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The eyes have it.

While Babylon only needed one whore, America, apparently needs millions of them. This was the impression I got when left the carnival of degradation aka Ke$ha’s live show last week. I met up with some old friends from the music biz. One of them was in the sponsorship game and had tix for the velvet rope party where Ke$ha’s “team” as one perky, forty-something-blonde from a major sponsor called it, gathered.

While people tried to pour as many free cocktails down their gullets to wash down cardboard meatballs and gelatinous chicken satays, I stayed clear, having eschewed alcohol over the past few months for a new buzz; lucidity. What I witnessed had me second guessing my decision to stay dry. It might have staved off the cloud of depression that followed me like a shadow, all the way through my darkened dreams later that night.

Reverse the tape. I’m in front of the Fox, waiting for my friend Marv. I got there early for the soft parade and get some audio for my radio show. I saw girls between 13 and 22 dressed in hot pants, come-fuck-me pumps or candies, fishnets or bare skin, torn tees and cleavage. It dawned on me that I was witnessing the seamy trickle down of twenty-years worth of incessant pimpified and ho-rific thrusting to our brains with militarized beats, over and over again. These sad little tarts are the socially engineered offspring of one, dirty, mind-fuck. It wasn’t just teen age girls dressing like street walkers that were noticeable. This scene is accessorized by young, gay males with faux-hawks and light S&M wear. Strangely enough, some girls were accompanied by their mothers, who probably thought that the lesser of two evils was attending the show, versus allowing their daughters to view the vileness on their own, or God forbid, not allowing them to go at all and risk alienating them.

As I sat down and began to process and type this post out, I had the TV on in the background. NBC kept showing previews for one of their latest Fall offerings, “The Playboy Club” which debuted las night. Its obviously an attempt to cash in on some Mad Men retro-styled-fetish, but it also is yet more fodder for the shameless whoerification of the nation. Under the guise of edgy and cool, we get to see the genesis of where it all began; The suburbanization of porn. But let’s return to the scene of the grime and get into some astrology.

As I outlined in a previous post regarding Kreayshawn and Tyler, the Pluto in Scorpio generation are very different when it comes to morality, which they are doing their best to define on their own terms, but are seemingly flailing in a moral void. As I noted earlier, these kids have lived in a post-911 world. Their life has been one, long orange alert. From the ages of 9 to 21, they’ve seen security measures increase exponentially, year-after-year. They’ve witnessed four wars, wars without any end in sight. The horrors of Abu Ghraib have scarred their hearts. Now, just as many of them are about to enter the work world, America is shutting down and they’re burdened by enormous student loan debt. Unlike the students of the 90′s, these kids are now competing with other kids and even adults in places like China, India, Malaysia, Korea and Indonesia for jobs. I can sympathize with their “I don’t give–a-fuck” tude. On some level, nobody it seems gave a fuck about them.

The main subject of this post, Ke$ha hails from LA/Nashville. KeSha (or”Kiesha” a star in the nine-star-ki) is the oldest of three children. Her doppelganger is the much older, but painfully childlike Kiesha Crowther aka “Little Grandmother” who also seems to be shall we say, ‘tightly controlled.” Ke$ha’s a Pisces (3/1/87). She shares the 3/1 birthday with none other than Justin Bieber. Her debut CD, “Animal” later renamed “Cannibal” has sold over two-million-copies. In an age of piracy and single downloads, two mill is huge. Her biggest hit, “Tic Toc” has garnered over 69 million views on youtube. It features her waking up in a suburban bathtub, hungover/drunk, brushing her teeth with Jack Daniels and blowing off her parents at breakfast, to hit the streets, looking for that non-stop party! Images of a dysfunctional America abound. Near the video’s end, she’s shaking her booty in front of an upside-down American flag. At the very end, the flag has been reduced to a ragged ankle wrap. The deconstruction of America as a fashion statement is a big part of Ke$ha’s costumery. Read the rest of this entry »

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White girl flash mob

“We the niggas you scared of, like bad dentists

Flow is anthemic, dirty like it’s plants in it

Sick, spit a pandemic, crack and Cancer mixed with cannabis

To have a bitch, ready to stab a clit with some glass and shit”

The words are disturbing and devoid of any kind of ironic distance or nuance, without context or back story and narrative, they still present a chilling look into what could be the most dangerous generation this planet has ever seen. Those are lyrics from Tyler The Creator and Earl Sweatshirt. If you haven’t heard of them, you will, especially Tyler, the twenty-year-old leader of the L.A. hip hop collective(s) “The Wolf Gang” and “Odd Future.” Part skate rat, part devil-may-care situationist, his latest video/track, “Yonkers” makes Lady Gaga and Jay-Z’s presentation of running the town with little monsters look like Hallmark homilies set to Sesame Street beats. In “Yonkers” Tyler has the sole distinction of eating an enormous cockroach, spitting it up and vomiting, while talking explicitly about raping a woman. NWA used to rhyme about life in the hood. Tyler raps from the persona of a twisted psychopath. There is an enormous amount of danger and taboo in his music, imagery and rhymes. There’s also plenty of eye-gripping occult symbolism surrounding him and “Wolf Gang.” They wear shirts with upside down crosses on stage. Tyler will occasionally don a green ski mask with the same upside down cross inked between the eyes ala Charlie Manson.

