Here are more endless tales of my adventures among people You Don't Know. The high level of "coincidence" distinguishes this period from other busy-as-hell SubGenius Sacred Scribe weeks, however, and in order to satisfy my Guardian Critic, Nenslo, I will attempt to highlight those more dramatic moments as opposed to my usual pandering gossip, one-sided schmoozing and glad-handing, pernicious flattery.
Since I have made the decision to stop believing in omens, portents, or the news, I see no need for supernatural explanations of this synchronicity wave. Alien science, sufficiently advanced, will be so subtle that it will not seem to our Earthbound minds like magic, but rather like coincidence; thus, I think what we see here are really the outward rippling manifestations of the Xists "saddling up" and preparing to "ride off into the sunset."
Which means we should all redouble our home made spaceship building efforts. That's my interpretation, anyway. Failing that, "Build Your Own Amsterdam."
TUESDAY 5-9, 8 am , present non-tense
It is -- impossibly -- BLISTERING HOT ALREADY in Cleveland as Princess Wei drives me to the airport, so I decide NOT to take along my hat and coat to sunny California. However, upon arriving in San Francisco, I find it cold, windy and clammy, and that my host, circus impressario Chicken John (accompanied by Dr. Howll), will be driving me into town in a tiny open convertible with the top permanently down.
An hour later I am in the front yard of John Law, looking at THREE (3) of those giant kitchy California Hot Dog Stand fiberglass BASSET HOUND HEADS, which Law collects, while Chicken John scuttles about the ROOF of Law's art-junk shed, collecting neon Xs and Os for the giant Hollywood Squares game show set that he plans to build in Los Angeles for our show there. There are EXACTLY ENOUGH Xs and Os, no more, no less. John Law, one of the more active artisans behind the Burning Man events, shows us a video of their desert "CAR HUNT" whereby a truck full of armed hipsters pursued and shot down a driverless gas guzzler, being made to flee like prey across the salt flats by remote control. Law and I compare old Bob Black harrassment notes. John tells me about his website company, LAUGHING SQUID," and I suddenly remember that I had come across that very name only 2 days before, "BY CHANCE," while demonstrating how a search engine worked to a friend, and using the phrase PRAIRIE SQUID as the search example.
That night, Chicken's truck is broken into, and among all the things the thief COULD steal, it takes Chicken's switchboard for controlling the flashing Holywood Square neon lights, a device which will prove UTTERLY USELESS to the thief or anyone else besides Chicken John. So Chicken is forced to build a new one from scratch that night, in lieu of sleeping.
I am deposited for the night at the Mission district apartment of my old pals Palmer Vreedeez and Hal "Dr. Howll" Robins, where I can sleep on a cot next to Palmer's feeding trough, surrounded by the legendary museum of tiny reconstituted dinosaurs, robots, monsters, lone gunmen, and puzzling evidence. Indeed, Puzzling Evidence himself arrives and we, the original mummy Pharoahs of SubGenius radio, gossip about all our other pals while watching that incredible British TV porno special, WALKING WITH DINOSAURS -- which had me JUST ABOUT SHITTING A MILE OF BARBED WIRE FENCE, so realistic and sexy is the computer animation. I had such a good time sitting around with those guys and dinosaurs (and "Mimi," the Vreedeez keeper) that I almost didn't want the Rupture to EVER happen.
I awaken, as always, PROMPTLY at 10:30 am Cleveland time, which is unfortunately 7:30 am California time, read a lot of Tim Powers' novel about ghost addicts in Hollywood, "Expiration Date," which is uncannily like John Shirley's great addiction horror classic, "Wetbones," until Hal gets up, and he escorts me to used book stores where I pick up the Kim Stanley Robinson Red Mars, Green Mars, Blue Mars series, which Onan recommended, and which I'm now immersed in. For some reason, billboards and TV ads keep mentioning ghosts and Mars. It is NOT that I am merely NOTICING them.
