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aberrantangelsI wonder if he adopted the alias right after his template's death?
I've mentioned this party before. Dr. Rollo wrote about it in his "Normal Lives" column for Flare, in an installment entitled "My Plane Crashed on the Damn Runway Again" — based on his experience that "[a]nytime anyone with anywhere to be at any point during the day needs to visit Miami, their plane crashes on the damn runway."
Actually, the battling novas — black Muslim rap star Mefistofaleez and "private police nova" the Miami Streak* — were only a contributory factor in the plane's crash. The "pointless redneck brawl between these two atavisms" had gotten off the highway and onto an MIA runway. "The pilot, in an unwarranted fit of compassion, jerked the plane back up to avoid the slugfesting dimwits in the landing path." This attempt at aerodynamically unsupported VTOL had the nasty side-effect of snapping the wings off the 797, which thereupon executed the previously-mentioned 30-foot plummet. The devil-masked militant and Quantum Boom Records CEO ate a fine of US$900,000, half of which went to buy fresh wings for the plane and the other half into United Airlines' insurance fund.
At one point, he needs to get away from it all to "the hip-deep crotch of Caligulan excess known as South Beach", accompanied by MTV3 "producer Amber Suk (her real name — Korean-American) and music director Jeff 'Gorilla' Guynes", the latter of whom clears room at the bar for them with elbows and/or fists to people's throats. It is only after seeing the two fattest Divis Mals ever, and a third whose ball-cap makes it appear that the Beacon of the One Race works part-time at A&F, that Duke even remembers it's Halloween, let alone realizes Amber is dressed "as some sort of Cat-Girl." (It should be mentioned that "[h]aving consumed [his] weight in Mai Tais, [Rollo is] warmed up and ready to have a few drinks.") He realizes he's lost track of Gorilla, and is looking for him when he has a brief, incoherent, belligerent, fat-assed confrontation with a "bloated, beer-bellied hooligan" dressed as Lance Stryker, interrupted when Gorilla's "fingers found purchase in the deep eye sockets of the Stone Dumbass", dragging him "backward into the crowd of gathered Caestus Paxes (Paxi?)".
Then, after "deep oil slicks" with Coke chasers, it's back to the Halloween Humpfest, where the audience votes for their favorite of a half-dozen Divis Mals. The winner is the one who "made a rude gesture, which the crowd took to be 'in character'". The prize is a bottle of Bacardi, whereof the echt-Beacon promptly chugs half.
At this point, Rollo launches into the rumination I mentioned in the earlier post, about the dominance of novas as a costume theme and its status as a cross-section of post-modern life. Here's the lead-in to it:
* "I think the current Streak was one of those freaks from that berserk Argentine family who had practically every third child erupt with an M-R node. The Gracies or something."
** Probably not eating barbecued iguana, mind you.
October 31
[Aberrant] Duke Rollo, neo-Gonzo journalist, is in Miami, watching 6,000 teenagers hump on the beach at MTV3's expense (including one poor girl who gets passed around like a bomber joint by "a detachment of turgid, drunken Sigma Phi Fuckheads").
I've mentioned this party before. Dr. Rollo wrote about it in his "Normal Lives" column for Flare, in an installment entitled "My Plane Crashed on the Damn Runway Again" — based on his experience that "[a]nytime anyone with anywhere to be at any point during the day needs to visit Miami, their plane crashes on the damn runway."
Actually, the battling novas — black Muslim rap star Mefistofaleez and "private police nova" the Miami Streak* — were only a contributory factor in the plane's crash. The "pointless redneck brawl between these two atavisms" had gotten off the highway and onto an MIA runway. "The pilot, in an unwarranted fit of compassion, jerked the plane back up to avoid the slugfesting dimwits in the landing path." This attempt at aerodynamically unsupported VTOL had the nasty side-effect of snapping the wings off the 797, which thereupon executed the previously-mentioned 30-foot plummet. The devil-masked militant and Quantum Boom Records CEO ate a fine of US$900,000, half of which went to buy fresh wings for the plane and the other half into United Airlines' insurance fund.
I can think of little more repulsive than drunken, fornicating teenagers, except perhaps the jobs most of these ballyhoonians would hold upon graduating this brief period of their higher learning. [...] Even when I found myself in Tijuana**, I can take comfort in the fact that those were whores and I paid for the right to do everything I did, fair and square.
At one point, he needs to get away from it all to "the hip-deep crotch of Caligulan excess known as South Beach", accompanied by MTV3 "producer Amber Suk (her real name — Korean-American) and music director Jeff 'Gorilla' Guynes", the latter of whom clears room at the bar for them with elbows and/or fists to people's throats. It is only after seeing the two fattest Divis Mals ever, and a third whose ball-cap makes it appear that the Beacon of the One Race works part-time at A&F, that Duke even remembers it's Halloween, let alone realizes Amber is dressed "as some sort of Cat-Girl." (It should be mentioned that "[h]aving consumed [his] weight in Mai Tais, [Rollo is] warmed up and ready to have a few drinks.") He realizes he's lost track of Gorilla, and is looking for him when he has a brief, incoherent, belligerent, fat-assed confrontation with a "bloated, beer-bellied hooligan" dressed as Lance Stryker, interrupted when Gorilla's "fingers found purchase in the deep eye sockets of the Stone Dumbass", dragging him "backward into the crowd of gathered Caestus Paxes (Paxi?)".
Then, after "deep oil slicks" with Coke chasers, it's back to the Halloween Humpfest, where the audience votes for their favorite of a half-dozen Divis Mals. The winner is the one who "made a rude gesture, which the crowd took to be 'in character'". The prize is a bottle of Bacardi, whereof the echt-Beacon promptly chugs half.
At this point, Rollo launches into the rumination I mentioned in the earlier post, about the dominance of novas as a costume theme and its status as a cross-section of post-modern life. Here's the lead-in to it:
Just as every aspect of our daily life is somehow attached to the novas' presence, so has every aspect of this pagan holiday grown to accomodate the de facto gods among us. [Even when I was a trick-or-treating kid], we had laid the groundwork for this media-ravaged sodomy of culture that is our legacy. Our costumes were disposable, cheap, just like our lives have become. [...] But at least mostly, these were memes and fantasies. Scooby-Doo didn't have any cult of personality associated with him — no fawning legion of sycophants, starfuckers and celebrities-by-association.
* "I think the current Streak was one of those freaks from that berserk Argentine family who had practically every third child erupt with an M-R node. The Gracies or something."
** Probably not eating barbecued iguana, mind you.