They are dark, occasionally disgusting and dangerous, everything that rock and roll and punk were at one point in time. The difference between Tyler and Johnny Lydon (whom he admires) is that he and the Odd Future collective all range from the age of 17-20 and they are all born with Pluto in Scorpio. They have no trouble at all going over the edge, beyond any kind of propriety, because “they don’t give a fuck..”

Last night, it felt like I stepped through the looking glass–a distorted and cracked mirror actually. It was one of those odd Twitter moments, bouncing from one follower to a friend of theirs and so forth. Suddenly, I found myself staring at the punky yet slightly cherubic face of a young woman named. “Kreayshawn.” I looked at how many followers she had and peeped over 245,000. Then I saw she was from Oakland and I was really intrigued at this point. Then I went to her website and lo and behold, she’s a rapper, a white rapper and she makes no bones about this. In fact she has her own posse called, “The White Girl Mob” comprised of her, Lil’ Debbie (The DJ) and a piece of work named “V-Nasty” (more about her later). I watched Kreayshawn’s latest video, “Gucci, Gucci, Gucci.” The lyrics are outrageously funny. And how can you not like a song with lyrics like, “Gucci, Gucci, Louis, Louis, Fendi, Fendi, Prada, I’m looking like Maddona, but flossin’ like Ivana, Trump.” Its hilarious and fresh. Think blonde Eminem in B-cups. Its a put on and yet its not. Its not clear whether she’s straight or gay and at this point, what does it matter?

Everything is blurred, not with just Kreayshawn and her “White Girl Mob” but this whole emerging scene, where everyone feels like they’re the mutant offspring of Sandra Bernhard and Harmony Chorine. Its surreal. I was really taken with this track and then I saw that over 12 million people were also taken with it as well. Hello? This is beyond tipping point numbers. Kreayshawn, Tyler and the Odd Future collective have not only surpassed Gladwell’s magical event horizon, they’re going to destroy it, mutilate themselves with it, grind it into dust and throw it in a blender with with some “Death Juice” and knock it back. Kreayshawn and Tyler are both nominated for a VMA on MTV. They are about to go as mainstream as Taylor Swift.

I spent about an hour trying to wrap my head around Kreayshawn’s VC. She’s the daughter of a woman who was in a punk band called, “The Trashwomen” and was raised on the hard streets of East Oakland. She’s is legitimately from “The Hood.” The rhymes, the knowledge, the attitude are legit. She got herself a scholarship to UC Berkeley to study film and eventually formed “The White Girl Mob.” This isn’t like any kind of hip hop or urban scene you’d recognize. Kreayshawn talks about “snatching’ bitches” and smoking blunts, fronting the same kind of rhetoric that an urban male MC would. There’s no distinction.

Lines are blurred, drawn and blurred again. Its clearly bi-racial, maybe bi-sexual, maybe not. There’s no seeming demarcation, and no one really seems to care. Young women LOVE Kreayshawn. I spent about twenty minutes scrolling through her comments and there’s a lot of devotion being channeled. Kreayshawn seems to have mastered the art of interactivity on Twitter as well, holding court with thousands of followers, although she did drop this decidedly dark Twitter bomb; “k2345h4wN ︻╦╤─ Im the wicked murder the devil has chose.” Ahem. Now she may be a Libra, but this is pure, Pluto in Scorpio coming through, dialoging with the underworld. After I had absorbed as much as I could, I stepped through the Odd Future portal, since Odd Future is all over “Gucci, Gucci, Gucci” with an appearance of both “Left Brain” and Tyler. I wasn’t prepared for what I was about to take in.

Odd Future is a young collective of uber-talented and precocious kids. At the center is Tyler The Creator, (Taurus). Odd Future is comprised of designers, DJs, cartoonists, producers, rappers and writers. They’ve been putting out videos and singles for free for the past year, but now they’ve it the big time and Tyler’s “Goblin” is the first full length to blow up. I watched “Yonkers” for the first time last night. Its startling and memorable, very memorable, but not in any sort of inspirational way, more like a bad nightmare with a hangover sort of way.

Tyler strikes the pose of “The Thinker” in silhouette and then he launches into it. The easiest reference point might be the codeine beats and psychotic rhymes of Tricky, but Tyler is more articulate. His words and annunciation are sharp like razors. His gaze, maniacal and penetrating. He toys with a large cockroach, the size of my thumb. Then about a minute in, he pops the cockroach into his mouth and chews it, quickly followed by spit and vomit, but without missing a beat, he’s back into the monolog of the rapist. By the end of the track, his eyes are dark and blotted out, looking just a more than a little like Satan’s child.

The critics are all over Tyler and Odd Future. They’re claiming that this is a moment in time where something significant happens in music. They cite, The Sex Pistols, Nirvana and Public Enemy. They’re compared most often to Wu Tang. I’m not sure they’re wrong. But the hype and accolades come with caveats. Tyler, Earl and the other members of Wolf Gang use words like, “faggot” and “gay” constantly. They’ve been labeled “homophobic” Tyler’s raps about women are beyond misogynistic. And yet, are they? Is he really venting and spitting his frustration and rage at women or is he channeling darker, collective forces?

