Audioccult Vol. 113: Further Missed Psychick Connections

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

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ON THE BODIES OF MY TRIBUTES, I PLACE A SINGLE DIAMOND (m4m)

The flawless beauty in a diamond symbolizes the innocence of what humanity was, and what it can never be again. Captured in time, incandescent and pure: this is the state I leave them in, and as an artist would sign a painting so to do I sign my Gifts to Permanence with a single and perfect diamond. Come find me, detective . . . the game has just begun.

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THERE’S TREASURE EVERYWHERE (w4m)

Your dog looked like Hobbes to me. I want to take him home and recreate a story I’m going to write where Teen Calvin is there, and I’m Teen Susie, and even though we fight a lot and there’s a lot of tension between us, there’s also an underlying and unspoken love. I have dreams at night of walking in the woods. My hand grows cold, and he is there steadfast and strong to tell me that the night holds no terrors we cannot face together. He stops for a moment to urinate against a rusting automobile, looking over his shoulder at me with that cheeky smirk that I’ve come to love and loath in equal measures. As he turns back toward me, however, the grin fades and is replaced by an unmistakable look of longing. “Let’s go exploring,” he whispers, and I notice my blouse is already undone. Give me your dog.

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 TACO BELL PROMOTION CODE 726347989 (4thmeal4u)

What up this is famous hip hop rapper 2CHAINZ© and when I need to chew thangz I head to TACO BELL© and type in this promotion code. The tender ground 100% beef keeps me satisfied all mother fucking day, and the crisp fresh lettuce adds just the right balance of freshness to the kick of the hot sauce packets. Mountain Dew Baha Blast not cooling you down? I like push my hands deep into the plastic bins that hold the hot sauce packets. It cold in there, on my skin. Murder on the beat, hot sauce packets on the skin, my sick cat wailing “chewww chnnggz” in the car while I get my fill of cool hot sauce feelings and great TACO BELL© values inside. Tweet #UnWrapped for more 2CHAINZ© music.

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THE EPISODES OF ROSEANNE WHERE DAVID AND DARLENE ARE HAPPY TOGETHER (m)

I have ’em. I don’t need you anymore.

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THE GREAT TEMPTATION OF EVE (m4f)

Bad boy here: I’ve been abusing the Tinder button. I’m liking every face that slides by my gadgetscreen. Soon I get the Snapchat names; then comes the real moment. I send out the footage of my swollen glans; in the background, I play this clip. Same lighting and pose in every shot. The glow of the screen reflects off a diamond placed conspicuously just to the left of my turgid member. Horrible. The game continues . . .

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Audioccult Vol. 93: The Worst Parties You’ve Ever Been To

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

 

◊ SUBVERSION FETISH BALL: THE AWOKENING

Are you a Dark Romantic with a passion for pee-play that no God or Devil can sate? Do you desire to have your feet yelled at by the denizens of the night? Gross balls guy? Then enter our realm of whips and vampires or whatever. Pain and pleasure await…

This message is best viewed with one of the following fonts installed:
• Burton’s Nightmare: similar to the writing used in Tim Burton’s Nightmare Before Christmas
• Goodfellow: Similar to the font above.

>a embed=freakonaleash.midi>

That’s the gist of the email I received for the first truly awful party I ever went to. Don’t everyone say, “Duhh,” at once; I was young and easily influenced by vinyl-clad older women with serious issues. So yes, I went to the bad party, the worst party. I watched in bummed numbness as Dracula pretended to spank an anime. A woman with no conviction in her eyes or voice told a man he was a worm. Soundtrack by Lady Gaga. Eroticism courtesy of nobody. I guess if you’re going to garb yourself in an ill-fitting veneer of BDSM ‘subversiveness’ then you’re probably going to half-ass the soundtrack as well, but that was the part that disappointed me more than anything. I expected something more alien; the sound of depressurized hulls, machines being kicked down stairs that lead to forced breeding pens and oxygen tents. Oh well… I suppose there’s something at least mildly subversive about bad goths acting out vanilla fantasies to Pet Shop Boys. Pretty sure there’s a Deviantart gallery about this.

 

 

◊ REAL TRAP SH*T

Nothing says ‘genuine thug’ like an asterisked swear word. I can’t really judge them for being the whitest bros in the world since I’m pale enough to be invisible, but when there’s a hundred of them hanging out in a bar with an MC who looks like Simon Pegg doing the Flocka ‘bow bow bow’ bark, you have a recipe for a night of shame. The overly-enthusiastic party photographer was using flash for every shot as well, so all the photos looked like ghosts in Supreme hats. To make things even better, the bar came with the standard sound limiter (which I’m petitioning to rename “DJ hate crimes”). Aww yeah, dog. This rap song is good as hell, but do you know what would make it even better? Turn that shit down a little bit. Nawww…lower. Mmm. Make those 808s into 404s—make ’em unavailable as sh*t. And now the bass is gone too? Homeboy.