Chicken John escorts us to the studio where Mongoloid, the artist behind the DEVO cover band Mongoloid, is constructing a 15 foot high 3 dimensional talking giant Dobbshead oracle that will spout flames from its throat and speak with Howll's yowls at the San Francisco devival. I am again shitting large spiky manufactured objects, so impressed am I by this spectacle, and by the clever mock-ups and grid-covered models that went into making this GREATEST IN SIZE YET of all Dobbsheads. After seeing this World's Largest Dobbshead, we stop at the convenience store across the street from Hal's WHICH HAPPENS TO HOUSE THE WORLD'S LARGEST RUBBER-BAND-BALL! (JUST a COINCIDENCE??) Yes, Vreedeez and Howll live adjacent to the world's largest rubber band ball, which is still in progress, ceaselessly enlarged by the diligent ministrations of the Middle Eastern guy who owns the convenience store, who is in an intense and ruthless rivalry with some other rubber-band-balling Arab in town out to capture the Guinness Book world record.
During this afternoon, Chicken John is toiling on his obstinate Hollywood Squares prop gizmos, trying to get his truck packed, and to leave for L.A., seeing as how we're supposed to perform an entertaining show there on Friday night, and this monstrous set has to be built. I alone am able to grab some shut-eye before Chicken John and his cohorts Jeff and Chris finally pull up in the INSANELY OVERPACKED ancient 4 door pick-up, and cram in me and Hal. At the last minute I realize I might need a blanket, so without asking, I grab the ratty, tattered, stinking old woven blanket that Palmer had lying around. (After the blanket's subsequent DISAPPEARANCE, Vreedeez informs me that that ratty blanket was hand-made for him by his late grandmother and is a precious family heirloom.)
Thursday May 11, 2 A.M.
We leave San Francisco and drive towards Los Angeles, attempting to both sleep AND write a script for the show as we go. The truck has backfiring problems and every time it happens, Chicken's shell shocked prize circus star, Dammit the Wonder Dog, has Vietnam flashbacks and leaps cowering into the back seat, onto Hal's lap, where she sheds madly in fear.
We eat at a diner around dawn. Because I didn't bring my coat, and it's cold, I'm wearing my gaudy new feathered preaching suit to stay warm, and it draws attention in these truckstops. The waitress asks if we're with a band. I should have said, "Yep, I'm Garth Brooke's bass player," giving them something to talk about, but instead I say, "Oh, we're with a sort of circus," and her face drops like a fast elevator. I never saw such obvious disappointment. I guess running away with the circus doesn't impress the chicks anymore.
Now becoming increasingly toasted with antisleep with every passing hour, we arrive at The Lab, an art gallery in the garment district downtown, at around 1 or 2 in the afternoon. Chicken is horrified to discover that the gallery is NOT, after all, 18 feet high -- scuttling his budgetted scaffolding plans -- and that the space does NOT, contrary to promises, hold anything LIKE the 500 people he needs! I find myself distracted by the fetish photography on the gallery walls, of bondaged women, fetish dogs, and guys mutilating their own dicks like a bunch of dumbasses. The members of the band WOODPUSSY arrive about the same time, and start setting up their stage and impressive fake-stained-glass set pieces while Chicken and Jeff and Chris attempt to deal with this latest scaffolding-related set-back. I accompany Chicken on a drive across town to a rental place in search of scaffolding, and Chicken tells me about his show business history with Hal, and his days in G. G. Allin's band. Chicken John and I have a lot more in common than either of us had known.