As I mentioned earlier they are part of a generation that is firmly entrenched in Pluto in Scorpio. Tyler in interviews says that he writes and rhymes about what we all think about at one time or another; dark thoughts, evil intentions, the id unleashed. There are five words that seem to be a motto for Odd Future and White Girl Mob; “I don’t give a fuck.” Its clear. They don’t. If you’re keeping score at home, its likely the same attitude displayed in London, Milwaukee and Philadelphia during the recent flash mobs and riots. We’re talking youth that is so disaffected and disconnected that they have a nearly homicidal pact with their own emotions and they’re not that concerned about yours.

In Tyler’s/Odd Future’s breakout piece in the LA Weekly, the one that really put him and Odd Future on the map, he’s seen sporting a t-shirt with Crowley on it; “Do As Thou Wilit.” Searches for “Is Tyler Illuminati?” are popping up on Google like magic mushrooms. People are hip to the illuminist tip, thanks to countless videos by people like Honor Lenon, breaking down the occult symbolism in videos by Jay-Z, Rhianna and Beyonce. The game is getting exposed. But two things really jump out at me when I look at Tyler through this particular prism. The first being how slick his video for “Yonkers” is. Its simple, but extremely high quality and cutting edge, not at all like their DIY efforts. Lets just say there’s money and some real direction behind it. Its the type of video that would make Henry Makow cream. In fact the whole scene would give him one, raging conspiratorial hard on and I haven’t even gotten to Cat Stacks or V-Nasty yet (oh man). He would see this as yet another blitzkrieg by the dispossessed foot soldiers of Lucifer himself, lesbian, pot smoking, degrading and debauched. And while I have certainly seen that theme as being very much alive and active, I’m not so sure about this movement is a franchise for the prince of darkness, although there are some striking parallels with Tyler and Robert Johnson, which I will share later.

I think the meme of what I would call, “The Luciferian Agenda” is already well in place, spread and co-mingling with the culture now, in a very transparent way. Its viral. The shadowy spores have spread across the dis-continent, fueled by a never ending series of wars, collapsing economies and a gaping void of leadership. Teens have finely tuned bullshit detectors and with this generation of Pluto in Scorpio kids, they have x-ray vision. They peer deep into the rot and they know the inherent hypocrisy all-too-well.

Tyler and his crew were around ten-years-old when 911 happened. In some ways, whatever innocence they had left was snatched. How would you feel if you were them? Especially if you thought you weren’t being told the truth. Would you feel ripped off and manipulated? How would you feel about adults who were supposed to understand these things and stand for something remotely just and right? Even if the subject matter of 911 conspiracy was never broached, somewhere in that deep, dark, collective soul, you’d be pissed . . . really pissed. And where would it come out? And how? You’d see the model of pure, naked, capitalistic grabs for power at work, without any sort of sentimentality. Its like the kid on the corner in the hood watching how gangs go about their business, but on a much bigger scale. You’d say, “Fuck that, I’m going to get me some motherfuckin’ money bitch.” Yep. And now the meme is spreading. Its becoming something that has enough momentum to perpetuate itself even if Tyler and his crew aren’t doing bongloads with Cthulu

These Pluto in Scorpio kids are going to digest every single taboo that older generations have objectified and locked down in the asylum of their consciousness. Its going to get more and more intense as Pluto moves through Capricorn, conjuncting Neptune and Uranus in Capricorn, which they have in their charts. This is extremely powerful as Pluto will deeply transform their concepts of spirituality and their engines of change. This is a generation to be reckoned with and you’d better treat them with some respect. They’ve got mad numbers. They are the largest generation since the Baby Boom and they are not afraid of much.

Tyler and Odd Future make Lady Gaga sound like “Up With People.” They, along with Kreayshawn are carpet bombing the computer speakers and headphones of a generation and guess what? This music isn’t for me or likely you. This is their Sex Pistols and that’s just fine with Tyler, who despite the accusations of misogyny, homophobia and illuminism lives at home with his mother, still rides his skateboard and doesn’t drink or smoke, not even coffee. But just when you think you’ve figured out the enigma inside of the contradiction, it turns back in on itself again and Tyler’s screaming on Twitter for Meth.

When I first looked at Tyler, Robert Johnson popped into my head. It might have been the dead look in the eyes at the beginning of “Yonkers” that mirrors a similar fifty-yard-stare in Johnson’s gaze. Or it might have been the psychic analog. But something about Tyler smacked of the man who sold his soul to rock and roll, down by the crossroads. Well guess what? Tyler was born on May 6th. Johnson, May 8th. Tyler and Johnson both have Venus in Gemini, separated by just one degree. They are nearly time twins. They are without a doubt, in my mind, spiritual doppelgangers. Listening to Tyler rant about being on MTV and being a mainstream superstar reveals a deeply ambitious personality, willing to do nearly anything, including eating cockroaches to ensure his fame. But make no mistake, Tyler is no sideshow freak. He’s incredibly smart and knows his music. One of his heroes is Ian Curtis of Joy Division. And he loves Roy Ayers. If we follow the cosmic arc of the Pluto in Scorpio generation, their role is to embody and explore the taboo, break every single rule and emerge, through the other side, integrated. They are the embodiment of shadow, the repositories of our complexes and obsessions and they are here to shove them right back into our faces and just when we think we have it and them all figured out, they flip the script and will ultimately be in possession of a truth and psychic wholeness that will be without reproach. Either that or they’ll burn the whole fucking place down.


