chemicals and electric anger. When the astral sea began to steam off their skin with a burnt ectoplasmic funk, when the masks of their god forms ignited into shrouds of flame and her final orgasm collapsed around them quiet as a black hole... Bob finally let go, unbeknownst that this would his last time.
Emerging from the thirty-seven hour coma his (by now) ex-wifey had left him in, Bob quickly discovered the fresh Ajna chakra inked into a third eye. He knew then that she was gone for good but it wouldn’t be until much later that he would realize that she had left more than just the tattoo as a Memento Mori of their relationship. That night when he failed to perform before one of his willing adepts the true nature of her absence began to reveal itself. Follow up attempts with different partners yielded the same result – girls, bois and whatever no different. Even manual over ride didn’t do shit. Next thing you know Bob is popping Viagra like it’s fucking candy and he still can’t perform the basic miracle of turning a worm into a serpent. The ex-wifey had laid down a seriously fucked-up hex on the man, a dose of that old blood-voodoo trouble from which there ain’t no cure. In the simplest of terms, she had arranged it so that Bob could only now get it up for one woman and one woman only… the one that ain’t coming back.
Kundalini neutered. Seeing red and blue balled 24-7. Wasn’t long before enforced chastity began to corrode away at the core of his self. In compensation muscle and disposition hardened into rigid steel. He quickly became consumed with a relentless violence. He picked fights frequently as possible. At first just with those stupid enough to give him shit about the third eye. Then just for looking at it. Eventually he began throwing down with anyone who might be able to put up a decent fight. The bigger the better. The damage exchange was only thing he could feel anymore. It wasn’t long before Bob (who dares you, just dares you to call him ‘The Eunuch’) was recruited as road agent and general attitude adjuster for Carlos the Chameleon.
Of course that’s just the word… but words do have power in the mouths of the wise.
Needless to say, in all the years Bob the Eunuch had served as the Chameleon’s implacable rook he has seen, if not committed, more than his fair share of unspeakably gruesome shit. Whether this was strictly business or pleasure, who can say? But standing there in that derelict apartment on the edge of the Strawberry Mansion district, he felt something stir in the distant waters of his memory, an old feeling, one he had almost forgotten the name of – horror.
( Read more... ) |
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| Coming Soonish |
[Dec. 11th, 2009|01:30 am] |
I'm scheduled to be spinning one of these next year (as in next month) -
Click image for actual flyer
Nervous and psyched at the same time. Guess I'll worry about it after New Year's. |
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| Strange Adventurers |
[Dec. 9th, 2009|10:17 pm] |
There are purportedly 52 parallel earths in the DC universe. Though being a fan of Warren Ellis' Planetary, I always prefered the snow flake model of the multiverse he used offering somewhere in the neighborhood of 196,833 possibile dimensions kicking around and just waiting to be played with. It doesn't matter how you want to work the math, really. All I need is one.
Call it Earth - 27.
A world where Krypton never exploded, the amazons of Paradise Island remained in seclusion and the prosperous Wayne family of Gotham City decided to splurge on a cab ride home after taking little Brucey to the movies (instead of strolling through Crime Alley in the middle of the night). No power rings (Abin Sur never crashed on the 'mostly harmless' planet Earth of Sector 2814). No speed force ("Local police scientist dies in freak lab accident..."). No gaudily dressed meta-criminals commiting elaborately themed felonies (who would've guessed a well placed S.W.A.T. team sniper could handle the Captain Cold's and Joker's as efficently as any masked vigilante?)
A world, in short, that never produced a 'super-hero'.
But Earth - 27 does not want for champions of the fantasic.
( Read more... ) |
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| Candy Canings and all the Trimmings |
[Dec. 8th, 2009|02:25 am] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | exile | ] |
During a brief visit to London's Camden Town, I checked out a club there called The Electric Ballroom. Found it quite by accident. I was sitting in some pub there, pounding back the local love when I noticed all these vampire people passing by the window. I paid my tab. Left. Waited on the corner until some top hatted young man in big black boots passed by and followed him to the club at a discreet distance. Made a real USAsshole out of myself when the door girl told me that it'd be ten quid to enter and I responded by asking how much that would be in pounds? Luckily they let me in anyway. Ah, but I had a great time there. I mean it's not everynight that I get a chance to dance to the Clash's London Calling while actually in London. Plus, compared to the local talent, I was moving like something out of a gothic Bollywood movie on acid. Good times, good times. At the end of the night I made my way back to the hotel quite pleased with my discovery and the ensuing revelry.