After being told that we can pick up the scaffolding tomorrow (A BLACK LIE, it turns out), Chicken and I return to the Lab where the other cast members have arrived, such as Attaboy the crazy cartoonist poet, Molotov Malcontent, a fire-eating side show marvel, and my old devival-tour veteran pal, David Apocalypse, who has been living in SF for 4 years now and performs regularly in the Chicken John-Dr. Howll shows (135 of them so far!). Finally we all hie to the palatial residence of Chicken's friends (CENSORED TO PROTECT THIS NICE COUPLE), who own a huge iguana and a one-eyed cat. Yet ANOTHER van full of Chicken's San Francisco support staff and game show actors arrive and we all go EAT. At this point I am becoming immersed in Chicken John World, hearing stories of some of the BIZARRE events and shows they have pulled off in the past, such as the gigantic "WIZARD OF ASS," a flame-belching butt oracle that preceeded the flaming Dobbshead, at Burning Man, and the "MAKE ME PUKE!" Game show, where the contestants tried to be first to make people in the audience puke (they got a total of 4 pukes and 2 faintings), and so many other high-concept vaudeville-like "happenings" that I think some enterprising Tom Wolfe type character should be writing a book about them. But then, some enterprising Tom Wolfe type character should be writing a book about US. Maybe I should just do it instead, and so keep the royalties.
Friday 5-12 morning 10 am
We get back to The Lab, Chicken goes to get the scaffolding and is FUCKED!!! They won't rent to a San Franciscan. Especially not Chicken John. So hours pass as Chicken's local friends come swing the deal. By 9 pm, as the audience starts entering, Chicken and crew are JUST BARELY FINISHING the set, and it is indeed a huge, tacky, 3-floored flashing horrific HOLLYWOOD SQUARES SET. But... but... the god damned accoustics in this bare-walled gallery space are AWFUL, so the audience can barely understand anything, and the Xs and Os abruptly stop working, after all that WORK. Meanwhile, these various actors and fellow "Celebrity Guests" of mine, who had seemed like fairly normal people, artistical-types maybe, before, are now becoming WEIRDER and WEEIRDER, more like HUMAN CARTOONS as showtime approaches. "Wow, I'm finally making it in SOCIETY," I think. "CACAPHONY Society, that is." The Ace known as Rubber Boy is doing unthinkable things to his own body, just to WARM UP. Amber, who owns The Lab, informs me that she had a Dobbshead tattooed on her butt in 1992, even though she didn't really know very much about His Word at the time. (She refuses however to display it to the audience, claiming that the Dobbshead and butt have "aged a LOT since then.") I am running around the hall meeting new Subs I never met before, like mighty Boddhisatva Troutwaxer who ably mans the Swag Table, and Ego Plum, a musician whose Nina Rota-like cartoony movie music gets played on Hour of Slack a lot, and a couple of documentary film makers, and, let's see, Rev. Dragonspirit and his LOVELY wife, but also some of my OLDEST old old doddering toothless hippie animator pals were there, including none other than super-SubGenius-saint St. Byron Werner (NEXUS of UNCONSCIOUS SYNCHRONISTIC NETWORKING) and St. Jay Condom (CREATOR OF PEE DOG and BOUNCING BOY!!!) -- plus X-Day veteran Dr. Vito Codini (oft seen on alt.binaries.slack and and the SubGenius art forum at Renderotica.com) (Hellswami Satellite Weavers had to miss the show due to dadhood, etc.) And HELL, I cain't remember what-all. Oh yeah, I cannot forget anything but the NAME of that crazy ex Playboy model that was with Sosodada at X-Day and Starwood. Rick Gorton too, and... uh... duh
By now my fellow Celebrity Guests had finished transforming into their base Human Cartoon selves, each representing a different cult or religion. We had the Hasidic Jew and the Reform Jew, the Scientologist and the Amish guy, a Hare Krishna, a Christian and a contortionist (I can't remember what else Rubber Boy was supposed to be.) The opening act, after ringmaster Hal's dramatic intro patter, was Attaboy spouting his insane spazzy rap-like poetry, while Molotov Malcontent and David Apocalypse demonstrated fire-eating, self-lighting psuedo-immolations and general anti-fire-safety foolhardiness. (This team was the "NAKED FIRE BABES" advertised in Chicken's p.r. None were naked and they were just two skinny guys. AHAHAHAHA!!) Then the game show celebs were introduced, and that's where I did a little 5 minute rant about "Bob". Once the game show started, nothing seemed to work quite right, though. I'm GUESSING that it would have been funny if anybody had been able to hear anything. From way up there on the scaffolding, though, I could relax, eat my peanuts, and enjoy a perfect view of the CROWD, which numbered at 350, and ranged from the uttery plain in dress to the most stupidly trendy in goth-style heroin addiction. SUPERB human-watching.
