E10: Crash the Met Gala; S6: Lesion Leash (finale)

E1: Crème de cassis; S7: Liberated Panties

This introduction is being written for Substack, which is a queer‑deaf place. Not hostile — just unable to hear the frequency queer people speak in. So I’m going to try to write something that will be legible to the queer‑deaf and also put them gently in their place. That’s what this introduction is for. And because “queer‑deaf” needs a definition, here’s the only one that makes sense: Queer‑deaf is when someone hears the sentence but not the slippage. It’s when you speak in parentheses inside parentheses inside a parenthetical multiverse, and they respond in the grammar of customer service. It’s when you leave the stratosphere, leave the universe, leave the multiverse, and go looking for God — and She’s sitting on a folding chair at the end of the Manhattan Beach Pier drinking crème de cassis and saying, “Oh honey, I heard you the whole time — they’re the ones who can’t.” That’s the audience. That’s the platform. That’s the vibe. But honestly, you should just listen to the podcast. Once you start, you won’t be able to stop. You won’t understand it with your “understanding.” You’ll understand it with your body. Season 7 is coming. The episode is coming. That’s the whole announcement. --- PULL‑QUOTES: destabilizing queer situations These are direct pulls from the script — no rewriting — chosen because they show the kinds of queer danger, confusion, grooming, vulnerability, or existential dislocation that queer‑deaf readers would never register unless they listened to the episode. Each one is intentionally fragmentary. Each one destabilizes without needing to finish the thought. 1. “Reading is eating someone else’s shit.” 2. “My openly gay mentors were becoming flies. And then they dropped.” 3. “Cute, blue-haired, popular, intelligent, infuriating disease vectors.” 4. “I thought my badassery might change something for him. It didn’t.” 5. “There was another world spinning inside of this one… or maybe not spinning, maybe it was just gagging on the other world.” 6. “I became very vulnerable… to grooming.” 7. “The thought police were your OWN thoughts.” 8. “I didn’t mind not knowing what was going on.” 9. “It’s really delicious… how disgusting it was.” 10. “If you dated… it was just really hard to show any interest in the cute, vulnerable twenty-two year-old…” 11. “The gang bang story was probably easier to tell.” 12. “That is how I became an autodidact.” 13. “Thoughts, in those days… they were all toxic.” 14. “Reading was something you could do to maybe not have time to have sex with too many strangers…” 15. “I really wanted something to mean something.” 16. “The truth is ugly.” 17. “Humanity is an industry.” 18. “Honestly, I’ll take anywhere but here.” 19. “No one is gay. Not even me.” 20. “I thought I was being taken / but I was taking memory.”

E10: Crash the Met Gala; S6: Lesion Leash (finale)

The episode has no wants. And one of them was to not stay in one piece. So it grabbed its own arm and pulled it off. To hand it to me… along with the hand, and the elbow and the shoulder. And while that was happening, the hand was going one way, the elbow another, the shoulder another. Bodies are amazing things, don’t you think? Then we made some Bacon. The Bacon was capitalized, like this: Bacon. It’s an ancestry thing. I think you’ll like it. In the meantime, I pulled these pull-quotes so I can use them as Notes on Substack. I don’t mean to brag, but I could have pulled twenty more. You will learn in this episode that I am perfect. And I am a narcissist. Who announces himself. So, a VERY special narcissist. --- 20 Pull‑Quotes From the Episode 1. “Getting annoyed is a sign of critical thinking.” 2. “If you’re incredibly happy, you’re probably not thinking critically.” 3. “Socrates talking about how happiness results from not thinking critically and just laughing his ass off as he drinks the Hemlock.” 4. “I can just emanate resting bitch face… the whole bitch face resting… in my eyes.” 5. “With those resting bitch face eyes totally locked onto you like fucking Superman burning a hole through your missing heart.” 6. “Sometimes it takes a few strokes to tilt everything… the whole universe… about twelve degrees.” 7. “A carpet roll of time that determines who I am? What kind of bullshit is that?!?” 8. “If I don’t respect you WE ARE GOING TO HAVE FUN!” 9. “I took that test. I failed completely.” 10. “I’m 100% neurotypical.” 11. “Context has totally fucked up my mental health at times.” 12. “All you can think is… what’s wrong with me?!?” 13. “Then later, you look back and wonder how you fucking survived.” 14. “Everyone else wonders how you’re still alive too.” 15. “Not having a solution for someone else’s obvious problem… that’s exhausting.” 16. “Wow, I love how I can’t figure out what you’re saying.” 17. “Naughty naughty unclear antecedent.” 18. “All of the above in a snarling tangle that bites whenever you try to tame it.” 19. “I don’t even know what we’re talking about… and I’m game.” 20. “Maybe because I’m an Aries? Is that neurodivergence?”

