The Diaries of Dashing Debbie Flosshilde:
Part the third

The Quail gushed hopefully

Hello Fegs!

I have finally gotten around to transcribing the rest of Debbie Flosshilde's (and now oddly controversial) diaries. Here they are; so enjoy or delete. ________________________________________

** Day 1:


I no longer know exactly what date it is.

I am on an island; I think it is Guam. I really don't know how I got here. . . . I seem to recall the ship tilting in the night, frantic voices, and a chorus of voices chanting something that almost resolved itself on the tenebrous edge of sleep; a rending sound. . .

And I woke on a tropical island. All alone but miraculously safe, I foraged for food. Today I will make my way inland. I am afraid, but those days I spent as a survivalist with Eb in his bunker are paying off.

** Day 2:

I am now camped out in the middle of some primordial forest. The animal sounds babble around me like a new age CD, and everywhere I look are these little monkeys that chitter at me with inquisitive - well, chitters. I name each one "Kevin," which cuts down on the hassle and gives me some illusion of continuity. I found something that seems like an old path, overgrown but still recognizable. I can't help feeling that I am in some sort of lost world, like in one of those Saturday Morning movies, where a well-shaved Rachel Welch is gobbled up by a giant iguana with little plastic bits glued to his head. I will follow the path. My diet consists of only two things - small yummy berries (I whimsically call them "snozzberries," and feel somewhat like a lost Charlie) and the flesh of a small but startlingly dumb mammal that has the useful habit of leaping into every fire I build. I would call it a "Danger Bunny," but it's tendency for self-immolation reminds me more of the Democratic Party than anything else.

** Day 3:

This morning I made a startling discovery. After a robust meal of snozzberries and clintonbunnies, A small twinkle in the morning sunlight caught my attention. Turns out it was a gold pocketwatch - long discarded, I pried it loose from the viney tangle of the undergrowth. The crystal was cracked and the gears destroyed by rust, but the inscription was still there: "To Syd, from the lads."

Weird. . . . It has a familiar quality to it, though, and against my better judgment, I slipped it in my pocket. The gold felt warm and friendly, and I couldn't shake the illusion that the path was meant for me. The Kevins are growing friendlier, and have even started to bring me flowers, small berries, and - for some inscrutable reason - an occasional duck.

** Day 4:

Susan: I am strapping this letter to a Kevin's leg, in a surely vain hope that it will reach you. This will be the last you hear from me. The light is fading, and I may not have long.

I am now camped out at the foothills before a jungle-covered mountain. What I have seen tonight will remain with me forever:

Towards evening, I stumbled across a strange cave. Thinking that I may have found a nice area to sleep for the night, I made myself a torch and headed inside. It was dark and twisty, but soon the urge to explore fell over me. When I stopped perfectly still I imagined I could hear water somewhere up ahead, so I decided to press on.

Then I realized: the water was accompanied by voices.

Voices! My initial reaction was to charge ahead in enthusiasm, but then I paused. The voices seemed to be chanting. And I don't mean "Om Om Om we're the happy Benedictine Monks" chanting either, this was darker, more sinister. Extinguishing my torch, I made my way forward to a new glow that cascaded through the cavern, undoubtedly sharing its origins with the voices. A little creepy-crawling and sneaky-peteing later and I saw them. Perched from an lofty alcove, I looked down upon their spacious cavern.

It was huge, Susan. And illuminated everywhere by pale yellow globes with floated and bobbed around the perimeter. There were hundreds of people there - and not native-types, either: common people, looking like hippies and punks, businessmen and hausfrauen, bohemian artists and paramilitaries. But all were swaying, almost hypnotized, and all chanting: "Sven, Sven, Sven. . . ."

And standing on a podium was the central figure: Nevs, the oily first mate from the ship! Ahhh! And he was swaying to their chanting, almost - dare I say - *undulating* to the evil syllabations. And as I watched, the evil Nevs began to transform - he began to morph into a giant cockroach-like creature, a stony shelled critter with waving antennae and clicking little leggies waving about like Gregor Samsa freaking out on too much ecstacy at a rave in hell. "Eek" was the only thing I wanted to say, and yet I held my peace, watching him twirl about in appalled fascination. His - *Its* - dance was simian in nature, almost like the Monkey. . . . Once the transformation was complete, the crowd chanted, "Oi Sven, Oi Sven, Oi Sven. . . ."

