"Clayton the Sage and Onion" <cjfat@SPAMBLOCKphonymails.com> wrote
As a lifelong insomniac, I can not overstate the service that
Art Bell and his overnight radio program Coast to Coast
AM's excursions into Weirdsville have provided for me.
Insert a "ME TOO!" here, the likes of which would make any
AO-hoLe proud.
On an unrelated note:
I was listening to Art's week-day counterpart, George Noory
around 2 am. Now if I told you that during a segement on
UFOs & Roswell his show was mysteriously preempted with
the sudden and unexplained rebroadcast of a segment from a
different talk show, millions of UFO "enthusiasts" wouldn't
be surprised, and would point to it as proof of the government
conspiracy & coverup.
But that's not what happened.
The thing is, I just arrived in front of a local 24-hour "Super"
drug store as George was wrapping up his UFO segment.
Stanton Friedman was saying his good-byes (well, plugging
his web site) and George was cutting to a commercial
break, promising a segment on Nostradamus up next. I do
admit that it peaked my interests, but the commercial breaks
on Coast To Coast are longer than most radio shows, so
I thought I had plenty of time to take care of my business
inside the drug store and still make it back for the opening.
It didn't turn out that way. I was going to pick up some
marshmellow Peeps while there was still time to get
them stale before Easter, but their price was terrible. They
wanted $1.29 a package and I refuse to pay more than
99 cents for Peeps. So forget the Peeps. I wrestled with
some tiny Peep dolls they had on sale, as an alternative,
but finally decided not to bother. They'd be "Cute"
for about ten minutes, sure, but then Easter would be
over and they'd serve no purpose. Real Peeps only
get better after Easter, as they grow stale & hard,
just the way Peep nuts like them.
Next on the list was spring water. They had a fantastic
deal on a name-brand bottled spring water the last time
I was in, and I was still kicking myself for not taking
advantage of it. Anyhow, I'm still kicking myself. The
sale is over, the entire stock was sold out, and now some
worthless store brand is actually priced higher than the
name-brand was last time.
That was it, my trip was a complete waste of time.
While I was there I bought some cigarettes & Coke,
but it was unnecessary. I still had another stop to make
at the gas station, and I could have picked up both of
those items there.
Killing more time, I didn't hop into the car when I
finally walked out of the drug store with my Coke
and cigarettes. Instead, I pulled a brush out of the
back and spent a few minutes cleaning the snow off
the windows & roof. It was only after that when I
finally hopped in and and discovered the shoking
conspiracy.
Coast To Coast AM was being preempted with a
re-broadcast of a segment from an earlier show.
The local station puts John Batchelor -- right
wing nut & closeted homosexual -- on before
Coast To Coast Am, yet I was listening to a
re-broadcast of part of John Batchelor's show.
Hmmm....
When exactly they started preempting Coast To
Coast I don't know (because of the time I spent
in the drug store), but it continued to about
2:30 am.... a little afterwards, actually. Batchelor
went to a commercial break and when they came
back it was Coast To Coast AM.
What is the government trying to hide from us?
Since discovering the show in the late '90s, I no longer toss and sweat up
my sheets aimlessly. Now I do so as inspired by Bell's endless parade of
UFOligists, doomsday theorists, conjurers-of-the-dead, secret
government-agency turncoats, weather controllers, shape-shifting shamans,
and other crackpot visionaries.
Art's weeknight replacement since 2002, George Noory, does an admirable
job
of chatting up the nutbars and implanting just enough of a
seed-of-a-shadow-of-a-half-of-a-doubt that maybe they're not so nutty
after
all. Art continues to amaze each weekend, proving that it is he
alone--with
his ultra-mellow '70s persona and his desert compound in The Kingdom of
Nye
and his multiple cats and his personal experiences with alien
aircraft--who
is truly the soul of wee-hours spookery and kookery on the airwaves.
And speaking of souls, that was the topic on one particular December 2001
Coast to Coast excursion that I will never, try as I might, be able to
forget. Art was doing his regular Friday night "Open Lines" but taking
calls
exclusively from individuals who had sold their souls to The Devil.
I said: They sold their souls to The Devil!
As a twelve-year veteran of Catholic education, this topic has always been
of utmost interest to me. The Living Satan is no fantasy figure in the
Church of Rome. He's as real as his promises are empty. And Old Nick was
the
subject of endless hours of contemplation on my part during my tenure at
Our
Lady Help of Christians elementary school.
Compounding this was my lifelong devotion to horror movies and anything
else
monster-or-supernatural-related. This may or may not have arisen from my
feelings of identification with the weak, ugly, despised, and downtrodden
(none of which has changed). Thus I could not help but ponder cutting
quick-fix deals with the Prince of Darkness.
Would I ever do it? I'd wonder, still wearing my parochial-school uniform
and waiting for a Frankenstein movie to start. Could I? Would Jesus save
me
at the last minute? How bad could Hell get? Can it be worse than being a
ten-year-old boy with fatty-boobs? Hmm . . . But he's The Devil! King of
Lies! His talons are never more than half-a-rosary away from tearing us
all
to shreds--DAMNED shreds.
Nonetheless, for decades, the concept of selling one's soul ranked high
among my roster for mental masturbation. Various declarations have ignited
it, from the protagonist of Paradise Lost declaring it "better to reign in
Hell than to serve in Heaven," as well as funnyman Sam Kinison proposing,
"Why miss Heaven by an inch?"
