25 February 2013

Betty Wut's Coulrophobia video

Betty Wut completed her contribution to the Coulrophobia Détournement Double video project some time ago. I only just convinced her to allow me to upload it to YouTube. I am still working on mine since I lost the original progress I had made in a VideoPad crash. I've been very insistent on using free/open-source video editing software, but I've broken down and used Adobe Premiere. I had to get the Airbrushed project out of my system before moving on, so I cut my teeth on the software for that.

Above is her compilation music video Yes...NO! constructed from found footage on YouTube. Enjoy!

22 February 2013

Friday, January 5, 1996 3:46 a.m.

I don’t know what to say.

These assholes didn’t even try to take me to the hospital. Not that it would have mattered. I mean, it’s pretty clear that I’m dead. Hell, it’s been about four and a half hours, and I haven’t taken a breath, so it’s a safe bet that I’m dead. My body over there hasn’t breathed. Whatever is left of me here, on this side of the room, doesn’t seem to breathe either. If I have lungs, I can’t see them. Or the chest that contains them. In fact, there doesn’t seem to be anything visible in the general area from which I appear to be observing the scene, aside from the thick coke-smoke hanging in the air.

Still, you’d think they would try to do something. Well, something useful anyway. Billy Joel (not THE Billy Joel, it's BJ's actual name) does make a half-ass attempt to resuscitate me. At least that’s what it looks like he is trying to do. Actually, it looks like he’s slipping me a sloppy, purple man-tongue and massaging my tits, and let me tell you, that’s no way to jump-start a pulse. Anyway, after about two minutes, his black and atrophied lungs run out of breath and, were I still in there somewhere and could taste, I know that his sour, dry, cracked-out mouth would have forced me to vomit myself back to life. But, now it’s too late for that. I no longer inhabit that sack of meat and bones in the floor. I will never vomit again.

So, OK. They finally come to terms with the fact that I’m dead, and Billy Joel's girlfriend, Sister, who's no uptown girl but may actually be his sister,  becomes hysterical for a few minutes. She sobs, screams, stumbles around with a palm over her gaping mouth. It’s a pretty good show. Convincing. I appreciate the effort. But, if she really cares, she’ll grab the keys out of the front pocket of my jeans, drag me by the feet to my car, and drive me to the hospital.

They don’t have to stick around or anything. They could just dump me at the ER door. Lord knows it wouldn’t be the first time. It would, however, be the first time I was dead when it happened. I’ve come close a few times, but I’ve always been lucky. Once, Fonda (the woman I love, her hippie parents wanted to name her after Jane Fonda, but the "Jane" part was just too plain) was scared shitless when I wouldn’t wake up after a long night of drinking and snorting Ketamine. So, she called a cab, lugged me down three flights of stairs and into it (bourbon gives that woman some upper body strength, let me tell you), gave the driver a 50-dollar bill, and told him to deposit me at the ER, “Keep the change.” This is what she tells me happened anyway. Used to tell me. She was pretty fucked up herself, that night, though. I don't remember anything like that happening. Besides, I don’t know any cab driver who’d do that and I know cab drivers who will do anything. Believe me.

BJ and Sister don’t even call me a cab. After BJ slaps some quiet reserve into his girlfriend and she retaliates by punching him hard in the nuts (good for her), what do they do? BJ hauls me over into a corner of the big empty room, leans me against the wall, and lights the pipe again.

Are you fucking kidding me?

Even if they don’t give a shit about me, wouldn’t it at least enter their minds that maybe the rock is bad? Maybe it could kill them, too? Maybe, just maybe, this would be a good time to quit?

For them, this is not even a remote concern. So, I’m dead, and I am stuck watching these assholes get tweaked out of their minds with my corpse rotting in the corner of a house I’ve never even seen before tonight. If they start doing it...

Wait. Am I stuck? I mean, I didn’t see any radiating white light to walk into. No angels descending on fluffy white clouds to lead me away. I didn’t see my dad, my grandparents, or Kurt Cobain waving at the end of a long tunnel.

I just assumed that this was going to be one of those situations where something traumatic happens and the spirit, my spirit, is stuck haunting the place for the rest of eternity. What a depressing place to haunt. I've gotta find some curtains if I'm going to stay here. At the rate they’re going, BJ and Sister aren’t long for this life either and will be joining me in this haunted crack-house. If they die here and I am stuck with them for the rest of eternity after what they did (or didn't do), I am going to be so pissed.

The thought of that possibility pushes me over the edge. I storm across the room. Float? Fly? I dunno. I somehow end up in front of the main door of my own volition, and, anxiously, try the deadbolt. It turns, clicking loudly. Yes.

