Wish You Were Here

Disclaimer:

The story you are about to read is based on actual events. Names have been changed to protect the guilty. This is pure Gonzo-deSade - if you are easily offended by adult language, sexual situations, drug fiends, homophobia, or salacious behavior - move on. This is not for you.

 

I woke up in my pajamas curled up on the couch like a rehab patient.

Hung. Over.

It felt like an iron balloon was inflating inside my skull. My stomach pinched and turned in nauseating waves that crested between the sadness and paranoia.

So many questions...

"Why was my mobile phone in the fish tank? Did I drunk dial my mother again? Did things get ‘out of hand' while sexting with an ex? Could that explain all these empty Tabasco bottles in the bathtub? But why did I microwave pudding? Or Photoshop Hitler mustaches on pictures of Cate Blanchett and email them to The Vatican? Just for kicks? Or was there some deeper psychological root to all this mania? How twisted was I? Maybe I should go to the hospital, call the paramedics, seek help now --- Holy Krishna! Get it together, lass. This is just the drifting haze of the aftermath. Ride it out. Eat some carbs. You'll be back to super-hero status lickety-split."

Indeed. It seems all it takes to uncover this kind of spastic emotional hysteria is 3 bottles of Bordeaux, 2 cups of coffee, 5 shots of tequila, a hash brownie, 2 tabs of xanax, and a devastating break-up. Yes, I've recently lost the love of my life due to a rather silly but irreversible skirmish on the number of accessories I should've added to my iPeen (see previous blog - and please, stop sending me hate-mail. I am keeping my elegant vagina. Reset and move on).  

Now, my head knows the dangers of committing spiritual archeology under the heavy drapes of drugs & alcohol. But during deep dramatic distress my bohemian-heart pops like a blowfish calling the "fuck-it-all" devils to rise from the depths, seize the helm, and steer me directly into the eye of the crashing storm.

I wanted to drink and forget and awaken on the far shore depleted and sore from the jagged tiers of the frigid rocks. So here I was, alone and shattered, hoping this sad-sickness would soon surrender itself out of me.

And then my landline rang.

It was Jonah - one of my dearest friends and co-conspirators. He is an excellent example of living a self-defined life. I've always believed him to be the psychic lovechild of Abbie Hoffman and Freddy Mercury. Together, we are the best of the worst. True professional degenerates. Whenever he calls, beautiful trouble follows.

"Otep," he said, "drop the doom and gloom, pack a bag, and get cute. We're going to Tijuana."

"What the fuck are we gonna do down there?" I asked. "Get robbed?"

He said, "That's enough of that, scholar. I know exactly what you need: fun, sun, and Mexican skydiving."

I dribbled, "Jonah, I'm a mess today. I still miss her. Another time, okay?"

Jonah shouted, "Get it together goddammit! You called me at 4 this morning screaming about how ‘our side' is losing the fight for Gay Rights, that your ex won't return your calls, and how quickly you were sinking into the sand! As your sponsor in debauchery, I cannot stand by and watch you become another soggy cliché! We are going to fucking Mexico, my friend!"

I wanted to hang up. I wanted to slip back beneath the blankets and drift deep into the calm waters of depression.

I said, "I don't think I have the emotional architecture for this level of adventure."

"No worries." He said. "I've got the sure cure: ACID."

"Are you serious?" I asked.

He was serious.

"Come on O, don't say no." He pleaded. "We need to do this. I got it all taken care of. Trust me. After this trip, you're gonna be good as new!"

Normally, I would say no - LSD is not a drug I am partial too - but I was in serious emotional crisis and his enthusiasm was too much for me to resist. The "fuck-it-all" devils once again grabbed the controls and I surrendered.

Skydiving. On acid. I was impressed. "Excellent form, sir. Let's do it."

He beamed, "I knew you wouldn't let me down. We can trip on our trip and we'll peak by the time we fly the friendly skies. If we leave now we can be there by 3 o'clock."

"On the way we have to stop", I said, "So I can get a new phone. Can't go on this journey unarmed."

