About Last Night

Maxine went to the room next door. At the familiar beckoning yell she pushed open the poster-covered door and walked in, as she was used to doing. "Thought you'd find your way here, Maxie," Anders said.

Puzzled, she said, "You knew I was coming?"

He laughed. "Well, no, actually that's a quote from some movie or other."

She nodded, but didn't laugh, and this let Anders know something was up. "What's wrong, Punkin?"

Maxine dropped to the floor, sitting cross legged. "Anders, I really messed up this time."

"Your roomies were worried sick about you last night," he said, not chastising, but concerned. "I was too. Julia was hoping you'd be up for a trip into town last night. Good thing your bro was with Scarlett! He would have gone bollistic if he'd been here." Anders stopped, watching Maxine carefully. "So what happened to you? Where'd you go?"

She dawdled purposefully, sticking her hands in her pockets, examining the posters on the walls. Great, she thought. So she'd not only screwed herself over with her stupid libido, but she'd fucked with people she loved, too. Made everyone's life just a little more hellish. Not too bad for one Friday night. "You up for a drive, boy?" she asked.

Anders ran his hand through his sandy blonde hair. "Ooooh boy, one of those nights, eh?"

"You wouldn't believe it."

"Try me, Maxie," Anders said, winking. "But sure, I'm up for a drive." He grabbed either side of her head and shook it gently. "But are you?"

Maxine paused. "I'm pretty okay. I'm fine to drive. I think it might help clear my head." She flipped a few stray curls out of her face. "And I'll tell you what happened, if you really feel like being burdened."

"Deal, Punkin," he said, kissing her messily on the brow. Then he stepped back, trying to appear comforting. "Look, whatever happened, it can't be as bad as all that. You've got us behind you, remember that."

Maxine smiled weakly, pulling her car keys from her pocket. They left Anders' room and walked down the hall to the stairway. Fortunately for Maxine, she glanced out the window. She gave a little scream as she recognized Byron, her lover, coming towards the dorm, carrying something in his hands. Blanching, Maxine clasped her hands to her head. "Shit!" she exclaimed. "It's him!"

Anders wrinkled his brow, tilting his sunglasses. "Who, Punkin?"

"Byron," she answered hotly, and Anders looked at her, uncomprehending. Maxine paced a little. "Nevermind." She grabbed Anders' hand and began pulling him down the hallway, past her own room, to the other stairway. Of all the things she needed right then, to be so directly confronted with the previous night was the least of them. What did Byron want?

"I'm lost, Punkin," Anders declared.

"I told you I'd explain everything."

"Why are you running from Byron?" Anders asked as he followed her down the steps. "I thought women were supposed to run to him, Punkin."

"Now look you, don't you go getting all squirrely on me," Anders said, shaking his finger at Maxine. "Don't you go equating sex and guilt and shame! If you start it, then there's no hope for any of us."

"I'm not," she answered loudly, tightening her grip on the steering wheel. They were coming north along I-26, just before the junction with I-95. Maxine had easily been able to keep the Sunbird at 87 miles an hour since getting out of Charleston, and she was feeling much better.

"Anders, I'm not ashamed of what happened," she affirmed. "Shame has nothing to do with it. I've fucked up too many times to be ashamed anymore."

"Then how do you feel?"

"I just feel a little stupid. I mean, if he had come up to me and said, "Hello, I'd like to fuck you", and I had said, "I'd like to fuck you too", and if that was all there had been to it, I wouldn't be bothered."

"So what's the frenzy, Punkin?" Anders asked, lowering his sunglasses. "I don't think I'm clear on this."

Maxine sighed. "A fuck put into the context of making love is disconcerting," she said, and Anders regarded her strangely. "Come on, man, you know what I mean. All the delicacy and the tenderness and the chivalry--that's not what a quickie is all about."

"Doesn't sound like you had a quickie."

"I didn't." Maxine grumbled. "Damnit, Anders, I'm not putting any of this well."

Anders pointed ahead. "Any interest in a Waffle House? Maybe some grits and coffee will help you explain a little better."

Maxine realized she hadn't eaten since the previous afternoon. That, and the exit provided a good spot to turn around. If she felt like going back. "Yeah, I could use some grease," she said, moving the Sunbird onto the exit.

Maxine found the Waffle House comfortingly crowded as the waitress led her and Anders to a small booth. They both ordered coffees, Maxine requesting decaffeinated, and grits, Maxine asking for no butter. The waitress looked at her strangely, but jotted down her request. "Good thing you've got the accent, Punkin," Anders noted. "I'd be scared in here otherwise."

Maxine put two fingers to her throat. "My accent?"

"It's not real thick," Anders said. "It's been diluted, I would guess. But there's no mistaking you're a southern belle."

"It's an Irish accent, actually," she corrected, speaking in her brogue. "I grew up in the Emerald Isle, after all."

"Oh, that's right," Anders conceded with a smirk. "I'm so used to hearing your voice that I forget."

The waitress returned, pouring their coffee. "So more about Byron, please," he requested. "So far I know that he loves you and that you slept with him."

"No, he said he loves me," corrected Maxine. "That's not the same."

Anders waved his hand in dismissal. "Whatever. It's pretty obvious to me, Punkin, that you're real special to him. It's in his eyes, babe. I believe he could dig you that deeply without any problem."

"Byron gets lots of girls, I'm sure," Maxine spat. "Don't all these hunks have some kind of quota to fill? I was just another stat."

"Byron is not your average stud muffin, Punkin," Anders said, dripping syrup over his grits. "I don't think he collects women--he's way too sensitive. It would kill him. I think he's a one-woman man in his heart. I don't think he's the kind of guy to lure a girl back to his pad with some nice words, and then skip out on her, know what I mean?" Maxine stared down into her black coffee, dismally. "Yeah, sure, he's a celeb. So what? He's no different from you or me. We all bleed when cut."

"It sucks because we were really good friends," she pouted. "And then I fall for the 'I love you' line, and that's all over."

"If it's all over, Punkin, then he wasn't much of a friend to begin with, was he?"

"That's true."

Anders regarded Maxine intently. "Maxine, Byron is a good guy. We all know that. I just cannot imagine that he would pull the stud one-nighter hell gag on you. And especially not on you!"

Begrudgingly, Maxine nodded in agreement. "What about his fiancee?" she demanded. "Am I supposed to be her replacement? How do I fare as a little, red, decrepit caboose to that sleek silver bullet?"

Anders giggled. "You underate yourself, Maxine. You're no caboose. You've got the goods, and you don't even know it." He looked at her with a lopsided grin. "There's not one male in this entire project that doesn't think you're gorgeous, me included. But you knew that."

"Well, there was Adam, and then a couple of guys have asked me out, but--"

"But nothing! Punkin, Samantha's a fake. I bet there's not one natural piece left on her entire body."

Giggling, Maxine dripped some coffee out of her mouth. "I don't know," she said, wiping her mouth off, still giggling. "She does pour pancake batter on her face every morning, though."

Anders catapulted empty sugar packets with his spoon. "I guarantee you that most guys would rather be with a real Maxine than a fake Samantha. And Byron is definitely one of us most guys. You, Punkin, are the winner in that beauty battle."

"Doesn't change the fact that Byron is engaged to her," Maxine pointed out.

Anders reached across the table and tapped Maxine in her head. "Are you home? That whole engagement thing's just a joke of some sort, Punkin. Byron and Samantha don't even like each other. You should know that."

"Then why did he get engaged to her in the first place?" Maxine wondered. "Anders, why make the committment? I don't get it."

