November 13

Went down to the university district - a big area built up around a single, long road. It's chock-a-bloc with young, wholesome students, all parading around in their University of Texas hooded sweatshirts. What worries me is that directly opposite the campus' main entrance is the regional Church of Scientology headquarters. It's so close to the university that if you were leaving class in a hurry and were to trip on the front steps you might very well fall and tumble into the open arms of a Level 8 Thetan.

Up and down the strip there are lots of grungy, scabby kids called "drag rats" by the locals. They are different from the normal kids. Drag rats sit around, ask people for change or cigarettes and cultivate a kind of brown mist around themselves. Something about them bothers me. It's not the fact they gather in large groups, effectively blocking entire pavements with their swirling vanguard of stray dogs. Drag rats wear tattered dungarees and have random clumps of dreadlock attached to their heads, but that doesn't bother me too much either. No, what bothers me is their smirking. They'll sit around and just smirk at people. I know what that smirk says and I'll tell you. That smirk says:

Look at me. I'm an outlaw. I don't conform to your corrupt societal norms and neither do my friends. We're one big happy family here. We ride together and die together. But you could never understand you rat, ratting it up in the rat race. Peace out you square.

Well I've devised my own smirk to shoot straight back at them if needs be. And if someone were to analyse my smirk they'll find that it says:

Get away. There isn't a single aspect of your life which I find admirable or enviable. As a group you disgust me. You are revolting and lazy. I hope that dog - the one which you've fussed over ever since it had the rotten luck to bump into you in a skip - bites you in the face while you sleep.

Drag rats are not to be confused with gutter punks, the very similar breed of semi-homeless bohemian waster found elsewhere in America. I'm not sure about the difference. I think it's academic. Like drag rats listen to grindcore and gabba techno while adhering to vegetarianism and anarcho-punk ideals, while gutter punks listen to industrial-crust techno and darkwave trance exclusively. If America descends into civil war - gutter punk pitted against drag rat - I'd be at a loss to choose a side.

My celebrity is growing like the bloodied, half-formed carcass of Uncle Frank in Hellraiser. Only today I was asked to appear in a documentary about rock music in Austin. It looked like a fairly small production crew so I can only assume it will get a worldwide cinematic release and some kind of limited, collector's edition DVD tie-in. I basically sat in a seat and explained clearly and fluently how I knew nothing about rock music in Austin. The director's face became quite sad as the full blast of my ignorance was unleashed. But hey. When you book me you do it for name value. Not because I'm going to add anything of intellectual merit to your project. I'm the Christopher Walken of Austin music documentaries. No matter how bad they are, I can just turn up half way through and make them better just by being there. Talking. And moving my eyes.