Luckily, WOODPUSSY, the band that followed the game show, ROYALLY KICKED ASS as the kids used to say. These Okies (the lead singer an old-timey Norman, Oklahoma SubG minister) deliver a truly SATANIC looking CHRISTIAN REVIVAL PARODY with a cool evil tribal rock and roll hell beat and big guitars. The guitar playing guys are in drag. PLUS the band and audience were treated to the impromptu semi-pornographic onstage antics of CHUCKLES THE CLOWN and a friend of hers. These NAKED, SCARY AS HELL LOOKING GOTH LIKE MUTANT BONOBO SEXHURT BABES in Living Dead make-up instantly got every video cameraman (me included) RIGHT UP FRONT, and the grovelling Dobbs-and-Devil-worshipping, insane preacher-gone-bad atmosphere made for a WORTHY show-end for those who stuck through. WOODPUSSY RULES!!! I was SAVED by Woodpussy and couldn't wait to see them again the next night in San Francisco.
I am/was in past tense now/then, because at this leg we had had almost no sleep, and when the show ended at 2 am, we had to schmooze suffiently, get a breath, then STRIKE THAT WHOLE MONSTRO SET, pack it all back into the truck, DRIVE BACK TO SAN FRANCISCO, AND do the show THERE on Saturday night, LESS THAN 18 HOURS AWAY, this time with the huge Dobbshead instead of the Holywood Squares motif.
And that's what we did. But all manner of strange things occurred during that long night and day. Weirdest of all, someone reported seeing Janor Hypercleats on Venice Beach that morning. -- AND YET, JANOR WAS KNOWN TO BE IN SAN FRANCISCO THAT DAY!!
This is certainly the most ominous synchronicity of the trip, accentuated by the fact that I was reading a ghost story novel in my spare seconds. A person who DOES NOT KNOW OF JANOR, or much of anything Churchful, but who knows Hal, happened to mention this interesting street performer he'd seen on Venice Beach, who was very funny and popular and who seemed to be making a lot of money. He sat inside a TV set helmet thing, pretending to "BE" various TV shows, such as a war movie, for which he used little plastic army men. Hal was shocked, because this perfectly describes Janor's street schtick -- BUT JANOR WAS IN SAN FRANCISCO. For SURE. "Did this TV prop have a slanted screen," Hal asked. Yes, the guy says, all slanty, and colored yellow and green. And the performer was doing WELL. When Hal told me about this, I was filled with dread. Perhaps Janor had DIED in San Francisco and his ghost was finally doing it RIGHT in Venice Beach. Or, perhaps JANOR IS RIGHT, and everybody really IS ripping him off! (Everybody EXCEPT the ones that Janor THINKS are ripping him off, of course.) AIEEEE.
Just before dawn, we're all TOASTED with lack of sleep, packing the truck, sweeping up the fake blood and confetti off the floor; Chicken's friend Junkman wanders over to a parking lot next door to smoke a cigaret, and he hears, "Roll camera... action... okay, now put your hand on her titty..." He looks and there are lights on stands and half dressed women standing around looking bored in heavy makeup. They're shooting a god damned porno movie in the parking lot! Probably avoiding permit fees by filming in a deserted part of town at 5 am.
We play a trick on Chicken John by driving off without him, stranding him and Dammit the Wonder Dog, and when we return he drops his drawers and moons us on the street. Five minutes later, as we're driving away down the dawn LA streets, we see a TALL SKINNY PALE WOMAN WEARING NOTHING AT ALL BELOW THE WAIST, tottering drunkenly along the sidewalk, holding what are probably her pants, in a bundle. Maybe a ghost! Creeps me out just thinking about it.
HOLLYWOOD! There is something NOT RIGHT about that place. BAD not-right.