Anders shrugged. "Gotta be that Hollywood thing," he theorized. "Media blitz to push the most handsome actor and the prettiest cover girl into a couple. Totally fabricated, good for their careers, and who cares if they hate each other?"

Maxine shook her head, exhaling. "One of the reasons that I applied for this stint," she said, stirring sugar into her grits, "was that I wanted to get a glimpse into the Hollywood mind, you know? How do they think differently from the rest of us, and why." She sipped her coffee. "Now I've had a nice intimate sampling, and I still have no clue."

Anders laughed hard enough to turn the heads of the other patrons. "Maxie, you rule," he said, calming himself. "But having someone tell you they're in love with you is a pretty heavy duty thing," Anders mused. "Even in Hollywood."

Maxine shrugged, waving her hand dismissively. "Ack, that embarasses the crap out of me," she said. "I feel like I walked right into a role."

Anders looked her straight in the eyes. "Do you love Byron, Punkin?"

"What difference does it make?"

"Lots. Do you love Byron?"

She rolled her eyes. "That's a silly question, Anders."

"Well, do you?"

"Anders!" Maxine truly did not want to discuss her own feelings.

"Okay, let me ask you this," he said, changing his approach. "Were you able to climax with him?"

Maxine covered her face with her hands and groaned. "Why should I tell you that?"

"Because if you did, not only do you probably love him, but he loves you," Anders concluded. "I read it somewhere, I don't remember where. Being comfortable with each other, usually through love."

Maxine drummed her long fingers on the tabletop. "Alright. Yes. I did. Several times."

Anders slapped his own face in a comic gesture. "Hmmm--so that means you felt enough into the sitch to relax, and that he must have taken long enough for you to--"

"I get the picture, Anders," Maxine said firmly.

"Do you? Should I draw it for you?"

Maxine twisted her mouth. "I hate this love business, Anders," she said. "I've been in love twice. The first time, I ended up with his brains splattered all over me, and the second time he turned out to be a twisted neurotic closet moron." She paused to sip her coffee. "You can understand why love makes me nervous."

"Makes us all nervous," he said through his laughter. "That's why we do it. All part of the fun of the merry go round."

"There's no merry go round here, Anders. Let's outline this," she said. "Byron is engaged to Samantha. Byron tells me he loves me. I stupidly spend the night with Byron. Next I get told it was fun but Samantha is his fiancee. End of story."

Anders shook his palms at Maxine. "You're missing the connectors, Punkin. Byron hates Samantha, Byron is stuck in a media trap. You, Maxie, are not a media trap. Byron is in love with you, so you guys do the natural thing folks in love do. And Samantha gets squeezed out of the picture forever. The end of the story is that Byron loves you for real, and that is what you have over Samantha, by far."

Maxine leaned her head on her fist, pondering. "So you think he was serious, is what you're saying?"

Drinking his coffee, Anders shrugged. "The guy's been gaga for you since day one, I know that much. Doubt there's anybody on the project who doesn't know that."

"And now he hates me because I ducked out on him."

"You're indulging in silliness, Punkin," Anders insisted. "I think he'll understand why you bolted, if you explain it to him. If I were him, I'd want to know more about the gymnastic abilities involved in that escape you made." He chuckled.

"Okay, so let's say that Byron and I are," she cleared her throat, "in love. I go back to the island and I find him and we get caught up in the whirlwind of passion-related shit. What happens next?"

Anders chewed on his spoon. "Well that's a silly question, Max! Who knows what comes next for any of us?"

Black Bird, Why Do You Seek Me?

No matter how I've tried to shake him off, he still comes after me with the ferocity of a hunting carnivore--not the cunning of a carrion feeder. I close my eyes and I see the black bird, the same black bird who has been with me for all of this life and perhaps in other lives as well. For some reason I wanted to shake the bird but he's only come back thirteen times as powerful. I realize now that I cannot run from my heritage--from the blood of my ancestors which now flows through me--and that the black bird, the Great Raven, will always seek me out no matter where I am. My question to myself now is do I want to embrace him as forcefully as I have done before, do I want to have done with him and pursue my new existence, or can I possibly keep the Great Raven in my heart and continue to move forward? I will ponder with care.

Profile From Les Vampires

THREE SCREEN NAMES YOU HAVE HAD:
1. Queen Mousehead
2. KodaiChin
3. Apocalypse Girl

THREE PHYSICAL THINGS YOU LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
1. Hair
2. Eyes
3. Complexion

THREE PHYSICAL THINGS YOU DON'T LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
1. Toes
2. Shoulders
3. Nose

THREE PARTS OF YOUR HERITAGE:
1. Irish
2. Breton
3. French

THREE THINGS THAT SCARE YOU:
1. The government
2. Skin disorders
3. Failure

THREE OF YOUR EVERYDAY ESSENTIALS:
1. Aspirin
2. Music
3. Laughter

THREE THINGS YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW:
1. Slinky black satin bathrobe
2. Goofy cotton rainbow nightshirt
3. Crescent moon necklace

THREE PHYSICAL THINGS ABOUT THE PREFERRED SEX THAT APPEAL TO YOU:
1. Eyes
2. Chest/torso
3. Hands

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE HOBBIES:
1. Gardening
2. Playing with my dog
3. Reading

THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO REALLY BADLY RIGHT NOW:
1. Sleep
2. Drink a latte
3. Take a little vacation

THREE CAREERS YOU'RE CONSIDERING/YOU'VE CONSIDERED:
1. Mortician
2. Aerialist
3. Forensic anthropologist

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE BANDS OR MUSICAL ARTISTS:
1. Nine Inch Nails
2. Electric Hellfire Club
3. Dead Kennedys

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE SONGS:
1. Three Days - Jane's Addiction
2. Riverhead - Prick
3. Redeemer - Marilyn Manson

THREE THINGS YOU WANT IN A RELATIONSHIP:
1. Compassion
2. Trust
3. Laughter

TWO TRUTHS AND A LIE (in no particular order):
1. I can't live without sex.
2. I really enjoy sleeping in coffins.
3. I found myself in the Paris catacombs.

THREE PLACES YOU WANT TO GO ON VACATION:
1. Quebec
2. Belize
3. Turkey

THREE KID'S NAMES YOU LIKE:
1. Catherine
2. Matthew
3. Alexander

THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO BEFORE YOU DIE:
1. Cross the Darien Gap on foot
2. Visit the Forbidden City in Beijing
3. Go into outer space

THREE WAYS THAT YOU ARE STEREOTYPICALLY A BOY:
1. I'm really lax and laid-back as far as style.
2. I'm physically strong.
3. I love working with tools.

THREE WAYS THAT YOU ARE STEREOTYPICALLY A CHICK:
1. I keep my skin soft.
2. I like to wear nice fragrances.
3. There's no hiding what's in the balcony.

THREE CELEB CRUSHES:
1. Stuart Townsend
2. Brandon Lee (rest in peace)
3. Keanu Reeves

THREE PEOPLE THAT I WOULD LIKE TO SEE TAKE THIS QUIZ NOW:
1. My younger sister
2. George W. Bush
3. Poppy Z. Brite

Profile From Elle Magazine

If you could come back as a dress, which one would it be?

I’d pick one of those classic little black numbers from Givenchy.

What is your favorite color?

Purple, violet, amethyst…you get the picture.

What is your favorite junk food?

Kettle chips.

What are you most vain about?

Nothing. I’m not vain even where I should be.

What are you most shy about?

Everything. How’s everything for an answer?

If you could have somebody else’s body, whose would it be?

