THURSDAY, 15 JUNE, 2000, PHILADELPHIA

Hello. I’ve just returned from the KMFDM concert. I only went because Portia employed Nazi partygirl scare tactics on ICQ today to get me to go out, calling me things like, “Old man”, and “Fuddy fuckin’ duddy” and other rightful appellations. An acquaintance of ours was drumming for the opening band, so Bernice, the goddess of Nepotism, was appeased. I wasn’t really hungry to see this show because, c’mon — KMFDM? Sure, they ploughed new roads through industrial music in the 80’s, and I ate it up with a side of ranch and a squirt of Tabasco Habañero, but most of the 80’s industrial bands have, well, disbanded because, well, they’re smart. The joke is played out. And an early demise promotes an æternal vigil. I still rue being just a year or two shy of the proper age to have attended a Bauhaus concert, par example. This doesn’t go for all 80’s gothy/industrial bands. The Cramps still put on a fabulous show, as of two years ago. As do Thrill Kill Kult and a number of others, I’m sure, but for the most part, old-school industrial is dead, qua modern performances. So “KMFDM” (Kill Muther-Fucking Depeche Mode?) have renamed themselves “MDFMK” (Momma, Don’t Forget My Knockwurst?). And I didn’t know what to expect to hear. I would not have been surprised if some geriatric rockers to doddered on stage to play “Virus” or “Godlike” — backwards. Could be fun, if not a bit gimmicky for my lofty standards. But actually, they actually weren’t all that bad. Nor all that good. Oh well. Every dog has his day. The audience sucked. There wasn’t a twitch from any member in the “mosh pit”. It was really kinda sad. It was like a scene from Villiage of the Damned. Only with more ripped fishnet shirts and mascara. And a slightly better soundtrack. So anyway, tomorrow (er, uh, later today that is) I fly to California. Ugh. Not even the good half of the state, at that. But at least I get to see maman and papa and mon frère and about two other people I care about. Have I ever ranted to you about my profound and irrational loathing of the west coast, dear Kitty? No? Would you like me to start now? No? Good. It’s too late, I’m too drunk, and I should really be sleeping or masturbating or something in preparation for being crammed in a plane all day tomorrow. California makes me uptight and cranky, and the only saving grace is that I like the fambly, I have one friend left from high school who manages to make me laugh, and I get to see my dear ole New Orleans chum Gypsy who relocated to Los Anguleeze and whose very presence brings some concrete mortar to the shambles of my psyche. Also, as I age, I begin to become more weary of flying. Which I’m much much unhappy about since I have erstwhile been a carefree jet-setter. Hard to be a carefree jet-setter when you’re having claustrophobic panic attacks and nic fits as you’re set in your jet. Thank the gods for my G3 PowerBook with DVD-ROM. I can watch “Stepford Wives” in my tiny little seat as I eat my knees and that may likely take my mind off the circumstances and discomforts of flight time. Oh well. At least I won’t be at a job that sucks all energy and creativity from my marrow for the next several days. Whine whine. Bitch bitch. Sorry ‘bout this.