Tokyo Damage Report

the SECULAR SAINT theory

Many religious functions – explaining where we came from or when to plant crops – have been replaced by science.  But even these days, science can’t explain the meaning of life or provide comfort to people who have lost a loved one.


But so what?  Why even let religions have a monopoly on those two things?  Fuck it, it’s time for secular saints.


By this I mean:  make a list of people who are dead, who influenced your life greatly, who you wish you could be more like, or who you still think about a lot. . . .  Then build a little shrine in your living room, and on the day they died, put their shit in the shrine (their books they wrote or albums they released or a picture of them or whatever), and take a little time throughout the day to contemplate:


a)   All the happy times you had while listening to them or reading their book or going to see their movie or what-all

b)   how you felt when you realized they were dead

c)    what did they stand for? What did they make their fans do? how did they change things?

d)   all the lessons you can learn in daily life from being more like them

e)    and fuckin’ read their book or listen to their music or whatever it is, if they were a political martyr, I guess you could youtube their speeches or something?


I mean think about it:  learning to be more like our idols helps us make our own meaning of life, and contemplating their death – and their legacy – helps us face our own.  It’s like religion, but more practical, plus you can listen to some sweet jams and make the rules up as you go along. Plus as you get older, there will only be more people you can add to your list.  It makes getting older fun, in a morbid way.

Plus, as I mentioned in a previous post on the word “spiritual”,  you don’t have to be a religious believer to be appalled at how shallow, materialistic, and ad-driven our society is.  Having a little shrine is a way to enjoy your favorite people *without it being mediated by some big corporation*,  just you and them, without anything being bought or sold or tweeted or favorited or memed.   If nothing else it’s a way of saying “not everything can be reduced to a transaction or an advertisement or a fucking number or a social media post. there is still more to life, there are still private things, even private connections between me and dead people.”


There are a few problems in the system which I haven’t worked out:


1 )  Should you also include “secular devils”? ( i.e.  people who made you  really happy when they died?) Do they really deserve their own entire day of hate?  Like Ronald Reagan?  Answer :  sure!  One whole day of walking through the living room and flipping him off every time I pass?  That question answers itself.  After all the misery people like him or Thatcher or OBL caused, why not have a little fun with it? God I can’t wait until Mariah Carey or Oliver Stone or fucking Eric Clapton dies.


2) should you include historical dead people who influenced your life and outlook? Or just dead people whose death you experienced, whose death affected you when you heard about it? It’s a lot more personal if you can actually remember where you were when you heard, “Hey Jam Master Jay got murdered.” “He WHAT?”.

3) Where do you draw the line? I can only think of half-a-dozen deceased people that are serious role-models, but hundreds of dead folks who I love their work but if I’m being honest haven’t really changed my outlook on life or nothing. But maybe if I had them in the shrine and really contemplated what they stood for, maybe they COULD still become role-models? (I’m provisionally handling this by putting all the really high-powered fuckers in glowing yellow type, thereby giving them official Saint status)

But anyway, here is my semi-complete calendar of fake religious holidays:


I know I’m missing hella important people, so please leave your suggestions for secular saints in the comments:


Hank Williams                     (September 17, 1923 – January 1, 1953),

St. ROBERT ANTON WILSON                        (January 18, 1932 – January 11, 2007)

Yves Tanguy                                  (January 5, 1900 – January 15, 1955),

Dali                                      (May 11, 1904 – January 23, 1989),

Gustav Dore                      (January 6, 1832 – January 23, 1883)


Kirby                                    (August 28, 1917 – February 6, 1994),

steve gerber?                     (September 20, 1947 – February 10, 2008)

Charles Schulz                          (November 26, 1922 – February 12, 2000)

Hunter Thompson              (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005)

bill hicks                              (December 16, 1961 – February 26, 1994)


Biggie                                  (May 21, 1972 – March 9, 1997)

Jean Giraud  AKA MOEBIUS               (8 May 1938 – 10 March 2012)

Nate dogg                           (August 19, 1969 – March 15, 2011),

Hp lovecraft                        (August 20, 1890 – March 15, 1937)

Joy division                                   (15 July 1956 – 18 May 1980)

Eazy                                    (September 7, 1963 – March 26, 1995)


Stravinsky                           17 June  1882 – 6 April 1971)

ST. WENDY    O WILLIAMS                   (May 28, 1949 – April 6, 1998),

Vonnegut                            (November 11, 1922 – April 11, 2007)

ST. JOEY     ramone                       (May 19, 1951 – April 15, 2001)

thor Heyerdahl                   (October 6, 1914 – April 18, 2002)

Ballard                                 (15 November 1930 – 19 April 2009)

el duce                                (March 23, 1958 — April 19, 1997)