SO it is with great fear and loathing that we enter a DENNY's (only thing open) and see the newspaper headline:
"ALL U.S. GUN SALES HALTED"
Young Chris, meanwhile, is so jacked up on show and antisleep, plus the fact that he really IS Amish, that he goes into this insane, very loud and drug-oriented Robin-Williams-on-Crack type of comedy monolog at the top of his lungs in Denny's, putting the rest of us on alert and causing us to hustle Chris out of there and keep him away from The Others until he calms down. At one point he was ranting about "doing coke with a friend by putting your nose up against his left nostril and then putting his right nostril up against the straw and sucking the coke THROUGH the straw and your friend's head before it goes into your nose, that way, you're not just doing coke ALONE, you're doing it WITH a FRIEND."
We stop a a filling station a few hours later and we're truly "burnt" now. Jeff, David Apocalypse, me, Chicken and Hal are standing outside the station, staring into space, slowly chewing junk food. We all look like homeless guys except Hal, who dresses like H.G. Wells in 1910, ALL THE TIME. And this AMATEUR HIPSTER sees us and decides he's our "freakin'-brother." "Hey, are you guys FREAKIN'?" asks this beaming, grinning young Hispanic guy getting into an expensive looking Pink Boy sports car. We stare at him, unable to think of a thing to say. He cannot possibly IMAGINE in his WILDEST DREAMS just how freakin' we have been -- FOR OUR JOBS!!! His idea of "freakin'" is what we do when we GO TO WORK. The rest of the time we are not really any kind of major party animals like this young feller is envisioning. "C'mon, man, you gotta be freakin', dude! You don't want to be NORMAL! No.. Normal, that's bad! Keep freakin,' dudes!" I swear to god he said that. If only we could have introduced him to that waitress who wanted to know if we were rock stars.
We have NO SCRIPT for the SF show, until Hal and I decide to use the latest issue of the Globe for the question and answer part of the game show. Now, with a script, we can relax. (As it turned out, we only used the Globe for ONE QUESTION. It was only the ILLUSION of a script that we needed.)
Chicken sleeps in the back seat for probably his first nap in 72 hours.
STILL SATURDAY, May 13, 3 PM
We pull up to Chicken's place in San Francisco (a combination warehouse studio and used car repair/sales shop) and we are/were now/then at the stage of sleeplessness that presages true Antisleep andsometimes even Time Control, but is FUCKING MISERABLE in the meantime, where everything looks harshly overexposed, your head hurts, your teeth all ache, your back, butt and leg muscles are all kinked up, your guts are in turmoil, you're hungry, coffee has no effect, and worst of all your SHORT TERM MEMORY is COMPLETELY SHOT. I have had so much experience with this state that I developed a habit of keeping written cheat-sheets with me to remind me what I set out to do FIVE MINUTES EARLIER, to keep me on track and prevent tragic losses of gear. It does not prevent, however, tragic losses of "tense".) Hal and I got to lay down for about 2 hours before Chicken forcibly took us, and Puzzling Evidence, to the NEXT SHOW!!
Seeing Mogoloid's gigantic Dobbshead installed on The Justice League stage helped a little to revive us. With a Dobbshead that big behind us, how could we go wrong, no matter how fucked up we might appear to be, due to exhaustion? NOTE: seasoned pros do not take drugs to deal with show exhaustion, kids. Only Sleep, Good Nutrition, and Tons of Coffee are used by truly professional preachers, magicians, wrestlers and sideshow barkers.) Unfortunately, The Justice League DOES NOT HAVE A COFFEE MACHINE ANYWHERE. The bastards. Thoughtless alcohol-conspiracy sell-outs. FOOEY! I was REALLY tired. Luckily old friends started to appear and distract me from the horror, such as the great artist collage artist Winston Smith, who gave me his new book of artwork and his 2000 calendar and copies of mail from his recent new clients, The New Yorker and Playboy (only 25 years behind the Dead Kennedys). I got to meet Rev. Jetrock, who I knew only by internet, and who else should appear SUDDENLY, ONSTAGE, as is his wont, but MICHAEL PEPPE, like me barely recognizeable in his advanced age.