One of the more bizarre back alleys I stumbled upon during this little cyber jaunt was the stories of these two young women. V-Nasty is part of Kreayshawn’s “White Girl Mob.” Every other word out of her mouth is “fuck” and “n*gga.” Her videos range from her viciously rhyming over the same beats about “Barbies” (white women with blonde hair) to getting out of Santa Rita for a six-month-bid. She’s made enemies of the old and not-so-old school hip hop guard. And she’s going to be a star, mostly on the vapors of Kreayshawn. I have yet to decode anything remotely worthwhile when it comes to anything creative I’ve seen/heard. There’s also something deeply disturbing about her. She’s devoid of any ironic distance, which Kreayshawn, to her credit has and she lacks the shocking intellect of Tyler. If Tyler is Johnny Rotten and Earl is Sid Vicious, she’s the Nancy Spungeon of this scene. She’s also a psychic miscegenation of some socially engineered experiment; a cultural transposition of a black, urban male into a young, white girl. Its shocking and maybe, just maybe that’s her point, even if its completely unconscious.

Kat Stacks is part of a groupie sub-culture that goes back to the Plaster Casters. But now, in her world, they’re called hip hop hoes. They sleep with rap artists and are not ashamed or guilty of their caste, in fact, Kat Stacks relishes it, like its celebrity and thanks to Youtube, unfortunately, it is. Her angle is sleeping with rappers and then spilling their secrets. Fuck and tell. Its truly sad. She thinks she’s busting scenes and telling the truth when in fact she’s parasitically leaching off of these young and sometimes not so young guys so that she can gain youtube numbers and then grab the attention of a network like MTV, to get her own show and get paid! Well, she’s in jail now. V-Nasty just got out of jail and Earl Sweatshirt, Tyler’s partner in rhyme got sent back to Samoa to spend time in a youth rehabilitation center. Even Tyler has been under house arrest. It is Pluto in Scorpio. What did you expect? Tomorrow, I’ll profile the reverse polarity of Pluto in Scorpio as I look at Colin Kaepernick, the young and massively talented quarterback for the San Francisco Forty Niners.

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From wax to wane

I’m time traveling it seems. Mercury retrograde is a perfect carrier to re-visit psychic locations of the past, re-animate memories and court the benign and occasionally not-so-benign spirits of other times. Last night I hooked up with my soul fixer and good buddy from the halcyon days of the dot com era, Marv. We stepped into Qool, where DJ Chloe Harris was spinning sigils of circular magic. Qool is an ongoing electronic music party run by the irrepressible Jondi and Spesh for well over a decade. The portal had moved though.

We managed to track it just south of Market to the legendary End Up, a one time bastion of hardcore gay culture during the peak of SF’s wild and free, pre-AIDS, orgy of permission. The End Up of course had one of those tongue in, er cheek names for that time, if you get my drift. Dealing the ravages of promiscuous sex, the gay crowd became more mono y mano and relocated to the Castro. The End Up, like other SOMA clubs became home to the next wave of pleasure seekers; The ravers. Once the parties ended, ecstasy soaked trippers would pile into The End Up. They were open 24 hours and even if they stopped selling alcohol, the party was still on to the break of dawn,

I checked into my past and the beats and grooves hadn’t changed a bit. The cellular memory kicked in and I was flooded with images of that era and how everything seemed possible for about 18 months, the sweet spot being mid-1998 to 2000. It was just before the arch-mage of voodoo economics raised the interest rates repeatedly and brought the era to its knees in just a few short weeks. Like a guy at a bar that had just been sucker punched on his way out, the populace stumbled and staggered for a while, trying to find their car or something resembling it. Too bad they ran into that guy hawking “cheap” houses like fake rolexes just down the street, but thats another story.

That time was filled with the best electronic music, the easiest cash, the coolest technology and the most eager start-ups. It was the next incarnation of the American dream. We were going to innovate and have a great fucking time while we were doing it. Companies all tried to ape Hewlett-Packard as quickly as possible, offering all kinds of perks to get the best and brightest young minds able to make code dance like faeries on the head of a silicon chip. Free beer on Fridays, off sites at Bocce Ball courts, snacks and goodies in the kitchen that would make a fourteen-year-old drool; gummy bears, sodas, pastries in the mornings and lots of very strong coffee. And then there were the parties. Every week, there was at least 2-3 new companies wheeling out dubious product, half-baked at times, just so they could spend their IPO money and show their board a really good time. They always had the hottest DJs, free booze, free food, sometimes even shuttle service.

We were all incredibly naive. It was all one, fucking, massive distraction. While we were dreaming of ways to make the technology do cooler and cooler things, the likes of Salomon, Bear Stearns, Goldman Sachs and Lehman were quietly drilling down into the core of the boom and sucking the best parts of it right out of its marrow. They were the ones that brought all the companies to the NASDAQ. They ran their IPOs and they made a shitload of money. And guess what? They got out. Greedspan raised the interest rates and in April of 2000, the whole thing crashed, like a poorly written program, filled with all kinds of errors. It was a planned demolition.

