Forgive me "Bob", for I have been sinnin' without cutting your usual.
It's been months since I posted to alt.slack. That's not entirely my
fault, since it appears my usual newsfeed is FU'd-way-BAR.I *tried*.
Not even I saw my posts. Nobody responded.
At times like this my usual, and often wildly successful, approach
would be to take the object in question, look it right in the "face",
shout out "FUCK IT", douse it with a variety of bodily secretions, then
answer myself with: "And lo, it was fucked, and it was about damn
time." Not this time, though. Even though I could get access to my
ISP's server room--I work for them, after all--the lucite barriers
protecting the servers would require me to climb up into the ceiling
and aim my bodily secretions REALLY CAREFULLY.
Besides, I'm officially on vacation. VACATION. I have *vacated* the
office, just as I have vacated my brainpan in preparation for the X-Day
Drill. I'm feeling good, bouncy on the balls of my feet. The frappie is
just a plus at this point.
Yet there is a nearly horrifying tragedy in the works here. In short:
I HAVE LOST MY FUCKING VOICE.
I'd love to say I lost my voice in more enslackened ways, such as
getting the barb from one of those BATS lodged in my throat, or by
indulging in so much 'frop that my vocal cords just gave up trying.
This time around, it was in the process of helping friends moving big,
heavy things from their old apartment up on Aurora Avenue North to new
digs in the Roosevelt neighborhood, in unusually cool and damp weather.
(Even in Seattle it's usually warm and sunny in June.) It was the least
I could do for them; they had graciously put me up for a month and kept
the entire Fools' Press Museum in their garage while I looked for a new
site for my operations.
Oh, I guess I didn't mention that my former landlord got a brain fluke
from eating all those raw salmon sammiches, and decided to turn my
living room into a storefront. Or a storeROOM. Or maybe just a private
jack-off chamber. Even after I packed my things, even after I left a
Hate Shit the size of a Dobbstown Cluster Fuck in the debated room, I
was convinced he had no idea why he wanted that room. It doesn't
matter. As much as I considered that apartment "home" it is still a
dump, and even though my landlord let me pay an incredibly low amount
for the square footage involved he remains an utterly clueless and
desperately stupid jackass. Why do I get a feeling he won't be on the
But to return to the main subject: Right now my voice is a low-pitched
croak which peters out after the first second or so. The injections of
Pyreneean buttflea glandular extract have smoothed the remaining
symptoms somewhat but have left my skin kind of blotchy and weirdly
whiskered. I expected as much. Still, with all homeopathic treatments
the key to a cure is utter FAITH in the healing process. To that end
I've also been running around my friends' apartment butt naked and
screaming obscenities at the very gods for letting such a thing happen
to a pro-level ranter such as myself. See? Faith. If I lacked faith I
would know that such behavior is USELESS.
If all this hysterical behavior works, it would not be the first time
my faith had been vindicated. Friday night I was supposed to show up at
a transgender pride rally and, on the way to the rally, got a deeply
meaningful message from my Nental Ife that I should BLOW IT OFF. I got
off at a bus stop in the University District and wandered randomly for
several minutes until I found a record store I had never seen
previously. It was a shantytown of a record store, mind you--it was The
Place Where Unwanted Recordings Went To Die. An elephant graveyard of
CDs, if you will. I had no idea what I was looking for or why I thought
I'd find it there. Yet I walked away with three CDs I had been looking
for for MONTHS--and at $2.99 each. And I also found *Gunther Packs A
Stiffy*, increasing my Rudy Schwartz Project collection by a CD and
giving me wonderful music for the plane flight.
Yes, even if my voice does not recover I WILL be at the Drill, thanks
to the eternal patience and cooperation of $t. &reux. You all owe &reux
big time, you realize. For it is with his assistance ALONE that the
X-Day Drill will achieve "critical mass" of slackfulness, a year ahead
of schedule. I have no other reason to attend. (Well, the sex, frappie,
and company of hundreds of twisted freaks are all pluses, that I will
And for you alt.slack.fux who will not be attending the Drill--well,
sorry I missed you. KEEP READING THIS NEWSGROUP. AND ALSO MAKE
DOUBLE-DOBBS SURE YOU READ ALT.BINARIES.SLACK. You'll be well-rewarded,
It's time for me to do the naked blasphemy thing again. Pray to "Bob" I
get my cords back, because when I do, it shall be Glorious.