E9: I've Been Waiting; S6: Godot Has AIDS (Shocking Truth Revealed)

This episode begins with mania, wanders through geopolitics, Tesla crumple‑zones, revenge fantasies, AIDS grief, gay AA in Palm Springs, MIDI sequencers, erotic electrocution anxiety, and a dying cowboy in a Speedo who just wanted someone to sing harmony with him before he disappeared from the earth. So, naturally, it becomes a love story about tenderness. Human beings are disgusting little miracles like that. This is not nostalgia. Nostalgia sands edges. This episode leaves the razorblades in. At 24, the author falls briefly and intensely into orbit around Rodney Archuletta: beautiful, doomed, improvisational, electrically inclined in ways absolutely nobody requested. A man dying in the early 1990s with enough openness left to hand someone his lyrics and say, essentially: Here. Maybe this can survive me. And because the universe enjoys emotional vandalism, the lyrics are good. Not “good considering.” Just good. Earnest in the terrifying way earnestness becomes when death is sitting openly in the room eating complimentary peanuts from the motel minibar. So the episode keeps circling a question: What do we owe the dead strangers who briefly let us see them clearly? Apparently: sometimes a podcast episode thirty years later. Sometimes a reconstructed synth‑pop duet recorded on primitive gear while America was busy treating queer men like biohazards in tank tops. The result is weirdly gentle. Not soft. Gentle. There’s a difference. One survives impact. And beneath all the jokes about electric‑fetish gadgets and cowboy thighs and the metaphysics of shocking somebody in the nuts—a sentence I resent typing—there’s this unbearable little core: Someone was afraid. Someone wanted to be loved before he vanished. Someone waited for a future he probably suspected he would never reach. And then he sang anyway. ⸻ 15 QUOTATIONS ABOUT THIS EPISODE (Attributed with the kind of scholarly irresponsibility normally reserved for continental philosophy departments and men named Luca wearing scarves indoors.) 1. Nietzsche “The problem is not that God is dead. The problem is that Rodney still wanted to harmonize.” 1. Simone de Beauvoir “One is not born waiting. One becomes waiting.” 1. Rimbaud “I abandoned poetry at twenty‑one because I had already seen too much. This podcast suggests I quit too early.” 1. Jean Cocteau “The artist is a lie who tells the truth. The dying cowboy is the truth who accidentally became art.” 1. The Buddha “Attachment is suffering. But also… listen to that synth line.” 1. Roland Barthes “The voice of the author dissolves into the erotic machinery of memory.” 1. Björk “This is what happens when intimacy develops weather patterns.” 1. Dostoevsky “To love someone dying is merely another form of gambling.” 1. Susan Sontag “Illness becomes metaphor the instant a society decides certain bodies deserve symbolism more than survival.” 1. John Cage “Silence is impossible. Even grief hums electrically.” 1. Michel Foucault “Power circulates through institutions, bodies, discourses, and apparently motel‑room MIDI collaborations.” 1. David Bowie “Fame lasts fifteen minutes. AIDS lasted longer.” (Not actually Bowie, but spiritually adjacent.) 1. Jacques Derrida “The meaning of ‘I’ve Been Waiting’ is endlessly deferred.” 1. Angela Davis “Survival under hostile systems always produces unauthorized tenderness.” 1. Werner Herzog “The ecstatic truth is found not in facts but in a dying man teaching synthesizer grief beside a drum machine.”