And so, as Art Bell took one call after another from those who had
brokered
their eternal essences for worldly gain and eternal agony, I sat up in
rapt
attention.
One guy claimed he could throw a deck of cards up at the ceiling, they'd
stick, and then they'd come down, one by one, as he called them, like so:
"Ace of spades, come forth. Two of clubs, come forth."
Somebody else said that she could fly if she got a proper bounce going on
a
trampoline. Another fellow could see through walls.
These were all cool powers, but it was a more subtle recipient who got me
abuzz with terror. He maintained that he had never met with an outwardly
identified agent of Lucifer, nor had he physically signed any contract.
But,
the caller continued, he'd been a commodities trader in the 1980s and made
a
lot of fast, easy bucks by ripping people off. He peddled junk bonds, he
skimmed, he ran all sorts of rackets. And the more he did it, the quicker
and more abundantly he was rewarded with booze, drugs, kicks, kinks, and,
most importantly, not-even-barely-legal female companionship.
Still, this caller said, he was afflicted by his conscience. After various
binges he'd be awash with guilt and, one day, he could no longer hide his
trepidation regarding committing further transgression.
The guy's boss took notice. He pointed out to Troubled Trader how
handsomely
their illegal stock shenanigans had been paying off. The time was come to
make an all-or-nothing commitment. "You're either for us," the Big Wig
seethed, "or you're against us."
The caller decided that he was with them. THEM! He said he felt a core
shift
in his being at that moment, like he had actually sold his soul. He was,
literally, one toke over the line (Sweet Jesus!). And the illicit benefits
continued to flow in--until the stock market crash of 1987.
And then he lost it all. That's when he decided to clean himself up. "I
got
off booze and drugs," he said. "I got married. And now I make an honest
living. I also run a volunteer animal shelter. We rescue homeless cats and
dogs from the streets."
Art Bell abruptly cut him off. "Well, you can help old ladies across the
street, too," he said. "It's not going to change anything. A deal is a
deal."
The caller was aghast. "What do you mean? I'm a good person today. I take
care of sick animals!"
"And that's wonderful," Art said, "but it doesn't matter. You made a deal
with The Devil and he paid out. He didn't say for how long. But you got
the
drugs, the underage girls, all those things you wanted. The Devil held up
his end. And, eventually, he'll come to collect and you'll have to hold up
yours. It's not like you'll have a choice in the matter at that point . .
.."
Whatever else followed was lost on me as I careened into an all-out
breakdown.
Mentally, I was transported back to a celebratory afternoon in 1992. My
self-published 'zine, Happyland, had just landed me my first writing gig
for
Hustler. I was ecstatic. I loved Hustler. I loved Larry Flynt, loved the
filthy cartoons, loved the depictions of and attitudes toward sex, loved
the
magazine's berserk, nihilistic outlook. Writing for Hustler was as good as
life could get, I figured, and I wanted more. And more. And more.
Visions of Hustler-spawned success pole-danced through my head as I was
walking to my lovely Park Slope apartment this one day. I had just left my
day job, which was working as a Special Ed teacher's aide. That's right: I
took care of retarded kids. And I loved them and I loved the job. But I
had
grander plans--plans for which Hustler would serve as a mightily powerful
ticket.
I gloried in the possibilities that a regular gig with Hustler might
provide
me: whacked-out honeys who supplied me with endless seas of Rolling Rock;
whacked-out honeys telling me I was all kinds of genius; whacked-out
honeys
who were bowled over by my connection to Big Sex Money; whacked-out honeys
clamoring to star in whatever X-rated concoction I could feverishly cook
up.
I could have it all. And I knew how to get it.
And so, amidst the crisp winter air and beautiful homes of Brownstone
Brooklyn, I silently, but emphatically, announced my vow:
I PLEDGE MY SOUL TO PORNOGRAPHY!
Nothing happened for a spell after that. But then, oh, how that spell
broke.
The whacked-out honeys came--bigger, louder, greater in number, and more
entertainingly insane than I ever could have imagined. And I got free beer
(it helps to regularly make-out with one's favorite bartendresses) and,
better than making some dirty movie, I hooked up with one especially
dangerous whacked-out honey who turned my actual life into a
round-the-clock, 3-D, Feel-A-Round porno movie come true.
As you might have deduced, I fouled up all this enjoyable stuff, pronto.
But
then I did score a full-time gig at Hustler and etched out a weird little
niche in the adults-only marketplace that I continue to ride today.
But I've since tidied up my act. I ain't consumed hooch in a dog's age.
I'm
employable. I can keep civil in public. And no one who hasn't clearly
expressed interest in doing so has been subjected to the sight of my
free-flapping genitals in years.
But . . . is it all for naught?
Is Art Bell right about this?
"A deal is a deal!"
I pledged my soul. I drank (and snorted and grabbed and slurped) up more
than my share of the payoffs. So no matter how Boy-Scout-esque I venture
through the rest of my years, am I doomed? Is it inevitable that Mr.
Scratch
will approach my death-bed waving paperwork that totals up the balance
due?
These questions continue to weigh on my mind.
What is the answer?
Is there a point?
Where am I going?
Where have I been?
Can I see your tits?
I am fucked.
.
