Does Bébé Want to Fvck Glenn Danzig?

This article is patently facetious.  Of course it’s problematic – imagine such an article written by some bro about a woman and that is apparent – and of course the person in question is a real and entire-ass human being with thoughts and feelings beyond his public persona, and of course he is to all appearances not interested in getting with fat middle-aged queers, and this fat middle-aged queer is married and also not interested in getting with people who are not interested in getting with them.  Proceeding with these facts in the back of the mind…

There are important questions we must ask of ourselves in this life, to prepare for all eventualities and exigencies, no matter how unlikely.  Given the outsized presence the music and persona of Glenn Danzig have in my life, one may reasonably assume I am a fan.  And as a fan, that I might come into contact with the old man in some way, someday.  And if that should happen, would I want to fuck Glenn Danzig?

Consider, if you will, the appeal.  Danzig is a blues man, part of the long tradition of howlin’ about your supernatural sexual prowess and affinity for death and the devil.  Said Bo Diddley, “I walk 47 miles of barbed wire, I use a cobra snake for a necktie, I got a brand new house on the roadside Made from rattlesnake hide. I got a brand new chimney made on top, Made out of a human skull. Now come on take a walk with me Arlene, And tell me who do you love?”  Said Glenn Danzig, “Come wrap my love in your house of ice, Melt you down more than once or twice, Make you shake till worlds align, See your body tremble with the blood of fire.”

Danzig is buff.  I used to draw musclemans when I was a child, inspired by toys and images in cartoons.  That was the body of the cool and powerful.  Once upon a time, comic nerds strongly favored Glenn to play Wolverine.  The fact he is short was a note in favor – comics canon Wolverine is short and thick.  But I lost interest in muscles, especially the more I realized I wanted to get with men.  Some bi people want mans to be buff and womans to be soft, but I’m more like, everybody be soft now.  Still, it doesn’t necessarily repulse me, as long as they’re not popping every vein like they do on muscle magazines.

The main thing is the Dark Sexual Majesty.  Brooding intense guy will own you body and soul with his grand satanic gifts.  Get destroyed and do so gladly, to experience and to serve a lust more powerful than god.  Realistically, no way he’s that good at fucking.  People get a limited number of talents and he’s already got his share before the bedroom door is opened.  The idea, however, can itself serve as foreplay – prime one to enjoy something more than they otherwise would.

This image is ripe for mockery.  Some rude indie comix nerds made arguably homophobic hay with Henry & Glenn Forever, a series featuring Glenn and Henry Rollins as gay lovers.  Reportedly Mr. Danzig is not amused.  I hope this article, should it find his attention (do not bring it to his attention plz), does not hit him the same way.

Would I mock his arch-macho posture?  Never.  Maybe a wee bit.  Let’s talk about that bassist from Hole, Melissa Auf der Maur.  She bought the act, and cut an extremely cringe-inducing duet with him.  The plot is about how cowboy bad boy Glenn shot her dad, but she’s cool with it, because he’s too sexy.  Like The Quick and The Dead, if Sharon Stone gave up on vengeance and boned Gene Hackman instead.  Does Melissa always sing like that, or was she trying to play the role of a pubescent girl?  Glenn played the part fine, if the part existing in the first place could be considered fine, but I dunt know what in tarnation Melissa was doing there.

So it works!  I could suspend my disbelief for it.  What other considerations are there?

Age.  He is now seventy years old – about my father’s age.  Looks a bit like Donald Rumsfeld with a facelift and chronic depression.  But I’m feeling my age and have always been cool with much older partners, so no prob there.  He once had a song about how he doesn’t want anybody to bar his entry to the afterlife when he’s “tired of being alive.”  Let’s hope he isn’t tired yet.

Height.  Some guys are smol, and try to make up for it by getting swole.  The bodybuilding can’t help but look napoleonic, as did his practice of escrima.  This seems Italian to me.  Glenn is Italian as hell, despite stagenaming himself after a place in Poland.  In college I had two professors of visible Italian heritage with Italian-ass Italian surnames.  One looked more northern, with the gold blond hair and impish lil’ napoleon face.  The other looked more southern, dark skinned and prominently schnozzed.  Cute fellas, but tiny.  Didn’t see them pounding HGH flintstones chewables, but different people get by in different ways.  This doesn’t bother me.  Nonetheless, his old drummer Chuck Biscuits could probably chuck him for distance, and it looks like that bothers him.