I would have been way too fried to set up the Swag Table myself that night, but Hal-n-them's pal Ron volunteered to help out, and THAT was an offer I could not possibly refuse, because... well, Ron's face was badly burned and disfigured on one side when he was a child, and I hope it isn't rude or in bad taste to say this, but really, from the purely esthetic SubGenius viewpoint, having a disfigured person running one's Church sales table is even better than having buxom beauties doing it. It indicates that we really don't give a fuck about Conspiracy standards of normalness. Ideally, of course, we'd have one disfigured person and one beauty queen, to demonstrate what a rainbow we are, heh heh, and in fact we WOULD have, except that Ron's hot looking babe-type girlfriend was busy doing something else!
Now here's another one of those "coincidences." Our devival's "competition" that night, the other wild, weird and wacky show in town, "The Cyber Ball" or something like that, a ten year SF tradition which everybody dresses up in costumes and takes magic mushrooms for, WAS SHUT DOWN BY THE POLICE DEPARTMENT AT THE BEHEST OF THE OFFENDED YOUNG RICH DOT-COMMERS WHO HAVE TAKEN OVER THE CITY.
Which was a BUMMER for the San Franciscans... a final spadeful of grave-dirt heaped on the coffin of Olde Weird San Francisco, now smothered by the mindless, soul-rotting "gentrification" that comes with the modern gold-dot-com rush in Northern California.
But what a LUCKY BREAK for THE CHURCH OF THE SUBGENIUS SF DEVIVAL! All those costumed mutants that had gotten all hopped up for the Cyber Ball ended up coming to the Justice League where, as much to my surprise as theirs, they were treated to an EXCELLENT SUBGENIUS DEVIVAL!
Excellent because it was NOT TYPICAL. It was SHORT, there was ONE BAND, 1 barker/pimp/game show host, 1 Preacher, a Giant Flaming Dobbshead Oracle and 3 Sideshow Marvels, and it all LOOKED and WORKED GREAT.
Funny how, no matter how exhaustedly pissy and peevish and headachey you are, when you are FORCED to step out there in front of those thousand primate eyeballs all glaring directly at YOU, why, it's just AMAZING how you'll "SNAP TO".
Attaboy and Burke had warmed up the yokels with their hammerin' hollering yappin' raps, and the pyrotechnics of Molotov and Apocalypse, which made up for the fact that they were neither Naked nor Fire Babes. My rant went well (it was a super-compressed version of all previous SubG 101 versions -- as usual, but shorter) and then the Game Show began. Chicken came out in his shitty wig and game show suit and offered up as prizes some posters by Paul Mavrides for the movie he art-directed, GRASS (a history of pot illegalization that is ENTHRALLING, even if you don't care about pot.) He selected two contestants from the audience, a drunk and a pretty young exhibitionist woman. Chicken would ask them some elementary SubGenius oriented question, such as, "Should the SubGenius try to be like "Bob"?, and they'd give some guess; I would relay the guess to the giant Dobbshead oracle and ask him if it was right, and then FLAME THROWERS on either side of it would flare up and its hinged jaw would start speaking in Hal's echo-processed voice, "NO, IVAN, THAT ANSWER IS NOT CORRECT! NO SUBGENIUS CAN EVER HOPE TO BE LIKE ME," etc. etc.), while everybody on stage cowered and groveled with appropriate terror and awe. Four or five of these questions were enough; we got out of there and WOODPUSSY came on to again "wow" the audience and provide some perverse video for the StangCam and the PuzEvCam. That sweet and lively little sprite, Chuckles the Clown, again delighted the audience and the band with her blood smeared, Book of the SubGenius-licking nakedness. While Woodpussy played and ranted, she had her own hellish little cult suicide scene going at the end of the stage ramp, actually peeing into a cup at one point and baptising the groping rutting piggish audience boys with it, then making them LICK "BOB'S" FACE off the Book -- a grotesque infernal tableau worthy of Chick Comics.
