Life

Day-to-day, week-to-week, year-to-year.

Bed of Roses

While pretty, I am best viewed from afar.

Greetings and Salutations!

For some strange reason I decided to overhaul this blog instead of just trashing it. Originally, my plan was to delete the thing and end this voyage and abandon any dear readers that I may have collected along the way. Readers which I am certain have moved onwards and upwards and have forgotten about an alleged narcissicist with  tendencies for degeneracy on scales that can only be measured with “epic” as a qualifying adjective. But I ditched the plan. I have no reason why I have done so – I was having a bastardly bastard of a time coming up with things that I felt were relevant enough to write about (and we all see where that went…). And beyond explaining what has happened it the eon that I have been away, I find myself wondering if I will have material beyond a few days, maybe weeks.

Now, things have changed. I have moved on to a new chapter in my novel existence (see what I did there?), and wonder if the coming experiences will rate sharing with others. It is not that I feel that my life has become or will become boring…that is not something that I believe is possible for me. What is at issue is that I have been avoiding – the collapse of The Foundation. Yes, the collapse of the what was the single most beneficial asset to Samurai City. From beginning to end, the tale is one that I am sure would amuse, horrify, and possible bring about several more indictments; it may be told on various turns of your humble narrator’s new adventure, but do not plan on it (for any of you that care, for those of you that do not…pick a finger). The fall of the Creator of the Thunderdome is a tale wrought the joy, sadness, treachery, and ultimately, a tragedy of Greek literary tradition. But our Foundation life was not a bed of roses, this way is better for us (snicker). Needless to say, instead of focusing my empire on “charity,” I decided to go back to the University. A career in psychology/psychiatry seemed like a new and exciting path for Dear Xavier, so I packed up my office, and traded my ledgers for textbooks.

We all press the lever for food.

The road back to academia was an interesting and treacherous one. I found myself immersed in a culture of students that were significantly younger than me. Now, I am not unused to being around young people, but typically I am bossing the younger people around like some self-important autocrat. However, they younger people are now my peers and colleagues. I am now faced with having to remind myself that these are people with opinions that I owe the same consideration and respect that I would give my fellow Generation Xer’s or some junk (which is not necessarily all that much). Still, the journey has been pleasant, despite learning that I still can count mathematics as an area that I am lacking in superiority. I have also learned that psychologists are an incredibly interesting lot of people.

 

I think the best part of the journey that led to my literary hiatus was  that I got to avoid discussing the 2016 election. I also have to struggle to refrain from speaking of the result of that train wreck. 2016 will always represent where three to four decades of dismantling public education will lead. I cannot even bring myself to watch the news anymore. However, this is not a bad thing because I can avoid local news stories that have not gone away (I get it, the Thunderdome and Arboretum would make an excellent public park and demonstrate good will to Samurai City after the unfortunate turn of events that may have involved the Foundation! I said I was thinking about it assholes!).

These are not real babies.

In addition to avoiding the election, I was able to rediscover a few old interests. Namely, photography. I have turned into one of those people that is an unabashed and unashamed iPhonographer. See that shit? I even used tend-iLanguage to talk about my old/new thing. I am not sure why it all started. I mean, it could have been when I was taking naughty innocent pictures of various sex acts statues. It could have been when I got the idea to take a bunch of babies used for teaching how to not abuse babies and arranged them into neat photos. Whenever it was that it started, it started and now it is a thing. One thing that does not bother me about my journey into iPhotography (I am addicted, maybe?) is that I cannot take selfies. It bothers me that I had to type “selfies” multiple times to discuss this, but it was unavoidable. You see, dear readers, it seems that my arms are in fact too short for me to take a decent self-image. No, it is not an angle thing. No, it is not an inability to frame an image. My arms or too fucking small to take one, and I refuse to use one of those horrid sticks. Instead, I have to request that others take pictures of me, and aside from my secretary, I trust the photographer responsible for the image of me featured above (and one other). Other people will make my head to big or get my fat side or get too much forehead or not tell me what do in the picture so I do not look like a hideous fool. This is why images of myself tend to be a year old, maybe two.

What does any of this have to do with me? Loser!

When people quit smoking, or retire, or elect a dangerous Ferengi that had ear reduction surgery to public office, they tend to remember the date that the deed was undertaken. People remember import, significant, life-changing events. So, it would seem to reason (to me) that I would remember what date the doors to the Thunderdome closed leaving the looming structure abandoned in heart of downtown Samurai City. But, I do not. Which is a little disconcerting to me now. I mean, the amount of litigation alone would probably warrant a course in some law school…but I guess when you leave the minutia to attorneys and sycophants and spokespeople one does not have to be concerned with dates and outcomes. It sounds terrible, but other than maybe having to pay for the demolition of some property, the outcome does not really effect me. And is that not the American way? What does not effect me, should not concern me…right? Is that not the direction our species is headed? I believe you should all be concerned that someone such as myself is questioning the humanity of humanity. I mean, my idea of helping the less fortunate involved elephant stampedes parades, and alleged forced substandard-wage labor in apple orchards. I am not saying that I was bad person (just horribly misunderstood), but friends, I am just saying consider whom is writing this and the implications.

Lately, I have found myself having Dante running through my head: “In that part of the book of my memory before which little can be read, there is a heading, which says: ‘Incipit vita nova: Here begins the new life’.” It seems that I am headed into a new life – I admit to being eager and horrified.

Dear Prince, You will be sorely missed…

The majority of what follows was copied from my Facebook page. I added a few thoughts. Only a few.

Today has been a rough day. I was going to write an entry in my blog (which I haven’t done in at least a year). I just do not have the motivation…the will.

160421153915-restricted-64-prince-file-super-169

The closest I could get my hair to look like this was a Gheri Curl.

I had to give a presentation in my PSYC class earlier tonight (there is a lot to catch up on, dear readers, in the life of the X; details coming in the next few weeks). I can’t believe I made it through it the damn thing. However, I somehow managed.

It seems silly to let the death of someone you do not know personally get to oneself like this, but it is getting to me. It seems silly that the first thing I sit and write that is non-academic is this…

Seriously.

I decided to play an instrument because I was influenced by Prince. I wanted to play the guitar. My school district said that was not a band instrument (I later learned there was a stringed instrument program – I coulda been a violin contender!).

I decided on the saxophone. I have no regrets. That inspiration led me to learn to play the flute, the clarinet, percussion, and the Jew’s harp. He is the same reason I studied dance. For years I styled my hair, clothes, and much more after him.

I lost my virginity to Prince’s music.

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But we still have your music.

Back in the darksideradio.com days, I would play Prince’s music on my show. In the midst of a retro-Goth dance fest that occasionally featured a block of songs featuring the word “fuck” and a block of songs that illustrated how deranged the Eighties were with all the pro-stalking songs (I am looking at you Blondie and The Police…), there was always a a block of Prince songs. The listeners never questioned his music being there. One sent angry direct message Tweets if she had not heard a Prince song before the second hour started).