Erotica.  Glenn puts his erotic imagination into the world for all of us to see.  Part of the blues thing, but he goes farther.  Weird stuff.  He wore black vinyl kitty claws for one music video, a gimp suit for another.  Didn’t he have a video where he drooled on a lady, like we were supposed to think that was hot?  I think he did.  It’s been a minute.  This is all fine.  Sex nerds are fine.

But he also publishes erotic comic books.  I dunno if he has written or done art for any, but he publishes them.  This led to a wacky situation in my life.  Early in my relationship with my husband, he and his mother felt the need to get me christmas gifts that I’d enjoy, something personal to me, even tho there’s not many material things I want at all.  They knew I liked Danzig, so they got me Danzig things.  My husband crocheted me a Glenn amigurumi that was truly epic, while his mom just bought seemingly random shit from his online stores.

That included two comics, one being a Devilman translation / reprint, and the other being a kinda disgusting erotic comic.  The dudes all had summer sausage schlongs and no balls.  I get it; people who aren’t attracted to men often think of balls as disgusting, but their absence was felt.  My mother in law is christian.  She did not look at these gifts before wrapping them, and I did not show them to her after I opened them up.  (holy hell he actually made a movie out of that foolery, looks terrible)

High school Bébé wasn’t over the “musclemans is cool” thing yet, and bought his image.  Long black hair, elvis sideburns, and giant meat titties.  What’s not to love?  I sometimes drew rpg characters to look like that.  The songs can still work for me.  Dude is a very good songwriter.  The Misfits without him were such a bad joke that they found jeezis.  Disturbing.  But yeah.  I was totally into Danzig, at the same time I was going big for grunge.  There was room in my heart for earnest heroin boys and meaty satanic posers alike.  I contains multitudes that I would be down to fuck.

And where am I now?  If I accidentally’d into the boudoir of His Satanic Majesty?  Yeah, I’d hit that.  But I’d probably end up on top.

–

I keed, I keed!  Is joak, da?  By the way, If the title of this post made you remember something from Blue Velvet, congratulations and apologies.  Have a nice day.

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Lemme At Im

I wanna kill Jesus.

You know, I’d love to be a nicer person to all the good people of the world who happen to also be christian, but it’s mighty hard.  Mighty hard.  Shitbird preachers like to unfairly characterize atheists as all hating god &/or jesus, but I’m sure it isn’t true for most of you.  It is true of me.  Very true.

There is, on balance, more justification in the words of jesus for progressive ideas than for conservative ones.  Twisting that shit into prosperity gospel and gaybashing is twisting.  But I don’t care about the feelings of some ancient dead guy.  I care about the monster he created, and if I am to take his continued supernatural existence as true – as christians want me to do – then if I were to meet this superghost?

Fuck that motherfucker.  It’s on.

I’m that Dexter-flavored hypocrite who wants to kill the killers.  Atrocities make me mad, make me feel like doing something atrocious, and there are now millennia of horrors that happened on resurrected jeezy’s watch.  Culturally christian people who wanted to believe they could point to something older and better within their ancestors invented wicca, which – in culturally christian fashion – positions one’s people as the real victims in all of this.

Well, your people are the real victims in all of this, wiccans, but witches aren’t your people any more than they are mine.  Your people have been christian for a very long time, like their oppressors.  Christians oppress christians more than the Romans ever had a chance to.  These are the atrocities of which I spoke.  Of those that were tortured and killed for witchcraft, how many had any cultural context for being anything other than christian (or atheist, which can come into existence without being taught)?  Europe was utterly dominated by christianity during all of the witch hunting times.  Their victims were christian.  (oh yeah just remembered the muslims and jewish people, lol.  anyway…)

That’s not mentioning the much more frequent form of historical oppression they engaged in – sectarian warfare.  Genocidal violence, mass slaughter, women and children hung from the walls, cities burned – all for believing in jesus wrong.  I look at that shit and cannot feel schadenfreude about jerks I disagree with killing each other.  I see the torture and murder, and it infuriates me.

