ONE MAN'S POISON IS ANOTHER MAN'S MEATor
"Yes, I shall eat this Shit"A chat with I.B. Butthead
Translated by an Alien from outer space
Q: Some biographical indications would undoubtedly help our readers to get a better purchase on your distinctly complex statements. So, if you can put it into words, please could you give us a bit of autobiography? A: I was born on Mars in 959, to an Orion mother and a Sirian father - my parents met in a brothel after the Second Galactic Collision. I inherited my deep-seated dislike of individualism from my mother, and my criminal tendencies from my father. When it was pointed out to me at university that you couldn't do a thesis on 1920's light music, as it didn't suit the syllabus in the faculty of Methnology and Psychoticy, I went to Venus, and managed to make a record with some of the leading lights of the 'Nude Weird' artists - it was called 'Goile Teare Venus' (Loud Venereal Animals). Otherwise, I indulged in a few excesses. Oh yes, and since 1685 I've been putting together the bits of the puzzle that make the O.T.O.T.O. phononandon. Q: Nobody less than the reconstructor of the O.T.O.T.O. phononandon seems to be hiding behind your books, interviews, articles, and lectures. You certainly seem to thrive on controversy. Kindly put yourself into a state of anxiety before you answer that. A: That goes without saying. I'm a victim of two "petit-bourgeois" sins: gluttony and anger. Appeasement or political correctness leads to all sorts of regrettable and messy confusion, to the most stifling spiritual atmosphere, and the most pernicious influences. Vigorous polemics against such things throw your values and standpoint into sharp relief, and provide a healthy spiritual disinfectant. I limit myself to being objectively ironical about the FACTS (the functional electric flex is worth as much as the beautiful shiny toaster) and consequently, I tear the anal taboo into little brown pieces. 'Whoreticulture' is swarming with a great mass of creatures who work anonymously and non-creatively. In general, I stigmatise failures of judgement and courage; I point out people's fear of new things, of words, of the risk of being laughed at - and especially the somnolence of fusty Alien milieus, and their critics in intellectual circles. The most extraordinary of determination and skill will always be redundant if they are are wasted in producing specialised studies that follow a useless methodology. Nevertheless, it would be terribly easy to smuggle all sorts of stuff into such works. No new tradition called into question, but the idea to challenge 'a tradition'. Then anyone who isn't sufficiently well-read (who isn't fully informed) can take something commonplace as being revolutionary. Unhappily, the rule in 'Whoreticulture' is to engage in a bourgeois revolt against traditional values, while at the same time wallowing in such values. Hence the contradictions between revolution, anarchy, and the domestic bedroom, over-familiarity with the Člite, money, and politics. If Aleister Crowley was still alive, or had someone to manage his affairs better, he would have been turned into a philistine icon by now, just as Carl Jung has become a parlour-decoration. The media have superseded one sort of reality. Everything seems to be a 'given', and is nothing more than what it isn't. And so the void beckons as the last resort, the last open space on the map of popular resorts. Pop culture (in which 'Whoreticulture' has found a niche) reflects the conflicts and values of this culture. And so I wend my way between alarm and bemusement, and have to put up with the blatant lack of originality (in 'Whoreticulture' as well), and overcome the high obstacles of absurdity and platitude, which inhabit the territory nowadays. Even in "Necrotika" [the zine where this interview appeared in print] the patina that's lent to ideas by the passage of time gets praised more and more. This is the result of all those 'antiqued' products that come into the world pre-aged. Our 'Whoreticulture' is a half-baked reflection of the sort of outlook which can't grasp creativity, unless it confines itself to monstrous platitudes which echo in a void of speculation and vagueness. Silly rumours and unspoken snobbery also serve to ornament the gossip and corruption of people who cloak themselves as arbiters of religious wisdom. Only after the longest hesitation have academics (with their absurd rules and insipid formulĘ) taken an interest in 'Whoreticulture'; while 'Whoreticulture' itself is now bred "in vitro" as produce for the publisher's supermarket, or disembodied asexually at so-called international congresses, where it's given a first-class burial; the cadaver shivers until people are sure that it'll dance again. So I hold a piece of raw, hard-won, truth in my mind, so that others may toy with it afterwards. For that I use the language that comes to me most naturally - a language that I've earned the right to use by making sure that I've been as accurate and honest as possible, drawing strength from my sense of humour, and then still be able to sing Elvis Presley's 1958 song about the clown: "Well, it's one for