George Herriman                          (August 22, 1880 – April 25, 1944)

St. poly  STYRENE                     (3 July 1957 – 25 April 2011)



Jeff  Hanneman                           (January 31, 1964 – May 2, 2013)

ST. DIO                               (July 10, 1942 – May 16, 2010)



quorthon                             (February 17, 1966 – c. June 7, 2004)

seth Putnam                       (May 15, 1968 – June 11, 2011)

Zelazny!                              (May 13, 1937 – June 14, 1995)

george carlin                                  (May 12, 1937 – June 22, 2008)


dave insurgent (reagan youth)              (September 5, 1964 – July 3, 1993)

Bob ross                             (October 29, 1942 – July 4, 1995)

Dennis Flemion (the Frogs)     (June 6, 1955 – July 7, 2012)


Burroughs                           (February 5, 1914 – August 2, 1997)

lenny bruce                                      (October 13, 1925 – August 3, 1966),

Hieronymus Bosch                       (. 1450 – 9 August 1516)

Euronymous AKA Øystein Aarseth (22 March 1968 – 10 August 1993),[


Tolkien                                    (3 January 1892 – 2 September 1973)

ST. DAVID FOSTER WALLACE        (February 21, 1962 – September 12, 2008)



Duchamp, of course                     (28 July 1887 – 2 October 1968)

Walt kelly                             (August 25, 1913 – October 18, 1973)

Rudy ray moore                 (March 17, 1927 – October 19, 2008)

Jam master jay                   (January 21, 1965 – October 30, 2002),


Odb                                     (November 15, 1968 – November 13, 2004),

Big joe turner                                 May 18, 1911 – November 24, 1985)


St. ZAPPA                          (December 21, 1940 – December 4, 1993)

richard pryor                       (December 1, 1940 – December 10, 2005)

Vassily Kandinsky                       (16 December 1866 – 13 December 1944)

carl sagan                           (November 9, 1934 – December 20, 1996)

St. James  brown            (May 3, 1933 – December 25, 2006)


tom waits collected lyrics

download lyrics to everything from Closing Time through Real Gone, as a Word document, right here.


Just like the deal with my collection of Marvel superhero dick pics, I’d always assumed that someone had already taken care of this, but since the internet was falling down on the job, I went ahead and did it.


In this case, I was just copying off of various lyric sites and pasting it and, inevitably, adding my two cents about what songs were good.


How to Tell Apart all the Ambient Minimal Composers Whose Names All Start with “R”

Robert Rich, Terry Riley, Steve Reich, and Steve Roach!

Seriously what the fuck is up with that? What kind of obscure conspiracy could possibly BENEFIT from such blatant last-name manipulation? What’s Their ANGLE?!?


Robert rich -  one of the early early drone guys. did “overnight performances” where the audience was supposed to sleep. Not only does his name have TWO “r”s,  but also, he has actually done collaborations with Steve Roach, which is just further proof of The  “R” Conspiracy.

Main song: Somnium.

Looks like : steve jobs.


Terry riley        –   Psychedelic synth guy, kind of tripped out , shrill , and irritating

Main song:  “rainbow in curved air.”

Looks like: dumbledore


Steve Reich – modern classical minimalist and tapeloop guy. The best of the bunch!

Main songs: “music for 18 musicians”, and “come out.”

Looks like: any CEO on casual Friday, dockers and baseball hat.


Steve roach – new agey faux native American drums and synths, meditation stuff, but super thick walls of epically reverbed synths. Again, he even has the same FIRST NAME as  another “R” guy.  It’s like They are DARING us to call them on their Conspiracy!!!

Main album: Dreamtime Return

Looks like: Stephen King with a bird’s nest on his head. Giant eyebrows.


lou reed was still alive?!?


















KANSAS (the “carry on my wayward son” band)


Is no one going to fucking say it?


I’ll be the bad guy.

Lou reed was not any good. His music wasn’t even bad. It was just, meh.

People kind of admit this when they say “but he was INFLUENTIAL!!!”  which is a roundabout way of admitting they don’t personally listen to or enjoy his music.  But even “influential!” basically just means that “arty white person bands are a lot less creative than you thought” . . . . it doesn’t mean “lou reed was  rad.”


Just by a morbid coincidence I DLed a lot of his solo albums a week before he died, so I know what I am talking about.  And don’t talk about velvet underground. In a just world that band would have been officially called MO TUCKER AND HER LITTLE PALS.  I mean they had 3 good songs; waiting for my man, white light, and “heard her call my name”. . . all of which had those Mo Tucker beats.  Except for some stoned giggling and various comical guitar solo attempts, Reed  was incidental.