Somebody’s gotta pay, and if I try to pin down which sect shot first, that’s playing their game.  No.  I can do them one better.  These sects wouldn’t exist if jesus wasn’t a real supernatural guy that rose on the third day yadda yadda, right, Kenneth?  Only the magic version of jesus could have inspired these millennia of obscene cruelty.  And therefore, magic jesus must die by my hands.

Gimme the spear, centurion.  It’s time to stick this pig again.  For old time’s sake.  Just a jesus murdering party, me and my besties.  Who’s in?

Guys?  C’mon, it’ll be fun.  Guys?

 

 

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1000th Post

My 1000th post on this blog network was queued to be a birdpost about an LBB.  Observe it later today.  This is no kind of celebration of my multifarious thunks, my grande historie of letters.  So.  Gotta think of a way to honor myself properly.

Remember when I was Great American Satan?  God, that was so long ago.  What an innocent child I was back then, cavorting in alpine meadows and singing to the little birdies.  Lalalalala.  But seriously, this is a good time to explain again why the name change.  Great American Satan is derived from the words of Ayatollah Khomeini, as mocked by USian propaganda that was intended to depict the muslim world as uniquely backward.

It was islamophobic.  I still proudly stand against almost all of the shit ayatollahs believe in, but can’t disregard the fact my country is the greatest purveyor of evil in the world.  We genuinely fucked Iran for oil, for military adventurism, for capitalism – and most of the countries in the world besides.  The only reason we regard Iran’s nasty theo-fascist ass as an enemy is because they beat us, and refuse to make Nikes like Vietnam does now, or give us sweetheart deals on oil like nasty theo-fascist Saudis.  Now we’ve gone full fash.  How could I mock anybody in the world who has a bone to pick with us, no matter how shit they are?  This bone must get picked.

But back to the real subject at hand:  Beauteous I.

How do I love me?  Let me count the ways.  Didja know Edgar Allan Poe was Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s biggest fanboy?  He had some over-the-top praise for her, at least.  History seems to have validated his opinion; the average fool remembers some of her words, if not her name.  She’s well known and well regarded in her field, I think.  Poets correct me if I’m wrong.

I have to think that blogging will never rise to the level of famous prose and poetry because of the disparity in effort, and this is a good thing.  A blogger might have a bon mot go viral, especially masters of microblogging, but few posts will outlive their moment.  How many can you remember?  PZ’s Grenade, tho that was more about the circumstances than the craft.  Intent! It’s Fucking Magic! by Genderbitch?  Journalists of the dead tree variety, to the extent that exists, suffer a similar impermanence.  I’ve seen journalism described as “writing on running water,” and it’s telling that I don’t remember with certainty who coined the expression or if I got the phrasing right.

Having a thousand posts of a blog, that is something of an achievement.  It takes a special kind of self-regard to keep spitting the contents of your head into The Void, day after day for years on end.  Most FtBers aren’t up to the task.  Before I started using queuing to achieve a post per day, I wasn’t doing daily posts either.  Often I’d miss a week or two, sometimes I’d miss a whole month.

And yet I was always more of a presence here than most of those sidebar characters.  This I recognize as well in my writing group: I often do the writing activities, far more often than anyone else but my husband.  He succeeds at noveling months more often than I do, but I have more morale for seeing the writing prompt events through.  Everybody else?  They try, sometimes, but it doesn’t even come close.

I am the champions, my friends.  I don’t mean to denigrate my colleagues; I am simply wondering aloud, why is this so hard to do for so many?  Why is regular blogging such a challenge?  Since it’s the majority of aspiring writers that have this issue, I can’t regard it as something to be ashamed of.  The freaks that post all the time, there’s probably something wrong with us.  But I dig being that kind of freak.

So raise a glass for your humble Bébé Mélange.  Life is indeed a gas, powered in part by satan and america and some flavor of greatness, as much as I’m trying to move past those things, generally.  And read the next post for some bullshit about birds.  You enjoy life.  I’m watching you, and if you do not, there will be consequences.  Everything is coercion now, it’s cool.  Compulsory fun for you.

Take your medicine!

This is just random crapola.  But then, that is the essence of blogging.  I hope other people get something out of it, but I would definitely be doing it for myself alone, if I had to.  The world needs my opinions, obviously.  One day, in circling the trashfire like a confused turkey and poking at the mess, I will accidentally into the answer for Lasting World Peace, or otherwise solve the big intractable questions that have dogged us since time immemorial.