He laughed, "That's the spirit! Make sure it takes video! Now, look out your window."

He was parked in my driveway.

I got dressed, threw a bag together, and raced to the car. He dosed me as soon as I got in and we sped off for the border - music blaring, eyes wide, minds open.

By the time we passed through San Diego a strange crystalline network of glowing prisms, organic fractals, and rainbow webbing had emerged and devoured the peripherals. The passing landscape melted and split like a watercolor Rorschach. I found myself lost in the Escher angles of the Great Cosmic Grid. Everything was infinite and ever expanding. I realized we, the human species, were nothing but holograms projected over the octagonal gravitational planes.

Beautiful. Right?
I thought so.

Then the sun began to bleed and pulse like a colossal strobe light. The landscape darkened and drowned in inky petroleum and choked with ash and fire. Then hundreds of hairy spiders, giant scorpions, and hagfish began plopping all around me.

My visions kept coming: I saw black Jesus riding a dragonfly, armor-plated grizzly bears ripping Sarah Palin to pieces, Jerry Falwell sucking off Mickey Mouse, and a sleeping winged land whale (whatever that is) laying soft white eggs on the scaly skin of some forgotten Sumerian God. It was incredible.

After an hour or so of this miserable nightmare, everything dissolved into a radiant storm of tiny embers. Everyone and everything looked to be made of fireflies. When we reached the border, the guard either didn't notice or didn't care about my incessant staring because he just waved us through.  

We somehow found our hotel, checked in (without getting arrested), and then lit out for the airfield. Jonah's timing was impeccable. 3:05 on the nose.

We met up with our instructors, had a 7-minute tutorial session, and then bam! We were up 13,000 feet and ready to vault into the stratosphere.

But then the drug turned on me.

I kept thinking that whatever I was doing to my mind could never be undone. And that all these people standing around me were conspiring to poison and murder me.

Not the thoughts one wants to have while racing 300 mph over the jagged Mexican terrain. And things were getting worse. I glanced at Jonah. He was laughing hysterically, which (of course) I perceived as evil incarnate.

Fear gripped my spine. Everything felt ominous. I suddenly realized that I was strapped to a portly little man named José - yes, my instructor. I think he said something like, "ARRRE YOOUU RREADY?" But before I could process the question, José stepped out of the plane and we tumbled into the atmosphere.

I remember falling.  And thinking, "This must be how Icarus felt" and someone shouting, "HOLY GOD WE'RE GONNA DIE!" It was José. What kind of demented jackass screams something like that while strapped to a noob with a head full of acid?

I closed my eyes. Terrible idea. I could see the inside of my skull.

José shouted again, "I'm just messing with ya!"

The treachery of the moment was too much for my senses to bear. I must have blacked out. I don't remember landing. I don't remember punching José. I don't remember how we got back to the hotel. Or how I got under the bed. But when I woke the drug was long gone. Jonah had moved on to another - Ecstasy. (And probably a little demon-speed)

He was shirtless wearing a man-thong, listening to his iPod, and dancing like an eel out of water. He spoke to me in a rapid, unbroken cadence only a few major-league drug cosmonauts could master:

"Otizzle!Good.You're awake!You okay?Why did you punch that guy?They were gonna call the cops.Luckily, I brought petty cash.You owe me $150 American. Just kidding. You hungry? I ordered grilled cheese sandwiches and a fruit platter from room service.Have some melon.It's good.I don't want any right now but you go for it.See, I told you it was going to be fun. Go ahead have a peach."

I was much too grumpy for fruit. "What time is it?"

"It's daytime." He said. "On Sunday.Come on, get up. Let the healing begin. I've got something really special lined up for tonight."

"Dog races?" I asked.

"Even better." He said. "Chop chop. Get a move on. Later, I reveal the true purpose for our Mexican invasion!"

Before we go on I should give you a little more info on Jonah. He's a self-loathing TV producer who uses his absurd wealth to make up for the fact that he's a self-loathing TV producer. He's also the kind of beautiful lunatic who will persuade me to go skydiving on acid without telling me our trip also includes a dinner with leaders of the ultra-conservative group "Marriage is Holy".