I am not sure what Gen X did to 2016 that has made it decide to take all of our heroes from us. Maybe next week I can smile and imagine an afterlife where Prince and Bowie are performing one awesome everlasting show.But not now. Now, I am just beside myself. Maybe I will copy and paste this as that blog entry.

My heart hurts.

Well, Here’s Gary Oldman Rapping the Lyrics to “Timber”

Nice.

NewsFeed

You may think you never want to hear “Timber” ever again, but you’ll want to hear this version, because instead of Ke$ha and Pitbull performing it, you get Gary Oldman.

Video uploaded this week by the London radio station Capital FM shows the British actor reciting the lyrics to the hit song. Apparently the star of the new Robocop reboot was in the mood to play the role of Pitbull as well. Unfortunately, there was nobody around to play the part of Ke$ha.

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What I Learned About Expecting and Resenting

If you have read my last few posts, they have been a little “off” from what I normally prattle on about. Instead of misanthropic hackery, violence, drinking, or random sex bits (talk, not the actual bits), the darkness of my words have been coming from a different font of creativity. One that is totally familiar and alien at the same time. While I have been finding it difficult to get into the swing of things, I do follow other blogs; many of them are similar to what used to come from my twisted brain. Sometimes, amidst the words of others, I find the strangest wisdom, from the most unexpected places.

Good for killing things needing killing, not so good for handling resentment?

Good for killing things needing killing, not so good for handling resentment?

A couple of days ago, I came to an understanding. At first, I have to admit, that I was a bit dismayed by my new appreciation for things. Then I was afraid for a day. Really afraid. There are things that a Sig Sauer cannot touch; there are things that jujitsu cannot bend, break, twist. It is one of these things that has brought me to where I am. It is one of these things that has walked into my office wearing a propeller beanie, striped shirt, and sandals and happily asked where I store my bacon. Sometimes, reality sets in and it is a real kick in the juevos. Did I spell that correctly? I have no idea, the Spanish I know is not Spanish at all.

I was reading a fellow writer’s blog last night. This particular entry had a sentence that has stuck with me. It was with me when I went to bed last night. It is still ringing in my head. It helped me move from the sense of impending doom that I have been feeling for the last week, and into a sense of sadness. Now, I am used to depression. Anyone with OCD can tell you how neglecting avoiding obsessions and compulsions can put you into a serious rage, or a equally serious fit of depression. But this is new. You see, instead of feeling like the world is coming to an end, this is more like coming out of the bomb shelter to view the post-apocalyptic world for the first time. Not unlike the C.H.U.D.s, I am blinking in the hazy sun, and looking for flesh to eat. Only I am not eating flesh, or going to eat flesh; I am wondering what is next for the world. You know, what to expect.

I had not realized this until I read that blog entry last night and saw this sentence: “Expectations are just resentments under construction.” Wow. What? Damn. After I read that, the sadness set in. Now, do not take me the wrong way. The snarky chica that put that phrase on the interwebs for all to see is not causing me sadness. The post that the quote I stole came from was actually pretty humorous. It was the realization of my own state of being/thinking/existing that has driven me to the brink of crying like a bitch-baby with a diaper rash made of glass.

We're all stars now, in the C.H.U.D. show....

We’re all stars now, in the C.H.U.D. show….

I have been existing with my own expectations of things to come. Are my expectations truly the beginning of resentment? I find myself having to chuck aside the fears that I had about my future; fears that turned to foreboding that turned to anxiety that turned to expectations. Now it would seem that they may be turning into resentment. Or at least destined to turn into resentment. While I do see a bit of cynicism in the statement, well, a lot of cynicism actually (sorry, snark! I mean no offense). Why? Because it appears that the statement is saying that if one holds expectations, then one should expect that these expectations will not be met. Since they will not be met, then resentment will set in to replace the failed expectations.

As a reformed optimist (I kicked the habit last week), I always thought that it was always a good practice to expect the best, highest outcome. That optimism turned into cynicism. Why did that happen? How did my waiting for the best turn to waiting for the worst? I have an idea, but I choose to ignore that idea. After reading that blog, and letting that post run through my head like a mantra or some wacky self-affirmation, I came to see that what had happened is that I began to expect the worst. And then it hit me again.

First, I was expecting something good. Second, I began to expect something terrible. That second expectation in itself was sufficient to cause me some resentment. Really, what else would come of a dream suddenly becoming a nightmare? Resentment. I resented that whole turning to begin with. Then I noticed that it was possible that the resentment was still building; it may only be the part of the iceberg that is seen from the Crow’s Nest. But what is the resentment directed towards? After thinking about it, I have no one to resent but myself.

You mean that nigga is talking about my dick AND stealing my image?!

You mean that nigga is talking about my dick AND stealing my image?!

And at that, I am the consummate professional. I can elevate self-hate to a level that rivals the ingenuity that was required to build the pyramids. Most people that know me, know that I am a hater. A damn good hater. If you manage to get on my bad side (which is really easy to do, do not test me), there usually is no good side to get back on. I carry a grudge like Shorty Mac carries around his massive cock: in my pants and ready to thwap a mushroom stamp on a bitch’s head at a moment’s notice. But resentment? That is something I have never really considered when it comes to myself. Even less so when it comes to things that I hold close to the fiber of my being. Now, I am dripping with the stuff. It is hanging around my neck like and albatross (what in seven fucks does that mean, anyway?) or like St. Anger (I wish it were just anger, I could roll or role with that).

 

Just One of Those Days?

Today is one of those days where I woke up and had so much to say and nothing to say at all. Confusing? Certainly. Annoying? Definitely. The actuality is not that I have nothing to say, rather the reality is that I am tired of shouting at the wind.

We all do that from time-to-time. Maybe that is a bit too general and assuming. That may even be a bit arrogant – assuming that I know that everyone spends time talking/shouting/yelling at the invisible energy that gently pushes the leaves and petals and plants or tears apart life in a dynamic show of Earth rage. I can afford that arrogance. Not only is the Foundation loaded like the diaper on a over-eating baby with diarrhea, but I am a narcissist (I think I may have said this a couple of times).

I had the dream again last night. The empty dream. My dreams typically start the same: a small figure in a blue dress with no facial features except for black eyes (yes, the iris and the sclera for you anatomy freaks) appearing on the silent, mouthless visage.  The figure dances and points to a hallway: a two-story, wide-fucking hallway that is lined with several doors. Some are simple wooden doors. Some are futuristic doors like those on the Enterprise (1701-D or E). Still others are secure, metal doors like bank vault doors or dungeon doors. Some are old-timey. This is what occurs in the beginning of the normal dreams. She points to the hallway, points to a door, and I go through the specified door and the night thoughts begin.