Be here for it.  Thank you.

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OMG It’s Full of VVitches

Rambling incoherent dream the other night.  Our house was across a busy urban street from a house where a coven of vvitches live.  I’m spelling it like that because their communion involved chanting the word magic and floating in the air like the iconic moment from that film, tho in this dream they mostly kept their clothes on?  But they were masturbating, I remember that.  One of them was trans, all of them were very Hot Topic.

One night I saw a streetlamp fall down and shatter by their house, but couldn’t see well enough in the dark to see who did it or how.  In this dream my husband’s social stand-in was some kind of punk rock lady, and I was manmoding, still pants sectional tho.  Anyway, for some reason we felt the need to keep going over to the vvitch house, investigating them, trying to discover some big secret that would … defeat them?  Learn them to respect municipal infrastructure?

I found a cool bracelet in a charred pile of dubious stuff and resolved to steal it, tho it would need some repair.  We discovered their coven leader was a dracula of some kind.  My husband got swept up in the vvitch communion.  I defeated(?) their coven leader while that was going on, and they lost their powers, falling gently out of the sky.

My husband hadn’t been as brainwashed by magic magic magic as the rest, and shook off the spell, said some judgy words to them, and we went home.

As derivative as this was, probably no artistic use for it, but it was vaguely fun.  Maybe the flavor could be used in an RPG sesh, not like I’m doing that much lately.  The cool bracelet is the exact sort of detail I’d love to lift from a dream, make use of.  Like custom craft the bracelet in real life.  However, on waking, the design wasn’t that cool.

Why was I so antagonistic to vvitches?  I should be down with ’em.  Don’t be such a puritan, dream me.

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New Blog Name

For a few years now I’ve been thinking “Great American Satan” is a relic of a time when I was more islamophobic, perhaps best to retire it.  The shitty theofascist ayatollah of Iran had famously referred to the USA as “the great satan,” which was referenced in Hot Shots: Part Deux when some Iraqi soldiers said “freeze, american satans!” to the heroes.  Classic american style, mixing up the identities of two countries that hate each other.  Given how much blood we have on our hands with regards to Iran (et al), great satan was apt, and not something I’m up for joking on anymore.  Read Persepolis for a short primer on that history and nice personal story besides.

But I didn’t want to break my URL for anybody off site that has linked to me, so freethoughtblogs dot com slash gas remains.  Only now it’s a reference to “Life’s a Gas,” by T-Rex (the late lovely Marc Bolan).  While I was at it, I put my pen name on the byline, because I’m going to use it for self-publishing books sometime in the not-too-distant future.  May as well get people used to seeing it.

I’m later in the alphabet on the sidebar now.  The shame!  It’ll do.

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PrAIse Jeezes

For reasons, I wanted to create an image of jeezis that looked like an old Klasky-Csupo cartoon, like Rugrats, Ahh Real Monsters, or Wild Thornberrys.  Trying this in midj came back with very undignified results, quite amusing to me.  You should be scared, jeezis.  I hate you and I’m coming for your ass.

Anyway, I actually wanted a result with smaller eyes, like the Thornberrys, but I did like the vibes on those ones, so I used one as an image prompt, while using words to tease out smaller eyeballs.  I said “little tiny eyes” and –no large eyes, bulgy eyes, big eyes.  However, when using a bug-eyed image prompt and telling it to not make bug-eyes, I broke the AI’s mind.  Results:

Eldritch, son.  Once again, I was heartily amused, tho I gave up on making smol eyes, for now.

Next, unrelated, I was trying to get some ideas for motifs, rendering style, and composition, in a heraldic design.  Composition isn’t my strong suit as a visual artist.  This was a really strong result, and shows what I was looking for: not an image I could use as my final design, but something that can inform aspects of it.

The next one had a more rough-hewn texture and chiaroscuro that was appealing in other ways.  I have a wealth of inspirations to choose from, with a few pushes of a button.  I likes AI art tools.

I also like randomly recombining unrelated AI works, just to see what comes out, so putting previous jeezies together with heraldry, I got…

Again, love the indignity.  Nice texture too.  This next one brings back the chickenshitness of the klasky-csupo messiae.

