Tag Archives: Eliot Rahal

Journal From A Journeyer: The Tales and Travels of Dr. Theodore Thaint – Part I

by Eliot Rahal

"Time to change time"

"Time to change time"

I want to be forever young. Those words, they radiate from my car stereo, and cut me like a knife. 1992, the year when Alphaville came out with that famous hit single, it is also the year that I decided to live.
They never believed, they always doubted. Their criticisms echo through my skull and destroy the fabric of my sanity. I was driven to the edge of oblivion, but I lived. Whoever told me you can’t turn a Chevrolet Citation into a Time Machine was wrong. Dead Wrong.

To be continued.

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under Human Interest

Chicago’s Olympic Race War.

chicagoolymp

By Eliot Rahal

Gentrification, or for those who don’t read books, better known as, “Where’d all the black people go?” has been the proverbial skeleton key for white handed city planners who had to think of a creative way to exile minorities from certain neighborhoods when segregation was deemed to be “distasteful” in the eyes of white urban elites. Gentrification functions basically the same as segregation with a few key differences. Segregation hates you because of the way God made you. Gentrification hates you because of your circumstances, IE, those who don’t have any money, don’t really have much of choice if a highway is built in your back yard where the public school once stood. However since in our country being dirt poor in urban areas is synonymous with races that aren’t white, this allows for a far more subtle racism, meaning: Gentrification hates you because your poor and black…. not just black – that would be too bold.

Consequently this type of slimier, far more deceitful city planning is the favorite to our very own Snidely Whiplash of an elected official, Mayor Daley. His love for hating things that aren’t his own skin color extends to a level diabolical politics that hasn’t been seen in the city of Chicago since his father was in power. Why do you think Taylor Street has only two authentic restaurants left, or just contemplate the existence of Old Town and Lincoln Park. In fact recent documents were discovered in Mayor Daley’s desk for his plans for Chicago if it receives the Olympic bid in 2016. The blue print included a map of urban areas with high minority populations but low property tax rates, which were crossed out in a bold red, and in their places were the words BARNES AND NOBLE, STARBUCKS and POTTERY BARN over and over again. Other plans included and I quote from Daily’s architectural notes, “Island on Lake Michigan + Minorities + Dynamite + 2016 Olympics = THE PERFECT CRIME.”

Some of you are probably saying to yourselves, “I won’t let that happen, I voted for Obama which means I care about things I barely comprehend.” Unfortunately this moment of empathy for humanity will be literally white washed as the Olympics are set up at Navy Pier. Soon voices of protest will turn into, “Look how nice everything looks” and the poor will be forgotten, as they are time and time again. No amount of Sean Pean’s and movies about equality will change the fact that Chicago’s politics are super racist.

In fact our only hope to spare thousands of people and large neighborhoods from an ignoble eviction notice is the fact that this city has the highest murder rate in the nation. With a blood curdling number that reaches over 500 a year, nothing short of murder in the first degree will be the only thing keeping U.N. delegates away from our very inviting city limits.

Leave a comment

Filed under Editoral

Real Gonzo Journalism: 1979-1994

Eliot Rahal highlights some of his favorite excerpts from the new Great Gonzo memoir, due out this summer.

Eliot Rahal highlights some of his favorite excerpts from the new Great Gonzo memoir, due out this summer.

By Eliot Rahal

March, 1979. I remember. Although my memories are brief, few and far between, I remember. It was happier then. America was still a place where you could buy a burger and soda for a buck, and get a good fuck for even less. Love was still free, although hard to come by. With those fascists Nixon and Ford out of office, the future looked bright. We thought, just maybe, innocence was being reborn; a second chance, the rebaptism of America, the great spiritual reawakening (with less hellfire and more Fire Island). Roller blades were in and suits were out. It was the seventies, and we thought that it could never end. It was back in those days that I had found God, his name being Kermit the Frog, and I believed in him. All of us did. He had the love of Christ in him and the know-how of Rockefeller. We followed him to New York. We thought we would change the world, rattle some cages, shake a fence or two, blow a few minds, get back to being what we thought life should be….real. Human connection and spirituality combined in those days; love, fraternity, feminism. We had the spirit of the 70’s. It was like Godspell, but without the fags.

December, 1981. Those first few years were not what we expected, though optimisms prevailed despite minor setbacks. We thought we would be famous right away; we figured New York was waiting for our revival. Fat chance. Apparently, there were about half a million people with the same idea. We all got day jobs at this diner. It was nice being together, like we always had been. Maybe we didn’t change the world right away, but we were still trying. No compromises would be made. Kermit was in love with Miss Piggy, and I was alone as usual with my chickens. Kermit spoke of the future like everything would happen tomorrow; we just needed that one chance. I remember thinking to myself, “Jesus, I hope it comes, for his sake.”