Awesome, isn't he?

The first couple arrived at the restaurant shortly after we did. The husband, Reed, was a major stockholder in a Conservative cable news network, and his wife, Cassandra, was a bulimic aristocrat with a bad pill habit.

The second couple arrived a few minutes later. They were bitching about the cab driver and accusing the "sand-monkey" of taking the long way so he could plump the meter.

The husband, Pervis, was a Baptist Minister specializing in gay exorcisms and supervised the nefarious "HOMO NO-MO" clinic. His wife, Eustace, was Republican royalty - her father was a famous segregationist.

I chose not to reveal my politics or my loud & proud outlaw rock-poet heresy. I didn't have the energy or interest to intellectually pummel these volcanic-enema-men or their blue-blood brides. Silence was the key to my stability. And theirs.

Between breaths, and stuffing their craws with food and booze, these pontificating scab-bags railed on and on against the evils of the Internet, atheists, feminists, and fags.

Pervis barked, "Can you believe what these sodomites are trying to do now?" Bits of food hissed from his lips. "Mark my words, destroying the sanctity of marriage is the goal of the secret homosexual agenda!"

Eunice mumbled, "Filthy Fags", but Pervis slapped her hand, "Not while the men are speaking, honey."

I was just about to go erupt on Jonah when Reed leaned over and asked, "You bring the vitamins, soldier?" I pretended not to hear. Jonah smiled and slid the bottle of ecstasy to him. Reed grinned like a pig in shit. He popped one in his mouth and motioned to his wife. She tossed back a pill and passed the bottle to Pervis and Eustace.  They, too, joined the party.

Jonah began doling out bumps of cocaine from a small grinder but I declined. Not my drug. Shortly after, we piled into Reed's limo and headed out for their favorite local disco. Yeah ...disco.

In the car, the women downed shots of Jack Daniels while Pervis and Reed crushed up Viagra and snorted it off the mini-bar.

I was ready to bail. I remembered my new phone and retrieved it from my bag. I needed a cheap flight back to L.A. - NOW.

Suddenly, Pastor Pervis barked, "Just what in the hell do we have here, huh?" He motioned to my bag. The contents had spilled out all over the limo seat: wallet, keys, hand sanitizer, pill bottle, eyeliner, mints, and ...my iPeen.

Fuck. I forgot I brought it.

Before I could explain, he grabbed it by the shaft and the damned thing thundered to life - violently vibrating in a flash of bright, multicolored lights - he sputtered, "Whoa now, you're not one of those, uh - holy Jesus - is this a weapon? Are you a member of the Lesbian Jihad?"

Jonah shoved another bump up Pastor Pervis' flaring nostril and said, "Back off, buster. She's one of us." Pervis sucked back the powder, downed a shot of Jack and passed the iPeen to Eustace. She waved it around like a lightsaber.

Reed shouted to the driver, "Stop! We're here! Alto! Alto!" The limo screeched to a halt.

Eustace touched Jonah's shoulder, "This is where we met you, remember Jonah?" He blew her a kiss.

Cassandra leaned close to me and whispered, "Welcome to Gomorra. You can have anything and everything you want here." She smiled and waddled from the car.

The "disco" was actually a private sex club for the wealthy elite. Reed and Pervis flashed their Platinum VIP cards and we were ushered in. The place was a dive. They paid for freedom and secrecy - not luxury.

The music was a deafening mix of techno-trash and German trance. The stench of cigarettes, cheap cologne, latex, old lube, and assorted bodily fluids was equally overwhelming.

This was definitely NOT my scene.

I tried to get Jonah's attention but Cassandra suddenly dropped her skirt (no panties) and jumped on top of the bar. A crowd collapsed around her, staring wildly at her mature meat-curtains slapping and clapping to the rhythm of the music. I expected her husband to object, but Reed was busy making out with a black transvestite in the back of the club.

Pervis and Jonah plopped down at a booth and started slamming back Jaeger-bombs while Eustace gave a handjob to a Limbaugh look-a-like.