Then this creature turned to the crowd and began clicking. Suddenly all the globes whirred in the air and formed a vast network of spheres behind the podium - and they began flashing colors, forming an image - My God, they were acting as the cells of a huge Jumbo-tronic! The first image was a series of white dots on a black field, then a strange network of interlocking lizards; soon they resolved into an image of a wizened figure, a kindly old man who reminded me of Gandalf from the Lord of the Rings - like a hippie Walt Whitman. The crowd began chanting, "Qlintt! Qlintt!" and so on.

Was this Qlintt? That betentacled thing whose statue formed an altar in Nevs' cabin? Was this one of the Many Forms of Qlintt? Well, it was certainly better than the gloopy tumescent statue.

Then he began speaking:

"Sven, my Trilobyte, you have done well.

"My fellow Fegs: Today we are gathered here today to initiate a new Prophet. But not just a new one, no: - THE FINAL PROPHET. Our Plan is near complete. In my other form - as the Evil One - I have brought the world to near domination. Where Logic rules, soon we will have Chaos! Where the rods of Crystalline Order reigns, soon there will be only be cones of Twitching Flesh! Now Common Sense is King, but soon his kingdom will be razed and trampled by the minions of madness! Where common Fluoride ions tumble in the drinking water, soon will have LSD shivering in the molecular silence!"

This speech was met by a tremendous burst of applause. The trilobyte clicked and twittered approvingly. For me, it was all a little too Tim Leary; but I was transfixed. Like a U2 tour gone wrong, I could not turn away from the spectacle.

"Yes, Fegs - We will soon Rule! All the prophets that went before have but laid the groundwork. We shall now pay them homage!"

The screen flickered as the globes received new commands, and suddenly pictures of various men and women illuminated the cave - and Qlintt began chanting out their names, most of which I had never heard of - until John Cage. After him, there was a sequence of faces that were terribly familiar:

"Umma Gumma all hail Syd Barret! Who laid the groundwork for the New Electric Epoch, but whose mind could not bear the strain of his holy calling - or, at least, of Roger Water's mammoth ego! (By the way, thank you, Syd, for that lovely bouquet of roses.) Banga Gonga all hail Marc Bolan, whose predilection for goofy hats did cause me only slight annoyance! Ronda Ronda all hail Brian Wilson, who if he would have survived the pressure, would have gone on to write a 24 hour long Dada opera called "Smile, Goddammit!" which would have ushered in a new age of chaos! Googoogajooba all hail John Lennon, who was subverted by the agents of Yodeloko the Questionable, and finally has to be assassinated before he could reunite with Paul and set the Liverpool Telephone Book to music, which as we all know would have sold a billion copies and set us back a few decades! Keskasay keskasay all hail David Byrne - once the keeper of our most sacred artifact, the oracular head of Andre Breton - who showed so much promise until he was subverted by the Brazilian Cult of the World Beat Movement! Cana Gedda Gadda Vida all hail Julian Cope, who upon the Final Day of Judgment will net us the thirteen babbling druids of Shropeshire and maybe a handful of aging krautrockers! La la all hail Jon Anderson of Yes, who . . . Hey - he's not on the list!"

At this point, Qlintt paused and stared into the crowd, pinpointing one of the Fegs with his steely glare. "Mister Terrence Marks! You knock it off or next time I really will toss your butt out of the Cult, and I swear to the Old Ones that I will allow Eb to weed out your CD collection while you away for the weekend!"

He continued: "Ahem. Lai Ladylai all hail Bob Dylan the Apostate - he who was to lead us to the Golden Door, until he was converted to order by the Christians, and stopped writing really clever songs, but at least left us with a reason to buy *both* Traveling Wilbury albums! Luvva Malkmusa all hail Billy Corgan - who really doesn't belong here, but threw a hissy fit when he found out he was excluded from something! Cheeza Whiza all hail Beck - Our Last Best Hope to subvert the hip hop youth culture of the cynical nineties! And yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip all hail Robyn Hitchcock, the Opener of the Way and the Last True Prophet Before The Final One, who we are planning to initiate tonight!"

Thunderous applause, except for a few confused looks of the "What about Andy Partridge?" variety.

"Sven has brought her to us! She has been taught all she needs to know! In her dreams, she has been taught the chord changes of Dischordia! The Lyrics of Ilyrica! The Eros of Eris! How to negotiate a contract with a record company in a self-aware and ironic fashion that preserves her artistic integrity but still makes a lot of money! She has been told all the secrets - Whether or not Klaatu really were the Beatles! What Robyn's onstage blinking really means! How the lyrics of Desolation Row predict the events on Wall Street for next four decades! How to pronounce that symbol that Prince thinks is really his name! That Pink Floyd's "Shine on You Crazy Diamond" is really about Syd Barret! (OK, OK, so we dropped the ball on that one. We do admit to an occsasional error - we're not the bloody Scientologists, you know.)"