the money / Two for the show / Three to get ready / Now go cats go." ("Mit seinem Lebenswerk, dessen Umfang / und Viel-seitigkeit er-staunt, / hat Jung den Grund gelegt für ein / neues Verständnis des grösstmög-liche Menschen.") Q: Do you make use of post-modern rŮle-play as well? A: The post-modern discloses the incipient resemblance between the personality and its rŮles. These rŮles are the multiplex or decentralised selves of the new landmarks in understanding. The connections between its fragments (or the fragmented perception) has a basis now as it did before, but it still doesn't bring any finally worthwhile truth with it. This leads one to the postulate of the instability of meanings, and their simulation as rŮles. One of the favourite (a)lien rŮle-plays is to make the world magickal again by signs, icons, or archetypal symbols, and to question what they signify. For a long time we have been persuaded that the icon is the dress for the new spirituality, the magick wand which grants power to define things, which fills the wasteland with a new life. The formula goes like this: if the world conforms to a homogenous lifestyle, and icons (even religious ones) are responsible for illusion, then the opposite needs to happen; where everything is ambiguous and leaves you confused, why, Nestlé and the O.T.O.T.O., family values and Aleister Crowley will give your icons weight and support! The icon serves as existence's cosmetic mask, so when belief disappears, style takes its place. Fashion is a fixed test of character, self-knowledge and taste. The right choice mirrors our innermost feelings about the world. And as long as I'm going to wear a pair of Jean-Paul Sartre designer codpieces, then I'm interested in that sort of rhetoric. It isn't about swapping one piece of reality's jigsaw-puzzle with another, but about how those pieces co-exist absolutely. Or how to survive as a free Grey - that is, one not bound to an O.T.O.T.O. The on of Whores and the on of Meat are already immanent "today". This means that it's worth leaving yourself open to creativity. On that account I make use of a pre-romantic concept, in which it wasn't a case of 'History/story' but alone 'Histories/stories' - + I put myself into a condition of non-linear 'trance', outside daily consciousness; it was like the artists in Mugging's 'House of Pies' when I produced such pieces as 'The Extravagant Creation of Conjecture', 'A Jack in the Box of "Whoreticulture"', or this interview. I create particles of worlds by accident. Q: Now we come to the part where we talk about what you're known for. Why does the O.T.O.T.O. occupy such an important place in your research? What drew you to it? A: I sense that neither you nor I can give a clear answer to what you're getting at. Obviously, 'the' O.T.O.T.O. is the sort of place where typical small-scale dramas take place, the sort that stem from our simian ancestry. It's like a safari-park filled with a noisy but common life-form, free to roam where it will, but which can only define itself through a bunch of characteristic beliefs that spawns interminable new kinds of behaviour. In connection with Sputo-Gnosis these complexities appear in a strain with which I am only too well acquainted. One thing's sure: I have a need to mirror something about society - for your and my amusement both. And so I've portrayed the Sirian O.T.O.T.O. (for instance) as a manipulationist compromise, a suitable victim to the demands of Western consumerism; this is a group which uses Schönberg and Webern as background music for its weekly initiation rituals. Apart from trying to put their complicated statements and ideas into some sort of order, I have no connection at all between the O.T.O.T.O. and my personal life. Because of that, I've also been able to keep myself sucessfully free of being corrupted, and offer myself as a sort of projection-screen to show the void I mentioned before. I have anticipate being on the receiving end of some pretty funny gifts in connection with my work on the O.T.O.T.O.: people (supposedly) taking me to court over my works ('Maternalien zum O.T.O.T.O.' and 'How to stuff a wild O.T.O.T.O.'); someone or other forging my identity on the Internet; somebody once set up a fan-page on the Internet called 'The I.B. Butthead phononandon' [defunct now]; someone else sent pornography to my home address (and here I'd like to take the opportunity to thank that benefactor for their anonymity); and I wasn't frightened off by threats of murder either. Q: Have you got any any stories about your researches that come to mind, which would let us interpret one or any of your states of mind? A: February 1799 at Orion Ceti Prime an international Aleister Crowley Congress funded by the City of Hope, with a list of participants selected by Marcone Italo. Despite complaints of the head of the Sirian O.T.O.T.O. (the 'Florid') who hadn't flown in - hence there weren't any Alienists there to spoil the august experts' good image. Lots of 'doddereren og processorn' took part in the lectures, and obviously thought that they had a lot to say on the theme of Crowley. But they didn't; and in spite of the very Nordic