Signed on this last day of June, in the year 1 BX:
Popess Lilith von Fraumench
Subject: Drill Diaries, 7/2/97
Have you ever seen Mt. St. Helens from above? Looks kind of the way my
throat feels--collapsed, but with a weird projection jutting out.
That's my impression, anyhow, as my plane flies over Washington en
route to Denver, and then Chicago, where $t. &reux will be waiting for
me. Mt. Rainier looked pretty cool, as well.
No signs of UFOs, however. Pity. Not too long ago the Puget Sound area
celebrated the 50th anniversary of the UFO. Remember that pilot who
claimed he saw flying wing-shaped objects whizzing over the Cascade
Mountains back in June 1947? Good, because I don't remember his name
right now. Anyhow, I guess either the Grays don't have the same
calendar as we do, or else don't celebrate anniversaries. It's been
dull. Dull. DULL. The last exciting thing to happen in Seattle was a
pissant of an earthquake which barely shook the apartment a few weeks
I'm excited. The Drill is only two days off now, and by this time
tomorrow &reux and I will be en route to Cleveland to hook up with the
Pope of Berea at the infamous Winking Lizard. It's the War of the Super
Barbecue Joints. As much as Lou values the Winking Lizard franchise I
must admit I remain skeptical. After all, when you come from a Texas
town named Mesquite you are led to believe good brisket and ribs are a
birthright. And besides, Dixie's Barbecue in Bellevue is pretty
impressive. (For the benefit of Nuku Nuku and Pope Duchez: I haven't
forgotten your much overdue samples of The Man. It's just that Dixie's
sells that hot sauce by the polystyrene tubful. I'll work out the
logistics soon, I promise. Maybe some teflon-coated hermetically sealed
glass jars packed in a layer of nickel will do the trick.)
But there's more to my excitement then the ability to run rampant with
hundreds of fellow freaks in the middle of Amish Country. For I realize
I was getting hideously sick of Seattle. Not that I would leave--for
one, I only have a year to worry about living there, anyhow, right? And
I am still wowed by the mountains and the trees and the incredibly
slack-inducing sailing. No, what's got me weary is dealing with the
PEOPLE. Of course. Pinks are Pinks, but Seattlites are a uniquely
irritating blend of hyperthalamus-mutated archconservative Glorps,
weak-water kiss-ass Democrats (where is Molly Ivins or Ann Richards
when I fucking NEED them?!?), whiner granola brats, and pitiful excuses
Only yesterday I ran into THREE Ani DiFranco clones, all appropriately
dressed in hemp and cotton, pierced and tattooed in folksy, tribalistic
ways, slamming their fists on the strings and wailing about how pissed
off they believe they are that the world isn't conforming to their
particular ideology or convenience. ON THE SAME BLOCK--just north of
45th on University. I think they nest there.
Diversity? That's a joke. These idiots think that diversity is all
about choosing a lifestyle and sticking with it, and are just as
confused and upset by anyone INVENTING their own "lifestyle" and
changing, even discarding it, just for the hell of it. Give me a bunch
of fropped-up High Unpredictables any time.
Speaking of fropping up, I managed to get a small sample of a new
strain of Habafropzipulops before the flight. It's now triple-sealed
within a plastic vial and sealed with a layer of latex, just to keep it
fresher. Ah, the HARVEST. I have no idea what this strain of 'Frop will
be like, mind you. Originally I intended to get some Death Frappie 999
but, again, the guys up on Dobbstown Lagrange--the only place where you
can get the stuff right now--smoked it all. Oh well. This batch should
be interesting, though; the hydroponics tanks were filled with Yeti
urine by accident, but from all reports that has only enhanced the
sacromentality of the 'Frop. We'll have reviews during the Drill, I am
Damn--just looked out the window. It's a solid sheet of clouds as far
as I can see. I guess Denver might be a bit overcast, maybe rainy too.
About my voice--I can now talk for more than 30 seconds at a time, but
I wind up sounding like Arnie trying to get Bennie Garret to come to
the wild game supper. "You knocked me off my goober!" Yeah, indeed.