I commandeered an adjoining table to survey this insane circus from a safe setting. The waitress brought me a bottle of tequila infused with scorpion venom. Perfect. I wanted swift amnesia.

Reed sidled up next to me and said, "So sport, wanna play?" I punched him in the dick and he slid to the floor. I roared, "Game over. Fuck. Off."

I slammed a shot, and was just about to suck back another when I saw Eustace and Cassandra making-out.

Hate devoured me.

Watching these two hypocritical hags eat each other's face was too much for me to bear. I had to get out of there. Fast.

But first, I needed to give Jonah a piece of my mind. I jerked him by the collar and shouted, "What the fuck is wrong with you? Why would you bring me here? This isn't my scene, you maniac! How is this supposed to help me? I am outta here!"

Jonah laughed. "Cool out, Teez. I'm sorry. Okay? But I promise it's worth it.  Your new phone has video, right? Capture a memory."

A devilish grin slid across his face. Indeed, the master plan.

I moved through the room secretly filming these human disasters like a true virtuoso - smooth zooms, perfect pans - passing over Jonah giving me a thumbs up while snorting lines off a hooker's ass, over to Pastor Pervis sodomizing Reed who sucked off the Nubian Tranny, to Cassandra fucking Eustace with the technological wonder that is my iPeen.

I filled up my phone with video and snuck out quietly. I had Reed's limo hustle me back to the sweet sanctuary of my apartment.

I showered, downed a couple of Ambien (with a vodka chaser), and ate half a hash brownie. My mobile buzzed. A text from my ex: "Babe! I'm at a Disco in Tijuana! SOOO drunk. Thought I saw Jonah. Wish u were here!!"  

I grabbed a bottle of tequila and collapsed on the couch.

I woke up the next morning. Hung. Over. I remembered the video. I hissed, "I'm gonna fry those fuckers." I looked for my phone - shit, where was it? My apartment was a mess: dried pudding, Hitler mustaches, Tabasco bottles --- Fuck.  It can't be.

I was curled up on my couch like a rehab patient.

And my phone was in the fish tank.

My fellow Americans,

I bring you great tidings of tremendous jubilation! Fear no longer, for everything they have written is true, and I have found salvation!

Yes, my friends, I am becoming a responsible citizen.

How you may ask? Well, these things go in stages.
First things first, I AM GETTING MARRIED.

Let the angels rejoice! The Devil has been tamed! Hallelujah, hallelujah!

Now, before we say amen, and break off into the who-what-when part of this, let me clarify a few things.

Most of you are aware of my sublime, decadent Libertine indulgences that have made me somewhat of an outlaw in the Los Angeles social scene. I've never denied it.

Monogamy was for suckers. I was living the lawless life of an ambitious bohemian, always on the hunt for something fresh, something exciting, that "New Car Smell".

I thought of myself as a noble savage.

I wasn't committing moral turpitude nor had I pledged myself to some vast Lesbian Jihad (as some have charged) - I was simply obeying my fundamental instincts, "When you are hungry, you eat".

But not everyone can handle the weight of this kind of freedom, so it was understandable when folks like George Clooney, Leonardo DiCaprio, Justin Timberlake, Jared Leto, Chris Brown, and Mel Gibson all engraved my name in their Enemies List for the repeated (and salacious) incidents where upon their girlfriends found their way to my den of sin and were left comatose in the twisted sheets of my dark-wood, crimson draped, Hindu bridal bed.

Of course, it wasn't always actors and singers that I inadvertently touched; indeed, I am the scourge of the corporately powered publicity agent charged with keeping America's cinematic sweethearts squeaky clean.

Many have cursed my name with pox and plague after discovering that their clients were photographed shoving their slippery tongues down my throat.

But why should I say no when an A-list actress decides she wants to walk on the dyke-side and engage in the dark Sapphic arts? Why should I care if she was dating someone, or how this might affect her career?

Well, I didn't then, and I don't now.

Kissing a girl is a career killer? For who?  It worked out all right for Katy Perry. Ah, good point, she didn't really kiss a girl - she just used the imagery to give chubs to all her pre-teen emo-hipster fans in their tight white jeans and fluorescent multi-belts so she could sell a bajillion records.