I turn the knob and the wild winter air pushes the door wide open. The heavy door strikes the inside wall of the living room with a THUD that causes both Billy Joel and Sister to jump up from the floor where they have just begun talking animatedly about the best way to dispose of a body. The whistling air and dead night sky are even more ominous than the door flying open, and, for just a moment, I think I’d like to see BJ shit his pants in fright. But the revenge compulsion fades just as quickly as it came. Guess I’m not really a vengeful ghost. I walk across the threshold and look over my shoulder back into the house. They’re both backing up against the far, bare wall. This time, Sister isn’t the one going into hysterics; BJ is crying, wide-eyed, and looking directly at me. Through me. At the empty, open doorway.

There’s something I have to do before I can go. I don’t mean something I have to do like in a scary movie where the ghost still has some action left to perform before he can pass into the other world. Lead someone to where my bones have been buried in a shallow grave in the woods. Get someone to destroy the house in which I am trapped. I’m not talking about metaphysical red tape here. There’s just something I want to do.

I float back in and over to myself in the corner. Since I was able to open the door, it's worth a try… I turn myself over and dig in my pocket for the keys. Sister mistakenly gasps, “He’s alive!” as I pull them from my pocket. “The keys!” I can only imagine what this looks like to these two cracked-out bitches, keys jumping out of my pocket and making their way out the door, seemingly of their own accord.

Wait. One more thing. I glide (I dunno, it doesn’t feel like there’s ground under my feet) over to my stiffening corpse, grab my right hand and force my fingers into a fist. It’s a little tough to do so. There’s resistance, popping sounds. Maybe I’ve broken them. Doesn’t matter. I don’t feel it. They aren’t my fingers anymore. Not my fingers, but my sentiment. I make sure BJ and Sister are watching as I slowly uncurl the middle finger from the fist, holding it upright.

Fuck you, assholes! I know they can’t hear me, having now spent the majority of the night dead and screaming at them. Still, I have to do it. Last ride I give you losers.

I slam the door behind me on the porch and, in an instant, have the door to my rusted, red '88 Sentra unlocked. I pile in, slide the key into the ignition, and turn.

The old trap coughs a bit, but starts. I sure as hell thought this car would die before I would.

Thank. Fucking. God.

Yeah, and by the way, just where the hell are You in all this, God? Never forgave me for killing all those bag-worms with my bike as a kid, huh? Well, at least I’m not stuck in this You-forsaken place, so I guess You don’t hate me that much. Or maybe I’m just lucky.

I always was lucky.

Out of habit, I turn the heater on and wait for the car to warm up, even though temperature is something I no longer notice. I adjust the rear-view mirror because, as it turns out, the ghost me is shorter than the living me. Who knew?

I can see out the rear window now, but I’m no longer a part of the reflective image that affords that view. I've disappeared. And yet I'm still here.

Damn, I'm chatty.

17 February 2013

Third musical détournement on gender and media

Please support Fake Blood by purchasing this track through iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/air...

The latest album, Cells, is also available through iTunes:https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/cel...

This is my third musical détournement involving gender and the media. This one is a critique of advertising's role in manufacturing "standards" of feminine beauty and socializing children into them.

It's make-up ads and toy commercials from the 1950s through the 1980s.

The images and sounds in this video are the properties of the copyright holders. I mean in no way to infringe on them. The content is used solely for the purposes of criticism.

03 February 2013

Saturday, December 30, 1995 5:35 a.m.

Mrs. Ozzy Osbourne.
Christmas has come and gone, another day in an unending series of boring days.

The most excitement I've had this holiday season is the nine hits of acid I scored off a co-worker, B_____ J_____ and his girlfriend, S_____. B_____ J_____ looks a bit like Danzig and Ozzy's 40-year-old love child, the kind of guy who would frighten the devil alone in a dark alley. In truth, though, he's a really nice dude who screams with a death metal band or two. You wouldn't know it to look at him, but he went to some expensive private college with a German name: Heidelberg or Otterbein or Wittenberg or something stern-sounding. I've partied quite a lot with them; they don't have a car, so I'm happy to drive them around occasionally, particularly since the drive usually ends in a pile of weed, or, sometimes, blow.

This time, however, it's acid, and after taste-testing the stuff Wednesday night, I do believe that B____J____ beat the shit out of the devil in that alley and stole his best stash. Early in the evening I go see Four Rooms with Steve B_____ and J_____, a great guy who works at the head shop upstairs from the bar. I consider asking J_____ if he'd be into coming back to our place after the movie and tripping, but I'm not sure if he's cool with it. He makes a living selling bongs and rolling papers, so I think he'd probably be into it, but I decide to try it myself first before sharing with anyone. If it's bunk or poison, I don’t want to kill anyone, or their buzz.