This was all so exciting to me that after the show, while Woodpussy was hawking their swag to the audience from the stage, I saw my BIG CHANCE to FUCK "BOB". I handed Mongoloid the StangCam, grabbed some apple crates and then jumped up there, unzipped and fucked "Bob" in the mouth, like a nervous little chihuahua trying to cop a blowjob off a sleeping Great Dane. I didn't really get off... "Bob's" technique was dreadful. I don't think he cared about me as a person. But at least I got to fuck him back just a little bit, even if it was only symbolic.
The next thing I remember it was Mothers Day, Sunday May 14, and I was sitting in a Thai restaurant with Dr. Philo Drummond, Palmer Vreedeez, Puzzling Evidence, Dr. Howll, Chicken John, David Apocalypse, and "Mimi." Then just Philo, the Dougs, and Paul and Hal were watching FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE, and ripping off scenes for the SubGenius movie script that has always been being written everywhere by all SubGenii.
Then I was staring at those fake fossils they have imbedded in the United terminal floor at the Denver airport. Seems like I end up waking up, standing in that one spot every 4 months or so.
THEN I was finishing that website job I've been doing with Sterno, in secret, then I was getting Hour of Slack 736 done, THEN SUDDENLY it was Friday and I was scanning all the last Amsterdam photos and frame-grabbing the LA and SF still photos, while Princess Wei drove all the way out to Brushwood and back by herself to sing with Vickie Ganger (Sister Melodious Chops) at a folk music show.
Then on Saturday morning, May 20, Princess Wei flew to her old best friend's wedding in Richmond Virginia while I got in my old Stangmobile and drove to Pittsburgh just in time to MISS the rehearsal for the Geddyn's wedding, kind of dumb since I was the officiating MINISTER, but at least I got to go to the bachelor party with the Geddyns and all their cool friends, and the next thing I knew I was standing in my slightly repaired white tux in front of a shitload of Armand and Barbie's family members and weird-ass looking (but VERY ATTRACTIVE!) friends, at this beautifully kept garden outdoors at The Phipps Conservatory, with Armand and Barbie shaking and trembling in front of me, while I delivered an expanded version of the SubGenius ShorDurMar ceremony, mutated to be Long-Dur by the Geddyns. It was FUN!!! It was SHORT! There was GREAT FOOD AND DRINK afterwards and Frank Sinatra records! The old ladies in the families finally realized that a wedding of some kind had just happened, and they got all weepy, and then everybody got drunk, and when Barbie threw the bouquet it was caught by this one very gay fellow who just happened to be standing over to one side of the eligible girls. Mighty SubGenius fellow X-Day veterans P-Kitty, Jewyll, and that one guy whose name I keep forgetting who does the video stuff, drove all the way up from Florida, and mighty Rev. Chris Lee came drove from Indiana. It was THE GREATEST SUBGENIUS LEGALLY BINDING WEDDING EVER!
Then I drove back from Pittsburgh, did the Sunday night IRC devival, for much longer than usual since Wei's still not home, then I slept fitfully and now am writing this in a fairly crispy and fried state, not unlike the encrusted pre-post-antisleep ANTI-antisleep of the previous Monday. Soon I will go pick up Princess Wei at the airport, and everything will be sort of normal UNTIL I PICK UP LEGUME AT THE AIRPORT ON THURSDAY, AND FRIDAY AT THE AIRPORT ON FRIDAY, SO WE CAN DO THIS HUGE ULTIMO-CLEVELANDIAN EUCLID TAVERN DEVIVAL WITH EINSTEIN'S SECRET ORCHESTRA *AND* BROKEN CIRCLE GOSPEL DELUXE, which you will NOT believe, they are SO spirit-filled, THIS FRIDAY NIGHT, MAY 26th at THE EUCLID TAVERN!!!
SEE YOU THERE OR ON THE SAUCERS AT XXX-DAY BRUSHWOOD JUNE 29! AAAAIIIIIEEE NYES PRABOB HACON!
P.S. Chicken found Palmer's grandma's missing family heirloom blanket under Dammit the Wonder Dog, and returned it to Palmer.
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