That is the norm for my nights. But not last night. Last night, the hallway was black. A faint, white light illuminated a single chair in the center of the hallway. A disembodied voice told me to sit. So, I sat. I sat in this chair under the white light like I was about to be interrogated by fiends while other fiends watched from the darkened perimeter (I could see no further than the circle of light illuminating the seat and myself). There was no music. The funny thing is that I did not notice that the music was missing right away, it was after I had been sitting and waiting in that chair for some time. So, I guess I really should say that I cannot remember whether there was music the whole time, music that stopped when I noticed there was no music, or if there was never any playing at all.

"I hear that song, too! I am in the darkness..."

“I hear that song, too! I am in the darkness…”

I sat. I sat. I sat some more. After a while, it seemed like I could hear murmurs coming from the dark surrounding my little light-patch. I yelled at the murmurs: “I can hear you out there!” No reply. I got angry. No, I got pissed. I started to walk to the darkness, but the light and the chair followed me, but not really followed me. I would say the experience was more like walking on a “moving sidewalk” in a direction opposite of that in which the sidewalk was moving. I walked, but got absolutely no where. Eventually, I decided that I had not been hearing anything and sat back down. All of that walking made my legs very tired. Painfully tired.

I sat. I sat. I sat some more. And this time, while I sat, I waited. I waited for quite some time before I stood up, announced that I was leaving, and started to head, well, I do not know where I was going to head. There were no doors. There was no light beyond the perimeter. The voice that told me to sit then asked me where I would go. The voice reminded me that all there was for me there was that circle, that chair, that darkness…the voice wanted to know where I thought I could go. I yelled that I did not know, and demanded to be let out of this dark, and increasingly foreboding place.

“For you, there is this circle. For you, there is this chair. Good luck finding a door…there is no more for you.”

Now shit got really creepy. For a moment, I could see everything. The doors, the hallway, the figure – everything. The figure usually danced, she was still and lying on the ground in the darkened circle. I called to her. She turned over and faced me. Her black eyes pits of nothing focussed on whatever and however they managed to focus on something. For a second, a black tear fell down her cheek. Then everything was gone. Except for the chair, the circle of light, and the blackness.

Since she is not on this iPad, here is what she would look like as me.

Since she is not on this iPad, here is what she would look like as me.

Since I knew there was something there, I ran for the darkness. Surely I could outrun this circle and chair and find my way out, or at least through a door with something behind it. Fuck me with a seven iron I would even settle for a nightmare that ended with me dying in the dream, and waking up dead in the morning. Okay, so I would not wake up dead, but you get what I am saying. I headed full-sprint toward the darkness and crashed into something. A wall, a barrier, a force field…a giant tree? I have no idea. But it hurt. Blood ran from my face and down my shirt. My nose was broken, teeth were smashed. It all healed as quickly as it began; the blood and mess of my clothes vanished.

Frustrated. Enraged. I sat down and put my head between my knees and tried to think. No thoughts would come. I looked up periodically to see if my Hell was gone. It was not over. It was only just beginning. Soon, many faces began to appear. All of them filled with hate and venom. All of them focusing hate and venom. Some of it at me, some of it at the circle, some of it at the darkness. All of it intense…and red.

Red! Something new (well, besides those horrid faces) and it was welcome. I began to feel a little less anxious, and then, just a quickly as it all appeared. It was all gone. I was standing in the white circle again. The chair was gone. There was only the light. A door appeared. Slap my ass and call me “French Patio,” there was a god damned door. I started toward the door. The voice spoke again, only it was from behind me:

“Through there is what is to come.”

I turned to the voice and saw that it was the figure speaking. Speaking through her no-mouth. I do not remember hearing her speak before. She did not dance. She turned and walked and sat in the chair. She and her chair and her circle of light vanished. I was left with the door. I opened the door and was greeted by nothing. More darkness. I entered the darkness and opened my eyes. I was now looking at the ceiling in my darkened bedroom, my alarm ringing in my ears.

I got out of bed and headed down for a smoke and some coffee (I did remember to set the auto-brew before I turned in last night). I walked to the window. The dark Samurai City morning peppered with cold air and snow flurries. It is still snowing. It will keep snowing. I noticed that I had not turned on the lights. I was standing and looking out into the pepper-colored morning and sipped my coffee. I heard the voice in the back of my head; so loud that it felt like it was in the room with me. I turned and saw no one. The voice was there and clear as water:

“…there is no more for you.”

The Impending Doom

Pretty soon, very soon, I will be another year older. For all practical purposes, it could be said that I am already that year older. I mean, what is a few days, really? Providing I do not meant some unfortunate end between now and the actual date that signifies my eruption into this world, I really cannot see what a few days matters. Not at all. In fact, you could say that I started dreading this day last year, or the year before, or the year before.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Way ahead. I have already told you, dear Reader, what this voyage into my hackery is all about. I left no suspense, and probably little reason for you to read on and discover what other sort of drivel may be involved in this posting; little reason to read on and find out what this is really about. That is one of the big problems with ADD and writing. Sometimes you put the end first. Or the middle first.

Living a life with competing mental issues is a strange existence. On the one hand, ADD gives me a bouncy, be-bop way of thinking. Sometimes my brain feels like Coltrane, or Davis, or Parker composed my thoughts. Twisting and churning, solos turn into chorus, turn into a main theme. Often I am the only one able to get the theme; improvisation is cruel like that. By the time the listener reader gets my words, the message has turned into a jumbled, foot-tapping beat. Unless you are hip to what I am laying down in the first place, very little may make sense.

When it comes to the other participant in the competition to make me a total mental fruit cake to the observer, OCD…let us just say that I find myself in a world completely alone. Like that fellow in from “The Twilight Zone” who was the last man on Earth and had a library full of books I more often than not find myself alone in a world that just does not get me. Sure, everyone “understands” hoarders (not really, but you get what I mean…if not, keep reading, you may dig my vibe). Beyond those future guests on “American Pickers,” when people think of OCD, they think of some poor schmuck stuck wearing latex gloves to protect from microbes (I have issues with germs, I just try to avoid touching things that are not mine, or letting people touch my things). They think of someone who has to have an immaculate house, or their clothing perfectly, fanatically organized. Most people, however, do not understand rituals, the necessity of ritual, or the sense that every single thing in the world will go wrong if the ritual is not followed.

The biggest example of this has been writing my blog. Really. I tried extremely hard to be consistent. To write as often as possible. I did the same with reading the blogs that I follow (I even tried to steal a creative device from this blog. I am really freaking out because I am not sure this damn app will insert that link correctly…). The problem for me has been this iPad and the stupid app WordPress has developed for using the site. You see, I like to add pictures to my posts. While I can still add them using the app, I cannot place the pictures where I would like them to be, or give them some groovy format. No, I cannot do any of that. Instead, if I add a picture, it will show up in the top center of my word vomit, preceding everything. It will show up there, looming like some flaccid erection or self-important god-head glorifying in the fact that it gets to be wherever it wants to be and not where I want it to be. My choice? Either accept that, or just do not use a picture. Oh, I could add one later. That is another option. An option that sucks donkey-ass because I hate editing — the idea of going in and retro-adding something makes me feel dirty. And not in a way that I do not mind feeling dirty. Since the picture was not there, adding it later destroys the self-perceived perfection of what I have presented.

