thank you mistress, may I please have another?

Follow-up: That was supposed to read "deaR god," but I guess "deaD god" works just as well. It's done with now. The machine hast spoken&$@#*!Absinthe: Centurion of The Mauve Army of Naked Chick Magazines.

smack

Dead god: Spare me from bad poetry. Good holy christ, no more bad poetry. I'll even become a better nonchristian! It's sent to me by well-intending people who want me to {shudder} critique it, I'm always being asked to come to readings that high schoolers put on... and then there's Robert Frost, for eff's sake. I don't know WHAT you were trying to do with Robert Frost. This isn't 100% bad poetry-- just most of it. *smirk* Ha! Obey the fist! I know-- I'm not a poet. I don't sit down and write poetry. It's never been my thing. However, I definitely read my share and think I can formulate a good idea of what works and what doesn't. A lot of these kids have poetential, but it needs to be further developed beyond "capitalism sucks, man!", angst, angst, angst, and how their parents won't let them cruise to Jack in the Box at 1am for e-coli burgers. Some of them DON'T have potential, and need to give up before the god of poetry smites them down. Heh! I want to smite people. I remember the last time I ended up at a bad poetry reading. The drug czar J and I went out afterward and got coffee at one of those tacky 24-hour places AND DREW ON THE PAPER PLACEMATS! That's the best. I didn't think I could actually eat anything on the menu, so I stuck to the coffee. After so long, my stomach can handle it. There's still something about those places that fascinate me like every other dysfunctional part of the all-american kultur experience. THIS is diner food. Cigarette ash on the formica, acrid coffee, cranky lesbian he-man of a waitress, questionable translucent orange residue on the dinner plate... the epitome of all that is wrong with foodstuffs. Ahh... the cheap all-American 24-hour diner. Teenage goths, alcoholic fathers, runaway convicts, truck drivers who try to rape my friends in the bathroom, rednecks who verbally assault us, drug users, farmers, bad poets... all in this horribly-concocted "pseudo-country-home" setting with single mothers on welfare dishing out the dead cows. Cows must equate the diner experience with hades. Or-- at the very least-- Jeffrey Dahmer's refrigerator. I wonder if it was a Westinghouse. Then we wrote our OWN bad poetry about it, in the style of everyone at the reading: "Oh, MAN these gaudy fake pine candleholders speak like a piece of my heart melted by ephemeral phantasmagoric spinning spirals lucid out of control the day is yesterday, non unlike that black velveteen oil painting of John Wayne over there in the corner. And I ask myself: why this obstructed social system? Why black patches of haze in the moonlight tear my vision? I am going to listen to Rage and eat some cheeseburgers now!"Fffffffffffff...... I need to leave.

well-forked but not dead.

& fuck you, fuck you. Wait! I shouldn't start an entry mid-thought like that. Thing of thee day: A few punk kids I know (Why do I always use the collective term "kids?" I'm not a "kid" myself, and they're both older than I am.) were arrested for propagating anti-current-events graffiti abhorrent vandalism. Good god, they must be socialists."Deranged Socialists!""But... but... that's the only kind!"Anyhow. I was mucking through the mud puddles and Pennzoil residue taking photos when this guy I'd never seen before walked toward me and said, "My GOD you're beautiful!!" promptly turned the corner, and went on his merry way. It was bizarre. I just kind of mumbled "Uhhh.... thanks, I think." or something equally stupid. Maybe he was only quoting Happy Noodle Boy.Today I also got a massive amount of hair hacked off. The hair-cutting human and I were observing the screaming children at the other end of the shop and talking about how we were stuck with our mothers giving us haircuts when we were in grade school. Ah. I remember grade school. It was during the 80s and I was enamoured with trying to look like all the silly high school kids, so the more voluminous I could get my hair, the cooler I was. Home perms-in-a-box, crimping irons, Aqua-Net... I'm surprised I'm not bald. It was horrible. Scientists genetically engineered the first dead poodle-mullet-thing attached to the top of my head. C.C. Deville didn't have anything on me. Couple that with the makeup samples I was always stealing from my mom's alcoholic Avon-selling best friend? I was such a dirty rockstar. Now all I need is a fridge full of liquor and a drawer full of drugs. *looks around* Oh.I hate talking about myself. A little bit is normal, but... hey. Maybe that's why I don't write here every day anymore. I need to start constantly bitching about the outside world again.