E8: My Pet Monkey, S6: Counter‑leash‑ference

I’ve been playing with Suno again. Which is dangerous, because I have hundreds of songs already up on Spotify and Apple Music and everywhere else, and Suno’s copyright filter is like a TSA agent who can’t tell the difference between a bomb and a sandwich. If I put in one of my own songs — songs I wrote, recorded, produced, and legally own — it blocks them because it thinks I’m stealing from myself. And there’s no button that says, “Relax, I’m me.” So I’m left with the songs I never released. The orphans. Thankfully, along with the hundreds or released songs, there are dozens of unreleased ones, and—I don’t know… a thousand more that never made the jump from analogue to digital. I started writing songs when I was three or four. My favorite number is 53 because one of the first things I ever wrote — before I even understood what writing was — was a poem called 53. Something about a ship with 53 people on it, out at sea for 53 days. I turned it into a song on the piano. I didn’t record it. But not long after that, I started recording everything. My family had a puppet troupe that toured rest homes. I met half of television royalty before I was ten. Betty White. Robin Williams in his Mork & Mindy era. Long conversations with people I didn’t understand were famous. And somewhere in all that, I kept writing songs. Tape decks. My mom’s recording gear. Then a Tascam four‑track. Then an Alesis HR‑16 drum machine. Then an MMT‑8 sequencer. Then a Roland JV‑80. Then whatever else I could afford or steal time with. A lot of those songs I’ve remastered. Some I’ve resurrected with AI stem‑splitting. Some I’ve left alone because they were too broken or too embarrassing or too technically mangled to fix. My Pet Monkey had both problems. There are glitches in the original recording — little garbled moments where the tape chewed itself or the mic clipped or the universe hiccuped. And then there’s the other thing: the critique. When I workshopped this song at CalArts, during a four‑hour critique (because CalArts believes in suffering as pedagogy), one guy raised his hand and said: “This song is clearly about compulsive masturbation.” And here’s the thing: I had no idea what the song was about. That’s how songs come out of me — sideways, unannounced, uninterpreted. So I couldn’t argue with him. I couldn’t say, “No, it’s actually about X.” And CalArts is a conceptual art school. They don’t care about lived experience. They care about the refractor — the lens, the mediation, the postmodern trick where you deconstruct the thing until the thing disappears. So the masturbation interpretation stuck to me like shame glue. For years. Fast‑forward to this week. I’m digging through old songs, trying to find ones Suno won’t reject. I find My Pet Monkey. I think, “Fine, I’ll record a little intro for the song. I’ll tell the story about the Mexican cowboy in the Speedo. The AA conference. The breakup. The counselor who told me I was walking into traffic.” I hit record. I talk. I wander. I go down blind alleys. I forget where I’m going. I remember. I forget again. I keep talking. And then, after I finish recording the episode, I listen to the song again. And suddenly — finally — I know what it’s about. It’s not about masturbation. It’s not about shame. It’s not about the critique. It’s not about the cowboy. It’s not even about AIDS, though AIDS is the shadow behind god. It’s about the impossible emotional geometry of loving someone who is dying, and the equally impossible geometry of leaving them without feeling like you’re killing them. It’s about the moment when affection becomes responsibility, and responsibility becomes fear, and fear becomes resentment, and resentment becomes guilt, and guilt becomes a story you tell yourself so you can survive the fact that you survived. It’s about the monkey. And it’s not about the monkey at all. Anyway. That’s the episode. That’s the song. That’s the blind alley I went down and the one I came back from. Hit play.