Qool used to take place at 111 Minna, which at one point was really nothing more than just an empty art space; high ceilings, walls and a bar. But over the years it got more and more upscale. The “weekly” Qool events, always on Wednesdays, always just after work and not at 3AM, would be flooded by dot commers up from the digital gulch. The place thumped with a sexy urgency bouncing with chilled cocktails and smokin’ rooves. Jondi and Spesh managed to keep the party rolling until well past 911. Money was loose and people were a lot less stressed.

111 Minna is like a temple of remembrance now, storing the past, where a few random beads of sweat that didn’t evaporate into the mists of time, rest on the ceiling, walls and floor, an invisible fresco of memory and lives during a much more carefree era. Everything seems to drain into The End Up; gay culture, bleary-eyed-ravers and the final remnants of the boom. The party hasn’t stopped yet, though it is getting noticeably smaller and smaller.

I offered up the best case scenario that I could from an inner level in my last post from yesterday. Anon liked it but commented on how the financial crisis is really much more of a functional problem. I completely agree. The biggest challenge that I suppose most people in this country face more than any other is the trance of cognitive dissonance. The world around is much the same as it was but there are glaring details that we gloss over if our brains choose to look for something else. The markers of memory, iconic symbols like McDonalds or Starbucks or Safeway are almost always there, but if you look closer you’ll see places with going out of business signs and empty shop windows proliferating at a viral rate. The world is changing and not in a good way. The paradigm of bubbles has popped and their isn’t anything left based on that old model to exploit unless its some freakish cap and trade shell game, or unfortunately water. There’s no more money to loan under the old system. The ability to repay the creditors is mathematically impossible. It truly is the end capitalism as we know it and maybe thats not such a bad thing.

The real challenge is what is going to replace the old system? What new magic pill will “they” have us swallow? How long will people have to starve before they accept the “new new deal” under any circumstances? As I have seen it, the challenge is and has been for a while, not a disparity of wealth between the classes, but resources and I cite “resources” in this case as hyper-dimensional technologies, quantum field energy and a whole host of radical sciences that is so far ahead of the public view that it would make your head spin like Linda Blair in “The Exorcist.” The likelihood is that they won’t play nice and give up the goods since that is really an even bigger piece of leverage than the debt itself, so we’re going to have to figure it out on our own.

The first thing you have to murder like an unrepentant serial thief is the idea that someone will come in and save the day. They won’t. Once you’ve taken care of that dirty business, there are plenty of aspects that reflect where we can turn to in order to discover where the greatest sources of power can emanate from. Look to the outer planets. Pluto in Capricorn is ruthless and enduring. Understand it. Know it. Get tougher. Goats will eat just about anything. Expand your diet and palette. This is survival of the hungriest. Neptune in Pisces gives you deeper access to profound levels of spiritual understanding, forgiveness and love. It melts barriers and dissolves separation. We have an opportunity to really key into oneness in a very real way, not just some wish fulfilling projection through New Age spectacles. People are suffering. Chiron in Pisces is a reminder of that suffering. Lastly Uranus in Aries is the wild card. It can push us to be wildly creative, inventive and unpredictable when its rightly aligned. When its not, we see its shadow in the London riots, where as a result they will now employ biometric facial recognition scanning for the upcoming Olympics and beyond. More chaos of course leads to more “security.” But that’s the shadow side. Uranus in Aries is jet fuel for the awakened mind.

How all of this shakes out, how people, react, respond, organize, unite, crumble, fall, fail, fly, however it unfolds you will know that you are in the final stages of this Earth story and this dimension as we have known it. Soon, we will get to write the next novel installment and I promise you, it will be an epic for the ages no matter how it turns out.

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Rest easy . . .

The cosmic irony of Gil Scott-Heron’s passing isn’t lost on me. Gil Scott was one of America’s true geniuses. He was as soulful as Marvin Gaye but flirted with more radical edges. Gil Scott was an April Fool, born 4/1/49. He was a true April Fool, because he saw the world clearly, sometimes too clearly and while he sang about injustice and inequality, one never really got the sense that he was ever truly bitter or cynical. For a deeply penetrating social critic, Gil Scott sang a helluva lot about brotherhood and love. He also sang sweetly about women on tunes like “Precious Time” and children (his own) on, “Your Daddy Loves You.” He was a true romantic underneath the smoldering rage and informed indignity, which made his more polemic tracks even more potent. Make no mistake, Gil Scott-Heron sang from his heart.

This past year, I exerted some effort to get him on my radio show. An old friend in the music biz had helped put out his last record and I reached out to see if we could make it happen, but I never got a reply. Must have been the website.

Gil Scott had descended into drug use over the years and it wasn’t pretty, things like this can happen when an open heart and equally open mind isn’t sufficiently buttressed from the horrors of this world. But he had made a comeback, a serious comeback on my friends label with, “I’m New Here” his first real record in years. It would be his final words in sound. Critically acclaimed, he at least went out with honors.

I could get into how Uranus was conjunct his Moon and Saturn conjunct his natal Neptune, both getting pulled on by the planet of death, Pluto in Capricorn. The astro-equations might add up to his demise or what we like to call it in certain circles “a change of state,” but I’d rather focus on his natal Sun in Aries and the events of the day that seem ever more timely in the wake of his passing. Let’s look at them.