Remember, this is America (goddamn it!) and our hypocrisies are rich, bold, and full-bodied!

We encourage our women to be hetero-flexible as long as they are college-age-unknowns and appear on tacky, tug-job DVD's you can buy at 3AM for $9.99 while watching ADULT SWIM on Sunday nights.

Or so I'm told.

Well, that life is over and I am done with that savagery. Be brave O'Hollywood! Your women are safe! The menace is no more!

I am madly in love and there is no going back.

Indeed, a couple of weeks ago I decided to make it official. I proposed on the lawn of the ritzy beach house I rented just as the sun was setting over the mighty Pacific Ocean.

Her hands trembled, tears burst from her eyes, and she blubbered a messy, "YES!" We kissed and spent the night coiled like serpents, making love, and imagining all the silly details of spending our old age together.

The next morning she called her mother to share the good news.

The shit-storm was immediate and devastating.

I could hear her mother screaming from the phone, "Your father didn't fight on the beaches of Panama so you could marry a lesbian! Besides, your eternal soul is at stake, and what would all of our friends say? No. This is madness! I forbid it!"

To her, this was a slap to the face of the baby Jesus and a full frontal assault on the very foundation of American moral fiber.

For the next 20 minutes she blathered on and on about how it's illegal for "queers" to marry in California, and how she wasn't homophobic because the whole family votes Democrat, and blah, blah, blah.

Her mother hung up and that was that.
All seemed lost.

Now, remember folks, this is the love of my life, THE ONE, I would die for her.  If her mother, the laws and Gods of this nation, will not recognize our love as we are, then something will have to change.

Drastic times call for drastic measures.

I am an American. I love this country. And I realize this decision might cost me my career, the respect of my peers, the love of my own family - but I see no other way.

In order to legally (and morally) marry the woman I love - I have no other choice but to ...become A MAN.

Yes, sexual-reassignment surgery.
No, I am not kidding.
I am buying a penis. A real one.

Oh, how I will miss my magnificent breasts and elegant vagina!

But say good-bye, I must. The doctor assures me that my metamorphosis will be a masterpiece that will shame Michelangelo! I will be fitted with two perfectly plump and proportioned testicles and (as the centerpiece) a beautiful, robust and veiny, 8-inch peen.

As an added incentive, they are going to install a free iSex Kit^TM (with optional interchanging LED lights) that uses sensors implanted in the shaft to transmit data to my iPod during coitus so that the speed and rhythm of the music will match the speed and rhythm of the fornication.

As convincing as my surgeon might be, I remain disturbed and concerned. But, ah L'amour, my heart screams that all this is worth it!

My transformation will authenticate my citizenship as a REAL, honest-to-goodness American!

No one - not the church - not the government - NO ONE - can deny me the right to marry as long as I have a peen in my panties.  

Does it matter that my "Patriotic Penis" was made in a sweatshop by slave labor? Not in the slightest.

The only thing that matters is symbolism.

No dick? Get a dick. Bingo. You are on the B-squad. Your woman may hate it, she may hate YOU, but what matters most is, America will LOVE it.  

The majority has voted to destroy the lives of our fellow citizens based on what they believe is a choice. (Just like religion) And though there is no prerequisite in the Declaration of Independence that requires Americans to be heterosexual, wealthy, white, Christian, or male, the vote to deny Gay Rights is the asterisked footnote our forefathers meant to add but obviously forgot.

Besides, if the MAJORITY can vote to take away the rights of other tax paying citizens - what is to stop them with the Gays? What's next? Atheists? The Disabled? The Obese? The Different? YOU?

Depends ... Are you one of Them?
No? Then who are you?

Well, I don't want to find out. I'm tired of fighting the soggy masses and I'm ready to jump on the winning side.

The procedure is scheduled. The Amex has been charged. Tiny Indonesian hands are already hard at work on my squeaky new silicone-slick testes and powerful prosthetic prick.

I have consulted with my lawyers (and their rabbis) - it is official.