At this point, I began to get very scared: somehow, Susan, somehow I *knew* all those things!

Then the orbs pulsed, and my picture came on the screen.

"And now our Last Prophet: Injoka Injoka, all hail Debbie Flosshilde!"

My mind reeled . . . . fleeting image of my dream on the ship: I pull the cover off the wax statue, and I am staring back at myself.

Suddenly all possibilities opened up. I could picture songs in my head - a perfect mix of poetic Dylanesque profoundity, modern Beckish type music appeal, and haunting Robynesque lyricism: songs I *knew* would make me the Biggest Star Ever. I just knew. . . . I saw it in my mind: one perfect album after another! No sophomore slump! Gold, Platinum, covers to Rolling Stone, Spin, Time, Raygun - good God, even Mojo and Q would have something nice to say about me. The whole universe was laid open to me, and I was at the center of every nerve. The power of the outer Gods of Chaos swirled through my bloodstream like a drug, like the most powerful hallucinogen in the universe, like Borges' Aleph, or the inside of Snoopy's Doghouse. And they had chosen me! I saw everything: I knew what the real meaning of Stonehenge was. I saw that Paul McCartney - avowed acid dropper and author of "Band on the Run" would be knighted within a year. I saw the cones in every Feg's room, cones all attuned to an unspeakable wavelength, silently waiting for their orders . . . I saw that a new group, called the Spice Girls, would appear - and after a brief pop music career would suddenly start a new career running a Feminist Post-Marxist Theatre of Social Realism in Sacramento, California. . . . and still Qlintt went on:

"Debbie Flosshilde! Who will be the very first Internet Superstar! Who will be the Usher whose Flashlight points to the New Age of Unreason!

"And now to honor those who will make this possible: Feg Woj: thank you for starting the List!" At which point one of the gathered humans bowed, and suddenly rippled - and for a brief second I thought I saw another form, a hideous prawnlike creature . . . . and I thought - Is Woj a Wereprawn? Is this possible? Even likley? Perhaps even, with the right amount of seasoning and a little bit of sauce, tasty?

"Sydney: who, taking the name of the Sacred City hat Delivered Debbie to Us, will join the list in mid-1997 and be the catalyst for the List coming into the open as to its true purpose!" And then this quivering wombat - like creature stepped out and bowed, fluidly transfgorming into a woman.

"Mark G and Bayard, whose Glass Flesh will insure that all the world's furniture will be on our side, and who will enrich all our vocabularies as a side bonus! Honors to James and your legions of Beaker People! To LSDiamond Star Halo, who will be soon made Head of the National Water Fluoridation Council; to John Littlejohn and Ken Sabitini, who will take over the thorny job of driving Eb the Unbeleiver to incoherent madness; to the Wondrous Partridge, who--"

"Ahem. That's Great Quail, man."

"Whatever.To Big Bird, who - providing he hasn't run across a road and met his fate under the wheels of a Saturn coup - will post all this to the list in June 1997, thereby providing us with a fictionalized "out in the open" cover to hide our nefarious purposes. Who will go so far as to invent imaginary listers such as LJ Lindhurst the Self-Admittedly Grouchy and others, all of whom will issue invented "attacks" against this posting in order to bring it notoreity, controversy, and proper spelling!"

"Wow. Cool. I accept."

"I thought the sly postmodern touch would please you. . . ."

All I could think about were the Fegs: were they *all* in on this? Have I been such a patsy? And you - Susan - were you down there, too? Qlintt continued:

"And thanks to Nick Winkworth, who has certainly not made it this far because I am sure he found it too tiresome, and to Mike Runion and Zelda Pinwheel, who have the funniest names of anyone on the list and should therefore be mentioned here, and to . . . ."

And so on, until all I could see below me were an assembly of cheering, loathsome creatures, born from a pit of chaos: there were lobsters and gnomes, effervescent elephants, walruses, and platypi, cats dining on brussell sprouts, and one particlarly scary creature that looked somewhat like a large bat. . . . but thank God, no Susan or Jay . . . I was not completely alone on the list!

