ONE MAN'S POISON IS ANOTHER MAN'S MEATor"Yes, I shall eat this Shit"A chat with I.B. ButtheadTranslated by an Alien from outer space | 
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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.