Meat Beat Manifesto - Satyricon

Meat Beat Manifesto

Satyricon

I stand outside the massive structure to which I have been assigned. From behind my dark shades I can see its name: Columbia High School. I light a cigarette and stare as the students swarm about me, rushing to their morning classes.

“Hey, James Dean,” a student taunts as he runs by me. “That look is played out, yo.”

“Fuck you,” is my calm reply.

He is right, though. I must look pretty stupid with my black leather jacket, black jeans, black shirt, and black Doc Martens. Combined with the black shades, black leather gloves and cigarette, I must look like a caricature of a 50’s rebel. I am surprised, though, that the little shit even knows who James Dean was. All most kids know about nowadays is Home Alone 2 and Nirvana. I smile to myself and take off the my shades.

What does he know about rebellion, anyway? I flick my cigarette at a passing freshman and enter the school building. I can’t believe I’m going to be teaching here.

Inside, I am immediately stopped by a burly, Spanish security guard who growls: “Can I help you?” His name tag identifies his as Paco, but the tone of his voice identified him as a dick. His kind offer for help was overshadowed by his obvious sarcasm.

I look down into his beady eyes and say (in my best Steven Segal voice): “Let me tell you something, Pac-hoe. I don’t need to take none of your sarcasm, you dig? I’m teaching here. Now where is the main office?”

He just stares back at me. I can see his little mousy mustache twitching. After a minute more of staring at my alligator-like grin, he says: “I’m going to have to escort you there.”

On the way to the office, I take off my gloves and jacket. I also untuck my pants out of my boots, making them look like shoes. By the time we get to the office, I have undergone a transformation into the spitting image of a typical student teacher.

Inside the office, the guard announces quite loudly: “This guy says he’s a new teacher here!”

My heart leaps up to my throat. I feel like throttling him. But all I can do is stand there wide-eyed as every head, including the principal’s, turns to stare at me. The guard snickers and exits the office, mumbling “Asshole” under his contemptuous breath.

The silence of the room weighs upon me as everyone waits for me to break it with the divulgence of a reason for my intrusion.

“Actually, ha ha, I... I’m doing my Junior Field Experience. Uhm, I am supposed to to meet up with Ms. Wastie. I think it’s room A225.”

Everyone goes back to their work as one of the secretaries approaches me with a map in hand. She looks at me doubtfully over the rim of her thick glasses and licks her parchment-dry lips. I can almost hear them crack as she opens her mouth to speak.

“It’s on the second floor. Go down this hallway. Make a right and go up the stairs, then follow this floor plan to her room.” I reach for the map and turn to leave, when she adds: “By the way, there’s no smoking on school property.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I reply meekly and make my exit. I follow the instructions and find Ms. Wastie quite easily. She gives me the rundown on what I have to do. Apparently, I am to observe her classes for the first few weeks. Then, I am to teach a couple of lessons based on lesson plans that I will create. Finally, at the end of my time in her class, someone from Kean College will be in to observe and evaluate me on a particular day.

I don’t like the thought of being “observed” and “evaluated.” I mean, how can your entire career as a teacher be judged on only one day of teaching. What if it just happens to be a bad day? What if you are usually a great teacher, but on that particular day some snot-nosed punk decides to mouth off at you? I think it would be better if Ms Wastie herself were to evaluate me. That would be fair. But I am old enough to realize that life is far from fair. To quote George Michael quoting The Rolling Stones: “You can’t always get what you want.”

The first half of the day is quite uneventful. Some of the classes are angelic; some demonic. But one thing all the classes have in common is conformity. All of the students look alike, dress alike, talk alike, and pretty much act alike.

What ever happened to the wild high school days and the rebellion of the youth? Where are the outcasts of the school? The artists? Where are the youth that are unafraid to stand out of the crowd? Where are the rebels?

During the lunch period, I wander down to the cafeteria to grab a bite. I am not surprised to see that some things didn’t change: the cafeteria food still tastes like cardboard. I finish what I can and then I am overcome by a massive nicotine fit. I begin to wander the halls searching for a good hiding place where I can smoke. I pass a side door and see that someone has wedged a can of grape soda into it to keep the door open.

I push it open and see that the door leads to a small parking lot. A maintenance lot, I assume. A voice calls out to me immediately: “Don’t let it shut, man!”

I turn to find the source of that voice and I see that it belongs to a very interesting, young Filipino girl. She is about 16 and has dyed flaming red hair. It matches her flaming red socks which I see through her transparent Doc Marten boots. She is wearing a long black trench-coat and black tights. Her shirt is a flowing pattern of black and red polka dots. She is sitting on the hood of a beat up green Honda Civic, listening to her walkman and smoking a black clove cigarette. She is fierce!

