Wot,us a cult?


Unausprechliche Kulte. . . . .

Sent: 4/24/97


From: The Great Quail,

A cult, eh?


>#25. Cult artists are frequently just as boring and predictable as

>mainstream ones. This is also called the Robyn Hitchcock rule.


#26. Books written soley to tear apart another's creative efforts in order to make a few bucks and advance one's own ego are just as boring and predictable as any random sampling of a review from the British Rock Press. This is also called the Guterman and O'Donnell Rule; or the "No One Ever Built a Statue to A Critic" clause.

>Cult audiences value cleverness over direct expression and the abstract over clarity. 

Yes, this is very true. I once heard of a tale of a whole cult being developed over an English translation of a Chinese VCR Instruction manual. . . . 

>And how do they get by calling Robyn Hitchcock's audience a "cult" anyway?

>Just because we know that liking Robyn is the Last Chance to Advance Beyond Human, doesn't make us a cult.

Yeah, um . . . *sure* we're not a cult. For one, cult members tend to be a bit strange, attend odd meetings, and have funny names. At least that's what I, the Great Quail, and Terry, the Second Student in the Tendo Kasumi School of Philosophy were saying to The Real Lord of the Dance last Black Snake Diamond Rock Gathering. But let's face it - something has to be done about this misperception. Brother Woj, our newly elected 33 Degree Keeper of the "Holy Book of the Canon of the Only Real Secret in the Universe (And We Don't Mean that Mormon Fellah) Great Tome of the Law of Robyn" told me after last meeting that we were working on tax exempt status, so I guess when the Guambat comes through we will be an official religion. That is, if Sister Tracey, Butterer of the Holy Toast, doesn't blow the assimilation again. But I shouldn't knock her - it's not easy summoning the Thirteen Men With Long Black Heads. I mean, those cellists are hard to find, and damn, doesn't someone always notice them missing? But to think, a religion! Of course, some things will have to change, and for the better, too - no more handing out prawns on the streetcorner, Brother Jay. No we will move to . . . .dare I say it? Lobsters! And remember what Susan said last Sabbat meeting? (I think it was her. The shiny leather hood muffled her voice a bit; but I *think* those were her fishnets.) I totally agree with her . . .we *must* chill out on the Giant Squid revelation. That has to come later, after the Cones have all been delivered to their target locations and the stars are right. . . . until then, I say we stick with the slowly burning gnostic fanatic bit. We can wait, we have time. Speaking of which, has the backmasking on Glass Flesh begun to have the desired effect yet on our friends, children, and spouses? Brothers Bayard and Mark? 

Narf! What are we going to do tomorrow night, Brain . . . ? 

Agent Quailius the Apostate, Watcher of the Skies and Keeper of the 

Sacred Crab. 

note : the Great Quail has since joined the Church of Scientology.........

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