Do you mean I would exist in said body or that the body would be mine to play with as I please?

If you could have somebody else’s breasts, whose would they be?

Uck.

Who are your fantasy dinner party guests?

There are so many. But assuming I am the hostess of a dinner party for twelve, I would select Coco Chanel, Charlemagne, Eleanor Roosevelt, Richard Feynman (physicist), Mary Robinson (former president of Ireland), Kurt Vonnegut, Sally Ride, John Young (also an accomplished astronaut), Zsuszanna Budapest (womens’ rights activist), His Holliness the Dalai Lama, Gloria Steinem, and Carl Sagan.

Where is your favorite place to have a drink?

I love this little authentic coffeehouse on Penn campus.

Whose wallet would you like to steal?

I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.

Whose diary would you most like to read?

Hilary Rodham Clinton’s.

What’s your least favorite food?

Anything tomato can get kicked right to the curb.

If you were an inventor, what would you invent?

I’d invent something that would do all of my dressing and grooming for me. I feel like I’m on automatic pilot anyway.

What is your favorite car?

I like the car that gets me where I’m going safely.

When and where are you happiest?

I’m happiest in those wonderful moments at night when I’m relaxing in a scented bath with the day behind me and the comfort of sleep awaiting me.

What or who is your worst enemy?

I am my own worst enemy along with my evil sidekick Doubt.

What piece of art would you most like to own?

“Mary Magdalene” by Gustav Adolf Mossa.

Where is your favorite vacation spot?

Quebec City, Canada

What is your most treasured possession?

I have the fang of a rattlesnake my shaman mentor gave to me as a rite of passage.

Who is your favorite fictional character?

Holden Caufield.

If you weren’t a writer, what would you be?

A mortician, an aerialist, a lawyer…who knows?

What current trend would you like to see disappear?

I want to see anything extolling extreme thinness as some kind of virtue disappear.

Always…?

Always remember things can always get worse.

Never…?

Never doubt that things can get better.

2008--Year of the Vampire Princess

I resolve to make no resolutions of a resolving nature because I refuse to believe I am resolved to anything. To make a resolution is almost like taking a stab at being perfect. Perfection and humanity do not go well together, and I far prefer the imperfections of being human. In that sense, I suppose I resolve to be human, because in doing so I am already acknowledging an awareness that perfection is not for this existence but good and jolly humanity is.

I don't resolve to be nicer. I'm nice enough as it is. Maybe I should be meaner. Nah. This is working for me.

I don't resolve to lose weight or get in shape. I'm already in shape, and I know that weight loss can be caused by illness or parasitic infections. So if you're thinking about losing weight, you might want to be specific about how it happens.

I don't resolve to be more organized, because the system I'm already using works for me.

I'm not resolving to keep my mouth shut or to keep my opinions to myself. What good is any of that?

I'm thinking of dying my hair dark purple, but I'm not resolved to it.

I do resolve not to act on the matter of the two people of my heart, because either choice alienates the other.

I do resolve to continue to be politically active, although at this point I am not absolutely certain what form that will take.

I do resolve to continue working my physical/vocal presence to my best advantage. I spent too many years shy and hiding for no real reason.

I resolve myself to a bilingual life and to bilingual work.

And...know what? Hell, I'm a damn lucky person. Okay, maybe I work hard too, but I do count my blessings every day. I know real happiness, and that's what I wish for everyone in the coming year and those to come!

Apocalypse Theory (Untheories of Nonexistence)

When I say "apocalypse", I'm not talking in Biblical terms. This little thingie of mine, originally called "The Beginning of the End", will clarify everything...or so I hope. Basically this explains why my major website is called Electric Apocalypse, and why as the keeper of said site I started calling myself Apocalypse Girl.

ENTER THE FOUR HORSEMEN

What is an apocalypse? What does "apocalypse" mean? Why is this apocalypse electric? As the author of this domain, I am very proud of the research I have done which has gone into the creation of this site and the themes of Electric Apocalypse Productions.

There are four characters which may be familiar to you in name, if not in fact. These are my interpretation on a classic theme. They are War, Famine, Pestilence, and Death--the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. The Horsemen appear in the Book of Revelation (New Testament) and symbolize the supposed evils that will claim the earth at the end of the world. Traditionally, Death (also called Conquest) is mounted upon a white horse, War on a red horse, Pestilence (also called Plague) on a pale horse, and Famine on a black horse. As you can see, I have my own interpretation.

These evils, as stated, are harbingers of the end of the world. But I have to ask, have they not been among humanity since the beginning of human history? People have always been fighting each other. People have always gone hungry. People have always suffered from disease. People have always died. In this case, then, are the Four Horsemen signs of things to come, or are they revealatory in themselves, showing a darker and uglier side to human existence?

None of these things--Revelation, the Four Horsemen, apocalypse--are simply explained. What is more, I don't believe there is one correct definition. Here, I will be presenting my own take, based upon my research and a great many hours in contemplation. It is my hope that my point of view will be clear and understandable to you, but I in no way am claiming anyone should adopt my conclusions as their own. This has been a great journey of discovery for me, one I want to share with you.

APOCALYPSE TRADITION

Before I begin, I would like to give you a few standard working definitions from the New Testament. I will be adding more information in the course of this exposition.

• APOCALYPSE - Another name for the New Testament Book of Revelation, from the Greek word for "revelation"; a final catastrophe; the end of the world; the end of time.
• REVELATION - The last book of the New Testament, also called Apocalypse; the violent end of the world is foretold and the truth of the end of days is revealed; describes Armageddon, the Second Coming, Judgement Day, and the new heaven and earth.
• ARMAGEDDON - The site of the final and conclusive battle between good and evil.
• SECOND COMING - The return of Jesus to judge the living and the dead and bring about the final triumph of good over evil; this has been said to be in the near future for centuries.
• ANTICHRIST - An enemy of Jesus who will appear before the Second Coming and win over many people who would otherwise follow Jesus.

Pretty clearly, an apocalypse would seem to be synonymous with the end of the world. Indeed this is a common connotation of apocalypse. However, to stop there is to miss out on a richer meaning.

"Apocalypse" comes from the Greek (Anglified) "apokalypsis", which in turn combines "apo" (un) + "kalyptein" (cover). In other words, an apocalypse means to uncover, to reveal. Revelation, then, is the uncovering of divine wisdom and prophecy regarding the end times and what the faithful must do.

I won't go into an exegesis on the Book of Revelation here, as it does not really serve any purpose in this instance. But we have uncovered two definitions of "apocalypse", both of which I ask you to keep in mind.

• The ultimate end-all total turn around flip over and undoing of anything and everything.
• The revelation of knowledge, even though that knowledge might be ugly.

APOCALYPSE CULTURE

Have you ever wondered about rubber necks? You know, the annoying drivers that slow down almost to a stop to gawk at a nasty auto accident?

I think this scenario applies to a great many situations in human life. People are fascinated by the appalling. It's an attraction-avoidance conflict in which attraction inevitably wins. Look at the tabloids. Yes, it's cattle fodder, but it also sells. What have been the obsessions? How long has the little beauty queen Jon Benet been dead, and she's still moving magazines. For that matter, what of the Kennedys? There's more said about them in death than in life. What other treats are presented to us? Diet tragedies and starvation stories, have mindblowing sex but get closer to deity, beauties beat up by enraged spouses, and of course the constant kicker, the imminent end of the world. If we're not living in an apocalypse culture, I can't imagine what this is.