I wedge the can between the doors once again and approach her, lighting my own cigarette. She regards me with a cool, detached look as I get closer to her. I stop a couple of feet away from the car and say: “What’s up? What are you listening to?”

She rolls her eyes a bit and and answers in a dismissive voice: “You wouldn’t know them.” She pauses to take a long drag and blows it out through her nose. “It’s a group called Meat Beat Manifesto.”

“Cool,” I reply. “Is that the new album Satyricon?”

She seems surprised that I know of the group. She smiles, brushes her fiery mane aside and replies: “Yeah, I just got it. I think it’s pretty good. I mean, it’s not as good as their last tape 99%”

“Uh, huh,” I lead her on a bit.

“I mean 99% was so hard and frantic and this one is so much mellower. But it’s really good. What do you think?”

I inhale deeply and prepare myself for my long reply. She obviously doesn’t know who she’s messing with. “I think Satyricon is fantastic. It is a very cerebral work. All the songs have a running theme of control in them: control of your own mind, your own body and your own soul. The album relates the expansion of the universe to the expansion of your mind. Songs like ‘Mindstream’ and ‘The Sphere’ deal quite openly with the expansion I mentioned. While other songs like ‘Circles’ and ‘Placebo’ deal with the futility of those expansions due to our inability to properly control and utilize them.”

I take another drag and continue: “And, of course, we have all those other obvious control songs like ‘Original Control (Versions I and II)’ and ‘Edge Of No Control (Parts I and II)’ which delineate the constant struggle we face to keep control of our very being.”

Throughout all this, she has just been staring at me. She takes another drag and blurts out: “Are you a college student, or something?”

“Yeah,” I smile and continue. “Anyway, the music is very interesting. It’s not as quote-unquote Industrial as the other stuff they’ve done. It has more of an accessible dance beat mixed with psychedelic sounds and bizarre samples. You can tell the influence that the group Consolidated has had on the recording of this album. It sounds a little like the material from Consolidated’s Play More Music, but not as diverse. Meat Beat Manifesto even thank Consolidated in their liner notes. I think it was a good influence. How about you?”

She puts out her cigarette, gets up off the car, and begins to walk back toward the door. “Yeah, uhm, I really like it. Well, I gotta go.”

“Wait!” I cry after her. “Don’t you want to hear about my friend Doug’s theory on their prior album 99%? He equates it to a paranoid acid trip. It’s really fascinating!”

By this time, she has reached the door. She turns around, smiles at me, steps inside and kicks the can out from between the doors. She laughs as the door slams shut, locking me out.

“Ah, the rebellion of youth,” I muse silently to myself.

Mysteries of the Unexplained

Book Review:

Mysteries of the Unexplained

I enter the old man’s abode seeking the knowledge that has been denied to me by my parents and scholarly institutions. After months of searching for him, following the rumors of society’s other outcasts, I have finally found him. He greets me from within the gloomy confines of his candlelit quarters. He beckons me to sit in an ancient, throne-like chair while he takes his place across from the mold encrusted, dusty desk which stands between us like some giant relic from a forgotten age.

Gazing upon this thin, bespectacled octogenarian I find it hard to believe that he can actually hold the key to unlocking the many mysteries that have riddled my brain since infancy. He is wearing a hooded cloak, which he presently removes, revealing a shoulder-length mane of fine, silver hair. Adjusting the bifocal glasses upon the tiny button that passes for his nose, he leans forward and smiles a toothless grin at me. I smile back, trying to appear confident with my full set of teeth, but I am sure the apprehension apparent in my eyes betray my bravado.

Looking deep into my nervous eyes (maybe even past them!) he asks: “So, why have you come here, my friend?”

As he speaks, I am suddenly overcome by the pungent smell of sulfur. I recoil only a bit, trying to conceal the full extent of my nausea. I muster enough strength to answer: “I want knowledge.”

“Sorry, child. You’ve come to the wrong place.” He begins to rise from his chair, pulling the hood back over his head. “I am no teacher. Go back to your university and trouble me no further.”

“Wait!” I plead. “I... I want to know the truth about this world. I want to know what lurks deep within the waters of Loch Ness. I want to know what beasts dwell in the darkest confines of the twilight forests. I want to understand the nature of the beings that travel across the endless oceans of space to gaze upon this world. I need to know what happens to our consciousness after we die. I want to know about giants, elves, pixies and dragons. I need to know if these creatures that the world dismissed as mythology are truly real.”