The song that is and always will be associated with Gil Scott is of course, “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised.” He was waaaay ahead of the temporal curve on this one, even if he was more ironically on point, versus tacitly correct. He was basically saying that television was such a commercial and corporate driven entity, that they would never dare to show true images of dissent, however, I think that Scott-Heron actually believed that the revolution would take place. It didn’t. Blame it on alternate timelines or the co-optation of the sixties generation; Jerry Rubin on Wall Street, The Clintons in the White House. . . .

Like most prophets, he was right before his time, even if he was slightly off in his prophecies. But it won’t be the radical pose that Scott-Heron occasionally struck which I reflect on this day, it’s his love of his fellow man, his terrific sense of humor, his social conscience, his keen song craft and his ability to sing the blues more intelligently than anyone else I’ve ever heard.


As Uranus settles ever more deeply into Aries, a sense of palpable tension rises. All across Europe, from Italy, Spain and Greece, to Ireland and even England, people are reacting to what’s been politely termed “austerity measures” enforced by the IMF, who lay down the terms and conditions for debt repayment. We recently witnessed the seamy fall of Dominique Strauss-Khan, in some sort of weird honeytrap that might have been a manifestation of his distended desire and unclaimed guilt and/or it could have been a set up. In any case, the woman rumored to replace him, Christine Lagarde would be even harsher on countries like Greece in terms of austerity according to the EU Observer. Seems like Strauss-Khan was confused. Apparently he was supposed to be more of a prick instead of using more of his prick. Guess he didn’t get the memo about the hammer of Thor coming down on defaulting economies. Well, Spain sure as hell did.

Protests have erupted in Spain due to planned “austerity measures” and of course, people have done what they have done for time immemorial when these sorts of things have happened, they went outside and made some noise, and in Spain’s case, relatively quiet noise. These were peaceful demonstrations, but the police missed the morning briefing (or maybe they didn’t). Looking like dark stormtroopers in shock-proof-exoskeletons, they were not shy about using force. This wasn’t the conflicted Egyptian police and army that struggled to take up arms against their brethren, no, these automatons in Spain were the living incarnates of Robocop, stripped of their emotions, loyalty, sense of culture and connection. They were in short, heartless android thugs. What? You didn’t see this on the news? How could they not show it? Uh-huh. Remember what Gil Scott said? “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised.” But with Uranus in Aries and the intensity of the upcoming eclipse on July 1st, the protests will be too big and too loud to ignore. We are staring down a revolutionary Summer. I am not rooting for this, however I believe that the chance we will see even more widespread global unrest is about even money in Vegas right now. We have economies going full tilt and debtors going full metal jacket. Something has to give.

On a day when the sweetest poet of rage ascended to a brand new sense of freedom, a brand new sense of time, he leaves behind hoards of sleepers awakening to the greatest con of them all; The plunder of the Earth and the protection of that plunder at all costs, in the name of the select few who got there first or if they didn’t, managed to buy off or evict those that did.

Vintage Scott-Heron from the 1970s. “The Bottle.”

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Valens would be seventy today.

Ricardo Esteban Valenzuela Reyes aka “Ritchie Valens” was poised to become the first Latino breakthrough rock and roll star in America. Discovered in his hometown of Pacoima, east of Los Angeles, in the nape of the verdant San Fernando Valley, where migrant workers picked vegetables and fruits, had children and settled down, Valens was young and packed with talent. A gifted musician, he played multiple instruments as child and even learned how to play guitar right-handed despite being a southpaw.

The Valley was rife with musical influences, from mariachi bands to rockabilly, and they came through Valens’ sweet fusion of romantic ballads, like his smash hit, “Donna” and the fiery, “La Bamba.” Bob Keane of Del-Fi records discovered him and helped shape his sound, launching him into the collective ear with the infectious rocker, “Come On Lets Go.” He had earthy good looks, mad chops, a great voice and massive crossover potential. Ricthie Valens was on his way to becoming the Latino Elvis.

In 1959, rock and roll was really taking off. Record sales were hitting gaudy numbers as the devil’s music reached deep into the wallets of mainstream America. The whole concept of touring was taking off as well, but unlike today, where the logistics have become a science, it was catch as catch can as rockers barnstormed across the country, appearing in as many places as possible over as short a period of time.

Valens was on “The Winter Dance Party Tour” which was taking place in the Midwest, at a blistering pace of 24 dates in three weeks. He was touring with The Big Bopper (J.P. Richardson), Dion and the legendary Buddy Holly. They were traveling by bus, but the shaky bus had no heat and in the early days of February, on snow covered roads, heat was a necessity. However, it was a last-minute gig at the Surf Ballroom in Clear Lake, Iowa that would ultimately be their undoing.

The organizers of the tour saw an open date and made a last minute arrangement for Valens and company to perform there. But Holly, who was obviously the alpha of the tour was getting frustrated, not only by the ragged touring coach, but by how long it was taking to get from place to place as snow delayed their efforts to make their dates on time. Holly decided to rent a small plane to get to the next show in Moorehead, Minnesota, but the plane wouldn’t hold all members of the tour. Dion and Holly band members, Tommy Allsup and Waylon Jennings (yes, that Waylon Jennings), did not get on the plane. The Big Bopper had come down with the flu and didn’t want to ride on the bus and had managed to convince Jennings to switch with him. Valens had never flown before and wanted to experience it. He flipped a coin with Allsup for the last seat on the plane. Valens won the toss. Holly told Jennings that he hoped the bus would break down. Jennings responded with wishing Holly’s plane would crash–words he would later regret.