January, 1982. It happened. We got that chasing dream to come true. Conversations of childhood hopes while chasing fire flies became reality. The swamp was only a memory now for Kermit, though the memory of the side show was still painful for me, assuaged only by an assortment of colorful friends mixed with something called Liquore. Kermit had made his word true. I remember thinking, “I can’t believe I can call him a friend.” Sometimes I feared he felt the same way, just with a different cadence and enunciation. I was still alone. Chickens only gave you so much. We killed on Opening Night. It was amazing; I never felt so alive! Kermit, though…there was a madness in that frog’s eyes.

October, 1985. Ralph was dead. I remember his body, laying there lifeless on the bedroom floor. Heroin was a terrible drug. Everyone took it hard, but it was a long time coming. Eventually, one of us would fall. Fame had changed us. Beaker refused to share his room with Bunsen; Fozzy started hanging out with George Carlin and lifting material from Lenny Bruce; Sam the Eagle hopped on board Reaganomics; Rizzo, he just stopped talking. But the worst…the worst was Kermit. I don’t know whether it was the delusions of grandeur or the methamphetamines, but he would only speak to people one on one and with appointment only. He hardly spoke to me anymore. His relationship with Piggy was over, and he had moved on to a harem to secure his line. He thought he was a God. Maybe he was, but back then, I couldn’t help but think, “Do Gods forget their friends?” Kermit had certainly forgotten me. I was so alone.

October, 1987. I have a memory of waking up to find Fozzy shouting “Gutterslut!” as he, Swedish Chef, and Bunsen gangbanged Miss Piggy. She wasn’t saying anything. She released no pleasure, no moans of ecstasy. She just had a look of removed apathy. She had given up. I cried for her that night. I remember missing the sideshow.

September, 1990. I checked into rehab, forgotten by my friends. Miss Piggy shot herself. I will always remember her as beautiful. I wish I could have told her that I loved her. I had read in the newspaper that Kermit was arrested for having sex with underage girls, some sort of cult conspiracy. I thought it was finally over.

November, 1999. My life is better now. I have hobbies. I am clean. I live in Manhattan and spend my time writing books and playing jazz with a band on weekends. I still think about the sideshow, and how I used to be called the “Great.” I miss my friends; I miss her. Sometimes, Fozzy and I get together. He’s washed up, and he knows it. We talk, but never about old times. Never about anything, really. Those early years will always stay with me. The hope, our love, our friendships, the memories: they will live forever in my mind. A particular memory stands out among all the rest: Kermit, Piggy and I went to Central Park. It was a crisp autumn day. We took a picnic by the lake after a long bike ride. Kermit went to go get some ice cream and left me with Piggy. Her golden hair swayed in the wind as she took long, slow, deep breaths. We just sat there, admiring the scenery. When she finally spoke, with long, breathy, syllables, she said, “Do you think we’ll be friends forever?” I said to her, “I hope so.” I have always been haunted by those waters.

Leave a comment

Filed under Literary Review

Taiwanese Sex Slaves Go On Strike – Declared Prudes by All

by Eliot Rahal

They were quickly shot for their insubordination.

Leave a comment

Filed under World News

God Is Dead

The Universe: what many consider to be God's greatest work, although I think his early stuff was better.

The Universe: what many consider to be God's greatest work, although I think his early stuff was better.

by Eliot Rahal

The most important news story of the centurytook place in asmall, junior one-bedroom apartment in the upper north side of Chicago. Emerging from the threshold of apartment 42b, I noticed the egg-white walls beginning to yellow. Stacks of old newspapers dating back to the turn of the century were strewn about. A list of celebrities, politicians and gay pornography icons, along with their impending dates of death, was posted on the wall. Blood smeared across the list read, “They know too much.” There were bookshelves dedicated to first editions and a refrigerator filled with absinthe and power bars. It was clear that society had forgotten about God.

His body, described to be in poor condition, was discovered by landlord Charles Curpowski this past Sunday. He described God as being “very quiet. He never liked to interfere.” Curpowski said he wanted to check up on God because he hadn’t seen him days. He could only hear the same jazz record being played over and over again. Curpowski brushed back a tear and said, “His presence was always so comforting.” When an unnamed neighbor was questioned about his untimely death, she simply said, “I wish I had known him better.”

Police investigator Mark Issacs said the cause of death was probably a combination of “world apathy, the Nothing from The Never Ending Story, and a self- inflicted gunshot to the head. The only thing God left was a note written on the mirror stating, “They had it wrong, Obi Wan.” A memorial service will be held next Thursday at 9:00pm at St. Anthony’s Cathedral. God is survived by his two cats, his son Jesus Christ, and 6.5 billion wayward souls.

Leave a comment

Filed under Local News