Alternately I can pitch my voice really low and sound like I'm singing
Laibach tunes. And there's no room on the plane for running around
naked or screaming at the gods, so I'm relying on cold medicine and
I somehow managed to bring just about everything I wanted to bring to
the Drill. And I managed to get it all in three bags! There's a price
to be paid, of course--my backpack must weigh 80 pounds or so. And
that's all PRACTICAL stuff. The electronics--laptop, tape recorder,
microphone, camera, blank tapes, batteries, flashlight, CD player,
headphones, CDs--all weigh in more like 20 pounds, and all fit nicely
into my satchel. It's a MIRACLE.
Now to worry about money. That's right, cashola. I am getting a nice
injection of cashflow tomorrow morning, and hopefully I will be able to
extract money for the campgrounds and for miscellaneous expenses. But
with all these stupid ATM networks you're never certain. If push comes
to shove I can always write a check and give it to a more munificent
SubGenius in trade for bloodbills.
Ah, I can see ground again. I think we're over Montana or some such.
Lots of gentle hills below. Nothing really identifying.
I'm wrapping this up for now; the batteries on the laptop have about
2.5 hours left to them and I want to save them for more write-ups.
Addendum: Denver has the most bladder-emptying, bowel-loosening
turbulence I have ever encountered, bar none. I'm back in the air,
probably over Iowa now and heading for Chicago. More after I meet up
DRILL DIARIES, 7/3/97
First off, for the record: I don't give a shit anymore about Winking
Lizard barbecue. Their Snickers Pie is the ONLY thing justifying its
existence in my eyes. That, and the waitress who was so good to us
freaks, and so appreciative--if apprehensive--about our explanations of
Why We Were There and Who Is "Bob".
The jambalaya I had at that Cajun restaurant $t. &reux and I visited
was pretty rocking too. That's where we went right after the plane
flight. Too bad we couldn't rescue the piano player from his selection
of 40s and 50s "hits", nor the idiot waiter who probably still doesn't
know why he got such a wimpy tip. By the way, the waiter was named
"Bob". He had the ears, at least. None of the charm, though.
Back at &reux's den of iniquity I got to know this benefactor of mine
better. For some reason I was expecting a slightly more goth character
than I met. We started getting caught up on ideas and other fucked-up
things while &reux played phone tag. Besides Pope Phred and myself
&reux was coordinating the motions of QPM and a lurker named Kodogr.
Later that evening Kodogr arrived at the apartment. By this time I had
taken a (sulpherously stinky) shower and was feeling much more slackful
for it. At this point &reux led Kodgr and myself downstairs to a bar
right underneath the apartment, and found ourselves introduced to a
drink called the Lunchbox: Fill a lager glass partly, drop a jigger
full of amaretto into the beer, then top off the drink with orange
juice. Then slam it down without having a jigger bounce painfully off
your front teeth. In that race, I got a solid second. And I was left
with the taste of a beer-based Orange Julius in my mouth.
After that, I was quite ready for bed. As it was we returned to the
apartment at 1 AM, with plans to leave at 3:30. I got up an hour ready
to put on makeup and change into more suitable clothes. See, my
driver's license still has me as male, and flying in non-male garb was
a touch risky. &reux recommended I be equally cautious in the drive to
Brushwood. I decided against it--we'd be all right.
And we were, all in all, although in reflection the clothes I had were
entirely too inappropriate for the drive. It was a chilly ride. My
homespun Indian skirt was too thin, and my blouse was low-cut and
sleveless. Still I felt I had made a good decision.
After picking up Pope Phred we swung by the place where QPM was to be
picked up. He was travelling with a lovely and sexy red-headed neophyte
named Tay. QPM and Tay had a ride as far as Cleveland, at which point
Rev. Chris Lee would meet up with us and ferry the two the remainder of
And so we arrived at a Hardee's for Thursday's breakfast--and most of
us were freaks of one kind or another. QPM, Tay and myself got the most
stares. In my case I figure my shoulders are the attraction. QPM and I
summed up our feelings on the matter fairly well, I think:
QPM: "Look at all those freaks staring at us!"
Lil: "Yeah, I wish they'd go back where they came from."