I rise from my chair and I feel my face flushing crimson as my desperation turns to anger. My hand covertly reaches into my pocket as I continue my rant. My fingers curls around the cold steel which lies in wait to assure my success in this venture.

“I know that there is a small amount of truth to every folktale and I need to know that truth. I have travelled a long way to come here, old man, not only physically, but emotionally. I will not leave until you give me the answers I seek” Withdrawing the blade from my pocket and leveling it at his heart, I add: “Even if it is with your dying breath.”

The ancient one seems non-plussed by my threat and the 6 inches of fine steel aimed at the core of his being. An amused smile dances across his ragged features as he sits down once again. He stares intently into my wild eyes as his fingers drag across the edge of his hood, pulling it down. “And what makes you think I have the answers you desire?”

“People have spoken about you in hushed whispers in the back-alleys of the inner city. They speak of you and the book you possess. They tell of a magic tome which proves the unprovable and contains the answers to our oldest mysteries. You have shown this book to some and it has changed their lives. I want to peruse this volume with my own eyes and you will show it to me. Or, I swear, old man, I will slay you where you sit and tear this place apart until I find it.”

“There is no need for threats, little boy,” the old man says, a smile still radiating from his eyes. “Put away that butter knife and let me douse the fires of your inquisition.”

He stares and waits until I put the knife away. And then with a silent, yet meaningful glance at my chair, he commands me to sit down. Once I comply, he waits a beat longer for dramatic effect and then continues.

“So, you want to know the unknown. You want to know what rough beasts reside beneath your bed at night. You want to know what demons dance just beyond your field of vision, do you? You are not content with just going about your 9 to 5 life, blissfully unaware of the unsettling realities of this earth. I don’t blame nor condemn you for your hunger. But I must warn you, this knowledge comes at a price. Once your eyes are opened, they will never be able to close again. You cannot go back to being the person you were. You will forever be changed.”

I swallow hard, feeling every nerve ending in my body tingle with excitement. The icy chills that tango up and down my spine do nothing to cool the fire within my breast. I will finally know what has always been just out of reach. I do not hesitate in answering: “I am willing and ready to see the truth, old man. You just have to make me able.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s another thing. Quit calling me old man. My name is Quentin and I am barely 81. I would hardly call that old,” he mutters as he gets up and heads to another room to retrieve the book.

I smile and lean back into my chair. I pull a cigarette out from my almost depleted pack. I roll my wet tongue around the filter and light the thin cancer stick. We all gotta die sometime, I think to myself as I take that long, acrid first drag. I then realize that I have gotten used to that sulfuric smell that permeates the room. The old guy, uhm, I mean Quentin. He must be a heavy smoker to stink up a room like that. I take a long look at my Newport and snuff it out against the bottom of my shoe. “We all have to die sometime... but why rush it?’

Quentin returns bearing a moderately thick, nightshade blue hardcover book with the words MYSTERIES OF THE UNEXPLAINED emblazoned across the front in silver letters. Surrounding the title is a silver outline of what appears to be a solar eclipse. It appears very impressive and in remarkably good condition. It almost looks as if it was fresh from the publishing house. That’s quite odd, I think. I expected it to be a bit more old and worn. Like it’s owner.

Quentin once more takes his place on his throne before me and opens the book to an index page. He looks up at me with a mischievous gleam and asks: “So, what would you like to know?”

I lean forward and ask: “The Loch Ness Monster. Does it exist? What is it? Any hard evidence?”

“Ah,” he begins to scan the index before him. Finding the page, and turning to it, he begins: “The answer to that is on page 151. Not only does the Loch Ness creature exist, but it is not unique. Similar creatures have been reported in many lakes across America and the world. The creature in question is an elasmosaur, which is a type of plesiosaur long thought to be extinct.”

“Wait. So, you are saying that it is a dinosaur? How could it have survived?’

“For that you must read deeper into the tome. But remember this, not all dinosaurs have become extinct. Some have evolved a little, like tortoises and crocodiles. While others have remained completely unchanged, like the coelacanth, which was thought to be extinct for millions of years before the plesiosaur, until some were rediscovered off the coast of Africa.”

“What about evidence?” I ask.

“Well, apart from the countless photographs and videos which show it clearly, up-close and in color, not to mention the sonar equipment which has picked up the massive shapes of the creatures, there has been several carcasses retrieved. The most famous is the decomposing carcass hauled off the coast of New Zealand. It was photographed and, like most other items of this nature, it disappeared when turned over to the authorities. It seems the “authorities” feel that there are some things the public just shouldn’t know. Sort of like that AIDS cure, but that’s another story. Anything else?”

“Hell, yeah! What about giants?”