Valens was a Taurus, but not just any Taurus, he had Sun, Venus, Saturn, Jupiter and Uranus all in Taurus, from 18-25 degrees, so we’re talking fairly tight conjunctions and they were all in his 3rd House. It’s no coincidence that Valens was discovered in his hometown. The 3rd house is down the street, around the block and across town. It’s all about local flavor and his third was stacked. Not only did he have a herd of bulls grounded in his third, he also had Mercury in Gemini there as well, in it’s own house, Richie Valens was not only talented, but bright. However, notice all that heavy, earth bound and fixed energy rooted down there, in the local zone. These are aspects of someone deeply anchored in their locale. His 9th house, the house of travel is dedicated to 20 degrees worth of Scorpio and while it was un-aspected, on the night of Valens’ death, transiting Neptune in Scorpio was opposing his Black Moon Lilith also in Taurus at 7 degrees. Neptune was in Valens’ 8th house on that fateful night being so close to the 9th, we read it there as well, so Neptune in Scorpio, sex, drugs and rock and roll, was dancing between the house or travel and death.

Valens also had natal Sag Moon in the 10th. The Moon is classically interpreted as being a fluid aspect in any house, more colored by surrounding planets, angles and even phase, than any other planet. The Moon in Valen’s chart was waxing, having been full just two days before. It’s squared by his natal Neptune. Sag is travel. The 10th is career. On the day Valens died, the Moon was also in Sag and it was squaring his natal Neptune. In an odd admixture of luck and fate, Valens won the coin toss and got his wish, a seat on his very first plane flight, flying to a gig, using travel to further his career and yet, it was one of the most “unlucky” coin tosses in the annals of popular music.

There’s no guarantee what Valens’ career or life would have turned out like had he lost that coin flip. Jennings was haunted for the rest of his life by the night, when the music died. Had Richie Valens lived, he would have been seventy today, on May, Friday the 13th.

In an interesting twist of synchronicity, I will be joined on the Friday Farcast by Gary Moore, author of Hey Buddy: In Pursuit of Buddy Holly, My New Buddy John, and My Lost Decade of Music. It touches on the behind-the-scenes story of the death of Holly, Valens, Richardson and the pilot, 21 year-old, Roger Peterson.

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archandroid_coverFrom Archons To Arch Androids

That cutaway illustrated below is an actual model of Dick Cheney’s heart or lack thereof. You see, Dr. Strange Love has no heart. While this might not come as a surprise to many, having an actual look-see as to what keeps Dick ticking is kind of a dark revelation to say the least. This is a pump that actually circulates the blood through the body. With no heart, he has no heartbeat. It’s just the mechanized woosh of plasma that’s roiling through his system. If it weren’t for technology and a few million bucks, he would be a dead Dick.

But in a strangely ironic twist, this is the dream of the trans-human-fetishists, albeit saddled with a bulky version of an AI interface. Cheney, an Aquarius, would theoretically be receptive to the deepening of his silicon connection. While this is a functional version of a cyborg’s delight, Cheney is far from alone.

dick_heartLady Gaga has been flashing her hybrid style for the past three years, getting ever closer to the woman-machine synthesis. Gaga might be the most overt example of the programming that is taking place on a number of levels but as we will soon find out, she is not alone. Her haircut mimics the same style of Daryl Hannah/Pris in Blade Runner. It’s not a coincidence. I’ll steer clear of the obvious illuminist symbols and stick as close to the ummmm, facts as possible.

The Cloning Of Pris’ Bangs Is A Cipher Repeating Itself Through Timepris

Are ideas like this latched upon by canny dream weavers or does the Hannah/Gaga continuum evolve out of a pre-set archetype that modulates image and function accordingly? There are a number of sites that track illuminist symbolism and imagery in art. From Alan Watt, to Esoteric Kitten, to Pseudo Occult Media, you can find enough mind numbing examples of overt symbolic manipulation, much of it revolving around pop stars like Gaga. The Evidence Is overwhelming. We are programmed to the point where our drives and desires are rarely our own. Even our most sacred values, such as patriotism and God are the wallpaper of our sub-conscious. No doubt, there are men and women highly skilled in the art of psychic manipulation through esoteric symbols that evoke the mimetic tableau of our times. Many of them have been steeped in magic of darker hues. They might even meet in halls, lodges and wooded groves. They would certainly match the layman’s description of a conspiracy, but what if they themselves were being acted upon and like the unwitting public that they trance with their animatronic eye candy, are just as oblivious?

True Hallucinations

The late Terrence McKenna dove with abandon into the strange world of DMT, where self-replicating machine elves create psychedelic ovules of papier-mâché, giving birth to them in realms we cannot imagine. What if a similar process was behind all of creation and Gaga and her robot masters were nothing more than creations of some larger force living out it’s own archetypal imperative? In essence, does Lady Gaga or GW Bush have any choice in the matter of who or what they are to become and have the forces that we have fed for millennia simply taken on a life of their own, enormous entities that nearly rival God in the accumulated manifestation of our beliefs and practices? What if all of this is just phantasms of our own imaginations, fears and perverse desires, co-mingling with forces from other realms? As always, like an ancient script of numeric representation, there is the astrological codec, an overhead projection of this realm through time and space. Let’s have a look shall we?