◊ NEW YEARS BLOWOUT

Not actually a party, more going over to my sister’s house and making guacamole for her New Year’s gathering because I had nothing else to do. “I’m guacin’ here”: cool thing I say when I make guacamole. Sometimes I mix it up and say, “Guac it to me, baby,” like a New York tough guy to impress my nieces and nephew. Doesn’t work. They’ve seen me puke.

 

 

◊ SURPRISE PARTY #1

This was a surprise party for my grandpa, but I walked in the door ahead of him and everyone yelled, “SURPRISE!”, and I got really excited. I had to have a time-out for this one, too—for “inappropriate dinner topics.” Sorry, dad, but Boondock Saints fans are basically the nu-metal kids of film, and that is why the movie will never be part of the Criterion Collection. It’s like putting ‘Peel Session’ at the end of Limp Bizkit song titles. I’m the one who scratched your Blu-Ray too, fucker.

◊ SURPRISE PARTY #2

This one was actually for me, but the presents were the worst presents and soiled the atmosphere of the party. Kitsuné CDs? How about an Ed Banger record while we’re at it. A Bo Jackson poster where Bo Knows how to be tough and hold a bat behind his shoulders instead of in front, excellent present for an artistic goth kid. A beautifully-bound collection of hand-drawn Hank Hill/Al Bundy yaoi, rendered absolutely worthless due to unforgivable inaccuracies. Uncircumcised Hank? Honestly?? You dumbass.

◊ PARTY IN BED

Who says you can’t party in bed? Filter wouldn’t. Filter would yank down my pants and then say something mean about Chris Cornell, like maybe my pubics represent his mustache. Me and my Filter records, living Large and In Charge in my bed. It’s lonely at the top, and when you’re awake.

◊ YOUR BAD PARTY

For as many bad parties as I’ve been to, there’s always more—parties that list genres they never play on the flyer, parties with good music but nobody’s dancing, parties with weird smells that linger over the dancefloor and you spend the whole night wondering if it’s you. The possibilities are endless. If you have some terrible party stories too, feel free to share them in the comments section below. I’ll select one lucky local winner to spend time with me (amount of time to be decided by myself).

◊ PARTY WITH ME

A good party is like a knife… beautiful, potentially dangerous, and sticking out of my stomach. Please call help. Please help me. please call help ⁓

 

 

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Audioccult Vol. 79: The Punishment for Twerking Is Death

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

 

It’s illegal to twerk now. The news flashes across every available screen; the skies blotted out by bulletins pouring from zeppelins, their massive bulks recommissioned to inspire terror and nostalgia for a time when dancing was restricted to jitterbugs and tarantism. Neither Man nor Woman may perform the act or even say the word. I’m frolicking through the gray areas of the law by even typing the word, but then the risk is how I make my paper (income). The popular Halloween costumes for men this year (Miley Cyrus, Zombie Miley Cyrus, Miley popping it on the WTC if you’re a bad boyee) sit uselessly on their human hangers. “Who are you supposed to be?” must now be answered in the form of spoken word rather than through the awkward body movements of frames unaccustomed to dances that don’t involve clenched fists held closely to the body. Juicy J’s raps now come out only as a series of blubbering, animal-like sobs and half-finished sentences. Lou Bega’s attempt to remind people that he’s alive by releasing the single “Tw*rky, Tw*rky” merely results in police officers showing up outside his house and laughing contemptuously.

Even the Heavens themselves quake with the infallibility of the law. The Teen Deities stalk restlessly, Teen Jesus has taken to hanging with Ian Curtis, affecting a pouty face whenever spoken to. Teen Buddha is gaining weight steadily, a lack of pleasurable movement causing Rubenesque limbs to expand into debilitating obesity. Teen Kali no longers wears anything except her ‘Edgy Miley’ costume around the house and to the dinner table, the pent-up energy in her hips and heinder creating dangerous fluxes throughout reality. Teen Metatron stares in panicked indecision at his fifth period notebook cover, a dozen iterations of the words “NO GODS NO MASTERS” done in sharpie and subsequently crossed out. Creation is in chaos.

There were days of debate leading up the the decision, a seemingly infinite line of condemnation and hyperbole gushing forth from our temples of law and order. Law & Order: SVU did a two-part episode where a student twerks in school, resulting in getting yelled at by the principal and her dad. House Speaker John Boehner gave a long and rambling speech in a golden crown and lambskin robe, referring to himself multiple times as, “the spiritual opposite of Rihanna’s “Diamonds”,” and emphasizing each point by rhythmically thumping his chest. At hour ten he had turned red and grown to twice his normal height, and by the end of third day the law was in effect.

Thousands of news outlets have shut down now. Babies weep in their cribs, knowing that something has been lost but unable to grasp what it is.

The ineptness of audible language fails us more and more, our bodies seeking to act out movements they no longer have access to.

Last night, a vision came to me. The saucer from the I WANT TO BELIEVE poster materialized in a flash of light. The beings (though the word that filled my mind at the time was ‘saviors’) which emerged from that indistinct craft are nearly unfathomable to my eyes, yet there’s a certain sexual grace to their movements… a bounce. I was not afraid. They handed me a book, and as my fingers brushed the velvet-soft spine I became filled with a soul-deep peace I had never felt before. They departed then, leaving me alone in the dark, yet still I could read the words emblazoned on the cover: “TO TWERK MAN”. When I awoke, however, there was only a great stillness.