“Almost every culture has tall tales regarding giants. This is especially true in the Bible. All these stories from different cultures must point towards a common truth, right? Well, they do. In the section of the book titled ‘Anomalies’ pages 35 through 47, giants are discussed. All over the world, and especially in America, archaeologists have been finding humanoid bones of gigantic size. Skulls too. Like the remains found in Lovelock Cave in Nevada of bones of people whose average height must have been between 6 and 9 1/2 to 10 foot tall. These remains were found along with massive armor and weapons. Some of the remains included fragments of long, red hair. The native residents of the area, The Paiute, have long had legends of the red-headed giants, The Si-Te-Cahs, who were the mortal enemies of the Paiute Tribe. Interesting, huh? Some of the bones, skulls, and artifacts unearthed are still on display at the Humboldt Museum in Winnemucca, Nevada.”

“What else does this book MYSTERIES OF THE UNEXPLAINED talk about?” I ask the old man as my eyes get wider.

“The book is divided into five sections. Beyond the Walls of Time deals with prophecies, anomalies, and coincidences. Unearthly Fates has to do with cases of Spontaneous Human Combustion, Inexplicable Crimes and Assaults, and Appearances and Disappearances. Monsters and More deals with monsters and ghosts. The Unquiet Sky examines Strange Things From Above, U.F.O.s and Atmospheric and Astronomical Oddities. The final section, In the Realm of Miracles, looks at Cures and Immunities, and Signs and Wonders. All these topics are explored in-depth with full color photos and charts. I’m really glad I got it.”

“How did you get it? Did some ancient mystic bequeath it to you? Or did you have to make some sort of Satanic pact to possess it?”

“No,” Quentin smiles. He leans forward and closes the book. He pulls it closer to himself and regards me with a terribly funny look. “I ordered it from Reader’s Digest for $24.95.”

I leap to my feet and shriek: “Whaaat? You mean to tell me all this hidden knowledge can be had in fucking Reader’s Digest? Are you shitting me?” I reach once more for my blade, ready to strike Quentin dead for this latest blasphemy.

“Hey, Little Guy. Relax! Remember sometimes the best place to hide something is in plain sight. Who would ever think that Reader’s Digest would hold the key to man’s knowledge? No one takes it seriously. That is why society is so blind to the real mystery of life. They always look towards ‘serious’ sources fro ‘truth’, but these are the same sources that keep the truth from us. They are confident that only fools would believe what wasn’t ‘officially’ divulged to the public. Little do they know that there are people out there like you and I who strive for what we know as truth. The shit exists. The only problem is making others open their eyes to it.”

I am stunned. I look at his sky blue eyes and I am suddenly filled with a sense of truth. He is right. I begin to smile and ask him how I can order one of those damn books.

“Just write to The Reader’s Digest Association, Inc. in Pleasantville, NY. They’ll get it to you in about four weeks, Little Guy.”

‘Thanks, Quentin. But, hey, do me a favor? Stop calling me ‘Little Guy’, Ok? Before I use this ‘Butter Knife’ on you.”

Friendly Fire

Friendly Fire

Horizon Records

My friend Janine and I sit at the most secluded booth at the Arlington Diner. We have just left The Pipeline and are in desperate need of nourishment to replenish the energy we have depleted while dancing.

A young waiter has just taken our order. As he turns to leave, he looks back at us and smiles. Janine and I both notice that he has a mouth full of metal. Braces, I assume. I smile back politely, and as soon as he turns his back once more, I burst out laughing.

“What are you laughing about?” Janine asks.

“Did you see his teeth?” I snicker.

“Oh, what? You’re laughing at his braces? What are you? Twelve years old? That’s messed up. I had braces. There’s nothing funny about that.”

“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I’m not making fun of the braces themselves. It’s just that a waiter with braces strikes me as funny. I don’t know why.”

The motor mouth waiter returns with our cokes and places both of them in front of me. He then reaches over, grabs our ketchup bottle and goes away with it. Janine stares at his back indignantly.

“Buzzsaw Breath,” she mutters and we both laugh. I love hanging out with Janine. I mean, she is great friend. She is beautiful, witty, eloquent, classy and, unfortunately, quite taken.

I pass her the corresponding Coke and say: “You’re great.”

“Thanks,” she says and takes a long sip. I watch her lips pucker around the straw as she looks at me with her Cerulean Blue eyes. I never quite understood how a person with such light eyes could have natural Raven-Black hair. I am once again struck by how much she looks like a prettier version of Demi Moore.

“So,” she drags me back from the fantasy world in which I am a straw. “I read your column the other day. The one about the crutches and how ‘they bring out the mothering instincts in some girls.’ You chauvinistic bastard!”