But this is my favorite, reflecting my feelings on the big mans.  Catch one in the dome, motherfucker.  Catch you on the flipside.

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I Gets Religion

You gotta get yourself religion
And try to serve the lord
While the blood’s
Still warm
In your veins…

I dunno who wrote that but it played in the background of a deleted scene in Lord of Illusions.  Love that shit.  But yes, to the point…

I want the protection of religious faith, in a country that gives lip service to allowing non-christians religious liberties, but will never ever do the same for atheists.  But it has to be real, or I’ll fold under inquisition.  I need something I can believe in, and per some legal definitions, that needs to be a higher power.

Now more than ever I do believe in a higher power.  I believe that Chaos reigns supreme over both the meek and the mighty, that no human truly controls their own life or destiny.  The most powerful motherfucker in the world cannot keep shit from coming out his asshole on live TV.  The rich can never act with beneficence or generosity.  The bourgeoisie can do nothing but slide into fascism over and over and over again.

We’re all controlled by something which is why even the conspiracies that are actually true are a bad joke.  CIA you don’t own shit at the end of the day except your own bloody hands and wasted lives.

Entropy, of which Death is just one aspect, as best expressed by Ian Malcolm in Yurassis Next, “The kind of control you’re attempting simply is… it’s not possible.”  But not just dinosaurs, not nature more broadly, like in his little speech.  It’s everything.  The only consolations I’ve ever known are dark consolations, and it’s more of the same – the fuckos that rule the world are still subject to everything that they fear, everything that they want, everything that they’re afraid of losing.  They can ruin a lot, but they can’t control everybody all the time any more than the US could beat Vietnam.

This isn’t Discordianism, except insofar as those hippy fucks would claim everything is everything and nothing, and this would naturally be enfolded by that.  A lot of key differences, most notably that I don’t entertain headaches and I don’t love my higher power.  I just feel its explanatory power in all aspects of life, and it lets me throw up my hands sometimes when I need to.

I wouldn’t say I have holy, sacred, or unholy books or people to elevate, but there are some cultural icons that resonate with these feelings.

Ian Malcolm.  Not Mr. Goldblum, not even Mr. Crichton.  He is greater than the sum of his parts.  He showed me a truth I initially scoffed at, disregarded as inane.  Of course you can keep dinosaurs in a zoo, if you do it right.  And then it all came to pass, and now I know.

The Two Maxes.  We are living in the cyberpunk dystopia as symbolized by Max Headroom, and living in anticipation of the post-apocalypse as symbolized by Mad Max.

Hellstar Remina.  The only ethos worth having when everything is bad, it’s the ethos that allows you to keep doing good.  I don’t find that in abasement and martyrdom.  I find it in two characters from Hellstar Remina.  Remina herself, not strong enough to do much more than suffer what the world does to her, and the grace with which she does so.  And the astronaut dropout Whatsisface, who is strong enough to help her, when all it can afford them is a short reprieve from the evils of the world, leading up to certain death.  He is Antifa.

The Adversary.  My girl Satan is weak right now, tho people who do not recognize her true form may suppose the opposite.  Satan is the one who opposes sanctimonious authority, and she has been thrust like Sisyphus to the bottom of the mountain.  It will be a while before she has the sauce to start pushing that boulder up again, but when she does, she’s on my list too.

… that’s all my thoughts for the moment.

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Sometimes I’m an Antichrist

This is a post that sat not-quite-finished in my drafts since before October, dusted off because I am done with my “hope” series.  That’s not to say I’m going doom, just that my big push is over.  I will try to include a silver or at least grey lining in all future posts on dire topics.  If you missed any of my hope articles and want to check them out, I had at least one a day between 11/6 and 11/16.  Oh 2024, what a time…

Anyway, the same old shit, back to one post most days:

***

The massive fuckboyism of organized atheism has put me off the brand completely.  You won’t catch me saying “atheist and proud,” because how can I be?  Don’t come up in my comments begging for a list of the dozens of famous atheists that have turned out to be shitbirds.  The movement itself was a contributing factor to the rise of reactionary fascism, and while FtB types should feel good about how we conducted ourselves since Deep Rifts 2.0, most of us were part of the problem for a decade leading up to it.*

But I do hate jeezis an awful lot.  If hate could power telekinesis, I’d have accidentally caused a few million in property destruction over the years.  I see a bus go by with the name of some vile religious fake charity, youth group, church, or whatever?  One devil claw in the side, scraping through the words as it passes by.  Billboards in flames.  Church facades in rubble.