In 1991, Feral House published Apocalypse Culture, a compendium of documents depicting the less savory side of our times. Includes are "Latter-Day Lycanthropy: Battling for the Feral Soul of Man", "The Unrepentant Necrophile", "Frank Talk from a Psychopath", "Aesthetic Terrorism", "Schizophrenic Responses to a Mad World", and "Long Live Death!" among many others. In 2000, in spite of the ardent determination of editor Adam Parfrey that Apocalypse Culture would never have a sequel, Feral House published Apocalypse Culture II, which is widely regarded as even more extreme than its predecessor. What exactly are these books? More than anything, these are books of revelation--books that bring the twisted side of mankind to light for you to peruse, if you dare. These are the things the general media sweeps under the rug, the things people never dicussed in a long ago day and age and still consider taboo.

More to the point, the Apocalypse Culture books are a manifestation of their title--the Apocalypse Culture. Who and what is Apocalypse Culture? Do you like peeking behind closed blinds after explicitly being told not to do so? Do you see what's really going on around you not through the goggles society would fit you with but through your own eyes? Can you see and appreciate the revelation of humanity's insanity? Do you agree that circumstances need some serious shaking up, and maybe even want to be one of the shakers? If any of these notions appeal to you, you might already be an active participant in Apocalypse Culture (as opposed to the passive participant who chases ambulances and likes reading about popular deaths without understanding their own urges).

APOCALYPSE THEORY

At this point I would like to mention that the concept of an apocalypse is one that has fascinated me for most of my life. This is not the same as being obsessed with the end of the world, mind you. To me, apocalypse always meant change, first and foremost. Granted, this is change on a grand scale, but change nonetheless.

I began to think out Apocalypse Theory when I survived the end of my own personal world. I won't go into the details, but I will say that everything that was for me was no more, and I was left to rebuild virtually from scratch. In time, I began to see that was I was making anew for myself was infinitely better than what I had lost. The medical analogy that when a broken bone heals badly it must be broken again to heal properly kept occurring to me. I saw where there was real strength in having undergone this complete debacle and rebirth. What happened to me? I had gone through a personal apocalypse, a mental apocalypse.

Yet there was more. In the process, I also had an apocalypse in the sense of revelation. I learned truths about myself, some of which were beautiful and some of which were the stuff of nightmares. The very nature of the world around me was revealed. I'd never really had the wool over my eyes before, but now it was gone forever. I saw and thought clearly. I was strong in my own convictions and not easily swayed by anything. I would include this as part of the personal and mental apocalypses previously mentioned.

This is Apocalypse Theory on a personal level, but what about applying the same principles to society? I believe that we as human beings are never stronger than when we've been shaken down to the very core of our being and then gone ahead to meet the challenge of a new beginning. The ugliness of mankind is revealed every day. We're destroying the planet, we're destroying ourselves. We're choosing apathy over action. We're fascinated by the death of one famous person and indifferent to the deaths of thousands in an earthquake. It's all revealed, but humanity's nature is to ignore what is displeasing and look the other way.

It's time for a shake up, and I say a shake up is long overdue. Naturally I don't mean the literal destruction of everything and everyone. But the broken bone hasn't healed properly; humanity has backed itself into a corner. The solution I propose is to break the bone again.

This, then, is Apocalypse Theory.

ELECTRIC APOCALYPSE

The tale of Electric Apocalypse is one of speculation, theory, and parallel. Please keep this in mind.

Our story begins in the eighteenth century. This was the time of the Enlightenment, the time when society turned away from religion and superstition in favor of science and reason. In this climate, the notion that anyone, especially people of note and power, would be dabbling in "Black Arts" and "Satanic Activities" might seem ludicrous. Yet, this may very well have happened--or something like it, or maybe something nothing like it at all that would have been dull without the diabolical veneer.

Parliament was into it. The American Founding Fathers were into it. But what was "it"? Welcome to the fact and lore of the Hellfire Club. Whether or not this organization conducted Satanic rites or if membership was just an expression of cynicism towards conventional religion is still debated (though folks will claim to have the absolute facts, a claim I refuse to make). In fact, the veracity or fable of the Hellfire Club is irrelevant here; one way or another, the name and the idea persist.

But the United States has some interesting potential connections to the Hellfire Club. Benjamin Franklin is said to have been an active member as he helped shape and form the new nation. Many of the other Founding Fathers had unusual views on Christianity. George Washington refused to kneel in church or take communion. Thomas Jefferson stated that he did not see a single redeeming feature in Christianity. James Madison said, "What has been its fruits? More or less, in all places, pride and indolence in the clergy, ignorance and servility in the laity, in both superstition, bigotry and persecution". Today, some Americans swear allegiance to their flag with the words "under God". "In God We Trust" appears on American currency. Yet the original motto of the Founding Fathers was "E Pluribus Unum" or simply "Out of Many, One". The Constitution guarantees religious freedom for all. How much can be attributed to the influence of the Hellfire Club?

More than two centuries after the drafting of the Constitution, the Hellfire Club rears its head again. This time, the philosophy is expressed in song and put to music--dance music, diabolical disco, even. The ideas are thriving again, but something's different this time. What is it? How is this happening? Of course! ELECTRICITY! Well, this is how I imagine the birth of one of my own favorite bands, the Electric Hellfire Club.

Nice, nice, but what does this have to do with me?

If you've read through the documents on this site, you're pretty familiar with my version of apocalypse. Aha, but just how do I bring that version to life through my production company? Of course! ELECTRICITY!

But I'm not just discussing the watts and voltage here. There's a creative electricity here too. That electricity is the heart of the whole effort. What exactly am I producing? Works for the Apocalypse Culture, works to wake people up, works to reveal the nastier side of human nature, in writing, film, graphic art, in any and every medium that occurs to me.

Such was the birth of the Electric Apocalypse Production Company, which I would say was established in 1987 when I shot my first film, "Skateboard Apocalypse". Essentially, nuclear warheads had been launched and death was a certainty. Given a short time left to live, what does a group of urban high school students choose to do? SKATE!

I'd like to thank you for taking the time to read this introduction and for getting to know what Electric Apocalypse Productions is all about.

Medieval Pick Up Lines

"Hey, Princess, you wouldn't happen to know where a lonely knight could scabbard his sword, would you?"

"Been there, slain that."

"Your hovel or mine?"

"Pestilence makes the heart go wander."

"Pardon me, madam, but wouldst thou like to see my longsword in action?"

"Every second of every hour of every day is like a thousand knives of fire stabbing me in the heart. I long for thee incessantly, so much that my sorrow seems without surcease. My alliteration is small comfort next to the warm gaze of thine azure eyes. I crave the comfort of thine embrace like some lost child cold and alone in the dark....So, you wanna !@..$% ???"

"You wanna go upstairs and see my Holy Grail?"

"I like the cut of your jib."

"If I were that horse, I'd rather you mounted me without the saddle."

Wizard: "You know, my hat isn't the only thing that's pointed."

"Thy breastplate is wondrous! Wouldst thou hold my polearm whilst I attempt to light thy fire?"

"Dost thou practice safe hex?"

"Dost thou know? That chastity belt of yours would look great on my sleeping chamber floor."

"I had to swim the moat to get to you fair maiden."

"So, would you like to see my breaststroke?"

Wench: "What's that sound?"
Knight: "That's just the sound of my chain mail drawers expanding."

"Thou hast hit on me harder than the black plague!"

"Why don't we go back to my place and re-enact 'The Miller's Tale?'"

"You won't believe this but St. George just appeared to me in a vision and told me that I must bed you. The fate of England depends is on it!!"