With a little money (and a lot of medicine) a Gay woman can surgically become a Man and LEGALLY marry her Lesbian fiancé.

Ah. That New Cock Smell.
Unmistakably American.

Menace To Society

by Otep Shamaya
 
I write to you today from the burning green of the deep, deep South. It is a hot and humid day that fosters a weighted atmosphere of sloth and fury. Perfect. I have been asked and eagerly agreed to speak at a church rally in support of a grassroots movement hoping to rid our society of the most morally egregious degenerates we have ever known. I think we all know who I refer to. And yes, I joined this crusade to combat this diseased vermin before things get out of hand. As we've seen all over the news, these degenerates have started to organize politically and demand equality.
 
But never fear, fellow citizens, this threat will not go unchallenged, I assure you.
 
Our nation was built on the good God-fearing Judaic-Christian heritage of Andrew Jackson, George Wallace, General Custer, Nixon, McCarthy, and J. Edgar Hoover. We are not, nor have we ever been, a nation of equals. We are a nation of chutes and ladders. Everyone knows this. But this group of hooligans intends on disrupting the status quo.
 
Well, this will never do.
 
The social terrorists I am referencing (and opposing) are the notoriously strange and flamboyant RED MENACE, better known on the street as "Gingers".
 
Indeed, we at the "National Organization for a Red-Head Free America" are outraged at the recent hubbub and associated ruckus these "Gingers" have created by demanding equal rights and many other absurd notions that plainly do not apply to them.
 
We have done our own studies and proven that blondes and brunettes are physically superior and have more brain mass than Gingers. In fact, we have proven that the "Ginger Gene" is a myth and an abomination in the eyes of God. Have you ever seen a picture of Jesus? What color is his hair? I think I've made my point here.
 
But despite all this scientific and religious data some of these reprobates openly celebrate their sinful lack of pigment, freckled skin, and burning bright hair as if they deserve to be equals among us! Shameful!
 
We firmly believe that being a red-head is a choice. Sure, some might be born that way but they could easily assimilate into society if they accepted their deformity and decided to live as the rest of us, and remedy it with a quick dye job.
 
These freaks of nature must not be allowed to live openly in our society. What about our children? We all know the evil inside the Ginger heart. They want to convert our kids. And what will we do once our children start painting their hair red and painting freckles all over their body? Oh, I shudder at the thought.
 
We must protect them from this Crimson Tide bubbling to the surface of our national awareness. It is more important now than ever! The Ginger Rights Movement is demanding that it be made LEGAL for them to marry EACH OTHER! Holy Christmas! Can you imagine what will happen next? You guessed it: A godless red nation of milky-white sin and orange flair debauchery. 
 
It is a historical fact that Ginger equality caused the fall of the Roman Empire. Is this what we want for our beloved America? To be brought down by Gingers?
 
If only our government would take a stand against these mongrels as they have against the other misguided miscreants our society has tamed and tolerated over the years.
 
Why can't they treat them like we do the Gays?
 
Our government has made it clear; you are not a full citizen if you are not a heterosexual. Gay Americans don't have the same rights as NORMAL Americans: they can't marry, they can't join the military, but they must pay the same taxes. Heck of a deal, if you ask me. They subsidize our narrow way of life ....just as God intended.
 
I know the Declaration of Independence states that all men are created equal. And yes, we hold the truths to be self-evident. How could we not? But I stipulate here today that if the implication of the language the Forefathers used in the phrase "all men" also applies to women (we believe they meant HUmen) then I argue today that it implies the additional qualifications for equality: Caucasian, Republican, Wealthy, Christian, Heterosexual, non-Ginger.
 
So, you see, my friends, that yes, America is the land of the free and land of opportunity - but only within limits. I mean, let's be real here. As a species we need our hierarchies.
 
Gingers and Gays need not apply. 

Singer/frontwoman/activist/poet Otep Shamaya has led her band Otep through 4 albums of NIN/Sonic Youth inspired metal. Check out her own blog at http://www.imnotamonster.com/ and Otep online at http://www.myspace.com/otep