E7: The Friendly Driver; S6: Self-Retracting Leash (Ethical Jello Wrestling with Muddy John Waters)

E7: The Friendly Driver — Description (Demonic Hera Symposium Zeusified Edition) Imagined Symposium Commentary (Now With Full Breakdown and Metaphysical Brawl) Arthur L. Rambo‑Cohen, poet‑theorist of emotional vandalism, opens the session with his usual cigarette‑shaped sigh: “This episode is what happens when autobiography becomes a migratory species.” He believes this is a compliment. No one else is sure. Athy Kacker, post‑structuralist of the laundry‑folding school, immediately objects: “The narrator’s memory behaves like a bureaucratic jellyfish — translucent, stinging, and impossible to file.” Rambo‑Cohen accuses Kacker of “epistemic lint‑rolling.” Tension rises. Simone de Bouvier‑Jones, feminist existentialist and part‑time astrologer, interrupts: “Intimacy and material conditions are inseparable, but must the men monologue for five geological epochs.” Jean‑Paul Satrelli takes this personally. Jean‑Paul Satrelli, philosopher of damp cafés, mutters: “Hell is other people’s immigration paperwork.” Bouvier‑Jones tells him to moisturize his worldview. Björk Guðrúnsdóttir‑Maybe, Icelandic emotional cartographer, weeps into sambal: “This podcast is extremely biodegradable.” Dusty‑Eggsky accuses her of “lyrical composting.” Fyodor Dusty‑Eggsky, patron saint of melodramatic stairwells, complains: “The narrator suffers from too much self‑awareness and not nearly enough tuberculosis.” Björk‑Maybe throws a spoonful of sambal at him. It lands philosophically. John Caje, avant‑garde composer of silence and traffic, claps once and declares: “The motorbike noises are the most structurally honest character.” Everyone ignores him, which he considers a triumph. Gloria Gator‑Bell, theorist of intersectional chaos, nods: “This is what happens when identity refuses to stay in its assigned seating chart.” Michel Foulcault hisses approvingly. Michel Foulcault, no relation, whispers from a shadowy corner: “Power circulates. So does sambal.” Someone asks if he’s okay. He is not. Ursula K. LeGrin, speculative anthropologist, remarks: “The world‑building is accidental but disturbingly effective.” Rambo‑Cohen accuses her of genre bias. Vlad Vexlorin, political philosopher of moral vertigo, leans forward: “This episode is a masterclass in ethical dissonance performed at conversational speed.” Athy Kacker calls this “moral aerobics.” Taila Swyft‑Anders, pop‑mythologist and breakup‑cosmologist, flips her hair and says: “I’ve never heard someone pivot from dumplings to existential collapse with such bridge‑writing confidence.” Dusty‑Eggsky challenges her to a duel. She declines politely. Timothée Chalamette‑DuPont, actor‑waif and soft‑focus theorist, whispers: “Listening felt like being emotionally side‑lit for ninety minutes.” Satrelli accuses him of weaponized cheekbones. Billia Eylishan, melancholic futurist, murmurs: “The vibe is like drowning in memory but in a good, biodegradable way.” Björk‑Maybe nods so hard she nearly dissolves. KIMJIN‑SOOK7, global pop‑philosophers, declare in perfect unison: “The transitions are chaotic, but the sincerity has perfect choreography.” Caje claims they stole his idea of synchronized silence. THE BREAKDOWN At this point, the philosophers begin arguing about whether sambal is a metaphor for power, memory, or desire. Rambo‑Cohen throws a chair made of adjectives. Bouvier‑Jones summons a feminist wind. Caje sits perfectly still, insisting the fight is his greatest composition. KIMJIN‑SOOK7 begin choreographing the violence. Taila Swyft‑Anders starts writing a diss track. Dusty‑Eggsky dramatically collapses on a chaise lounge that no one remembers being there. Foulcault disappears into a vent. LeGrin takes notes for a novel. Vexlorin tries to mediate and accidentally triggers a minor ontological implosion. When the dust settles, the symposium has become a metaphysical brawl, a cloud of ideas punching each other in the dark. And somewhere in the centre of it, the episode plays on loop, completely unfazed.