"Ever see a passion play? Would you like to?"

"Don't believe the rumors you heard about me. The plague didn't affect the important parts."

"Like a mare, I can be ridden for hours."

"How, you ask, did I get up here to your balcony? Well, I espied you from yonder garden. In an instant my er, heart was swelled with lus.. er, love. I had to meet you! So I ran over but tripped on a stone thusly pole-vaulting into your arms."

"C'mon, sweetie. Didn't your mother ever tell you? A cleric a day keeps the black plague away."

"I lost my leg in battle. Guess what I'm walking on!"

"Yes, fair maiden, I am indeed a wizard."

"Shall I make your clothes disappear?"

"I'm really a prince cursed by an evil witch."

"Tell me, do you have sex with frogs?"

"My! But you are a beautiful damsel in distress! Allow me to help you out of it."

Don't Shirk--Blunt Works!

Sometimes it's necessary to couch things in soft terms. We often need to be discreet and politic so as to not upset or anger whoever has our attention at that moment.

Then again, there are times when it's necessary to be absolutely blunt. I get called "blunt as a spoon" a lot. Maybe it's even accurate. I prefer to go for the verbal visceral punch instead of tap dancing around an important matter.

Here are two examples of what I mean--success stories in which I take great pride. Before the Pennsylvania Primary on April 22, 2008, my grandmother and her Greatest Generation Gang were sitting around, resigned to not voting. This wasn't important, they said. No one interested them, they said. Many hadn't voted at all for over 20 years--ostensibly to avoid jury duty.

Now if these people could survive 80+ years on the planet, they could handle me. And so I started. The vote is your voice, I told them. What do you think your friends in all of these wars have died for--so you can sit on your bottoms and reliquish your right to vote? What about your children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren?

This was getting through, but I decided to go for the kicker. "If you don't vote on Tuesday," I said, "you'll be giving up your right to complain for the duration of the election process."

The Yankee Doodle spiel had softened them, but the thought of having to refrain from opining for all of these months finished the job. Every single one of them voted in the primary (and I did what I could to make sure they got to their polling places).

Lately my mother made an appointment for her first colonoscopy. She was cool with it until last week, when she started pulling excuses to call it off from her...er...nose. Who would take care of her mother? What about the bathroom situation? What if this list of 53 improbable things happen?

So I came at it from a different point of view. "We're talking about your life here," I said. "If you don't have this done and there is in fact something wrong, it will go undetected and be that much harder to treat. You owe it to us--the family that loves you--to take this step to secure that we have a future together. You're so worried about Grandma and all of that, but what good will it do anyone if you die because you talked yourself out of this?"

Within the span of a day my mother made a complete turn around. With the knowledge that she could bail out at any time, she went about the prep process, with my sister and me for company and moral support. Suddenly she found a new strength and she surged ahead, determined to get this thing over with. I
am happy to say she had it done this morning, everything went well, and I am so proud of her for overcoming her hesitations in order to take care of herself.

Anyhow, my point is sometimes the greatest kindness is to use a little bluntness in your speech. You need to look for the one thing that will turn the discussion. And don't worry about hurt feelings. More often than not people will thank you for being straight with them.

Red

Aw, whatsamatter? Don't like red? Perhaps red is too cliche for your delicate sense of aesthetics? Well, tough mouseloaf. Red is the color of the bold and the brazen, the doppelganger with an ego large enough to consume Latin America. And me, hey, I love red. I adore red. Hell, my car is bright red. My house is red (velvet). Poppies are red. Coop devil girls are red. Blood (batheinitswiminitliveinitdrinkitup) is red once it hits air. Really REALLY mindblowing sex is red (just use your imagination). Time is flowing red. "I alone walk in the red heavens". Grenadine is red, and for that matter, so are pomegranites. Anyway, the point...the point? Oh, right, I'm not trying to go for an overdone style so much as just using a color so very dear to me. Well, all right, that and I'm staring through the famed Ruby of Mygoshpraksh, which is the size of a human heart, which I understand is also kind of red. Just be grateful I don't do the Web design for major search engines, cool?

Third Place Was My Personal Victory

I was out of my depth and I knew it, but I was determined to at least make a statement in this year's (2006) Purple Prose Parody Contest. Now this was sponsored by a romance novel website, an area represented by people for whom I'm something of an oddity. This year the twist was to use a classic novel. Well, I figured I wanted to go full throttle, so I chose George Orwell's Animal Farm. The characters weren't human--that, I thought, should set me apart.

And imagine my surprise when I came in third! Not everybody thinks according to a rigid paradigm.

Here is my entry, titled "A Tumble in the Hay".

In the barn the air hung thick in tremulous anticipation. The haystack stood in salute to forbidden love. Then, Mollie’s nervous eating habit seized her violently, and she began to take tiny nibbles from that golden love tribute.

Surely Napoleon’s black piggy eyes had witnessed the mad carmine haze of passionate wanting. Not even that pig could mistake Mollie’s bug-eyed longing glances at Benjamin. Maybe the others on Animal Farm thought Benjamin was nothing but an ass, but to Mollie, he was a stallion of manliness.

“Mollie!” Fred brayed, the noise floating on the slop-scented air.

“Benjamin!” Mollie neighed, tapping out the number of kisses she planned to give him with her left hoof. “Were you seen?”

“The pigs have spies everywhere,” Benjamin said, daring to curl her tail in his. “That simpkin Snowball asked me just today at the water trough why I appear to be fond of the two-leggeds.”

Mollie thought of the emerald, turquoise, and ivory ribbons in her mane. Without the two-leggeds to pamper her, what would she be? Why, she’d be no better than a workhorse! Mollie whinnied in disgust. “The two-leggeds have such beautiful things. And they have love!”

“Indeed, my little equine Venus. But Napoleon is ruthless. He will not cease until all things two-legged are broken and scrambled like yesterday’s eggs in the farmer’s skillet.”

Mollie sighed, the thick full curtain of her eyelashes veiling her eyes. “We would be better off as two leggeds, my love.”

“Rubbish!” Benjamin moved closer, heating her broadside with his own lust-powered furnace. “We shall love, Mollie, and we shall be the envy of Animal Farm. Now dispense with the foolishness and kiss me, seductress mare!”

Swept into the moment, a dust devil of aching need, Mollie surrendered and allowed Benjamin to become the horse’s ass.

"Final Destination" Flicks Forever

"Ok. Ok, what if, for example, the last in line were to make the utilitarian choice. Kill themselves. Well, wow, that's pretty much gonna ruin any plan deaths put in motion. And even better, I think that's gonna save, five skipped lives. Any takers?"

So I finally got to see Final Destination 3 last night. Now goofy as it is, I'm a big fan of the series, and while this one wasn't quite as good as the others, it was still hugely entertaining and wonderfully gory.

What I REALLY liked and urge everyone to rent the film to watch is the animated short, "It's All Around You". The it, of course, is death. Basically, the thrust of the piece is that death is everywhere and is going to get us all, so quit moping and enjoy life. This is a philosophy I've kept for a long time now, so it's no wonder I liked it. But I got a real kick out of the odds and stats that were presented. For example, think about the usual one in a million stat. All right. So the population of the United States is roughly 280 million people. Technically, that would mean that 280 separate one in a million events would happen every day.

Oh...and your chances of dying? One to one.

This is the kind of stuff that makes me giggle, whatever that says about me.

Goofball Reviews

These are some reviews I've written about I've books I've read for one reason or another. It might prove amusing.

