Groupies and high glamour —

  • must be nice for rockers, you’d think. But are true rock stars really happy? When Paul McCartney jumped ship from the legendary Beatles to the wife-topheavy Wings, he had to start fresh with no cred, no platform to stand on, and saddled by the relationship-torqueing influence of his piece of ass, “Linda Louise.”
  •       But there are exceptions. Like The Rolling Stones. Aside from dying at 27 like Jim Morrison (and about a baker’s dozen other singers) if you can make it to your seventies you too can experience orgasmic ecstasy, and new babyhood, with Brazilian models like Mick Jagger did. Selling enough cartoon-tongue-stuck-out tees at your concerts will additionally get you another two homes on the French Riviera.
  •       But is it a worthwhile lifestyle overall to aspire to? Kiss’s Gene Simmons remarks that as he expanded his fan base, and went from small to bigger and bigger venues, the chicks got more numerous and better-looking. One of the more delightful and robotic features of the failed gender. So, for a significant amount of swarthy, ethnic basement dwellers, being a rock star has an ineluctable appeal, a dream that cannot be denied as you’re flicking your limp penis idly, mind occupied with violent images of the Grand Theft Auto vidgame you just played, and thinking: Hey, this guitar shit doesn’t look that hard. Maybe me too . . .
  •       Well it is that hard. And singing in a catchy popular style is even harder. And being charismatic is the hardest.
  •       Eddie Van Halen had the charisma of George H. Bush. And Elvis was as retarded as a three-year-old. But I suppose, as a 6’1″ singer myself who plans to make a career of video spectaculars, it can be done. Education helps. So does slang and street smarts. I’ve sung to girls in darkened campus dorm rooms while red lamps threw strange shadows blurring my face, and I’ve lived homeless in Downtown Toronto, taking dumps on street corners, and I’ve worked at the top of Vancouver skyscrapers in tax firms. Let’s just say I’m fairly versatile.
  •       I suppooooose if I someone like me — good-looking, charming, eruditely-spoken and yet dangerous in an appealing way — were to snatch up the mic, use his God-given ability to write song lyrics: (There is no fire left by fate / Love is an an-gel rearranged — me in Miami at age 21, singing in the downtown core alone in the dark) — then it could be done.
  •       I would be happy.
  •       Is fag-hag Elton John happy? He’s spent thousands of dollars a time on flowers. Flowers. There’s a gay tell-sign for you. Decorate your house with roses and daffodils from FTD. Clearly, he wants to jump on the bones of every cute 12-year-old straight boy he can find (and don’t let the press tell you gays don’t like straight boys; they do). But Elton can’t, and has to settle for some dry-ooooold fag-hag like himself and do the monogamous schwing when he wants to live in an AIDS-free world of infinite clubs where he swan dives into audiences of hunky tall white men stripped bare to the chest to catch him, and he swoons.
  •       But Elton John’s dreams will never come close to reality. And neither did limbering liberace lion Freddie Mercury’s, early casualty of AIDS. (I’m — just a — poor — boy — from a poor — fam-i-ly.)
  •       Look at Eminem, more a “rap god” than a rock star (hah! rap god! In my prior incarnations I used that title, and it may have fit me — but you! Rap GOD! Ha ha ha ha ha. Don’t see no screaming Elvis girlettes at your shindigs, kid.)
  •       I remember when audiences used to scream shriek faint hysterically in their girly way at the presence of the Beatles and the Master, Elvis. It’s too bad a group of cunts I call the pig demons, secret leaders in the informal domination of vaginas, chose to put an end to that because it was getting out of control. My supposition is that, rather than the difficult task of changing millions of moistening-vagina kiddies, they went after the male performers — so Justin Biebers and Backstreet Boyses of the world are stunted on stage, unable to perform in a way that would elicit the shrieking. Cunts. Pig demon cunts. I’ll be talking more about them in the future, too. More importantly, I’ll be doing something about them.
  •       Rock music is a perfect venue for godhood, though, and godhood is egoistically satisfying. To lay down on your black silk bed, knitting your hands behind your tousled head, and know that you are worshipped as a god by millions, genuinely and without politically coerce. Isn’t that a marvelous concept? At any moment, you can step to your balcony and throw it open like Francisco Franco and the cheering and bellowing roar of approval will greet your ears immediately like the surf of the panhumanistic ages. Won’t even have to wear the faggy little Spanish dictator’s ‘stash.
  •       And the endless sex … once again, pig demons, and lame women in general, interfere with that natural and beautiful process. What could be more erotic than fucking an 18-year-old huge titted brunette with long hair down to her ass who’s ovulating — and then a nicely varied blonde, and then someone else and someone else. Sweep aside all those menstruating, get rid of the ones with a zit that popped up, pick and choose. It drives the chicks crazy. Whenever I have two or more girls interested in me, they literally seem to fry their circuits with desire — blaming themselves, never yer humble Xwarper . . .
  •       Yeah, I would be really good at this rock-star business. And you might too. Have you ever considered waxing your legs like a li’l chink and singing South Korean pop music with chingy-chink-chink high notes and the faggiest synth pop backdrop that denudes the instrument I love so much? I hear it’s the hottest thing in Seoul right now — sponsored by Samsung and Kia, motorcars of dipshits.

~/ Xwarper