And then there is MySpace. Oy gevalt, MySpace! I was finally able to download my blog from MySpace. Hooray, right? Wrong. The format is not one that is easily uploaded to WordPress. Fortunately, not being able to import them has actually been a blessing is disguise: I have to go through them, check the editing, and selectively reprint the items that may have been breaches of the Fourth Wall. So, goody for me on that point.

Beyond my BD (Blog Dysfunction. Bob Dole needs to do a commercial about this. Where is Bob Dole lately?), the other rituals I follow appear (to me) to others as quirks that I can just “get over.” I cannot just get over some things. My seven-knock is not something that is a minor quirk to me. My morning rituals that I follow are not just “things I like to do” or “want to do.” No, these are things that if I do not do them, then the rest of my day is totally shot. I get horribly depressed and chalk the day up to a loss. Something terrible is going to befall me since the rhythm of my life has been irreparably dashed to rocks. OCD is not bebop; it is more like classical music: if one note is missed, the whole symphony notices it. There is no common theme that is to be recognized amidst the running improvs. Classical music is as the conductor wants, which is typically how the composer wrote it. After the rhythm is broken all that is left for me is to wait for the next day to see if it all starts up correctly…if the ritual will be left in tact.

Ritual is what makes me avoid Catholic Churches now, I get sucked into the Catholic ritual (and now this new Pope has me contemplating a return to those roots…). Ritual is what makes me start a knock and feel compelled to finish it somewhere else if someone answers my knocks before I finish them. Ritual is what makes or breaks my day. Ritual Is.

And now, for my ritual companion: obsession. I am never what component of OCD ritual belongs to; is it compulsion, or obsession? I always stop listening to my shrink when she tries to explain that to me. Perhaps being obsessed compels? Eh. In either case, I have obsessions. Many obsessions. However, more often than not, my obsessions go dismissed as things that I simply like or desire. However, it is not that simple. I am a Sagittarius. I crave excitement. I crave the sense of mutability that fire brings to my sign. What I mean is, I can roll with change as long as it brings excitement. Lately, all of the changes in my existence have been bringing me grief. This is gone. That is delayed. Where am I going? Nowhere. Fundamentally, I am not the same person I used to be. Xavier used to be sex-crazed, absinthe swilling, gun-toting, high-flying limousine riding, monster of cock. Now, he has turned into a hermitic, bored, frustrated ball of depression and doubt. Xavier has ceased to be; in his place an “old man.”

Which brings me back around to the new doom looming over my skull like one of those hideous baseball caps with the mesh backs that truckers and farmers are so fond of. Well, I guess it is not new doom — it is the doom that surfaces every years around this time. The doom that signifies getting old, more advanced in years. To me, all the upcoming year represents is another day closer to Parkinson’s, heart disease, the possibility of having to get one of those wretched canes, or some other mobility assistance device. To me the upcoming year represents gray, and wrinkles, and ugly, and “who wants a threesome/orgy/sex party romantic evening with a hideous old geezer”? To me I am going from sexy to dirty old man. To me my desires and dreams have all become distant fantasies: teases of things that will never be a part of my world again. Then I will die, and that will be it. Another birthday, another day close to death…just like every other day. To me, all that birthdays bring are depression fueled by memories of days gone past. Fortunately, I do still have my lovely locks and the Thunderdome. Two of of seven would not be so bad if there were somewhere for me to finish this particular set of knocks…

Oy gevalt..!

My Yiddish exclamations are not nearly close to showing how I am really feeling about the last few weeks. My duties at the Foundation have been overwhelming. I am not pleased with the situation at all. I mean, seriously, I have been doing more work than a six-jobbed Jamaican moonlighting as a ninja. Did you see that? I feel so tired that my metaphorical sense is not even wiggling, let alone tingling.

I was operating under the impression that the fellers at the top were supposed to content themselves with golf or hookers or yachting, the actually work to be done is supposed to be in the capable hands of underlings, henchmen, and overworked secretaries who actually have an idea about the day-to-day operations of a charitable foundation. This year, that is not the case. My poor fingers are sore from all of the document signing. I spent at least an hour sitting at my desk today listening to some jib jab about some children needing haircuts, backpacks, and other school supplies. I asked if the backpacks were to store the hair clippings. Apparently, this was so unfunny that my apology from my secretary cost us double in contributions. I have taken to calling this situation “Hairgate.”

Anyway, with all of that nonsense out of the way, I can get to my real point: apologies to my friends and readers here for being negligent in reading your blogs and writing my own. I was doing such a great job keeping to task with these things, but then I got caught up in paperwork…and taking my own hyper-educated ass back to college. I have been doing the college thing for a while now, my plan is to eventually go to Medical School. I believe I have mentioned this before. I will mention it again. It is important that you all understand what is coming to the world: Dr. Xavier A.S. Rothechilde, MD, PhD. Neuropsychiatrist and geneticist. Ruminate on that a bit. We have already starting planning the Thunderdome’s new laboratory…

So, friends, my apologies for being lax. However, you are in for more oddity from me. Since I have re-discovered my passwords for my old MySpace page, I plan to start migrating (re-blogging?) some of my older material. Perhaps that will give you a better idea of why you should let the idea of me with a medical degree sink in.

Well, that is all from me tonight. For once, I have an evening with nothing to do (actually, I am shirking responsibilities and planning for booze and blow jobs) and I am going to sit back and relax a bit. Good night, punkins.

And So It Begins…

…another year. Officially, this is the last week of my so-called vacation. Tuesday, I start my daily tasks at the Foundation for another year. This year, there is an added bonus: college. Yes, college. Your humble deviant has been attending college in hopes of having some sort of degree to add to my legacy. It seems that people take you more seriously when a degree is possessed. While I like to think of myself as rather intelligent (extraordinarily so), I will feel much better about myself once I have a few letters behind my name. Believe it or not, I have decided to pursue a medical degree; a valuable asset with the Thunderdome exploring genetic research.

Yes, this is it: the last weekend of my “summer.” As has been the case for the last few years, I did not do much with my vacation from the daily drudgery of board meetings, public appearances, and general assorted mayhem. And today, will be just like the rest of those days. Instead of some crazy night out carousing, mingling, and possibly arranging a luscious night of sexual extravagance, I find myself inside for the evening. Just watch the side of my blog page, you will probably be seeing tweets about wrestling – which will be what my evening boils down to: wrestling, some show about psychotic, sociopathic women, and then off to bed to start the process again tomorrow.