Enchantress Mine - Bertrice Small

When I think about it, Bertrice Small does a good job of making those of us with Celtic blood seem completely flakey. The good news is that--so far as I know--this is an inaccurate portrayal. But I got to a point in this read where if I read one more thing about the heroine's inbred Celtic mysticism, I was going to make a cross quarter fire from its pages.

This is neither a good book nor a bad book. I thought this was an indifferent book--one interesting enough to keep reading in order to find out what happens, but not interesting enough to suggest to a friend. For the umpteenth time, perfect heroines are utterly boring. Mairin is perfect in body, mind, and soul. Heck, she is said to have even been a beautiful child--breathtaking at age five. Five? For crying out loud, wait to begin the story until she's around puberty. With three "heroes" in the cast, I hoped at least one would be interesting. No such luck. So much for the leads in this melodrama!

In this book's favor, I have to applaud small's exploration of history, in this case the circumstances around the Norman Conquest. Actually, large parts of the book read like a history text, which is probably a bad thing in a novel.

This was a quick read, so if you're reading for sheer fun, there's much worse out there. Of course, there's also much better. That's the quandary of being indifferent.


Nocturnal Witchcraft - Konstaninos

Basically this book is taking Scott Cunningham's classic Wicca and reading it in a dark closet. It's the same stuff all over again thinly veiled in shadows.

Now I'm not at all new to the Craft or mystical studies, so I'm always looking for new books that seem to promise a new perspective or new ideas. Having read the suthor's Vampires--The Occult Truth, I thought Nocturnal Witchcraft would be such a book. It's not. This is the same old thing rehashed, greyscaled, and repackaged.

I also don't think the author was as careful with his research as he should have been. One point pricked me in particular. He talks about Anubis, the Egyptian deity most associated with embalming and funerary rituals, having the ankh of eternal life as his symbol. While it's true that Anubis was sometimes depicted holding an ankh, the symbol is most closely associated with the god Osiris. Elsewhere, the author seems to give the powers and traits of Osiris to Anubis. Additionally, the ankh appeared with ANY figure representing death or the underworld. So if the author happens to be especially fond of Anubis, maybe he should have just said this instead of mangling Egyptian myth. He had the opportunity to teach and didn't take it.

So if you're new to the world of Craftiness, you might find this interesting. But anyone really interested in the shadows won't find anything of use here.

The Jesus Papers - Michael Baigent

Baigent wrote this for the money? As Samuel Johnson once said, "No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money." Besides, if it sells, who's really at fault--the author or the readers?

Perhaps because I am not a Christian I am more open to possibilities presented in texts like this one. That is, that's not my faith, so there's no faith to be tested. This time, Baigent presents the mother of all cover-ups for our consideration. I think for the sake of intelligent debate, all arguments need to be examined outside of the realm of faith. To a large extent, it would be faith in the traditional concepts of Jesus that would render Baigent's work "blasphemous". Otherwise, we have a historian working at his craft--and take it from me, historians aren't usually rolling in money.

Sure, I understand where a lot of this book is not supported by solid facts or resources. The Bible has the same problem.

If your mind is open and you don't put all of your eggs into one faith basket, you may find this to be an interesting read. Yet I wonder, if a book like this can shake one's faith, how strong is that faith in the first place?

Piercing The Darkness: Undercover with Vampires in America Today - Katherine Ramsland

Let me begin by saying that vampires/vampyres ARE in fact real. What might need adjusting is your definition.

Ramsland wrote this book much the way I imagine a child would write about his day at the zoo. I got the feeling that she wanted the reader to understand how adventurous and intrepid she was in plunging into a psychotic world of fetishes, blood, dysfunctionality, and flaky "professionalism".

How Ramsland could have had so much contact with the life and have understood it so poorly astounds me. She is supposed to be a psychologist. How can she not see the validity of the life and the psychological foundations of "vampirism/vampirism"? How could she not understand that what one embraces as reality is, in fact, reality?

Read this is you value shock and schlock over substance. If you'd like a peek into the online vampire/vampyre world, plug the subject into a search engine.

The Teachings of Don Juan - Carlos Castaneda

If you have a field of devilweed (datura) growing behind your house, don't get down on all fours and start grazing. Don Juan is not about teaching US this "Yaqui Way of Knowledge", but rather the unique story between a sorcerer-teacher and an eager student.

Ladies and gentlemen, I for one know with a preternatural certainty that Don Juan is not fiction. Let me say the shamanic experiences described herein ring true to me in recollection of my own visions and travels, and let's leave it at that.

Carlos Castaneda was a brilliant man. This is most obvious in his writing. After all, this is not the simplest topic in the world to write about, and yet Castaneda did so with wit, verve, and style. I especially appreciate how Don Juan is divided into two parts, experiential and academic (Castaneda was a graduate student at the time).

Someone said to me that Castaneda was "trite" compared to authors like Depak Chopra (cough cough). I'd believe that this person simply was unable to "get" Castaneda--maybe Don Juan was too intense and too earthy. Draw your own conclusions.

Deliciously Morbid

--The practice of burying the dead may date back 35000000000 years, as evidenced by a 45-foot-deep pit in Atapuerca, Spain, filled with the fossils of 27 hominids of the species Homo heidelbergensis, a possible ancestor of Neanderthals and modern humans.

--There are at least 200 euphemisms for death, including "to be in Abraham's bosom," "just add maggots," and "sleep with the Tribbles" (a Star Trek favorite).

--No American has died of old age since 1951. That was the year the government eliminated that classification on death certificates.

--The trigger of death, in all cases, is lack of oxygen. Its decline may prompt muscle spasms, or the "agonal phase," from the Greek word agon, or contest.

--Within three days of death, the enzymes that once digested your dinner begin to eat you. Ruptured cells become food for living bacteria in the gut, which release enough noxious gas to bloat the body and force the eyes to bulge outward.

--Burials in America deposit 827,060 gallons of embalming fluid—formaldehyde, methanol, and ethanol—into the soil each year. Cremation pumps dioxins, hydrochloric acid, sulfur
dioxide, and carbon dioxide into the air.

--A Swedish company, Promessa, will freeze-dry your body in liquid nitrogen, pulverize it with high-frequency vibrations, and seal the resulting powder in a cornstarch coffin.
They claim this "ecological burial" will decompose in 6 to 12 months.

--Zoroastrians in India leave out the bodies of the dead to be consumed by vultures. The vultures are now dying off after eating cattle carcasses dosed with diclofenac, an anti-inflammatory used to relieve fever in livestock.

--In Madagascar, families dig up the bones of dead relatives and parade them around
the village in a ceremony called famadihana. The remains are then wrapped in a new shroud and reburied. The old shroud is given to a newly married, childless couple to cover the connubial bed.

--During a railway expansion in Egypt in the 19th century, construction companies unearthed so many mummies that they used them as fuel for locomotives.

--English philosopher Francis Bacon, a founder of the scientific method, died in 1626 of pneumonia after stuffing a chicken with snow to see if cold would preserve it.

--For organs to form during embryonic development, some cells must commit suicide. Without such programmed cell death, we would all be born with webbed feet, like ducks.

--More people commit suicide in New York City than are murdered.

Just Like Magic

Magic has been kind to me for many years. The most important way is how I have learned to look deeper into myself, to throw back the veils and come to understand this spiritual being called "me". Even as the world around me seems to be losing purpose and beauty, magic always brings me back to perceive both in any situation.