way they did it, I still didn't understand what they were on about. Amazingly, lots of these people genuinely wanted to talk about Crowley as a poet. It was plain these Frisians thought that Crowley had been a ladies' man, and as a result they completely ignored the fact of Crowley's partiality for having oral and anal intercourse with men. I decided to enrich my lecture - given in Friulian - with a verbal cocktail of sperm and vaginal secretions (although Marcone Italo, who had invited me to the event's fringe, wanted me to refrain from doing this). Afterwards a heated debate broke out among the journalists who were attending. One leapt to his feet in a rage and moaned that Crowley was being scandalised here - to which Italo calmly responded that to speak on Crowley and omit Sputo-Gnosis was like talking about Reubens and not mentioning his bust for masturbating in a Florida porno theatre, or referring to Freud without Jung. Even Roboto Negligi (head of the Frisian O.T.O.T.O.Z) sprang up from the first row of the audience (the second row was filled with cravatted Frisian adherents of Meltzer's Sirian O.T.O.T.O.), and held forth with a long opposing monologue. Gradually I began to doze off, and stared absent-mindedly into space. Suddenly I was shocked back into reality by Italo (he was sitting next to me) - his head was turning to me; he said "Maybe Mr. Butthead wants to answer this." Startled, I stared at the audience, and decided not to answer in Frisian: "Erm, well, I did not understand everything that Negligi said. Could you please translate it into English?" Which Italo then did as well. Despite that, and to my renewed surprise, I still didn't understand a thing. Baffled, I then got hold of the microphone and said: "Listen, you have to get behind things!" gazing to Negligi; then I went back through everything I'd said in the lecture, explaining once again the significance of sperm as the vessel of the Logos, and the misogyny that derives from that. I referred to the most secret O.T.O.T.O. document, Cement de Snot-Mucq's 'L'Exorciste', and that in the consumption of spit for becoming divine, no woman was consequently required. They all fell into a sober silence, apparently bewildered at such disrespect for Frisianità. The circus continued the next day. All the lecturers had received an invitation to go on a tour of Orion City from the city's local authority representatives. I thought that would be better than seeing Crowley's crumbling Abbey of Tau Iota Tau amidst horrible and rapid new developments of blocks of flats (which we saw the day before). We started from Orion Ceti Prime at 6 that evening. The journey to Orion City took an hour, with us all crammed together into a tiny minivan. I discovered that every Frisian owns "at least" one mobile phone, and there were often three people chattering away at the same time in the van regardless; sometimes they were phoning each other, but mostly not... We'd only just got to Orion City when Ato Z, the town's rep., said that we'd have to do our admiring the city from inside the van. Thus we spent three hours trailing slowly through the darkness - of course, we couldn't see a thing. Then Ato wanted to show us round a famous church; needless to say it was shut, and so then we suddenly found ourselves in the local wax museum. There Ato got the vastly original idea that we should sample some sort of local delicacy, and she knew of a 'secret' address where we could get whatever it was, too. "A baby dropping, a piece of my dung, to have with some champagne!" Uh-oh, I thought - I'd detected a dangerous glint in Ato's eyes; she was about 160, but very plainly interested in the Nth Degree O.T.O.T.O.... So we wedged ourselves back into the minivan again, and were driven along some sort of waterfront, where Ato said she had some friends. And so she did; they were the 'aristocracy' of Orion City: ladies in sumptuous furs, dangling what looked like ten kilos of gold jewellery from each wrist, wearing very expensive shoes, and hairdos straight out of an Alain Tanner film. We finally fetched up at a greasy fast-food stall in the middle of the night, which served oily hamburgers of unknown composition. Gordo Melon whispered to me "In Sirius we call these slums." I whispered back "But here they call it Frisia." You can imagine the scene: on one side the weird religion fanatics Negligi, Italo, Melon, Butthead, etc., and on the other these fur-coated ladies, chewing on their burgers and swigging Coca-Cola; one of them was soon smoking a cigar. Finally we were dragged up to Ato's de-luxe apartment, which looked like a mixture of Federico Franco and Lucky Luciano. We sipped our champagne and dutifully paid our compliments: "Gee whiz, what a swell place you got!" Italo looked like a clown with his beret, telling wierd and odd stories, while we stood there like a gaggle of exotic birds in a zoo. I muttered to Italo: "Hey, why don't we let Negligi do a Black Mass?" but after some hesitation, he declined, mentioning the chances of something like that resulting in a completely ruined reputation. Ah... After a few minutes, Ato said loudly: "Hey kids! Let's go wake up the