I’ve long thought the origin of American fiction’s love for underdogs has to do with our national narrative of rebellious colonies, but realized today it’s apiece with the way jeezis fans here will imagine themselves oppressed, and that can be traced all the way back to the origin of xtianity** itself.  Why in fuck did the Romans adopt the religion of some Hebrews – people they’d colonized and oppressed?

It’s because of that dramatic story in Exodus, and the reiteration of the same theme in jeezy’s story – wanting to play the brave victim.  It captured imaginations.  More importantly, it somehow gave license to people with all the power in the world to feel like they were oppressed courageous fighters for that one special truth.

Religion in general promotes and protects itself with truth claims no matter where it’s found, but these narratives of oppression have a unique appeal which has given the abrahamic faiths potent recruiting power – especially xtianity.  Jewish and Muslim people aren’t mine to talk about, but xtians are.  They spread jeezix germs nowadays with tears for the magic suffering boy (and voter suppression and using collection plate money to fund the legalized murder of gay people abroad).

Look at what you did, sinners.  You made the magic boy cry.  And when you accept him into your hearts, you can feel the empowerment of that suffering.  His performative victimhood is yours!  For just $9.99 a month (which we will use to prop up conservatives that help us launder more money and eviscerate the social programs on which so many of you depend).

Jesus is my enemy.  Progressive and liberal xtians aren’t necessarily my enemies, but if they see me talking like this and take it that way?  Fine.  Your boy is shit.  He’s an excuse to feel oppressed in a culture where your fellows in faith have control of nearly everything, to feel justified in persecuting anybody who can’t or won’t fall in line with your fables.

If xtianity was truly a good thing, it wouldn’t still hold a concept of hell, wouldn’t separate the saved from the damned.  It would just give to everyone, and take nothing in return.***  It can’t pretend to.  If jesus the superghost exists, and christianity is his will, then he can be held to account for so many crimes, enormous and small.  Not a day goes by that somebody isn’t victimized in his name.  This entire nation is about to get reamed by his holeyness.

He’s in my head because I’m culturally xtian.  Even if I’ve never believed, I absorbed the lessons of misogyny and homophobia and islamophobia from the culture he controls, and they made me do bad things, made me harm myself, made me harm others – or at least annoy them.

Progressives can quote all the parts of the bible where magic boy is not being hot trash, but conservatives have the veto of cultural dominance.  Your version of jeezis has never held sway over the masses.  The one in control demands human sacrifice and is already drinking that tithe of blood and souls from those who died waiting for an abortion.

I’d crucify him again just for that.

–

*It’s funny that slymer bitch “nunyabiznis” is Xitting that we should feel bad for making him a fascist.  Fucko, the only thing we should feel bad about is that we were rubbing elbows with you up until the soup went down.  The movement was always ableism and islamophobia with a progressive gloss.  In our own separate ways, we’ve both figured that out, and are now living our truths.  It’s not our fault if your truth makes it hard for you to look in a mirror.

**I get that x can stand for jesus, hence xmas and xianity.  I just think xtianity sounds better, but honestly I’m up on the air for what I should call this dogshit what I’ve been stewing in.  I don’t want to call it by the name it wants for itself.

***It’s a low bar to clear but I’m holier than that, giving help to people regardless of political persuasion, nine to five – for less money than I’d need to pay my mortgage by myself!  I’m one accident away from disaster, as most of us are, but I’m still putting myself out – even to utter fucking bastards – for this pittance.  Back of the line, jesus.  I’m numba one!  Seriously, fuck you!

–

Does this post need a silver lining?  Maybe.  Most of us are not women whose lives depend on an abortion in the Midwest or south, not gay people in Uganda, so most of us will be fine – just sad, is all.  Whoever you are or however much risk you personally endure, take care of each other and take care of yourselves, comrades.  I love you!

