Friday, June 21, 2013
Normally I’m alone right now. In a bar. With a pint. On a desolate Thursday night. Penning thoughts or toasting fluff from my navel with an uncannily dinky DIY fondu set purchased from Shaftesbury Oxfam in 1981.
But tonight, my solitude is slain.
It is Boromir’s conscience, wrestling with the evil of Mordor as his tensed fingers hover in the nightmare limbo preceding a fateful ringing.
Slain, I say! As if tossed from a lofty eyrie by an impossibly egg-averse eagle.
Slain! Slain! Slain!
Again! Again! Again!
Like a Psycho DVD
stuck on the
stuck on the
stuck on the
For tonight (yeah — get to the fucking point, Whirl), tonight there are minstrels!
These minstrels wear no cotton tights, no codpiece wonders, no expressions of realisation that soon they may be slaughtered by an unforgiving lord or laird or demon, but heck upon heckity heck these guys are minstrels true, minstrels all.
As I sit with eardrums stretched out to either side of my face with special BASS U YA harmony-friendly titanium hoists, it’s clear that minstrelling comes easily to these hippest of musical dudes.
Hey, listen — I planned tonight to write a villanelle about the problems of being a disabled quadruped in a world obsessed with the health and hairdo of Nelson Mandela, but right now I’m glad there’s a band on.
They’re young. Hip. Talented. Sexy. Rifling through my possessions. Trussing me. Thrusting swab upon swab of chloroform into my face. Erasing my internet identity via a hackily jailbroken tablet-cum-PC and replacing it with the generously detailed biography of some wankhead Dutch leather belt manufacturer.
Hey! What’s going on?
I only came here to write a villanelle! With a pint! And my bandana! And a nylon brassière I probably never should have put on BUT I LIKED THE COLOUR.
Now, here’s the thing.
Technically it ought to be impossible to continue to write while three bearded specimens of happ’nin’ acoustic minstrel troupe attempt to bind you with their assembled ropes, whips, guitar strings and spare lengths of beard from their back pockets, but somehow, with biro clenched tightly in anal sphincter, I write on.
These fiends may try to numb my brain with chloroform, but no way are they knocking out my ability to practice pelvic floor exercises, my desire to scribble on.
Ok, so maybe you’ve figured out that I’m jesting here. I sit as a veritable clown among minstrels! It’s not chloroform, folks — it’s superglue. Administered by a gang of hirsute stooges as the minstrels strum on.
Now the lead singer — a bald guy by the name of Kai whose beard looks like a wig that’s slid from the top of his head in all the excitement — drops me a voicemail message of a moderately desperate nature.
“Dude! Our next number’s called Swabbity Nose Kinda Confused Guy and our regular dancer, the guy who normally goes acrobat crazy to this one, has been run over by a mad horse. Get your dancing shoes on! We need ya, babe.”
On reflection, this has turned out to be something of a fun night. Right now, the villanelle can wait. In just a few seconds time, I shall be up on stage like a thrustily butteroid Last Tango Brando, dancing á la Bez as the acoustitude of three crazed minstrels twangles and spangles its way from the undercluster of my auricular wherewithal to the antenna twitch tip of my cock. Probably.
Over and out for now...
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Saturn began its journey through the murky depths of Scorpio in October 2012. Wherever Saturn goes, he slows the world right down and challenges us to take a good hard look at ourselves. When his heavenly motion is retrograde (as it has been since February 18th) it can seem as if the whole world has come to a standstill. Nothing can move forward, nothing can be resolved — and for those who practice meditation, nothing can even come of nothing. This challenging landscape is where most of us will find ourselves stuck until the latter half of 2015, and thanks to the influence of Scorpio, the difficulties presented to us will be of the life and death variety. If we are to survive this phase, to grow and change and prosper, we’re going to have to get used to the idea that the time has come for many of our cherished beliefs and ideals to be abandoned.
That’s why I’m giving up pork. It’s been my favourite meat since I was a kid, and ever since I saw Burt Reynolds in Deliverance I’ve had a craving for the stuff. Squeeeeee! Squeeeeeeeee! Hell, I hear that sound every time I bite into a pork rib or a naked piglet. BUT SATURN SAYS I GOTTA STOP! It’s a cherished ideal — BITE BITE BITE — and I’m crazy without it (16 GODDAMN HOURS NOW!!!) But I have to grow I have to change I have to prosper I have to destroy and I’m giving up talking to my neighbours, writing my weekly astrology column for Transit In Vans, anything to do with wood BURN TABLES BURN CHAIRS BURN TREES THEY’RE OUT TO GET YOU and so then I can get full Saturn power, full Scorpio power to CRUSH THE INSECT HORDES UNDERFOOT they’re not laying eggs in my brain those ANTS in their hills crawling all over my face but I GET BIG POWER and destroy — oh, yeah I’m taking out the sausages too, all the beef ones, then its BIG TRANSFORMATION TIME BIF SATURN SCORPIO POWER TO CRUSH ALL THE ANTS DESTROY THEM BEFORE THEY EAT OUR CHILDREN AND RAVAGE OUR WORLD
Jacuzzi Spakkert is an internationally renowned clairvoyant and mystic. He has written scores of bestselling self-help books including The Zodiac of Love, How The Stars Can Get You What You Want and The Coming Age Is Yours. His latest book, DESTROY THEM DESTROY THEM ALL hit bookstores in May 2012. Jacuzzi lives in a self-built temple in Virginia with his wife, Maureen, their two children, Izaak and DEATHTOTHEBASTARDCRAWLINGHORDES, and four thousand devoted followers/mercenaries. The Spakkerts famously sponsor a neglected donkey called Tony.