Well Damn!

I didn't expect that!

Much obliged to all those who wished me well and congratulated me on completing the first draft of my recent literary endeavor. To those who have offered me editorial assistance, I most likely will take you up on that (the more sets of eyes the better), I just need to find a way to copyright/trademark the work first (just to cover my ass, nothing personal... I've had some ownership issues come up in the past over another body of work that I would rather not get into here). If anyone knows of a way of copyrighting a book (besides mailing a copy of it to yourself and not opening the package when it arrives), I'd be thankful to hear them.

Meanwhile I begin work on my next novel... an erotic spy thriller that I have titled The Grrrls from S.L.L.U.T.S. (Secret Lethal Lesbians Under Tantric Submission): A Jack Babalon Adventure! It is the story of a cabal of female assasins who are followers of the esoteric teachings of Edwardian mystic Hamilton Rawley (and his dreaded cult The Golden Shower) who attempt to overthrow all the major western governments through the use of a neuro-information virus that is uploaded onto the internets (yes... all the internets). The virus is carried by a series of subliminally embedded LOL cats and deletes all sexual inhibitions within the viewer. Within a day of the virus being uploaded a series of uncontrollable riot orgies ripple across the western world... roving mobs of Furrys rule the streets, police stations become uniform fetish brothels, the Pentagon has been reduced to one massive gay porn fantasy, the U.N. erupts into an international roll party, leather clad barbarians punish suddenly bottom curious senators on the steps of the state capitol, flocks of housewives without warning find themselves turning into whip-wielding doministra's, catholic priests... well nothing new there really, but you get the jist! Only one man can stop this concupiscent post-apocalyptic slash fiction scenario gone wrong... Special Agent Jack Babalon (solider, scholar, super-spy and 100% red blooded American Sex Machine) along with his plucky sidekick... the deadly and literary Anais Ninja!

On second thought... maybe I'll just finish the book I'm working on.

Nosfrastalgia

I think my imaginary word of today will be Nosfrastalgic. I will poorly define it as follows: Being the state of a culture when it can no longer create new, viable forms of artistic expression to sustain itself with will eventually be reduced to feeding off the aesthetic corpse of its own recent past to draw nourishment from. This process of nosfrastalgia, if left unchecked, inevitably creates a Zombie Zeitgeist... know that it only looks like the beloved era you once drew comfortable memories from... it is actually nothing more than a shambling mindless revenant that has risen from the grave of kitsch! The Zombie Zeitgeist is infectious, spawning itself through an Ouroboros Parasite, a self-replicating meme that is contracted through bouts of unsafe break-up sex between retro chic and deconstructionist zeal. But the old rules apply... if you don't want to become one you gotta "Beat 'em or burn 'em... they go up pretty easy."

Don't get me wrong though. I'm nosfrastalgic as all fuck!

I dig the savage machismo of old men's pulp magazines. I grok vintage sci-fi paperback covers in all their jetpack erotic glory. I vibe the surf-guitar powered atomic age 45 and groove to music for midnight bachelors! I revel in the silver age of comic-books with their square jawed personifications of American Ego bravely embarking into the fantastically unknown and ice-cream colored collective subconscious. I am enamored of the innocent awe of those visionaries who sent us dispatches from a future that should (and could never) be.

To be honest, for better or for worse, my imagination thrives off it.

With that in mind I should disclose that my musings were triggered by running into a different word earlier today... Sleestak, which are an imaginary race of bug eyed reptile men from an old Sid & Marty Croft show called Land of the Lost. It bought me back to the airport beige 70's of my Saturday Morning Cartoon induced childhood. Vague memories of a monkey boy, a claymation T-Rex chasing a motherless family into a cave, lots of caves and yes... bug-eyed reptile men.

( The other  )