Ah well, such is life. I guess I had one night of craziness this summer, so I really should stop crying. However, I am not in that sort of mood today. I have been in the most foul mood; I should crack open a bottle of absinthe and head out to the range. But I will not do that. For some reason, I find the misery of the day welcoming and do not wish to tempt fate by assuming that I could pull myself from the doldrums and live this weekend up like it is nineteen ninety-nine all over again. Perhaps I should find that flea-ridden Vice President of this beloved Foundation and amuse myself by tazing him repeatedly, and then stashing him somewhere in the catacombs under the Thunderdome. I wonder how long it would take him to find his way out? Longer and more amusing for me if I were to slip him a mickey after the tazing…

While tormenting dear Smeagol would cheer me for a bit, I would still have that impending doom cloud floating over my head like a misshapen parasol. Loneliness is a bitch. However, that bitch is my best friend sometimes, there are not many like me. Not many who can understand me, and I find myself falling short in the expectations of others. Remember Sister Constance? I do…

So…now what? I know what. I will do what I always do: suck it up underneath a patrician facade, and dance with the green faery until my legs fall out from under me. I will probably repeat this act tomorrow and Sunday and again on Monday…board meetings are always more entertaining with a hangover. With my mood as of late combined with the after effect of absinthe over-indulgence, I may have to have my secretary confiscate all of my “toys…”

“…disconnect and self destruct…”

“…one bullet at a time…” – A Perfect Circle, “The Outsider”

I used to play this song in my Darkside Radio days, typically “The Frosted Yogurt Mix” (or what ever the rest of the title was). Maybe it was remix. Who knows? What I do know is that song has been stuck in my head for the bulk of the day. Sometimes, it feels good to be the outsider. Other times, it seems that one is just on the outside. I never could appreciate the latter of those feelings, I believe that I can now.

Last night, I scared the shit out of myself. I was watching a program on H2, it was discussing how the Earth has shaped human evolution. Well, toward the end, the folks on the show began to go on about how seventy thousand years ago, a major extinction event occurred. That was not a surprise, the majority of species that do exist, have existed, have gone extinct. So, hearing of massive extinction was not the problem. What sent me into a severe head-spin was when one of the guys on this show said that after the event seventy thousand years ago, MOST of humanity was wiped out. Approximately two thousand humans survived, enough to fill a “multi-plex movie theater.” Damn. Talk about your near misses…

All humans living today are descendants of that small population. Our genetic diversity is .1 percent (I really hated not being able to write that out, that will bother me for the rest of my life). It would seem that I, Lord of the Orchard, am closer in relation to those peons that work for me than I realize. Maybe I should be treating them better. I mean, we are all related…closely related. I suppose I could provide higher wages, fewer tazings, end the sixteen hour day, etc. But in the end, what do I have to gain from this?

I mean, is that not what life is all about? What is the use of spending anytime seeing beyond my beautiful eyebrows, if I am not seeing any benefit to my own personal being. Recently, I have enjoyed a rise in my number of followers. This pleases me greatly. Everyone should read my blog. Everyone should want to buy me drinks…and possibly sleep with me. But I digress, back to the followers. Some of them, I am rather enjoying. I can understand why they may have an interest in reading what your humble X has to put to word. I have ascertained that those people are not reading because of my superb writing skills (my hackery is legendary), and I may not know precisely why they read, but I can understand why.

Then there are others. Some that I have no idea why they come here. They should take Dante’s warning and abandon all hope upon entering here. Whenever I have gotten a new subscriber (follower is sounding potentially too cultish for me at the moment), I have made it a point to go to their blog (if they have one), and usually, I find something that makes me wonder why in the Hell would this person even think about looking for my blog? Admittedly, my last few entries have been rather tame, not very dark at all. But, these moments are few and far between. For example, I am actually writing this BEFORE getting into the absinthe, so things will be a little light. I feel the need to behave for a bit. I have no idea why.

Typically, I tend to be a bit obnoxious, pretentious, and generally carry myself in a supercilious manner. My ramblings range from the subtly erotic to downright pornographic. Okay, so I am not usually very subtle, and I have not really written any porn, but I am given to bouts of hyperbole. I am a person of contrasts, you are just as likely to hear Depeche Mode on my stereo as you are to hear classical music. jazz, or sometimes Johnny Cash (Johnny Cash is not country, neither is Willie Nelson. I hate country music). I love foreign films, comic books, threesomes, and I watch professional wrestling. Everyone should. It is a soap opera featuring large sweaty men rolling around in their underwear. And “Big Brother.” Along with those programs and shows about sociopaths, there is “Big Brother.” Seriously, my Twitter feed is all wrestling, “Big Brother” and #FF (I am a horrible tweet-er).

If I go to the bar, I prefer them to be pub-like or a gay bar. One of my favorite bars is owned by my diggity-dog Manthony. It caters to a mixed crowd of straight, gay, bi, what ever. I think I even saw a pangolin in drag there; Manthony claims it was a hallucination from one of those “party pills” I decided to enjoy that night instead of the usual Captain and Coke I get, I still say I saw a pangolin. A sexy pangolin.

My other recent subscribers I found during searches. To be honest, I probably found them by using “sex” as a tag search (is that what they call what that is?). I tried searching other things, and typically found people that I would rather beat with clubs before reading them and getting to peak at their brains through their writing…sex seemed to work well. Searching for sex, I found more outsiders. Finding them was good for me, maybe not so much for them. More than likely, finding them may give me a sense of uniqueness that will afford me to make more connections. Who knows? In any case, finding interesting things to read has provided a better distraction from the Foundation than television programs that wind up scaring the crap out me. Well, leading to a cycle of terrible thoughts that scare the crap out of me.

Now, please do not be offended, if you are reading this and have thought that I am talking about you, remember Carly Simon and realize that this song may not be about you. It probably is, but may not be, so do not get all cray-cray. What this is all about is my life on the outside. My life lived in perpetual Nielsen Family membership. My life spent listening, trying to understand, and fitting in; a life spent kicked out of the reindeer games because my jib is cut a little bit askew to the main. The panic from the near extinction seventy thousand years ago led me to thinking of ancestors of mine that suffered from dementia and other tragic ailments. I lived a life on the outside of my family as well. I think different, am different; I am the cliché black sheep. However, will my lack of romance with fried foods and generally healthier lifestyle keep me away from the flock this time? Our will genetics show that I am not really an outsider? Will it show that I am truly a part of that lucky rabble of two thousand that almost bought the farm for the rest of humanity?

Can’t Sleep, Brain Will Eat Me

The dream is always the same. It starts with an interesting night with wonderful company that eventually turns into naked people, pornography on the television, and crazy sexual antics. After the guests have passed out, the night ends with me going up to my room and leaving the arriving morning staff to remove the guests from the grounds…after a nice breakfast and apologies for “Mr. Rothechilde was called into the Thunderdome this morning and regrets that he was not here to see you on your way.” When I get to my room, I discover that a couple of guests had decided to explore the house, found my room, and proceeded to have their own grand old time.

