I awoke with a start, the remnants of a nightmare still sizzling through the rotisserie of my head. I was backstage at the benefit concert that I will be performing at in January, the one for Moveon.org, and Moby and David Bowie were moving on.org about, and then a long standing dear friend of mine, whom I have not seen in years, who happens to be hosting the event asked me, “How are you?” I replied, “I am afraid all the time.” Then I awoke, not really sure that I did as writing this now may still be part of this dream and who is to say this all isn’t a fucked up joke on us because the illusion is that time is a tangible thing when really it is just an agreement made by society that we all stick to the same time table just so we may meet each other “on time” or not be “late.” You know that Nepal refuses to be on the same time as India, so the clocks in Kathmandhu are set forward one quarter of an hour, which means anyone who has been famous and finished here, can go there, as another Warhol defined increment of fame awaits.
I am afraid that now that Saddam has been captured from his Styrofoam spider hole Scooby Dooby Doo where are you hidden place (if you have it, play Bjork’s “Hidden Place” right now to enhance your blog experience and listen at maximum volume. I will wait.) Ok. Now the government has the one, where is the other? I am afraid that on election day, Osama Bin Laden is going to jump out of a cake at the Bush compound and take off his turban stripper style, as they grease up a pole with napalm ready for him to do his pole work he has been sweating over all this time he has been in captivity. (Osama throws down his walkie talkie in frustration and puts his hands on his hips and after cooling down a second looks up, “I just want it to be perfect!”) I am afraid that they have been calling him “Osama Bin 47” because that is where that fool bin kept hostage, because the government knows that they will need some shock and awe style rhymes to get the Republicans in the lead. (This scenario was part plagiarized from a fan who wrote in yesterday, so I give out props to you for thinking of it, and yep I am gonna steal it, but really I only took the idea of Osama in captivity and then the rest of it, cake, stripper pole, a dancer’s frustration, is all mine, but thank you my homie. You a playa.)
I am afraid that people are going to fall in line with the propaganda and follow “Dumb And Dubya” as he goose-steps back to the Oval Office and finally gets to do what he has always wanted, rev up “Dubya Dubya III” where all the former axis of evil powers are consolidated. He’ll get The Terminator, and all the other dictators, so called religious leaders and Corporate CEOs – to form a ‘League of Injustice’ and they will get to wear capes and leotards. You know that is what they really want – not that there is anything wrong with superhero-play, just that it should be separate from government, like the church. This will replace the UN. Then Bush will aim his evil laser focus pointer of his Big Ass Bush Gun on Medicare, Planned Parenthood, The World Population Fund and the rest of the good organizations until they’re all obliterated. The only thing we have on our side is that Dubya isn’t a good shot. He has no aim, cannot even hit the paper man at the FBI shooting gallery even when it is placed twelve inches from his face. (I don’t know this of course, I am speculating, but isn’t that what all media is doing anyway? Why not listen to me? I am probably right.) I am a better shot than him. I went to a shooting range, not for myself – I was training for a movie – that sounds soooo stupid but I was so fuck me whatever – wanna have drinks at The Standard? I did not hit one thing at all except for the cement right above my head. The best shot was Queen Latifah, because they keep the paper targets and people sign them. She shot that paper motherfucker dead in the middle of his head about 100 times, then signed it “Tha Queen.” That is what I am talking about. They didn’t ask me to sign mine. They are trying to make Dubya into this fucking Walker, Texas Ranger dude ranch superhero, and then when we need him, we will shine a big light in the sky that says “Duh?” and then he will get there when he gets there. I wish that dud would start drinking again, because he might as well have been drunk at the wheel of this country for the last three years, and he is bound to crash.
Incidentally, I know for a fact that the White House makes its own brandy, Blue Room Brandy. It is delicious. Sweet and intoxicating, the perfect nightcap for those already fucking drunk with power.