Kool-Aid At Dawn

You may have noticed some changes 'round these parts recently, maybe you read the sign on the front door that reads "UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT. SORRY FOR THE DISASTER."

Our former Northstar, Susan, has bowed out in order to focus on her own artistic endeavors and so I am taking over. There's no possible way for me to do what Susan did (the sheer volume of administrative detail puckers my b-hole), so I'm trying out my own thing. We'll see how it goes. 

For now, Steve Taylor-Bryant has a few words on what's happening. He's the O.G., the original gangsta', the Godfather to Susan's Godmother of The DreamCage and our former iterations - The CultDen, /garbagefile, and the now shuttered AlbieMedia. S.O. and STB are the reason I'm here and you can take that to mean a few things and you might be right on multiple accounts. They paved a path so that meanderers like me could stumble my way into something meaningful. I just hope the others that have been a part of this thing appreciate it all as much as I do.

So, let's make some noise and see what happens, shall we?



Enter STB:
Welcome to the new cult, same as the old cult…

Some people join a cult for ideological reasons, some are escaping a past, a trauma, or are just lost and need a belief system. I joined this cult through laziness, I was in the building when they marched in, and I couldn’t be bothered to leave. It was okay, fun even, the cult leader was a Scottish woman with weird views on Guns n Roses but there was always booze in Kool-Aid, and all my snacks were deep fried. We had a great relationship, working towards whatever the end goal was supposed to be but then came time for that particular leader to take the private jet to the mystical island, unfortunately cult rules dictated that the members income was to be used for this rapture so here we are awaiting our next messiah as we cannot afford to leave. The new guy is unfortunately stricken with that most hideous of afflictions: ‘Americanism’. And so as I await the mantra to be passed down, I am beginning to think that maybe I’ll have to deep fry my own snacks now [only because Americans are the laziest, not for lack of deep-dried calorie bombs mind you] and the Kool-Aid may actually be just Kool- Aid, which is mildly disappointing. The electronic mail has pinged onto the cult server so let’s take a look at what propaganda looks like American-style shall we?

“We aren”t offering an idea, we”re offering up our souls, the truth of our lives, in the form of perspective…” this Yank says. Okay, so long as we are offering something because there is no point in being in a cult unless they get to take something from you and make it feel like it’s your idea to give. Good start.

“There are no limits. Tell me how a film moved you, how it relates to a moment in your childhood. Remember the song playing at the high school dance when you had your first kiss under a disco ball moon? I want to hear about that night, from the name of the song to your first broken heart…” 

What in the actual fuck is a disco moon ball? WE are in movie high school prom territory now. This guy thinks everyone went to the dance in a tuxedo, a rented limousine or helicopter, and bopped the night away until a King or Queen voted in. The problem is I am not an American. I don’t go bankrupt for my medical treatment, I don’t need a bulletproof backpack, I don’t put my children, or anyone’s children in cages (not since that last warning), and I have never worn a tuxedo to a school disco. School discos back in the day (class of 1991) were a teacher with a record player or cassette deck plumbed into the school PA system, playing Duran Duran, The Cure, The Chicken Song from Spitting Image, and if you were really lucky you got Oh What an Atmosphere by Russ Abbot, him from the telly. You wore your trendiest shell suit and tried to keep your cigarette away from your mate, so he didn’t catch fire. You sneaked round the back of the hall and drank Thunderbirds or Mad Dog 20/20 from a stolen bottle (I miss the days when off licenses didn’t have CCTV). The disco was for showing a girl that you’d rather dance goofy with a mate than kiss her, to act as unbothered as possible whilst secretly burying the joy you were feeling along with the chest burn from the Thunderbirds. The school disco was the last chance to be with your mates before college/work/prison separated you for life. We didn’t have Limousine’s transport; we threw up on the bus like a normal person. We didn’t wear a suit and a bow tie; we dressed in a neon nightmare that we could embarrass our future children with. We dint smooch under whatever a disco moon is, we jumped around like drunk chimps to a soundtrack of one hit wonders and comedy songs.

This is going to be a long week. I like cult leaders that require no work, this guy is going to need training… Unless he rocks up with gin then I'm all good. 

Meet the new cult, same as the old cult…

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