See also :  Reed influenced  dickless noise bands like sonic youth.  Tucker influenced really nice bands like NEU! and Faust. Again, this is objective truth. (Tucker also was a huge influence on Can, but I can’t co-sign the Can vocalists, any of them.  Shut the fuck up Japanese Robert Plant.)


I’m not glad he’s dead, though.  I saw some video interview of him in the ‘80s with an insane jew-fro-mullet and he was telling Lower East Side war stories from when NYC was all Escape From New York / Fort Apache The Bronx – style.  It was an amazing batch of stories. If dude had just gracefully retired from music and done the Henry Rollins thing he could have been one of the best storytellers.  This, incidentally, is not a problem unique to Reed.  Lots of musicians are more interesting as people than musicians, (AKA the “the music is the least interesting thing about him/her” phenomenon).


I guess my main beef is with music critics, not with the dead man.  First, claiming that he “invented punk.”   Everybody knows that THOMAS EDISON invented punk.  No, wait, I meant Ronald Reagan.

Second reason why critics are terrible: look at the list I posted at the top of the rant.









All these bands had like 2 good songs, which is probably 1 more than Reed had in his solo career.  So logically rock critics should praise all these bands JUST AS MUCH IF NOT MORE than they praise Reed.

And they should say typical sentances like: “J Geils band (famous for their hits “Centerfold” and “Love Stinks”) invented industrial music, as well as punk, classical, and meringue, and the demise of this band will forever live in rock history”

or sentances like: “Styx, whose brand of working-class-rock-meets-broadway-musical has influenced the course of rock history, also invented black metal, wigger slam, horrorcore rap, and the minuet.”


AND YET ROCK CRITICS HATE ALL THOSE BANDS.  Despite the totally objective fact that they are just as mediocre and “eh” as lou reed.


So, in conclusion:  critics are underpants, lou reed = fallout boy, “influential”= “I don’t personally listen to it but you totally should”,  some musicians should just tell stories, and Mo Tucker was the main good thing about VU. Also, if the record industry took my advice and simply ONLY PAID ROCK STARS IN HEROIN,  we would have been spared this guy’s output, as well as his pathetic obituaries (see also: kobain, Hendrix, etc).


shorter new Eminem:

“Look how talented I have to be in order to find new ways to say the same exact thing!”

No comments

Bowel Obstruction of Justice

This is how you deal with bullshit small-town rape jocks.

If you agree, send this to someone you know.


Caught you slipping after football practice

Laying in the bushes outside where your frat is


Think you’re a man because you know how a rape feel

Tell me how that duct tape on your face feel.

Tell yourself it ain’t real,  but you know your fate’s sealed

Sometimes a busted cherry leads straight to a grape peel


Word to Darryl McDan It’s the simplest plan,

Just some cuffs and a windowless van.


Now you’re bleeding, dude, but we ain’t beating you

Swervin on the curb’n, that’s right, we Nice Peting you

Bouncing you off the van wall, fractures!

“Darren Wilson football practice.”


Grand-daddy can’t save you’re a** now

Face the curtain, take your last bow

This ain’t Sinatra, it ain’t going Yo’ Way.

More like Sedaka, ‘cause we bout to Go Ape.


You can’t scream but I see your eyes widen

When I brandish pliers, siphon and a tire iron

Tear your rectum open with no foreplay

No Vaseline that’s word to O’Shea


How it feel to be violated

How it feel to have your whole hole dialated

Uncap a flask’o Tabasco in you’re a****** and pour it

And tell the damn internet you was asking for it


Used to play tight end every season

now you’re leakin

I’m stomping on your prolapse with your own cleats on

*The shoe’s on the otherfoot *

Yelling hut hut hike while you beg for your life

Sever your head and then i spike


Y que? See what you get for bein’ cliché

Same stories we gotta read each day?

“Tiny town acts shocked that their jock’s a child raper”

Fedex your left nut to Obama and tell him it was Al Quaeda.


Next we headed to your sister’s house

Clockwork orange her eyes and then s*** in her mouth.

You and all your girlfriends made a contest:

who could make the victim kill herself first.


Queen of the school with your twitter lynch mob

Fuck a rim job douche wad – take the whole pinched log

Like to dish it out but taking it is new to ya

As are my corn kernels tickling your uvula


Now tell me how that dook taste?

Leave her with a used face and a empty tube of



*honk honk*

finally our friends roll up

Dragging the DA behind his own Benz, doing do

Nuts  Goon wouldn’t  bring a case, now he’s

Catchin garden gnomes to the face.


Perpetrator’s own tape is  insufficient evidence

You’re working for his family, I guess it’s just coincidence

Charges was dropped , its even shockin’ the cops,

That’s why we makin’ anonymous plots


It’s a small town so it wasn’t hard to  find him on a  Bender

Drinking with the coach and the public defender.