I believe a great part of what made 2006 a banner year for me is magic and living witchcraft. Certainly what most people consider to have been my greatest achievement--the publication of my first book, a handbook for tea leaf reading--was a magically driven success. But to me, that wasn't the greatest achievement. It's all the smaller achievements that have enabled me to live a good life that I treasure.

Once upon a time, I was deathly afraid of talking on the telephone. In 2006, I was a call-in guest to the Martha Stewart Show--talking on the telephone in front of the entire country. There's a huge step forward. I used to have a terrible temper. In 2006, I reached a point where I simply no longer felt such destructive anger. In my work I had many creative projects that had stalled at the beginning. In 2006, I learned how to overcome the roadblocks my own mind threw in my way, and while it's a continuing process, I'm making great progress. In 2006, I continued on a path of compassion, unconditional love, and growing trust. The path ahead looks inviting.

In 2007, I will continue the walk I have begun in the confidence of my belief. I will look within for my personal "demons" and attempt to subdue them one by one. There are many more books to be written. But perhaps most important to me is the idea of using my magic-suffused ability to remedy problems in the mundane world. I do this because I love my fellow humans, my fellow lifeforms, and my planet. We need a significant change, and I want to be a part of it.

The Heartless Bitch

I used to have a heart. But you know something? A heart was getting in my way. I wanted to roll across everyone and sundry like the juggernaut of a woman that I am, without remorse, regret, or repercussions. Feelings might be nice for some, but give me a delightful numbness and a complete indifferencegasm and I’m a joyful woman. So I grabbed my toolbox and cracked open my sternum to get at my heart. Blood? Pain? I thrive on it. I dug my hooked fingers in, ripped out my heart, took a healthy bite just for good measure, threw that sucker on the dirty floor and danced it into cardiac jelly.

Indeed, I am a heartless bitch.

Not that I hate men. Men have their use, of course. In fact, I was married once upon a time. But romantic love and I are eternal antagonists. I spent eight years in legal bondage as an ice queen with incredible acting skills. That’s been done for a long time now. I moved through the separation without ache or pain. I wanted it to be over so that I could move on to the life I wanted to make for myself.

And I have made that life. I am my own drive pursuing my own substance and meaning. The only person I can truly rely upon is me. Once I learned the truth of that lesson, nothing has been able to restrain me.

I do try to convey my message of heartless bitchiness/feminine independent power to others. I have never cared what others think of me—of my clothes, of my language, of my choices, of my mistakes. No one can determine what is right for me but me. I scorn fashion and trends. I will not take a spin class or go out on a questionable date because I have been pressured to do so. I understand that ultimately my opinion is the only one that really counts.

If all of this makes me a heartless bitch, then at least I am a genuine one.

Antichrists and Oranges

From April 15, 1997
ANTICHRISTS AND ORANGES:
MARILYN MANSON PLAYS ORLANDO

"Why would I want to go someplace that's full of fucking assholes?"

And so, with a contemptuous gesture towards the arena entrance, did Marilyn Manson sum up his thoughts on "heaven" and the group of Christian protesters gathered outside. The outcry against Manson's performance at the University of Central Florida Arena was quiet in comparison to the wild rumpus which has followed Marilyn Manson (the band) throughout it's Antichrist Superstar tour (Note--It was actually called the "Dead to the World Tour"). As I am writing this, Manson fans and religious zealots are gearing up for the April 17 showdown in Jacksonville, Florida, where more than 800 people have written complaints about the scheduled tour stop to the mayor, and the mayor has expressed a desire to see the show canceled.

However, there was very little of this antagonism apparent in the Orlando crowd I found myself screaming, shouting, and dancing with on April 15. For being a bunch of hellbound slaves of the antichrist (so speaks the opposition), the crowd was friendly, cordial, and even downright nice to each other. Maybe every tenth person was dressed in something other than black. And even then, those folks were part of the circus for not conforming to our social non-conformity.

My husband and I are *huge* Manson fans. In fact, we drove from Tallahassee to Orlando for the show to celebrate our fourth wedding anniversary.

A blistering opening performed by Helmet prepared the crowd for the aural onslaught to come. That energy came to a frustrated peak when a trio of women bearing cellos (electric cellos?) took the stage. Who were they? I have no idea. Neither did anyone around me. After the Helmet set, the audience was primed for Marilyn Manson to take the stage. The mysterious cellists received a lukewarm (at best) reception. Then again, it was all part of the twisted circus. By the way, if you happened to be at the show, and you know who the cellists were, please e-mail me.

(NOTE: The chicks with the cellos were the band Rasputina.)

Being a Manson fan, I won't even try to present an unbiased concert review. The band could have had dead bugs stuck in their instruments, and I probably still would have enjoyed it. There are a few relatively objective comments I can make. For instance, the sound quality in the arena was excellent, and the musicians were up to the same form as on their recordings. The performance sounded--as it should, I suppose--like the albums from which the songs were taken. Incidentally, Marilyn Manson covered a wide range of material from Antichrist Superstar, included their "Sweet Dreams" cover from Smells Like Children, and performed a few classic tunes from their debut, Portrait of an American Family.

What would Marilyn Manson the man be without Marilyn Manson the band? It's hard to focus on Manson's incredible stage presence and showmanship while seeming to ignore Twiggy Ramirez, Zim Zum, Madonna Wayne Gacy, and Ginger Fish. But the show belongs to Manson. He keeps the focus on himself, on the saga of Wormboy's transformation into the Antichrist Superstar.

I didn't get backstage. I didn't try, and I didn't feel like I had to. Marilyn Manson has the ability to make one feel that they've been in direct contact with him. Don't laugh. There was a connection between Manson and the audience that was almost tangible. Even in our upper-level section, people somehow felt they had been touched by the Reverend--both by his art, and by himself.

Oh yeah...about the pamphlet...

Well, I returned to my car after the concert to find that certain religious factions had deemed it necessary to debauch my nice vehicle with their babblings. So I removed the pamphlet, held it up to the crowd of thirty or so who were around me in the parking lot. I then proceeded to pull down my pants and wipe my little heathen ass with the pamphlet, to great applause.

Friends have asked me why I defiled my body that way. I guess it was the spirit of the night.

And I have a footnote--I met Manson's dad, Hugh Warner, somewhere outside the men's restrooms. Nice chap.

The Loa Gate

“Where the hell are we?” Theda pressed her palm flat against a cold, smooth surface at her side. Cold, yes, but dark too. This whole place was dank and dark, humidity hanging in the air like a thunderstorm waiting to happen.

“New Orleans.”

“You’ve told me nothing.”

She looked across and in the shadows she could make out the shining white of clean bone. There was a skull, and there was more. Theda could see a plum velvet suit that created something like the skull’s body. A top hat did not hide the complete lack of hair. Sunglasses hid the empty eye sockets and a half-smoked cigar hung from the corner of the mouth, clenched between teeth that were doing something remarkable. They were turned up in a grin.

“You know me, petite, so let’s not indulge in nonsense.”

Reality sunk in like a rush of cold water flooding into Theda’s stomach. “Monsieur le Baron!”

A hand of thin bone reached up and took the cigar from his mouth. “Call me Samedi. We’re intimate enough.”

Theda sat quietly for a few moments, the ramifications too great for her mind. Finally, she looked at the Baron with something like remorse in her eyes. “I’m dead.”

The Baron spread his hands. “It pains me, but it’s not my doing, you understand.”

“How?” A spike of anger entered her voice. “How can I be dead?”

