Light a candle. Draw the required sigils. Now, raise your arms above your head and slowly, gently, exhale your soul. You won’t need it here. This is Audioccult, and it’s time to get low. Illustration: SHALTMIRA
I’m currently sitting in the middle of Tokyo’s Shibuya district. Around me, the crowds shift and scramble over each other on platform shoes of various sizes. Beside me, a variety of things rest: a pair of Rick Owens pants I found for the equivalent of €24; chocolate made from sweet potato; knives shaped like pyramids; a leather-brimmed hat designed by a Thelemic shaman saying KILL EVERYTHING. Behind me lies a night of performing in the studio of the local Tower Records, surrounded by video cameras absorbing the harsh noise Beyonce pleasures that I shrieked at an excited Japanese audience. I can’t imagine why people struggle to become CEOs or political figures. If this doesn’t qualify as a position of power, I don’t know what does.
As I prepare to leave for another set, I’d like to share some letters I’ve received from readers. For a brief time, I played with the idea of providing advice for people. ADVICECULT lasted all of a day before I realized I’m the least-likely person to be telling other people how to live (unless they’re particularly fond of spending half a paycheck on blown-up photos of skin diseases, which many people are not), so I Dave Coulier’d myself and cut it the fudge out. Still, a few found their way to me and, while I have no interest in giving any sort of help (very busy with macha), I do enjoy sharing the pain of others. Here’s a few choice offerings for your mental schadenfreudeian altar.
I’m a relatively handsome-faced man with nice teeth and the most luscious locks to ever get tangled and tussled by a bevy of bodacious broads. Here’s the sitch, tho: my gargantuan gut! I’m a serious food addict and I’ll kind of eat anything really, including garbage and hair from the comb of my date if I think I can grab it and run without getting in trouble. All day long the restaurants and cinemas of my small town echo with my gross guy gulps. I’m just super into eating and it needs to stop. From one worldly dog to another, lay it on me, throw down on this chow hound!
– Disgusting Food Man
You know those packets that come in all your electronics and beef jerky packets that say DO NOT EAT? I ate ’em. Now I find that I’m somewhat addicted to the unique ‘flavor’. I don’t appear to be suffering unduly from it, and I generally pass them whole. “No muss, no fuss.”
My problem is my husband. He’s complaining that the packets are there for a reason, and yelling at me every time I open his jerky before him. Beef hubby is pissed and Best Buy won’t let me inside anymore. Please advise.
I recently received a Facebook request from a former high school acquaintance which, as with most figures from my unfortunate past, I ignored and swiftly forgot. A few days later, I started my new job. Who should I see working the fry station but the same guy who requested my friendship! As we’re working in very close quarters there’s not much chance for avoidance, and every day he’s getting more and more insistent that I add him since, he says: “we’re McBros.” How do I explain that former teachers and students shouldn’t really be ‘bros’, regardless of current life situations?
Greasy Teach ~
Published September 21, 2013. Words by Daniel Jones.