One thing is certain—it's not bunk. The trip is intense, dirty and lasts a good twelve hours. I sit in front of the TV, a wide grin plastered to my pallid, sweaty face, and watch twelve straight episodes of Absolutely Fabulous, I think without blinking once. Eventually, now daylight, I move from the living room to my bed to tremble and quake through the coming down process. Seems safe to share, though, so I make a date to share it with F_____ in Louisville next weekend.

Speaking of dates, K_____ called out of the blue about a week ago, “I've had a really bad day. Why don't you come over and bring a bottle of wine?” It's 2 a.m. when she calls and the guys and I aren't really wine drinkers, so there are no liquor stores open and there's no wine in the house. It doesn't matter anyway, because I do not intend to take wine, or even go to her place.

“Sure,” it's the quickest route to get her off the phone. I go back to sleep and stand her up. I don't see her again until last night at work. Her band is the opener and I ask to work the back door so I can be as far away as possible. Eventually, though, I have to switch to the front door and the unavoidable confrontation occurs.

“You blew me off,” she kisses my cheek, the scent of bourbon reaching my face several seconds before her lips. 

Goddammit, why won't you just get pissed, throw a drink in my face like any other self-respecting woman, and storm off? And why am I not drinking bourbon right now?

“I know. It was rude of me. I fell asleep. I'm sorry,” straining to sound sincere.

“It's my fault.”

What? Are you fucking kidding me? I stood you up. Blame me! Then forget me. 

“No. I'm just really fucked up right now. Kinda just want to be by myself,” no straining there—perhaps the most sincere things I've ever said to her.

“I'm fucked up, too,” she volunteers.

“Yeah. I know,” my silent reply.

02 February 2013

Wednesday, April 19, 1995 3:37 p.m.

Ms. Crow and Scout

I think I may be on what one would call a “bender.”

I have been in a constant drug-induced fog for the past few weeks. It’s not unusual for me to be a social drink-and-drugger, but beginning with my birthday, I’ve kicked up the frequency, Kenneth. A woman I work with at the restaurant is a musician who happens to be friends with Sheryl Crow’s drummer. She has backstage passes to hang out after the show, which happens to be the night of my birthday, and brings me along to celebrate.

By the time I’m introducing myself to Ms. Crow, we’ve been drinking quite a bit, so that I smile and tell her, “You’re my birthday present.”  She immediately flies into a rage at one of the sound guys who has just walked in and I meekly drop to the couch and sink in, making myself small. Even her dog, Scout, seems a bit scared and backs up against my leg during this outburst. Everyone is uneasy and silent. Eventually, though, she doubles over with laughter at her out-of-character April Fool’s joke. I’m still shaken, honestly, even after the reveal, so that when I arrive at the late-night birthday party my friends have thrown for me, I am nervous-drinking. Luckily, most of my birthday presents are bottles of liquor, including a bottle of Knob Creek that is quickly drained. Bourbon, I am convinced, is a panacea. Cures what ails ya. And if yer not ailing, it makes everything even better.

From this kick-off celebration on, in moments of lucidity that occur only every other day, I am either smoking weed, drinking, or working.

The real daily haze, however, starts with a rave this past Friday where I do a hit of ecstasy. It is followed by another half-hit the next day for no particular reason other than it’s in my glove compartment and I damn well want it. That night’s entertainment at the club is courtesy of a hit of acid, chased down with a couple of beers and followed by a couple of joints shared between a small circle of friends.  This certainly doesn’t help the severe strep I have developed, but I put that out of my mind, convinced that the prescribed antibiotics I am on will take care of the cause, and the other, non-prescribed substances with which I am self-medicating will take care of the symptoms.

Sunday night, F_____ and I eat some mushrooms before heading to the Connection, which is never really a good idea for a Sunday night (the Connection, not the mushrooms), but what else do you expect us to do? It’s pretty dead, and having not immediately felt the effects of what we begin to suspect was more manure than fungus, we start drinking pretty heavily. Amidst the piss-poor hi-energy house music, the DJ suddenly drops some Traci Lords, which gets us out onto the dance floor, and now that we are moving, the psilocybin makes its way through our systems to find our pleasure centers, and we are soon both tripping balls and drunk.

On the one hand, I tell myself that this binge is because I am moving from Louisville next month and I want to go out with a bang. In truth, I’ve been avoiding staying at my apartment. I’ve been avoiding J_____. Our friendship has deteriorated in a matter of months and it’s mostly my fault. But, I’m tired of having to lie for him, to deny the steady string of women coming and going through his bedroom door whenever his girlfriend asks. And, she asks repeatedly.

In truth, I’m probably jealous of him. And of them. I suspect this because I used to have no problem lying to protect him; the problem is, I was also lying to myself.

He doesn’t give a shit about me.