Caught him in the john when he passed out,

now he’s  f****** up your dad’s lawn with his ass out.


Gotta drive fast out because the cops coming.

Small town Merikuh: one mile and running.

All this murder was just a precursor

Like Eazy said, s***’s about to get WORSER.


*They’re trying to destroy our bright young future

Over just a little misunderstanding.*



Now it’s time for the boss, we all gonna level up

After we shoot this devil up.


(Gangstalicious sample: eff grand-dad!!!)


the unofficial Mayor, the rapist saver

the shady deal maker, behind closed doors

“You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours”

we about to scratch with some Wolverine claws


Cutting right through ya like a mutant superhero

turn a crooked prosecutor, into human prosciutto

We don’t care about your gold coins and net worth

We’re here to f*** up your Old Boys’ network.


Stash the benz in the woods by the mansion

Carry the DA ‘cause his legs been smashed in


Oh s***!


The cops tipped him off, the door is all locked

Coach in the foyer with his shotgun cocked


Turn to go back and then the trap closes

Sirens, behind us, we attracting mo’ fuzz.

Out of time! why’d we do so many donuts??

But Right before they scope us, a side window opens

Boss’ own maid just saved our a**


We know the reason why, we won’t waste time to ask.

Word to Ice-T, and Coach just might be

drunk as hell,   yelling the f**-word

he means business – even turned his cap backwards


yelling through the door he gonna let the Moss spray

not even knowing, we’re behind him like Sasuke

when we tap his Shoul-dah the look on Hoss’ face

like someone hit an osprey with a hot plate!


But we got no time for raptor slapstick

these cops gonna capture our a** quick.

Taser to the head, bitch! Shotty, repossess this   Tell the

Fuzz we ain’t here, or the Moustache gets it!


Pale as snow, but he does what he’s told,

Through the door crack pop-pop says he’s alone,

The fuzz rockets off, and now it’s game on

Get these Dockers off; gimp masks and duct tape on


F*** no I don’t want a golf membership or a Maybach.

I want some f***** payback

Don’t want the neighbors to hear the screams.

So Turn up Django on your big screen


Have a private party in your elegant rec room

Sports awards, bibles, flags and heirlooms.


Don’t forget these nice  framed pictures! Pop-pop

With the coach and police chief with ya

Wearing ball gowns at the Masonic ritual

Bet the victims’ attourney took the picture too.


Treatin’ this town like your private empire

Anyone who doesn’t go along, gets fired

Protect the insider and punish the outsider

We’re exposing your fraud, Mrs. Doubtfire


But I aint gonna violate you

Gun to his head, make your own man rape you

You down with that ain’t you? It’s only common sense

You told the papers rape doesn’t have consequence.


Your bottyhole got to make a decision:

this aged grey d*** in? or this AK clip in?

Any way you slice it you hype for some anal play

“you ever had your s*** pushed in?”

this  your training day.


Serbian torture : Slobidan milosovic

Now you’re slobbin on lots o’ d***

This town built on insider dealing and collusion

Now he’s inside you for real, knocking dentures loose, an’

While you’re on the carpet canoodling

We’re steady yelling “KEEP IT IN THE COMMUNITY!”


You let the douche free,  dropping the case

And hound the victim family right out of the place

Thought you could plot an escape from this rotten disgrace

Now an old man’s boner just popped in your face!


Destroy a kid’s life just for f******* with your team sports.

How dare she lower the morale and the mean scores?


Small town values, you gotta love it

Something something something buttocks

Shove a football trophy right up it

And charge you with Bowel Obstruction of Justice.


Now you’re begging to stop

Now you say it’s assault

Now a bleeding rectum is a negative fault

Now you want a time out,    a flag on the play

Now you stop your joking about f****** and aids.


Now you know what “No” means

Even though we  ignore-ing

We’re just kids being kids! Get over it! Sorry!


Look on the bright side: you won’t need an abortion

We don’t endorse that, this gay rape is Christian.

Now smile for the camera: you’re going to be famous

Make you lip-synch nude to Tori Amos


While impaled on a pylon crying,

And mail the whole thing to Chiron Rising

Who got  half the mercy of a Cylon Viking?


Psyche! Don’t fret, we’re not some damn animals

We ain’t done yet, we’re not gonna abandon you

To freeze in the cold, or bleed in the snow,

F*** that We’ll make sure you’re six deep in a hole


Or Under sea with the soles, buried sneakily bold

Like at a peepshow right beneath the main pole

Maybe some emus have eaten your bones

So if the Feds can’t find ‘em with frequent patrols


Don’t axe me, I don’t know where the remains went

Maybe under a basement or a tree in a grove

Maybe the location is somewhere more horrible

Did you check the foundation of the Hoffa memorial?