Gaga is an Aries (of course) and not just any Aries. Born on March 28, 1986, she has Aries at 7 degrees. Most people know that we are shifting from Pisces to Aries via Uranus, full time, next year. Jupiter is already there, but it too will retreat briefly, only to move fully into Aries in 2011. I will go out on a limb and predict enormous success for Gaga in 2011 (much to the consternation of many). It’s not simply her as an artist that will be successful, but the idea of transhumanist deviation, will stamp her image on the fore brain of the collective mind. Uranus in Aries is an explosive dance of destruction and conflict, it is the electric fire of individual inspiration and personal genius, and it also foreshadows the scientific manipulation of form and a as a result, the very essence of will itself.

The Third Reich came of age during the last run of Uranus in Aries and out of the Third Reich we have “Eugenics” the search not just for the perfect form in flesh, but perhaps even more importantly, it represents man’s ability to create such a perfect form, one that places him on the same celestial stage as God. That is the real golden ring. Transhumanism isn’t just a less loaded term for Eugenics, it’s code for the creation of a new species entirely and as a result, the end of the human as we know it.

When Uranus conjuncts Gaga’s Sun, I would not be the least surprised to begin to see real and not costumed augmentation to her physiognomy. The Sabian Symbol for 7 Degrees Aries is A MAN SUCCEEDS IN EXPRESSING HIMSELF SIMULTANEOUSLY IN TWO REALMS. This is clearly a celebration of the dual life, and in her case, part woman, part machine. Not only is her Sun in Aries but so is her Venus, though placed significantly further away at 23 degrees. Jupiter in Aries will kiss her natal Venus in 2011 and might even portend a marriage. The bride of Frankenstein? Pluto is also deeply informing her collective might as well. It is conjuncting her natal Neptune in Cap at five degrees and sextiling her natal Pluto at 6 degrees Scorpio, augmenting her androidal sexuality. Pluto in Cap is being distributed through the spiritual function of her generation. Neptune is filmic and illusory, it offers up gloss and sheen, it’s seductive in an etheric sense and when it is conjoined with Pluto/Capricorn, the individuals of her generation act as channels for power in an earthly sense. In it’s initial stages, not tempered by experience and time, it is the naked adulation of power as a God.

It’s All About The Baphometrics

Again, there is little coincidence in images of skulls, esoteric talismans and occult symbolism on tees, hoodies and caps. When Jay-Z recruits Kanye and Rhianna to “Run This Town” he is speaking directly to this generation that worships power. This is amplified with Pluto in Scorpio. While the ideal of power is worshiped, the act of sex as a conduit to power is this generation’s calling card and in many ways, Gaga has become a symbol for all of the above. She is an augmented sex-kitten, robotically responding to your wishes and desires, willing to do anything, rubbing your face in esoteric nose candy. She is morphing towards a synthetic version of Babylon’s greatest whore. But she is far from alone.

rihanna-rude-boy-rAries in Your Anus?

While Gaga manages to sell loads of inane music with beats that are likely laced with mind-numbing embeds, the aforementioned Rhianna is undergoing her own transmogrification, from innocent teen, to violated and initiated, to giving her body and soul over to the deus sex machina.

Chrisitina Aguilera was not content with motherhood. Nope, she had to get in on the game as well, sporting her own version of cybervixen, 2010. However, Janelle Monae might just be taking all of this to another level.

Discovered by Big Boi (Aquarius again), half of Outkast, Monae was signed to Diddy’s Bad Boy label. She left no doubt as to where she was going with 2009′s Metropolis referencing of course the Fritz Lang classic. But have a look at the album cover. She is not only part human and part android, but even the android part of her is broken and torn apart. However, she’s remedied that with her latest release, ArchAndroid which is about her alter-ego Cindy, who discovers her super powers and realizes that she is the “Arch Android” here to save the other hapless androids from their life of androidal enslavement.

I find the city of gold head dress (see image at the top of the post) totally fascinating, especially the golden phallus rising from her crown chakra like a spear of destiny, pointing towards the heavens. Metropolis, robots, a golden cock growing out of her mind, it all smacks of some new Reichian zeitgeist and I’m not talking about Wilhelm Reich.

Now some may say that this is some sort of market trend or a Grace Jones/Nona Hendryx redux, or even a semi-psychotic and dissociative projection of the human condition that has lost the ability to feel, but with Uranus in Aries, this is more likely a presage to the Eugenic drive to convert humanity into a transgenic species. But what happens to the soul? Where does the humanity go? Or are we already so degraded that it’s a moot point? Is this just the unnatural progression of things? Are we that numbed out and unfeeling that we have to create alters to explore the realms of non-emotive states? I am not enthusiastic about the trend, no matter how funky the beats and cool grooves are.

Janelle Monae AKA Cindy Mayweather In Many Moons


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New Orleans’ finest, MUTE MATH. Can you break the spell?

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