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Audioccult Vol. 78: It’s Getting Goth In Here, So Take Off All Your Clothes

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

 

Woke up from more dreams of all-devouring chaosbeasts (I really need to take that mural down) to find myself lying in a pool of darkness. A moment of panic before I realized I’d fallen on my floor into my dirty laundry. The abundance of gothiness in the room was suddenly overwhelming, and I picked everything up and shoved it into a bag in the back of my closet. There’s really only a certain amount of black clothing you can amass before you either need a change or you just give in and start buying incense. I like Prurient and all, but come on. It’s time for one of October’s most celebrated of events: the Goth Garage Sale. These have a pretty high difficulty rating, unfortunately. Goths and garage sales don’t really mix. First you have to actually coax goths out of their homes, because if you want to make money with a bunch of drapey black things, you won’t do it by parking on the curb with an expectant attitude. It’s hard to convince most people to stop and look at anything when Peter Murphy is crying in the background, and Rick Owens tag or no, nobody walking by randomly on the street really wants to pay 200€ for apparently pajamas. Not that I have that issue; sorting through the morass of black clothes in various states of decay is a bit sad, to be honest. I’m fairly rough on clothing, and even some of my more high-end stuff (a leather hat I found in Japan, a normal jean jacket with no Sharpie cusses) has a tendency to get a bit trashed when I do. Give me Prada and I’ll give you a pizza stain.

 

 

It’s not hard to decide what to get rid of. Being a writer and promoter means that I’m often given clothing promos by labels and brands both large-scale and DIY. This has mixed results. I’m not particularly fond of prints, and it’s rare I’ll wear a band shirt unless the design is particularly cool (Pictureplane), the music has special meaning to me (Chelsea Wolfe) or it commemorates my undying love for Aaliyah. I can certainly do without the M-size Fruit of The Loom tee with “WHAT IS A JUGGALO” (front) and an extensively written explanation of what a juggalo is (back) in Garamond Pro. The creepers and beanies definitely need to go. After seeing every other thirteen year-old girl in Tokyo dressed basically like me, that sort of thing has lost its luster. The hardest part, however, comes after the purge. When you’ve been draping one shade across yourself for such a long time, anything else feels a bit strange. Transitional colors like burgundy are helpful in easing back into the polychromatic world, especially around this time of year. As well, a change in social armor can lead to a change in social attitude for the better. All too often I’ll wear one layer of black clothing too many and start mistaking the female symbol on the lady’s room for an upside-down cross and go in, assuming they’re expecting me. Wear Doc Martens for more than a week straight and you’ll start finding yourself recording samples of broken glass. Some of mine are over two hours long. The paths that led me here lead back out again, and that way has a reduced price tag due to tomato sauce. Find the table with the guy looking uncomfortable in a navy blue sweatshirt. No tears for the creatures of the night…? ~

 

 

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Audioccult Vol. 77: ASMR & Shreklationships

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 know this might be a strange thing to say, but I’m really into those ASMR videos. You know, the ones where somebody taps on a bag of beans or whispers about elves or gets punched in the stomach by a friend? I think those are all really great. Sometimes when I’m next to my computer (it’s a mac) I put them on while I eat cronut holes and talk about Miley Cyrus, Breaking Bad, and Gravity. I think my favorite ones are the ones where people eat different kinds of food. Not because I like food or watching people eat or anything, really. I know everyone’s expecting a reason with some artistic, ironic, or reconceptualist thought process behind it, like what if the Cremaster Cycle was about a shut-in doing binaural gum chewing. Or maybe you’re thinking, hahah. This guy is about to say, “Psych. You fucker idiot. This dumb shit is for creeps.” But actually I really like it. I have fifty-seven bookmarked videos of camera lens brushing. For the last two months, however, I’ve been unable to find the proper drivers that allow me to play Shrek: Shrek Forever After. Shrek will return in The Stranger Wore Green, but I’m simply unwilling to wait that long to see the animated ogre’s adventures. Jokes for me and jokes for my kids? This stuff is amazing. It’s also the worst legal drug I’ve ever experienced.

I will say it in the simplest language that I can: Shrek has enriched my spiritual life and destroyed my earthly life. Because of the amount of energy which I have invested in Shrek and Shrek fanfics where I meet the characters from Shrek and get them to sign my Shrek merchandise, my mental slate has become little more than a surface where I crush the pills of obsession and snort them into my soul. My need to expound on the subtle intricacies of Shrek The Third has destroyed several relationships and an equal number of movie nights. I’m sorry you’re too busy texting to notice when cinema is being shown to you and you’re getting the inside scoop straight From The Ogre’s Mouth (my ‘zine, write me for shipping costs), maybe just stay home if you can’t deal with intelligent discussion. I’m lying in my bed vectoring a hand-drawn photo of Donkey being digitally erased from the Shrekiverse by forward-thinking animators. An older man from the Ukraine is whispering about his kids and crumpling up a potato chip bag. I understand nothing. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves. ~

 

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