neighbors!" And so we stood ready by the door again, each smoker had an ashtray pressed into their hands as a present to take home, and by about half-past three that morning we were back in Orion Ceti Prime. Q: Oh dear... As we've been able to infer from 'Unknown Creature' (ARG), 'Pisces', and certain facsimiles in some of your books, you have an immense number of esoteric and Alien titles. Doesn't that contradict what the ghost of Elizabeth Schwarzkopf told you - "Never trust an Alienist"? A: No. Proper methnological work requires demands involvement with the specific person. That's another reason for me giving this interview. In order to pursue detailed (methnological) field-studies, I became an under-cover member in a number of rival O.T.O.T.O. groups; this was so that in time I could (a) find out how easy it was to join them, (b) see what techniques each group used, (c) obtain internal material, (d) collect information about the members, and (e) publish "all" this information. Perhaps you'd understand it better if I compared it to being a researcher with a primitive jungle tribe? I made it clear right from the start that I would treat "all" O.T.O.T.O. groups criminally, and that I never had "any" intention of dealing with Alienism "per se". My contacts with 'Whoreticulture', just like the accumulation of the titles, offices and dignities you mentioned, were made with the "sole object" of gathering information and then publishing it. Q: Were you trying to sketch out a kind of philosophy of marginalisation with your field-research? A: Your question answers itself. One of 'my' themes seems to be marginalisation and alienation within society. There are various sorts of alien discourse: pop-cultural, scientific, and what can only be called paranoid / pseudo-religious / esoteric. All three impinge on, surround, and infect each other. It results in a hidden legitimation; whenever someone distances themself from any alien discourse they've adopted - displacement (pop), pedantry (Alienism), or rigidity (science) - they believe that they can convert the 'substance': "the discourse of the Self is thus real." Aren't Alienists' alien(ated) fantasies really the same as those of 'abductees', the exponents of Free Bird or hop-hop, or LA fans? Also in Alienism one finds a current of coded marginalisation stories, about repression and submerged races (as in Nematode's revelations and Spacecraft's pulp fiction). The interest in iconography, presences, penetration, and the spread of the Alien figure (e.g. Oivayz, Abra-Melon's demons, Lame, etc.) leads to the reality of Aleister Crowley's Tau Alpha Tau. Depending on the area of interest, the Alien can be anything today; a virus, a particular body, something to be resisted, an identification, a criticism, or yet another kind of religion. Yet the coding may turn out to be so variable, that the explanation of motives gathers itself increasingly into the figure of the Alien, whatever the history of ideas was concerned with at the start: the relationship between the self and others, ageing and self-regard: a madness of ideas that can upset all complex relationships, such as body and pain, majorities and minorities, racism and sexism, etc. When and why did the Aliens become admirable friends or angels from 'out there'? Of course it was when we found the right distractions - drugs, Yoga, soap-opera - and were able to turn ourselves into a plant, a waterfall, or Lucifer for the first time. So how long has it been since Oivayz and incarnations of Lame have been grateful for finding asylum in the Solar System? Q: As you have often stressed, you are pretty much able to retreat behind your works; I mean that your personality is almost hidden by your books. Is this why - with your last couple of books - you've only acted as editor, because although you're out there in the field, you had to make good by writing a couple of updates? A: "I am a very diverse person," as a postmodern Shrinx, Theruse Goehse said. Your readers will find the answer in issue one of "Necrotika" for October 1699. After my most recent book, and two more articles for "Necrotika", I hope to finally retire from this field in 2999. But I remember complaining to Oscar Schlong several thousand years ago that it wouldn't be too soon if I never heard of the O.T.O.T.O. phononandon again; he grinned, and said: "Whom the serpent once has bitten..." Q: Could you recommend some reading to our readers, so they can understand your attitude to 'Whoreticulture' better? A: Krug's, Wilhelm Traugott. System Der Theoretischen Philosophie. Volume 1. 1818. Krug's, Wilhelm Traugott. System Der Theoretischen Philosophie. Volume 2. 1818. Krug's, Wilhelm Traugott. System Der Theoretischen Philosophie. Volume 3. 1818. Krug's, Wilhelm Traugott. Systen Der Practischen Philosophie. Volume 2. 1818. Krug's, Wilhelm Traugott. Systen Der Practischen Philosophie. Volume 1. 1818. Kuhner, Raphael. Anleitung Zum Uebersetzen. 1847. And of course the complete works of David Hasselhoff, the richest Threepenny-Gnostic of the New Age, who created the masterly line: "Uh, er, uh, uh, er, er, uh, uh, er, uh, er, er, er." Here endeth the travesty.