Friday, 16 January 2015

I RIFF YOUR BLOOD! (70s Rock mix-tape)

1. I Drink Your Blood... (Movie Trailer)
2. Bulbous Creation - Having a Good Time.
3. Jerusalem - She Came Like a Bat From Hell.
4. Stone Gardens - Ocean Inside Me.
5. Jacula - Veneficium.
6. Toad - Vampires.
7.  Zior - Entrance of the Devil.
8. Iron Claw - Skull Crusher.
9. Hairy Chapter - Pauline.
10. Orange Wedge - From the Womb to the Tomb.
11.  Happy End - Ayakashi No Doubutuen.
12. Ancient Grease - Eagle Song.
13. Swampgas - Patato Strut.
14. Temple - Triple Guitar.
15. Josefus - Social Song.
16. Orang-Utan - I Can See Inside Your Head.

Monday, 5 January 2015

Replacement Therapy Soup

Nothing quite as sick and strange looking as a metavoyeur with starved eyes. Tommy is one himself, and he’s lurching around and pulling at his beard across the road under a bus stop sign, searching with dirty fingernails for skin amidst those greasy black tendrils. He’s an awful sight with those 8-ball eyes creaking to and fro in his skull searching out a voyeur to observe so that he might relieve himself in as similar and covert a manner as his jerking, salivating eyevictim. Tommy’s here because he knows where to find all the sick ones, he knows to come here early every morning while the sky is still blotched with a silvery cum stain haze. The miserable grey bricked dome growing out of the upchuck pavement has amassed at its steel shutter doors a long succession of deviants, dopers, downers, diddlys, diseased, decrepits, and glass-eyed window-peepers. There’s enough anomaly and buried yearning in this queue to paint the biggest and most stomach-churning fresco imaginable, and they’ve all come here for their daily shot glass of debilitating mercy.

They hover an eyedropper full of Inhibitex over a tiny Styrofoam cup and let a few drops of the sickly pale-green solution colour it, it’s not a lot but it’s enough to turn 16 year-old Sarah off the vibrator long enough to march her in and out of church on a Sunday and have her tidy looking for dinner with the vicar. However, Sarah, now 19 but every bit as degenerate as she was at 16, has advanced too far in her mental illness for even the highest dose of Inhibitex to be effective enough to qualm her near momentary visions of fornication.

No, for 19 year-old Sarah, this queue will end as soon as she meets the door, where she’ll be led off by a group of septic nurses into a murky, dank cell for a session of her Quandary Resolution Therapy program. This antidote is reserved only for those who no longer respond to the Inihbitex, and in the case of QRT, the subject is actually encouraged to satisfy their deviancy for a set amount of time and before an audience of top-ranking military doctors. These doctors will scribble on their jotter pads for the duration of the show in an attempt to better understand and perhaps even harness the human spirit for military gain. In the case of poor Sarah, well, she’ll be stripped, hooked up to machines and electrostimulated for an hour under hot white lights with a poster of a shirtless Duke Bennington hovering over her face. Her twin brother, who dropped her off at the clinic, is currently bumping uglies with a girl he goes to school with, to the encouraging yips and yelps of their gleaming parents.

Me? Well I’m still on the Inhibitex and I’ll tell you that it’s working. I haven’t even been thinking of bicycles very much lately, haven’t even been paying attention to them as they glide past me on the way to the clinic. That knowing, electrifying jingle of a bicycle’s bell has echoed and waned into some far distant chasm of my mind, no longer to visit me in my slumber. I’ve mainly been taking the dose in the morning and tottering on my way off to my volunteer gig at the soup kitchen. I used to work at a bicycle repair shop in Dun Laoghaire, but a whole part of the replacement therapy program is that we stay away from that which we seek to escape, and so without so much as a bat of my eyelids, and with a head puzzled with Inhibitex, I slammed the door behind me and told the old bastard to keep my last wages. I figured, seeing as I’m cleaning out my own closet, I should dedicate myself to helping those poor unfortunates still zip-lining into heartache. Working at a soup kitchen has its benefits as well, I get to meet new people. Down and outs from far exotic places that somehow washed up on my side of town. I get stories every single day, tales of glistening orgies on sandswept marble palace floors and of the faces of forgotten lion gods carved into frightening, jagged mountains. The stories are worth it alone, but most of all, I work at the soup kitchen so that I can be close to my very favourite thing. Glorious, infallible soup.