The next morning (well, afternoon I suppose - I get jet lag just thinking about it) I went down to Camden with my Mom to check out the stores there. What surprised me during our shopping trip was the discovery that some of the clubs there had become a series of indoor flea markets and consignment shops. This included the Electric Ballroom. It was an odd feeling walking around the dancefloor - checking out the stalls selling club gear, newspaper comic books, rows of used CDs and old '80s Brit-pop zines which all seemed to have a pouting and Smiths-era Moz gracing the cover for some reason. I ended up picking up a pair of black with red trimming raver bondage pants that I still wear from time to time (mainly at job interviews and such). It was quite an experience thought and I found it a shame that there wasn't this sort of thing back in the home scene. I mean I knew a few vendors who would work the clubs and I always enjoyed browsing through Oni's old store at the Chamber, but I thought the flea market vibe of the diurnal 'Ballroom' was really cool.
So imagine my delight when I found out the job was holding an event called Twisted Toyland on the Saturday afternoon after Phobia. I won't be working the event (unless Sadistic Santa needs an elf, I suppose) but it seems like it could provide a good opportunity for some unique holiday gift ideas. The Dark Atlanta link describes the various wares there as -
"Armor, Armbands, Art, Belts, Ben Wa balls, Blindfolds, Bondage Toys, Boots, Bow Ties, Candles, Canes, Clamps, Cock Rings, Collars, Corsets, Crops, Cuffs, Dildos, Dragon Tails, Feathers, Fire Cups, Floggers, Gags, Gifts, Harnesses, Hats, Jackets, Jewelry, Knives, Latex, Leather, Locks, Lubes, Masks, Music, Needles, Novelties, Paddles, Patches, Phallix Glass, Pony Play Gear, Quilts, Quirts, Restraints, Rope, Rub My Duckie, Shoes, Singletails, Skirts, Slappers, Sounds, Staplers, Strap-Ons, Vibrators, Violet Wands, Wax, Whips… so much more!"
To be honest I have no idea what a 'Quirt' is or why 'Bow Ties' would be of interest? But how can you beat a flea market that offers both hot chilli and candy canings all for a fiver? Plus it's a benefit for the The National Coalition for Sexual Freedom, so y'know you can restock your sexual armory knowing you've helped a good cause. |
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| Inglorious Bastet |
[Dec. 7th, 2009|09:00 pm] |
Went out for a smoke and Firecracker escaped.
Three block chase ensued. Barefooted, in nothing but shorts and a t-shirt. Stop and go. Pausing occasionally she allows me to get just close enough to make it interesting before bolting. Call after her sing-song with promises of treats to come. Like most women I know she can smell the desperation behind the words and chooses to ignore me. Three blocks we do this, through backyard and front lawn alike. Overprotective hounds wail at our approach. Driveways light up with motion sensors. Windows part. Faces cautious and curious peek out before vanishing. Nothing to see here, just a half naked white man wondering all over the neighborhood on a cold December night. At one point she rounds a corner in a trot and though only a few moments jog behind, I lose her.
Shit-fire and panic.
"Firecracker!" I yell.
More dogs bark. More window peeps.
"Firecracker..." I plead.
I know Vee. I'm either coming home with that cat or I'm coming home on my shield.
Finally found the little bitch darling just when I was ready to give up and head home to a night on the couch if I was lucky. Correction. She found me. Standing there letting the elements shiver their way into my bones, I heard a familiar chirping growl. Turned around. There she was sitting on the front hood of somebody's car, watching me with that look of aristocratic aplomb that only goth chicks, theatre folks and felines can pull off with effortless dignity. Apparently she had grown bored of the chase and was waiting on me to find her. She hopped of the hood and approached me. I just stood there betraying not a single breath. When she started to rub against my legs I swooped her up in a blur.
Later as I carried her back to the house she liberally clawed at my arms while trying to squirm free. When I got inside, with wrists carved up like a suicidal teenager who had too little Prozac and too much Joy Division on thier hands, Vee ran up to me and took the cat from my arms, cooing to her - "Oh, my poor little girl..."
Have I ever mentioned how much I hate cats sometimes? |
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