They are sexy, and invite me to join the fun (which amuses me since it is my room and the only reason I had not gone nuts and started shooting at them or something was because they invited me to join before I could grab the Sig hidden on the bookshelf behind me), and I join them in the bed

Strangely, I am not disturbed by their lack of facial features.

One of them notices the collection of cuffs and collars and whatnot hanging on the far wall and goes to retrieve a set of leather wrist restraints. I am asked if I wanted to be restrained; I said that is not typically my role.

Strangely, I consent.

After I am secured to the bed, helplessly bound by my own devices. One of them pulls out a long knife and stabs me in the chest.

This is when the dream leaves and I am suddenly awake. Shaking like Charo’s tits at a hoochie coochie bonanza, and drenched in cold sweat. Now, I am remembering the lack of faces and get even more disturbed.

I wander downstairs to shake off the ickies, and wonder how long this dream is going to be a part of my now horribly non-circadian sleep cycle (no, that is not a thing, but it felt good to write) while chain smoking and sucking down absinthe and listening to the television in the background drone on with Sanjay Gupta talking about eating a dish that seemed to consist only of animal penises. He asked if he wanted tiger penis, would they have it. Apparently, the lamb balls and dog penis are not enough critter dick to sate his appetite.

Normally, I do not have nightmares, and when I do, they tend to involve judges and lawyers, or hippies, or having to buy clothes off of the rack. But this is weird. It has made me so paranoid that I may even be starting to fear trying to go to sleep. Instead of getting a little rest, here I am typing away (which feels good since I have had a block on writing for so long). Typing away and not even sure that I am making much sense. Really, this all sounded great in my head, but seeing it printed is not really pumping my nads.

Common sense is telling me that this must mean that I am pretty tired; I mean my title even has a fucking contraction in it, and I am too lazy to change it (or I may like the title, which probably means that I am pretty tired). Hell, I am even feeling too lazy to make sure that my tags are in alphabetical order; I think WordPress does that when the blog is published, but I am not certain at the moment, and have no desire to go and double-check.

This is dangerous. Is my anxiety regarding this dream actually trumping my OCD? Where the Hell is my ADHD during these dreams?! I mean, it would seem that I would get as distracted by the faceless fuckers (pun intended) that were trying to fuck and kill me in my dream and the scene would change to a Soundgarden concert or Saints Row or a nice cheese pizza. This is all pretty unsettling.

It was suggested that this nightmare may be the result of guilt or remorseful feelings regarding the unfortunate incident with Lord and Lady Phant, but I think it is something else. I am not sure what it is, but definitely something else. One of the night staff suggested that maybe having all of the dark imagery around the estate and grounds was doing the damage. Perhaps this is the result of having skulls and hearses and deathly erotic sculptures scattered through the lawns and orchards. I suggested to her that the problem may have been that I had too many smartass night staff people working around and should start cutting back on my overhead. She brought me another bottle of absinthe and retreated to the kitchen. I could hear another staff member trying to comfort her. Strangely, I feel guilty for snapping at her. I’ll have to leave a bonus for her tomorrow.

The Answer: “Not a Damn Thing”

The Question: What’s wrong with Xavier? I have been hearing that a lot the last few days. And my answer to that question seemed to be a perfect way to title this post.

I guess my actions of late have upset some. Apparently, I have been acting out of character. Funny. I hear those words, but my brain translates that into “Why aren’t you letting me walk all over you anymore?” Language is a funny thing. Words have meanings in themselves, but when arranged to form a sentence or thought, it is up to the listener to determine understanding of those words; lately the understanding people have been trying to convey to me is not the understanding that I myself have be getting.

For years, I have been a “go to” person. Always there to help, listen, shoot you in the face, etc. For years, I have walked the borderline between good and evil; those on my good side have always been honored and loved. Those on my bad side, or of whom I have no opinion have been subjected to what had to happen at the time. Within that matrix have been friends who turned out not to be such, and I still kept my loyalty.

Until recently. Recently, I just decided that I needed to start cutting loose the deadweight. I have begun saying: “You know what? I am done accommodating and feeling cheated like some cheap whore in an hourly rented hotel room. I am sick of placing people on pedestals and treating those I call friends as the highest on my list only to be forgotten, left behind…neglected.

I decided it was time to go back to my roots and stop being jaded into believing that my actions would be returned in kind. This has been a long time coming; my sense of altruism slowly being replaced by wanting something in return. Now it is blossomed into a wondrous sense of not giving a fuck, and trying to carve out a sense of peace for myself.

I have learned that I am totally responsible for my own happiness and that waiting for the Karma bus is a long, cold wait. My optimism may finally have been turned to a seething cynicism that tells me the truth, burning away the mote from mine eyes and revealing a knowledge that I had denied, had never wanted to accept. I am no better or different than anyone, why should I be treated so?

With that thought, I arrive at the answer for those who claim I am not myself, for those who wonder wrong with me. The answer: nothing. Absolutely nothing. I have become just like you.

Too Many Pandas

This entry has nothing to do with pandas in any quantity. In fact they will not be mentioned again in any form. I was just too lazy to come up with creative title and slacked and hacked on it instead of coming up with one. To be honest, I was more concerned that my entry here be advertised via my social network connections than I was about a title. So, I should not be shocked if people stop reading or feel disappointed. But that is how life goes. We get disappointed. So, I broke the rule of basic writing and skimped on the title. Do not be angry, think of it as not having enough money for an appetizer at Applebee’s.

I missed a bunch of holidays. An election. And who even knows what else. Basically, I have spent the last few months in a spiritual/emotional Hell hole. That, and immersing myself in science studies in preparation for medical school. Yes, medical school. Your dear Xavier has decided to become a medical professional. I am thinking genetic research. At this time you need not know more. Balancing my new forage into academia and my daily Foundation duties has caused me to be horribly neglectful of this here blog. The stories of my having to deal with some legal issues regarding an alleged incident involving escaped alligators and maimed children have been greatly exaggerated. All of the families allegedly involved have been compensated, and no children were eaten, or even killed.

Sadly, however, a tragic end did come to a dear, beloved friend of mine. A friend whom was almost a lover. A friend that I will always have a fond memory of and will never forget how much that dear friend meant to me. A couple of months ago, Darkside Radio went off the air. If I am not mistaken, my broadcast was the last for the show. I will miss the Darkside. It was one Hell of a ride and if I could do it all over again, I would be tormenting the airwaves with gothic sounds, inappropriate humor.

What brought me roaring back out of slumber was a discussion that I had the other day at my local gunsmith’s:

Proprietor: “You’ll love this one, Mr. Rothechilde. I have never seen a weapon fit a person so well.”