Monster’s Wedding

Me and my dude have a relationship.  Been together close to 19 years, if I got that right.  But we never got married, because a bunch of reasons that were not wholly clear to me until now, when the plan is in place.  We’re gonna make it official October 13th.  This is important for reasons of legal protections and whatnot, and also to get what we deserve, which is recognition for this thing we got.  But, this is kind of a bad time.

We have little money and incredibly few family and friends, we aren’t going to reproduce, and we’re not young.  Marriage as popularly conceived heavily leans on those things.  It’s to have a day of expensive shangri-la decadence?  No.  It’s a way to celebrate the merging of two families and sets of friends in a great big… there’s a guest list of officiant, wedded, and three other people.  It’s a way to make holy or legitimate the birth of your… nope.  It’s two wacky kids starting life together as…  nope.

If you put this question to the masses, the usual answer is “don’t bother” or “just elope.”  But our self-respect won’t let that stand.  We deserve a genuine ceremony, not scratching paper with ballpoint pens under fluorescent lights in an office space.  The thing is this – as you take away all the things of marriage as currently conceived, either because you can’t afford them or don’t want to do them, what do you replace them with?  Eventually, you have nothing left, and have to reinvent marriage from scratch.

One could wonder how we ended up with so few friends and family.  I have the stereotypical broken home, my dude just had a single mom from generation of socially maladjusted people who couldn’t stay married or get married in the first place, half of whom are now dead.  My dude has health problems that have him socially isolated, I just don’t feel the need for friends outside of my most important few, and I let the others all drift away.  I don’t think about this most of the time, but it does have us looking like a pair of quasimodos living on a blasted margin of human society.  A wedding of monsters.

It’s kind of darkly funny.  I had an internet homie read one of my unpublished novels and she said it struck her as incredibly wrong the main character didn’t have a lot of friends and family, a community around her.  It never occurred to me to write that for her, because I don’t think of life as having a lot of people in it.  A little failure of my imagination.

ALL THAT’S TO SAY,

I am trying to reinvent the wheel of Marriage between now and October 13th.  Any suggestions that don’t involve additional invites or thousands of dollars may be welcomed.  The officiant is my brother, the witnesses my father and my dude’s mom, and my home boy Jeremy.

Ideally my bro will leave his daughters at home because they are about 6 and 4 and would almost certainly misbehave – less of a problem with a wedding crowd to disappear into than it would be in our tiny condo living room.  But he might not have a choice but to bring them and not his wife, so having her tend them is not a workable solution at the moment.  Maybe Jeremy can play croquet with them on the dead grass behind nuestra casa.

Meanwhile, what do we do or say at this thing?  How to make it feel like a ceremony instead of an awkward tea party of people who don’t know or necessarily like each other?

I’ve been pondering ritual magic.  My dude once had a hallucination as a small child, possibly a seizure, where he saw a small donkey go into his house.  He pursued it but could not find it.  In studying demonology, I found there’s a demon called gamigin or samigin (plus many variant spellings) that is sometimes depicted as a small donkey.  This tells us, if there’s anything in occultism, Sammy Gene is my dude’s patron spirit.  Who is mine?  I find Acar from the Fasciculus rerum Geomanticarum interesting.  Also our house is full of random arthropods, and Acar helps you control those.  Lambes, on the other hand, has male pronouns, appears as a woman, and causes people of all sexes to fall in love with the conjurer.  So much higher queer points.

Anyway, Acar and Lambes did not have Ars Goetia-styled sigils so I had to make up my own.  Sammy’s is as depicted in ye olde grimoire’s tho, save an update on the name.  How do you like me now?  Or as some transphobic catholic tweeter once famously said, This is the Age of Sin. Reject the order of creation.  Revel in the annihilation of Man as the image of God.  DESTROY.  Plot designs of death.  Disfigure the face of Man and Woman.

But still, one of the invitees -somebody we have to live with- is christian, so overt hostility to god jeezups is not gonna do.  I’ll just slip these bad boys under the rug.  Feel like I’ve lost track of the purpose of the post.  Back to business…

Invitees show up at small condo with tiny living rooms and dining rooms in which to hang out.  There is a back yard, which is not fenced off from our closest neighbors, but possibly also a place to be.  We have some minor refreshments and chit chat, then

THE INVOCATION

Some kinda preamble to the marriage.  Normally middle class people would feed everybody foie gras on platinum spoons or something, I don’t know.  I feel like we should try to fill ten to thirty minutes with this, whatever it is.

