If you're like me, and face it, you are, you were deeply familiar with the works of Psychic TV back in the late 80s. You totally spaced out to "Force the Hand of Chance". You probably remember exactly where you were when you first heard "Dreams Less Sweet", and you were probably high. Or on LSD. Or shrooms. Or PCP, cause it was still the 80s, and you could still buy that shit (don't get me started on how sad it is that drugs have a life cycle, and may some day not be available at all, much less at a reasonable price; it's enough to bring tears to the eye), though, since you're probably pretty middle-class, you wouldn't have touched that stuff. I would have, if I had had the opportunity, but I didn't. Anyway, that's not the point. Why'd you make me do that, anyway?

OK, so "Dreams Less Sweet" was like this fucking masterpiece, as you remember, and hot of the heels of Throbbing Gristle's dissolution, PTV seemed to have scored all the talent in the group. Where by "all the talent", I mean "Peter Christopherson". Chris and Cosey were making homemade disco (just because you make it at home doesn't mean it isn't junk food, and besides, Caberet Voltaire did it blacker), and while Uniform Hipster Law required that you own all those 12" singles, you rarely busted them out when the psychs got dropped. It was all about PTV. And Nurse With Wound. And Test Department, if you were a self-righteous Trotskyite, and I know that you were, because you're just like me. But mainly Dreams Less Sweet.

Do you remember that time you went to see them, and it was this awesome noise improv set that lasted, like, forever, though that was mainly the drugs talking, and, like, there was that girl you made out with in the bathroom with no stall doors that, if you saw right now, in broad daylight, you'd probably puke a little in your mouth? Sure, I knew you would. Remember "Are you free, are you really free", and that summer they put out Roman P.? Yeah, me too, me too... Good times.

And then, suddenly, without warning, Megson turned into a talentless douchebag, and started cranking out the shittiest disco (sorry, house, whatever) a human being could construct (mind you: I am a fan of good disco, and I believe the Throbbing Gristle people were fans of such, as well, remembering their affinity for ABBA and the Nordik Production Values, which makes this all the more sad)? And then the dude is releasing "compilations" of himself and his friend recording under different names so as to trick people into thinking there was an "acid house" scene in the UK? Oh, and then the fake "deportation" bullshit?

Now, we all know the dude has had some rough times lately, like losing his sampling library in the mansion fire, and having to have his arm reconstructed, and whatnot, but it's pretty obvious he's a fuck-up and a never-was, and I'm sure that's gotta hurt the ego, too. However, all these things are recent, or relatively recent, and the event we're looking for is the Inception of Suck. If we can find what happened at the Inception of Suck, then we will know our answer.

Life circumstances most likely played a large part, as new drug habits, perhaps not so conducive to creativity as Mr. Megson may have thought, entered into his routine. His personal life was reportedly a mess around that time, both economically and romantically, so one might speculate that Megson had stopped creating to create something worth creating, replacing, instead, this behavior with replication of the same work, over and over again, having found himself too lazy to innovate.

However, life circumstances do not explain it all; and here I reveal my theory, which is probably fact, I mean, you can go ahead and say it's fact, 'cause, well, it might as well be fact, right? Anyway, my theory is this: Megson was, in fact, never talented to begin with, unless one considers "picking cool friends" to be a talent. When tightly controlled (everyone knows Sleazy wore the fucking pants in TG), Megson could contribute in some small part, but without that direction (as Christopherson parted to do COIL), Megson found himself unable to perform, psycho-artistic-sexually. Further, it is highly likely that whatever interesting ideas Megson may have had at one point, he managed to destroy his capacity for creating new ones, as he declined rapidly to an aging, self-absorbed blowhard, his best years behind him, grasping desparately at his own youth, and increasingly confused by gender roles. He lacks focus now. He lacks restraint. He lacks direction. He lacks discipline.

And thus, it can be said, that the reason PTV sucks so much ass now is because Neil Megson NEEDS MORE DISCIPLINE.

Yes, it was quite a ways to go for that, wasn't it? Think I'll have a smoke now, to celebrate. Then I'll write the actual diary.

An Actual Diary

Operation Avoidance Day One Sitrep: I am a golden god of avoidance. I duck in and out of the building, always with headphones on just in case I hear someone say my name. I can then continue on my path towards the closest exit or Men's room, pretending like I never heard that shit. Not that that's happened. Yet.

Halloween Party is Wednesday, though. That one is going to be rough. I already feel a low grade stomach flu coming on, I think. Or maybe I can spend the day in Newark. Options.

Last night, I had to recalculate some shit four times to make sure I was right, but I was right. 250 shares of vested stock just paid for my Motherfuckin' Smartcar, y'all. Thank you everybody who bought an iPod or a Mac or a Liger or whatever. I love you guys. No, seriously.

Though I should probably get a loan anyway, just for the long-term credit build-up. I never charge shit. Apparently this is needed for homeownership. Homeo Nership? Whathefuckever.

Looks like I'm going to El Lay for Turkeyday Weekend. Not sure what to do with the rest of the week before that, though. Maybe I'll take a nap. A five-day nap. My record is two, but I'm pretty sure I can trump this, if I find a doctor in time.

Speaking of which, my quackopractor gave me a referral to a general practitioner, since I need a new one, as my old one rims donkeys for fun. He used to be a dentist in Boston. I kid, I kid. Anyway, I call in today to make an appointment, and I'm told it's a walk-in only place. Alrighty, we can do that. Then I ask when this particular doctor is in, and I'm interrupted to be asked if I'm aware that they don't take insurance. You don't what? Oh, yeah, I thought that's what you said, it's just that it's so crazy, I couldn't believe you actually said it. Alright, later!

Why it got to be so hard?

I don't know, I really, really don't.

OK, fuckers, time to go down the street and eat Thai. They should learn to run faster if they don't like to be 'et. Serial.