Me: “Ray, you say that every time, you flatterer. I could just kiss you. But, I am just not a rifle sort of guy, you know that.”

Proprietor: “Hey, I had to show it to you.”

Dude: “Hey guy, you should reconsider that. Pretty soon, the Government is going to make them illegal and you won’t be able to have them. What’s so funny? They’re going to take all of our guns! First these, then the rest!”

Me: “Silly man. I help pay for government. Those laws are not for me, I can and will do as I please, and they will allow it.”

Dude: “What’re you sayin’? I pay taxes, asshole!”

Me: “I do not. Well, very little, anyway. But I do pay to get lawmakers elected. Just not in taxes. Congress works for you; the politicians work for me. It is the best government that money can buy.”

This would be vanity were I not behind a tombstone.

This would be vanity were I not behind a tombstone.

And that brings me out to say my piece on the gun debate. Apparently, I missed a lot since I was in cyber-exile. Apparently, the country is afraid that the stern hand of Uncle Sam is going to reach into homes and take the firearms out, leaving a population at the mercy of thugs and murderous brigands. The government is not going to take guns from you because the government has more bullets than you. They also have bigger guns. And bombs. And robots that can kill a bunch of you from a distance. The guns you should be saying that you have rights to are already denied to you. I hate to say such things. I really do. But it is the horrible truth. And the reason why I am bringing this up is because the population is engaged in a torrid and sexy debate over what is to become of our cherished Second Amendment right.

This happens all of the time. Some lunatic goes lunatic-y and rudely kills a bunch of people with guns. Afterwards, everyone wants to start “doing something.” That doing something usually involves a statement on firearms. That statement starts the riffraff going on and on and fighting and fighting and eventually something is done, and no one is really happy.

Secretary: “Wow. That was insulting. Who are you talking about this time?”

Me: “Me? Insulting? Never. I am just keeping it real.”

Secretary: “That’s just a way to say ‘Nobody likes me because I tell the truth. People can’t handle my honesty. No. You’re a prick, sometimes. A big one. Not even a hard on, just a dick. And a bitch.”

Me: “You object to ‘riffraff?’I am glad I held back my actual opinion. By ‘riffraff’ I mean that ninety-nine percent that those crazy liberals claim are being selfish and greedy and not paying their share. And that was a little harsh, I am a very nice person when people are doing what I want and need them to be doing.”

Secretary: “Right, right. So, obviously you are not talking about yourself…”

Me: “Sarcasm does not become you, my dear. Okay, I lied, it is actually pretty sexy. But not I am not talking about myself. Those laws do not pertain to me.”

What I mean here is that I can do things that most cannot. Like, I pay to go to dinners that cost thousands per plate to listen to what my candidate has to say? Do you, the general public, do the same? No, you do not. You sit at home and listen to what we tell the media to tell you and then you argue about it. You argue about that and other petty things so that we can have the politicians do what they are elected to do, keep us wealthy and safe. I can have as many guns as I want. As many kinds as I want. Look, you know that guy who is going to start selling passenger rides into space? He has a bunch of dough. A whole lot more than you. Now suppose you are a genius. A Wile E. Coyote level genius. And you build a rocket. And you go out into the middle of the desert and test your rocket in the name of science. Where do you think you will wind up? Yes. Guantanamo. Or some hole similar since that one is closing (cough, cough).  Probably without a trial because your ballistic launch could be construed as a terrorist act, and thereby have you indefinitely detained.

However, I have gone to many dinners and can call up a Washington friend and invite them over to a dinner in their honor that will also raise funds for their re-election. Of course they will be safe because I have plenty of guns, and armed security to protect me from that ninety-nine percent. At this dinner I can secure a permit to launch people into to space, and not be a terrorist. I wonder if that other cat took that approach…

All Goth things must come to an end. Embrace the Darkside.

All Goth things must come to an end. Embrace the Darkside.

Am I being unfair? Really? Think of all of the people in prison right now. How many thieves? How many thieves? Loan sharks? People who founded that legalized institution of Check into Cash, or whatever they call it. There is a standard of law here and it is a stratified as our economic statuses. The less you have the less you can do…and get away with.

But I have gotten off track. I was simply trying to illustrate how myself and those like myself can have guns, why we can have guns, and why we do not need them because we can hire people from beneath us to use guns to protect us. However, the fear is that they are going to take away the firearms from those of you who are not of my ilk. The truth is the government has a vested interest in the general populace be armed. If for some reason those wiley Chinese actually invade, or whatever Jong  Il happens to be in North Korea really grows balls and marches troops in, the US government is counting on the armed citizenry to be fodder before the encroachment. Having some illegal alien take your job is one thing, but some angry Easterner stepping up to you with a rifle saying you are about to be forced to speak another language? Naah…most United States citizens will not have such a thing. The will take to the streets and show the invader what a good ass kicking is all about.

See? That is a necessity. A nation that defends itself costs very little for the government; the extra money can be used to fortify the hiding places of the elite (ahem), build more drones to provide air support for the civvies fighting off the invaders, and shuffle the politicians into Canada or somewhere. Hell, it is very possible that a good month of holding the East at bay in Alaska and California could go by before any dude in a military uniform shows up and says: “Good job, citizen! We’ll take it from here.” Subsequently ending the war and being lauded as heroes. While you, the rest of the nation, waits for Congress to stop bickering over how much relief money should be sent to aid those lives ruined by the war.

So, that is why the government will never take your guns. Nations with an unarmed populace will never enjoy that level of security. However, the problem then arises that the Gubmint may need to lay the smack down on the citizenry. You may cry for health care and equal pay and a sandwich one too many goddamn times and then something will have to be done. But wait? They left you with guns. Damn. That complicates things. To fix that, there are always those drones. They have all sorts of cool ways of seeing you and finding you and killing you from a mile away. So your rifle really does not help much. But, there always has to be a “but”. A big butt. To fill that but you limit ammo. Yes! Limit the ammo. Those rebels have guns, but they sure as Hell will not have as many bullets. Or drones.

Tonight on Darkside Radio or “See you at the crossroads…”

The Octopus waves, beckons you to enjoy the show.

Octopus says: “Dance with the Green Faery!”

Greetings and Salutations! Tonight’s show is going to be one of kind. A return to days of old, and a fitting end to the menace of Darkside Radio with DJ Xavier. Due to the most unfortunate of circumstances (well, not THE most unfortunate, I am being a bit of a drama queen…), Darkside Radio will be going off the air on October Twentieth, Two thousand and Twelve. Tonight, my show will be my last.