THE UNION OF QUEER PEEPS

Some kinda marriage.  Normally an able-bodied dad walks a daughter down an aisle, I guess a man gets escorted by a home boy?  Then a preacher says jesus is cool, asks if we wanna do some slam poetry vows, then asks the do you do you, then it’s I do, rings, mandatory public display of affection, and you are forcibly escorted out of the building.  I’m not sure how we’ll do this at all.  PDA would be super-awk outside of a chaste smooch.  Even standing for the ceremony is kinda dubious in our small space and general comfort.  I feel like the run time for this should be ten minutes-ish?

POSTAMBLE

If we were outside, we stay outside for a minute to do some kind of a thing.  If we were inside, we go outside, because one of the things my dude is into is getting confetti chucked at us, but he doesn’t wanna clean it out of couch cushions.  Normally the woman one of us would chuck flowers at some nerds, then we get rice bukkake’d.  I don’t know, this could be pretty short.  Oh yeah, and my dude is cool with cutting a cake together, so this could end in a dining room, perhaps.

EVENING ENTERTAINMENTS

I just don’t dig board games, for the most part.  I like scrabble but that’s because I’m better than average at it, and people don’t love losing to me, and I don’t wanna give anybody a bad time.  Uno feels low stakes and foolish.  Penny ante poker?  I don’t know.

After that I think we’re good.  Any ideas?

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500 Words on the Topic of Hellraisin’

My donors are so shy and unimposing.  I have a guess who one of them is, and if I’m right, he might like a word about cenobites…  Jeezis Shit, I just went searching for the origin of the quote “Sticks and stones may break my bones but whips and chains excite me” and the entire internet thinks Rihanna came up with it.  I heard that shit in junior high and I’m forty-seven years old, so … time travel?  I was thinking, maybe Andrew Dice Clay, but that didn’t come back with anything.  Why can I imagine it in Woody Allen’s voice?  Somebody help me.

Anyway, sexy menace.  Tearing your soul apart as a euphemism for the ecstasy of orgasm.  Chains and blades and hooks with a life of their own.  The black-eyed priests and nuns and less specifically gendered clergy of Hell, in sexy leather clothes, ready to give you the business.  You know you want it.

Something about the cenobites from Clive Barker’s Hellraiser (original story Hellbound Heart) is just sooo iconic.  They are gods among monsters.  I’d love to come up with something that hits the same way, but is it possible?  Is that kind of idea just lightning in a bottle?  Were they a Platonic Ideal just waiting in the realm of Forms, and Barker just happened to be the first guy to pluck them from that airy plane?

There’s the seeker.  Frank “Come to Daddy” Cotton and his ilk.  Somebody chasing a high that can only be found in transgression, and there’s never enough.  Then there’s the box.  Beautiful, elegant, small, activated by touch, by curiosity.  The cracks in the world, admitting the power of Leviathan.

Then there’s the Apostles of Pain.  The cenobites.  Love those guys.  I’m not into S&M, not really, but the look of it all?  Very cool.  I like cool things.  I like the aesthetics.  Total poser, I know.  I remember being in The Metro on Seattle’s Broadway buying leather accoutrement, and the clerk asked, “Stocking up for a good time?”  I felt so uncool.  Whaddyagonnado?

I guess I could seek the box, do that fiddly hand jive, unlock the lament configuration, and get my cool on.  Or my flesh off, whichever happens first.  I’ll be like the doctor in Hellraiser II, “To think, I hesitated!”

I came up with the core of a formula for trying to arrive at the power of Icon in monster design.  Come up with Sinister Themes of the monster, Visual Motifs, Colors, Shapes, Textures, Powers, and Places associated with them.  You can see some mention of it here.  I still haven’t successfully used it to come up with anything interesting.  Just never got around to it.  Maybe on another one of these posts.

For now, this post will just be a note of admiration for the creation of a master.  Maybe when I’ve sold my screenplay for Gun Lemurs and made a bank full of money, I can buy the time to pursue my own immolation.  To earn that charisma.  Wish me luck?

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