"And now it is time to reveal my form as the Evil One, the guise through which I will make this all come true. I will become Debbie's corporate sponsor. I will air the Debbie TV show on my networks. I will alter the ingredients to Little Debbie's Snack Cakes! I will release the Debbie Web Browser, and by 2000, every computer will be running the Flosshilde OS! For years I have been laying the groundwork of Chaos! And on the eve of the twenty-first century, I will release Windows 6.66 and my nature shall be made known to all, even though Tom Clark and Mac Users certainly have suspected me up until this point, for I am none other than -- "

And then his image on the Globe-O-Tron wavered and reformed, and I saw that he was -


NOOOOO! I will not do that! I will not serve that master!

For the person on the screen was none other than BILL GATES, and as he raised his arms to give the assembled crowd a benediction, the whole cavern erupted in pandemonium. I lost control of myself - I screamed out loud, and began to run - run away form the madness, my destiny, that terrible haircut. From behind me I heard, "Get her!" and suddenly came the flippy-flappy sound of a million bat wings, and I was enveloped in bats and balloon men. I beat them off, peeled the gooey strips of chickpeas off my face, and by sheer luck I was able cause a rockslide behind me and staunch the batty, balloony flow. The Guam bats beat their wings against the rocks, but to no avail! I was free. . . .


So I am writing this to you, Susan - and to any Fegs that have been untouched by this cult. Do not trust any more correspondences after this one! Especially any that hail from that Sydney creature! You may hear that I am fine, you may hear that they are treating me well, and that I am being fed grapes and having my feet massaged. But it will not be the full truth. I know now that there is no escape from this island - for I lack the Magic Beans. I know my mythology now - and I still remember traces of the omniscience I was granted during me revelation in the alcove. I know in my heart what is next. They will find me, and I will be forced to lick the toxins of the Metabolic Toad. I will be subverted, converted, hypnotized and fegmatized. They will keep me here a few years, undoubtedly, as Microsoft builds up a corporate structure and begins sponsoring artists like Robyn - I know that seems unbeleivable, but look to it! I've seen it! They will have my soul, and then when you next hear from me, it will be as Debbie Flosshilde, the quirky pop singer who is rapidly acquiring a fanbase. Your old friend, "Chairman Mao," will be no more.

Trust only Jay and Eb . . . But I should alert you to another prophecy I have heard. If Robyn is ever nudged into saying one of your last names out loud, in public, during a performance, his or her soul is whisked to this blasted island and that person will become one of the Cult. Never - under any circumstance - allow Robyn to say "Dodge" or "Hedblade" in a song. Susan - I advise you to change your email moniker constantly, and tell Eb never ever to reveal his real name. God, I hope this message reaches you before it is too late. . . .

As for me, I am beyond saving.

I now await my fate, lonely by this campfire. I know that soon I will be in their claws: soon I await the coming of the Guambat.

The rest is silence.

-- Debbie "Chairman Mao" Flosshilde

Nick Winkworth >

Subject: Re: The diaries ride again...

Congratulations to the great Quail! The first Feg ever to get a whole digest to himself -- a feat that even our dear Susan has been unable toaccomplish.

> "And thanks to Nick Winkworth, who has certainly not made it this far

> because I am sure he found it too tiresome . . . ."

I absolutely deny that I read this far. Nobody saw me. You can't prove anything. (That's what the "find" command is for ;) )


Date: Thu, 12 Jun 1997

From: lj lindhurst

Subject: Re: Diaries, Pt 2 (LONG; RH content 3.14%)



lj lindhurst <ljl@echonyc.com>

Subject: The Diaries of....me!

dear fegs,

I am writing to you from the- thankfully now silent- home of the Great Quail. I rushed over here to give him a good ass kicking, but uponbursting through the door, I realized that he is really nothing more than a pigeon sitting in front of a WebTV console.

I quickly bludgeoned him to death with the sharp edge of a roll of ReynoldsWrap, and he has since ceased his incessant nonsensical chirping. Now that I have taken a moment to look around, I notice that his apartment is completely empty except for the WebTV sitting on the floor (easier for him to peck the keyboard I suppose), and a huge U2 "Rattle and Hum" poster. Healso has a tiny refrigerator, but all it has in it is some Taco Bell hotsauce packets (mild).

I'm getting out of here. This place is giving me the creeps.


Whew! And you guys thought *I* was trouble. ;)

Your designated CD weeder,


Here finally endeth the Demented diaries of Debbie wots herface

Click here to return to posse page ( if you have the energy after all that )