Being who I am, I cannot simply state the above and print a playlist for this evening. No, I have to do more, and using Bone Thugs is not enough either; I have to blather. I had no intention of ever being a DeeJay. I am far too shy for that. Really. I prefer to make my statements through writing. And it was so back in the days of MySpace. I created an account there, and had one friend: Manthony. I never really used the profile much. Years later, I met a clan of women named Dean Hodge, and began to do what the equivalent to blogging is in the MySpace universe. I was a hit with the Hodgii, and began to feel my oats after they officially made me one of their clan. Later, I created another profile, one that was just for Xavier. It was here that I once again found myself friendless, save for my secretary, and Manthony. Feeling pity for me, my secretary helped me find some people that she thought I may click with…and she was correct. T’is began my relationships with both DJ Mirage and Sister Constance.

DJ Mirage was quite a charmer, in her own compassionate, albeit darkly sexy and evil way. What started out as an idea to somehow make a guest appearance on her show (which, I later learned would be near impossible due to geographics, and a few other things) turned into my becoming a Darkside Radio DeeJay. I was not sure that I had enough music to meet the gothic/industrial/EBM audience, but I did have much music that was dark in nature, and was the Nineteen Seventies’ and Eighties’ queer older brother of music: New Wave, to begin my own show. And so it began. In the beginning, there were others there to help me not feel all freaked out and cray cray. There was Zephyrael, Phil, Trinity, Lestat…and some whose names I have forgotten. Shame on me. Through it all, there was DJ Mirage, and her partner in crime, Doc Nasty (the “father” of Darkside Radio, KrushRadio, the universe…). And as it stands to this day, aside from myself, there is DJ Mirage, and DJ Parallax. As it stands to this day, is the fear that what is going to be lost is not just a station, but two of my dearest friends and associates. Fortunately, there is Facebook, and I will never forget you two, my dearies.

Oh yeah! I was on Sunday mornings for a little bit as well.

Over the years, I have gone through several phases. Evolving or, more like changing states like some kind of deranged matter. My original show was four hours long. I shortened it because I started to bore myself, and have a little trouble seeing the broadcaster display after all the absinthe drinking that is required to broadcast one of my little voyages into internet shenanigans. While I started out kicking the old school goth jams and new wave hits (Ha!), I eventually added more industrial, some punk, and at times gangsta rap (Recently I added that new “dub step” stuff. Apparently, it was actually about in the nineties. It should have stayed there.). No matter what I may have decided to do for the night, from playing a block of songs featuring the word “fuck,” to having a celebration of tunage glorifying that good ol’ Eighties tradition of stalking and not taking no from some bitch, I always tried to remain on the darker side of life. However, the end result was always “creepy.” I guess I just decided to run with that.

Apparently, it paid off. At least a little. I met some interesting people by means of my shows through Twitter streams and looking like a music bot for a while. A few people never got that while I was updating my Facebook status, or tweeting some song titles over and over for a couple of hour that what I was actually doing was broadcasting a live show. A few did get it, and would make requests. Part of me wondered why the fuck they were spending a nice Saturday evening inside somewhere and listening to me. The bigger part, ego fed to the maximum, welcomed the attention and was honored that someone actually felt that I was interesting enough to sit and have playing as the background sound track for their night. Thank you all for listening. Now, we can still meet for cyber shenanigans; just read my blog and leave a comment. Perhaps I would write more. Shameless plug, but it is that sort of night.

So, I guess it is now time to put the baby to bed. I am not sure why I am feeling so sentimental at this time. I mean, we darklings are supposed to embrace the end. We sing and dance about the glories of the night. We dance with vampires, zombies and witches. We run around in corsets and Victorian garb. We sport leather and spikes and shades and piercings. We are tattoos and Neo and weirdos who want to sleep on your couch so we send you a picture of us and our boyfriends in women’s underwear with ferret in mouth. We are what goes bump in the night. So why am I dreading my own walk into that very darkness that I tried to coax you into for the last few years? Simple, for once, I am unsure of what that darkness may hold, save for the end of my nights on Darkside Radio.

This was the hardest broadcast, ever.

Tonight’s show will revisit my original four hour format. Tonight’s show will begin like I used to begin: with Erika Eigen’s “I Want to Marry a Lighthouse Keeper,” the song that plays in my head in the background of my dreams…and nightmares. Tonight, I have tried to play a little bit of everything that I have played over the years. Tonight, I try to say a fond farewell to those that listened to me and to a couple of hours every Saturday that I have accepted as part of a welcome ritual. This is harder for me than trying to quit smoking.

To Doc Nasty: Thank you for making this possible. Thank you for putting up with my freaking out over a red button and being there to get me on the air. Thank you for enabling me to spread my sickness through cyberspace, and being a real mensch about it.

To DJ Parallax: In the short time that we have known each other, it has been an age. A wonderful one. Keep in touch, my brother.

To DJ Mirage: First off, I know where to find you and can reach you by phone, email, and Pony Express. Always remember that. Second and most important, you have been an inspiration, a sister, a friend, a vampire, and a zombie to me. From MySpace to Brainaversary to Facebook, you have been the most awesome companion a creepy pirate from the Great Lakes Region could ever hope for when spreading dark music across the internet. We have been through much, ma chere. You will always be the Queen. It was awesome, and thank you for having me. And like I mentioned above, you better not try and flee… 🙂

And now, I present the artists that will be featured on tonight’s show. As you may notice, I decided to make tonight’s show an old school New Wave and Punk, earlier Gothic show with a dash of Alternative rock and Industrial sounds. To listen, tune to http://darksideradio.com at 10:00 p.m. Eastern Standard Time (US) and stay tuned until at least 2:00 am. If you have Twitter, @XRothechilde and @Darksideradio give song-to-song updates during the show.

Enjoy!

Tonight’s Featured Artists (Subject To Change)

Erika Eigen

Type O Negative

Stone Temple Pilots

Bauhaus

Joy Division

Siouxsie and the Banshees

The Cure

The Smithereens

The Smiths

Peter Murphy

The Sisters of Mercy

DJ Mirage: The Gothic Barbie. Queen Mum of Darkside
Radio

The Damned

Lacuna Coil

That Handsome Devil

The Koffin Kats

HorrorPops

Mad Marge & the Stonecutters

The Meteors

New Order

Public Image Ltd.

My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult

KMFDM

Ministry & Co Conspirators (yes, Ms. Paganwitch, this is “Black Betty”)

Electric Six

Modulate

Combichrist

Puscifer

Nouvelle Vague

Thomas Dolby

The B-52’s

311

Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds

Living with “creepy” ain’t so bad…

Sonic Youth

Dead Kennedys

Ludo

Murderdolls

Soundgarden

Bigod 20

Ministry

Nine Inch Nails

Far

Duran Duran

Tears for Fears

Tre Lux

The Cult

The Gothacoustic Ensemble

Love and Rockets

Depeche Mode

Switchblade Symphony

Dead Can Dance: “The Ubiquitous Mr. Lovegrove” Dedicated to The Gothic Barbie – DJ Mirage”

Commercials are from: “Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas” and “Grand Theft Auto IV”

Promotion spots for DJ Xavier produced and Created by: DJ Mirage, Ethermagus, and DJ Parallax