Me! I subvert you!

After a good 6 months, there's now a second Too-Much-Makeup-Boy comic! It's less than amusing, but can't be any worse than the first one. At this rate I should achieve mad notoriety by the year 498648716412.

faith & devotion

Here's to hoping everyone had a happy V.D. day. We held a ceremonial anti-dinner. No couples allowed! Be one with reveling in your non-relationship "support casual sex" freedom! Or... ah... something along those lines. It was fantastic. Fancy D.I.Y. punk-rock cuisine; red wine and hash. Someone brought over a documentary covering a an Indian holy celebration. It was very intriguing-- from what I remember-- although I think the Ira Cohen narrative may have been slightly over the top if I hadn't been stoned to Mars. (Post-beat? What?) But maybe that's half the experience. There still seemed something "off" about a bunch of mesmerized american kids eyeballing and romanticizing-- through a television screen-- a culture which couldn't be further separated from our own "value" *cough* system. Talk about how we could do without the current stomach-turning state of corporate America, but none of us could survive if we were suddenly dropped into the middle of nowhere, India. A happy medium, perhaps?I guess it could be worse. We could be rich and all-white american kids.--------------------------------------------------Confidential to Narx: (I was going to email it last night, but I've been experiencing dysfunctional email angst lately. I'll just put it here. Everyone else can sit and wonder.) Fucking awesome! I was bouncing around like a titillated schoolgirl! I'm in relive-my-9th-grade-year-but-in-better-stereo-quality heaven! You can bet yer ass I'm going to spend a portion of this weekend designing album covers. Geek yes. Negative 3 has been one of my favorites forever and ever. The remastered version sounds incredible. By the way, I saw your überhomo hero Scott on tee-vee the night it came. That was even better. Mmm. I miss his green hair and swanky fashion sense, as both have disappeared completely. The KMFDM is awesome, too. (I thought you hated them. *smirk*) Cheesy as it is, I love 'em. I know exactly what I need to send you, but I have to molest a VCR out of someone first. I'll mail the first part out next week (maybe even along with Nersh's unfortunate ton of duct tape. I'm sorry! I'M SORRY!) and get thee the video whenever I can. It's going to be an interesting project.

Piss Frond

&%#$@! entries don't write themselves; fer chrissakes I should be getting paid for this.Dear die-ary: why are people so bloody daft?WAIT! DON'T ANSWER THAT!! FOR THE LOVE OF... GAAAHHHH!!

Andy, where's my fifteen minutes?

The entry what has no preconceived direction! This must be what it's like to be an anarchist revolutionary. Posting pictures is exponentially easier than composing new entries. Who wants to see rockstars naked?! Service me, Martha!!Or else I could just fill out some overdone survey lists. Mmm....845) What is your favorite color? gayrainbow, gayrainbow, gayrainbow, black, gayrainbow846) What is your favorite lubricant?847) What is your favorite bad Geocities webpage?I keep hearing tiny bits & pieces on this album that sound like samples of other songs, but I'm not sure. Auditory hallucinations. Wait a minute... Damn it! It's happening again! Who put Brian Eno in a box? I can't be making this stuff up. This morning I was aiming to start the semester history project, but I can't work up any more motivation than drinking coffee and reading comics. I'm trying to decide whether or not I actually feel worse than I did yesterday. Hmm. A project having to do with history/history, not drug/history art/history pop/history trash/history, which usually means war and nothing else. OR freaky post-war suburban sprawl, molesting the american dream into cardboard husbands, sedate children, and happy wives with new improved cleaning products. I think that's what I'm going for. That class! On Friday I came in approximately two minutes after 2:00 and the scary german guy (Who, I learned, in his youth worked for a meat disassembly line. He enjoys cracking bad jokes about it in his free time.) was just like, "YOU!! With the HAIR!! You're LATE!!" *points at me and looks like death on a stick* I think my internal organs stopped functioning for a full three seconds. I need to stop slacking off. The other day I got a letter enticing me to join some kind of prestigious collegiate organization. Proper dress: Sunday attire. Heh! I think it's because those kind of high cult society functions always need to have the one "weird misplaced drug kid" wandering around to make everyone else feel more significant. No... I feel like my brain has been swapped with a brillo pad.