And so we returned to the road and headed towards the Winking Lizard,
where we hooked up with Rev. Chris Lee and family, and Pope Lou Duchez,
and unwound for about three hours before heading back on the road.
Now if only they'd fix I-90 at long motherfucking last....
Popess Lilith von Fraumench
DRILL DIARIES, 7/4/97
Do you know what it's like to wake up in the middle of unfamiliar woods
and realize you are surrounded by people who could be either
sycophantic, blubbering Bobbies, OR weird hate-filled mutants who'd as
soon ride a tricycle loaded up with dynamite down Pennsylvania Avenue
as kiss ass...?
OK, yeah, I guess some of you DO know.
For myself there was a moment of trepidation, even as I set up camp in
the Alt.Slack Village the night before, as I glanced around at my
neighbors and wondered what they were really like. In the immediate
area there were--of course--my traveling companions, who like myself
just wanted to find some flat ground close to the camp entrance. Then
there was Cuthulu, Ms. Sakamoto, Spike Jonez, The Shining Path of Least
Resistance, Rev. Pickle, and--a bit further back--Camp Modemac, where
the smells of barbecue never let up.
I hurt. Yet it was a GOOD hurt, coming more from the impromptu
antimusic jam the night before than anything else. And after that
savage abuse of my existence I was ready for food. $t. Andrew was
already at the kitchen, as was Stang, Friday, and a few others. I
waved, muttered my good-mornings, and grabbed some much needed grub and
I do a piss-poor imitation of being human until I eat. Fair warning to
anyone who runs into me after waking up. Another hint: Bagels, scones,
donuts, and cinnamon buns only delay the process. Get me FOOD,
preferably a half-plate full of scrambled eggs with biscuits, sausage,
gravy, salsa, and, if I'm particularly violent or unintelligible, a
side of pancakes and syrup. Coffee helps, but for best results get me
cocoa or a mocha so the Chocolate Demons may stop scraping the contents
of my brainpan. By the third bite I'll be much more pleasant company,
Brushwood served scrambled eggs, pancakes, and sausage that morning.
"How did they KNOW...?!?" I found myself utterly disoriented at the
notion that I was going to get a PROPER BREAKFAST, every morning I was
there. So I ate quietly, only occasionally interjecting a comment into
the breakfast chatter going on at the kitchen.
Then the rain came. Rev. Pickle became known as The Savior Of The Drill
among the alt.slack.fux in the immediate area, for he had the foresight
to bring a HUGE TARP, with extra poles and cords, and set up a sort of
front porch to his tent which became a popular hang-out. Some of the
conversation turned very inane at points as we ran out of rantsteam,
but for the most part the conversations were chaotic, maddening, and
Meanwhile I needed to erect my own tarp so I could keep my backpack out
of my smallish tent. With Kodogr's help I had soon erected an awning
over my tent's door, although I was disappointed that it covered the
lightning-pipe sigils and the "Temple O' P-Lil" signs painted onto the
tent in red latex.
I was tightening one of the cords holding down the tarp when I heard a
voice screaming from deep within the woods:
"NO, "BOB", DON'T LET GO! YES, I KNOW IT'S MY DICK, BUT YOU CAN'T LET
GO, "BOB"! IF YOU LET GO I'LL FALL INTO THE PIT AND I'M GONNA BURN!!!"
"Did you hear that?!?" I asked Kodogr. He listened carefully but
claimed he couldn't hear a thing. But I know the voice kept on
"DON'T LET GO, "BOB"! WAIT! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? STOP MOVING YOUR HAND
BACK AND FORTH, "BOB"! IF I COME YOUR HAND IS GOING TO BE ALL SLIPPERY
AND I'M GONNA FALL! NO, "BOB"! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORGHHHHH!"
Later on, I decided that that had to be a rather special $30 handjob.
But I still felt obligated to warn my fellow campers.