No, in about twenty minutes, I’m going to reach my turn in the queue and that’ll be me happy for the day. I’ll twitter a ‘howdyoo do?’ to the pretty lady with the eyedropper, neck my tiny shot of medicine, and be on off on my way with a crystal-clear head ready to be hollowed out, cut in half from the temporal bone, and filled to the brim with steaming, zesty soup for all to enjoy. I’ll slide past old Tommy with his mad, sick eyes. I’ll throw an extra few quid in the Church’s charity box and I’ll thank the good lord for being so… good. Every person I meet on the streets will nod or smile their encouragement of me, they’ll say ‘look at you, you aul’ dote’ with their eyes alone. I’ll tap-dance through the streets without so much as a glance at the children’s bicycles rolling past me on the pavement, there is simply no time for such things in this shallow soup bowl we call ‘life’. I’ll march up those cement stairs, counting every step on the way to the world’s greatest place, god’s last shining bastion on this tortured and sodomized earth. I’ll throw open the doors to Shangri-La to be met by all of my sickly, bearded consorts and I will feed them like mother bird whose beak is in her heart and whose bicycle is a distant memory. I’ll lob off this sinful head, peel the skin and flesh from it like a Satsuma and make a crude chalice from the skull. I will serve these beautiful idiots the wonderful ambrosia that is soup and every nerve ending on my body will waltz to the music of their euphoric slurping. I will ascend, and I will thank god that I’m finally getting well again.

Sunday, 4 January 2015

Ouija Board: The Supernatural Flirting Device

Place the board upon the knees of two persons, lady and gentleman preferred, with the small table upon the board. Place the fingers lightly but firmly, without pressure, upon the table so as to allow it to move easily and freely. In from one to five minutes the tablet will commence to move, at first slowly, then faster, and will be then able to talk or answer questions, which it will do rapidly by touching the printed words or the letters necessary to form words and sentences with the foreleg or pointer.

The instructions on the back of a William Fuld Ouija board, 1902.


Whenever I'm looking to get tied up and slapped around like Elmer Fudd, the first thing I reach for is the Ouija board. You might not think of the Ouija board, or any supernatural trinkets for that matter, to be of particular use when you're trying to get your rocks off, but rest assured that this occultist doodad won't just put you in touch with the dead, but your sensual side as well. Just ask any sexually repressed middle class white person from the late 19th century, they'll tell you all about it.

The Ouija board, or the 'talking board', was first patented in the late 19th century by an American businessman named Elijah Wood and it with the rise of and experimentation among American spiritualists, would quickly go from a cheap parlor toy to its current use as satellite receiver for the deceased. However, there are a few very important differences in how we use the Ouija board today and how it was used during the turn of the century. We often play the Ouija board in a group company and usually at a table, but as the instructions read above; these early Ouija boards advised its users to keep it between two people, 'preferably' a lady and a gentleman, and that the board itself was to be placed on joined knees of the two participants.

Occult author Mitch Horowitz suggests that these early instructions on Ouija boards were used as an excuse by Victorians to touch each other and to engage in something as bizarre, and perhaps highly personal, as communicating with the dead. Without too much allusion to sexy time by Horowitz, one can easily picture the sexually repressed Victorian couple sitting in front of each other, Ouija board resting on their knees, holding hands and pretending to be really into the idea of contacting Uncle Fredrick. I dare say that the Ouija board was a very early version of Disney movie DVDs, in that respect.

It's hard to tell whether or not these boards were manufactured with the intent of bringing people together so they could knock boots, but that very telling line of "lady and gentleman preferred" is enough to say that it was definitely aimed at straight couples, and probably for something more than having a chit chat with a corpse. Remember that joining knees and holding hands were the Victorian era equivalent of rubbing up on each other in a sweaty night club, all K'd up to the eyeballs.

So next time you're both looking for an excuse to get nasty, don't make reservations at that fancy restaurant, call the dead instead.