“Aw, C’mon! I didn’t mean you. I was only joking. Besides, you are devoid of any mothering instincts,” I take a sip.

“Yeah? Well, you just go ahead and break your leg again and see if I open any more doors for you,” She sips.

“Well, my crutches did get you to go out on a date with me.”

“Yeah, and you took me to McDonald’s in your dad’s station wagon! How romantical.”

“Who are you kidding? You loved it,” I take another long sip, as she smiles back at me. “You’ve never been to a fast food restaurant in your life! How could I just let that go? All your other suitors took you out to fancy restaurants and plays. I wanted you to see how the common people live, Princess.”

“It actually was fun,” she laughs and runs her hand through that dark, and presumably soft, mane. “I especially liked the little boxed meal with the toy. That was neat.”

Before I can tease her for using the word ‘neat’ in a non-ironic sense, the waiter comes over again with our burgers. This time he is not smiling. Actually, his face is a bit puffed up as if he had been crying. He slams the burgers down and walks away, sniffling.

“Think he heard us?” Janine asks.

“I don’t know,” I answer. “Oh, well. Fuck him if he can’t take a joke. He needs to get a thick skin if he is going to be taking care of the 3 am post-Pipeline crowd. I’m doing the little shit a favor.”

Janine laughs. There is a moment of silence as we both contemplate the giant burgers that stare up at us from our plates. I was once a vegetarian for several months until my car accident and subsequent surgery left me in desperate need for an increase of protein in my diet. I was too lazy to search out alternatives to meat from where to obtain the protein and fell right back into the read meat trap. Still, I eat it with equal portions of unease and guilt.

Janine takes a huge bite. “What are you going to write about this week,” she asks in between mouthfuls.

“Funny you should ask. I am reviewing a hardcore band named Friendly Fire. I don’t know much about hardcore, but it’s pretty good.”

“Independent label?” she asks.

“Yeah. Actually, the lead singer goes to Kean. You’ve probably seen him. His name is Jay Fisher. He’s one of the people who got me into slam dancing. He tok me to my first punk show in Philly. We saw The Dead Milkmen and Electric Love Muffin.”

Janine look at me blankly and says: “Oh.”

“Ever since I was a DJ at that dump WKNJ, he had promised to give me a demo tape of his band. Well, now, years later, he gave me a colored vinyl 45 EP with four songs on it.”

Janine takes another bite, chews on it for over two minutes, wipes her pretty mouth with a napkin and asks: “How are the songs? Any good?”

“They’re alright. They are Numbers (Parts I and II), Weight, and Division. Jay can sing surprisingly well, although it’s a bit hard to understand his lyrics most of the time. The music is good. There are great chord progressions in Weight. And Division is surprisingly funky for that style of music. As I said, I am not the most knowledgeable guy when it comes to hardcore, but I found myself into it. I wish I was still at the radio station, because I would love to play it and take calls to see what the listeners think about it.”

“Why don’t you go back?” she asks, finishing her burger and signaling for the check.

“Screw that. The radio station has changed. There are some really cool people there, but I couldn’t deal with the hidden politics of it. Not worth the drama, seriously.”

We sit in silence for a second, digesting our burgers as we look around at all the other gathered freaks that have invaded the diner. There is nothing like the Saturday late night crowd at The Arlington Diner to truly enjoy a good session of people watching.

As much as I try to resist, I can feel my stare traveling back from the freaks to Janine’s beautiful eyes. She catches me staring at her, and instead of making fun of me, she just sits there and stares back with an amused smile.

“You always look at me with Hungry Eyes,” She finally says. “Even though you just ate that big fat greasy burger, you still have that Ethiopian look.”

I nearly spill the last bit of soda I was trying to suck down, as I laugh at her wholly inappropriate joke. She laughs too and says: “Oh, my God. I can’t believe I said that! That’s fucked up!”

“I must be a bad influence on you,” I say as my laughter fades, “Because you are definitely a bad influence on me.”

“So, that’s it. That’s your big review of the week? You’re friend’s punk band? Mr. Industrial is now Mr. Punk Rock?”

“First of all, it’s hard core, not punk. Secondly, yeah. If I write about Friendly Fire would you read it?”

“I’ll think about it,” she says coyly as the looks around again for the waiter.

“What if I totally incorporate this entire meal into the review? And I make it seem like we are two total badasses making fun of our weird waiter? Would you read it then?”

Before she could answer, the waiter comes back with our check. He tosses it at us and says through his clenched, mechanical teeth: “Don’t forget to leave a tip.”

So, of course, we left without paying, laughing our way into the night.