At that, an unearthly light dimly illuminated the area. With a fake cough, the Baron paused. “How? How is really not part of my domain. You were alone and you fell dead. Who knows why—perhaps your heart could not go on beating, perhaps a spring in your brain came unsprung. Your husband won’t be coming back, of course. No one will find you until your neighbor notices a funny smell. By the time you are discovered you will be so badly decomposed your very skin will stick to the carpet. Such is the circus of the mortal realm. You need not worry about it anymore.”

Theda considered this. Dead was dead, and that was that. “You still haven’t told me where we are.”

“We’re in a mausoleum,” the Baron answered, then drew on his cigar. “The Prejeans, I believe. I don’t really care. I get them all confused sooner or later.” With the forefinger of his free hand, he pointed at her. “You, however, are not quite finished. Close, yes, but not finished.”

“Finished with what?” Theda began to laugh. “You tell me I’m dead. How much more finished can I possibly be?”

“You’ve died out of balance. You cannot pass through the Loa Gate until you’ve fixed that balance.”

“Pardon?”

“Your husband,” the Baron thundered. “The philanderer. The coward who took to bed with the very woman you believed he loved but he denied. The whore who would fall into the arms of a married man. And Marni, the woman you called your closest friend, the woman who knew all of this and would not tell you. These three are your imbalance.”

Theda experienced something like a swoon. Greg had been talking with Raye for so long, Theda had often wondered why he ever needed her counsel. When Theda had first grown suspicious, she had only asked Greg for the truth. Of course he didn’t have a spark for Raye. Theda’s conspiracy complex must be working overtime. And Theda believed him, because what else could she do? She took her marriage seriously.

Marni’s betrayal seemed to hurt more. Best friends weren’t supposed to be in on a secret affair and not tell the spurned wife. Then again, Marni had been Raye’s friend too. Maybe Marni hadn’t wanted to explode this bomb. Yeah, right. More likely, Marni had been protecting herself.

Sliding to stand on the stone floor, Theda saw that she had been sitting on a coffin—a fairly new one of polished mahogany from the looks of it. “So tell me, Samedi, what do I do? I’m sure you’re here to help me somehow.”

“I’m here to reward your faith and devotion to me, to the Loa, and most of all to Bon Dieu.”

“I don’t understand.”

The cigar burned out, the Baron’s hand was free. He reached behind him and brought forth a caramel-colored glass bottle. “I’m returning the favor, petite. You offered me better rum than anyone else scattered to the winds. Good, hearty dark rum, not that tonic water I get from so many others.” With that, he took a healthy drink from the bottle. “Real rum from a real dedicant. If there is any greater tribute, I haven’t discovered it.”

Rum? Rum was going to help her settle her scores? “Tell me, Samedi, what can I do if I am dead?”

“What can’t you do if you’re dead?” The Baron cocked his head. “Come on, you know the powers of the dead. You can do anything. You can even send the spirits of the other dead into the living bodies of your enemies.”

Theda paused, speechless. The sending of the spirits—she hadn’t even thought of that. “But why would I send other spirits to do my work?”

“You’re too kind,” the Baron replied. “You would never be able to be as ruthless as this task requires. No, this is not for you, but for the truly wicked, the spirits unable to make peace of any kind with any entity.”

The Baron opened his plum velvet jacket and withdrew three phials from a pocket. Each phial contained the same grainy black-gray substance, but one was plugged with a red stopper, one with a white stopper, and one with a black stopper. Theda had already guessed what it was when the Baron smiled. “Graveyard dirt, carefully collected from an obsolete resting place upriver from here. Three bottles of demon-ridden dust from the graves of the most vile monsters to ever terrorize Louisiana.”

Theda pulled back a bit. She didn’t exactly cherish the idea of having evil-charged graveyard dirt on her person. In the next moment, it came to her again that she was dead and that the terrors of the living were no longer her problem. “I think I know how to use these.”

“This bottle is for the bastard,” the Baron said, handing her the phial with the black stopper. “This bottle with the red stopper is for his whore, and the last is for the traitor. “Don’t get them mixed up.”

Shaking her head, Theda examined the phials. Sending the spirits was the worst kind of magic that could be done. Was she angry enough at Greg, Raye, and Marni to utterly destroy them? In the end, all Theda had wanted was the truth. Instead she was stuck on the far side of the Loa Gate because these three people could only think of themselves. Yes, oh yes, she could do this.

She turned to the Baron. “What now?”

The Baron extended her hand to her, and she clasped the bones as if it were the hand of her beloved. “This won’t be easy for you,” he said. “But it will strengthen your resolve and it will prove to you the reason you are sending the spirits.”

In the next moment the Baron and Theda were in a lush hotel suite. She saw the bed out of the corner of her eye but she asked the Baron, “Won’t we wake them?”

“They can’t see us, of course. We’re of the spirit realm, but they’re of the flesh. The graveyard dirt is also of the earth.”

Gathering her nerve, Theda walked towards the bed. There she found Raye and Greg in an erotic embrace, asleep and entangled. Both of them were covered with sheets, but Theda couldn’t mistake what had been going on. On the other side of Raye Marni snuggled up against her.

“You know, I could have accepted this if they’d been honest with me,” she said to the Baron.”

“I know. You responsibility is what is, not what might have been. Send the spirits, petite. Do it and be done with this.”

Theda wouldn’t question the Baron’s wisdom. She took the black-stopped phial and opened it. Greg’s ear was in plain sight. Theda knew what would happen. The spirit would enter Greg’s body and find out his worst fear, the fear that could freeze him in his sleep. He would be a ruined man, but such was the penalty for betraying a dedicant of the Loa. Without another hesitation, Theda sprinkled some of the gravedirt into Greg’s ear. She thought she saw the dirt fade to white as it touched his skin. This whiteness gathered into a spiral of tiny clouds before rushing into the opening of the ear.

“The spirit is sent,” the Baron told Theda in a soft voice. “Finish what you must.”

“What will happen to them?”

The Baron shook his head. “That is not your concern, petite.”

“Tell me! By the love of Bon Dieu, I want to know. If I don’t know I will not find peace.”

“Do the others,” he said. “Do it all and I will tell you.”

Theda regarded the Baron, looking for some evidence of duplicity she would never find in the bone face. Why did she care anyway? However much she had loved Greg and Marni, they had betrayed her. She only felt a kind of mute hatred for Raye in any case. At the same time, she knew the grave dirt.

Before she could lose her composure, Theda poured dirt from the other phials into Marni’s ear and Raye’s ear, damn her. The she turned to the Baron. “I’ve done my part. Now do yours.”

The Baron nodded. “They’ll wish you’d killed them. The traitor will know with every nerve in her body that she is truly alone in this world. You were the only honest friend she will ever have. She will shake and sob for the rest of her days. When the whore awakes, she will hear nothing but the screeching of the one singer she likes least. The noise will possess her to the point of madness. She will never be free of it.”

Theda glanced at the bed. Yes, even in the face of it, she felt compassion for these people. But it was not her place to question the Loa. “And Greg?”

“He will suffer worst of all.” With a long thin finger bone he pointed to a piece of wire sculpture sitting on the nightstand. Theda recognized it. Greg’s art, if it were true that art was objective. He had been tinkering in their garage for months making objects from copper wire, white tubing, and anything else he could scavenge. This piece he had made for Raye. He had expressed his love for her in metal.

“He will lose all control over his hands forever. He will never do the work he loves again. This is his fate.”

In life Theda might have shed a tear, but there was no time. The hotel suite and New Orleans vanished. She found herself standing before a wrought iron gate with the Baron at her side. As the gates began to open, the Baron leaned over to place a hard kiss on Theda’s forehead.

“Bon Dieu will see you now, petite.”