At Camp Modemac chunks of dead flesh were already being put to the
flames. Dynasoar had fashioned a Dobbshead burger patty and it was
cooking quite slackfully. I tore a hunk of ground beef off the main
chunk and tossed it onto my campfire rack. Meanwhile the radio was
playing the Top 1,000,000 SubGenius Hits on 90.5 FM "OR KILL ME". Jesus
dropped by the camp to tell us that Stang was recording a live Hour of
Slack at the pavilion. But my burger was ready for eating, and I have
Afterwards I returned to my tent to prepare for the night's
festivities. Under my preacher's robes--black, Eastern Orthodox style,
with red trim--I dressed as the mutant dyke I am. Black knee-length
skirt, black t-shirt, jump boots. My robot t-rex head hung about my
neck. I slipped on a pair of black rubber gauntlets and put my
Dobbs-modified Salvation Army hat on top. I was ready, and so was my
"media bag" full of cameras, recorders, and batteries. And so I was
Frankly I don't remember half the things that happened that night.
That's what the cameras and recorders are for. But I do remember a few
Rev. Groovy G was launching his Confederate SubGenius Axis when I
arrived, and got most of the audience to pledge "Kill a Pink, Once A
Day, Every Day, Til X-Day". I abstained; like Janor, I feel that there
are many uses for the Pink, such as being used as pets or as a taxation
base. Besides, as any police statistics would tell you, the Normals are
doing a fine job of offing themselves without our interference.
Nonetheless I admired the ranting skill offered to the crowd. Stang
made some comments after Groovy G's rant then, noticing me in my robes
offstage, introduced me to the crowd and cleared the pulpit.
I had my obligation--I first warned the crowd about the voice I heard
out in the woods. I assume my warning was heeded, as there were no
further signs of "Bob" during the Drill. Then I gave a loosely
structured, off-the-cuff interpretation of my "Diversify Your Stock"
rant. The audience seemed to need lots of YELLING and SCREAMING to get
into my message, but near the end I gave lots of that and the general
response was good.
I think I made a big impression on Susie the Floozie. For the rest of
the Drill we tended to cluster about one another, exchanging warm
fuzzies and Sexhurt vibes. I was The Real Thing, Susie told me; she
knew I wasn't some guy dressed up like a woman pretending to be a
SubGenius, but a true mutant transsexual woman gracefully raising Hell
and lowering Heaven so the twain would meet RIGHT HERE AND NOW--all for
our amusement. And she likewise impressed me. All that time I knew she
was a hot-looking redheaded vixen for "Bob" but I was utterly blown
away by her sense of Slack, queerness, and freely offered love. At the
time I wished I had a motorcycle so I could offer her a ride. Butch and
Femme--ah, if only the breeders amongst yourselves could know the
ecstasy of that LITERALLY DIVINE UNION.
Meanwhile Spike Jonez wanted to know what I was doing with the
truncheon in my hand. You see, I came up with the concept of
Correctional Phrenology, and I was there to offer my services to anyone
needing a strategically placed bump on their head. I gave Spike a free
consultation and gave him a carefully aimed glancing blow to the left
occipital lobe. Then I looked down and I saw what we had REALLY done.
In the process of helping Spike, we had provided a sacrifice for Dobbs.
For, you see, a volunteer from the audience was needed for a sacrifice.
That volunteer was already beginning the Isaac Treatment and would have
been laid out for slaughtering and burning later that night. That was
no longer necessary.
Lying on the ground was a field mouse. It was dead. Spike had stepped
on it unawares, and when he stepped on it the mouse shit out its own
intestines. "It's a miracle!" Susie exclaimed. I carefully put the
mouse in a tin panatela box and went onstage right after $t. @reux
finished his very successful hate rant to make the announcement.
After all the festivities we retired to our camps. I made a pledge to
stay up the entire night until X-Day Morn. My campfire was stoked and
so were we--Dyna, Siouxsie, and several others came by at one point or
another to warm ourselves against the increasing chill. At one point
Jesus dropped by because one of the Drillers had gotten incredibly
drunk and was harassing the Pagans, and he needed help from Siouxsie.
We found Siouxsie and roused her long enough to get her assistance. I
stayed behind to watch the fire and to welcome people wandering back to
the camp. I had to chase off a couple of drunks who came close to
becoming part of the campfire, but otherwise I chatted and fropped with
whoever was there. (Forgive me, all you who came by--I have a severe
problem remembering names. I didn't forget you, just the tag for your
By 4 AM I was alone to tend the fire and watch the dark, star-laden sky
fade to dawn. I had stopped thinking some time before and was simply
floating in embryonic slack, waiting for the sun to rise.
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