World War III Radio: Alien Sex Fiend – Who’s Been Sleeping In My Brain? (1983)

Good soundtrack for the world coming apart at the seams, it seems, so why not Alien Sex Fiend. They seem to have been around forever, right? Or maybe you don’t know. Maybe you haven’t been around long enough, but forty years is a very long time for a band. It’s a long time for anything, really. Forty years feels like a couple lifetimes.

And yet they never spent much time on my turntable. They feel right this morning but that could be for any number of reasons. You never know just what you could feel when you wake up. The Universe offers a plethora of vibes and you can’t be too sure which ones are going to resonate. What gave you a pass yesterday may get you going today. Hello, Alien Sex Fiend.

I’m groggy today and I’m not sure what that’s about either, but sleep didn’t come easily last night. I kept waking up anxious about rather trivial work issues. That’s not so much like me, so I’m guessing the real source or the anxiety is somewhere else and it’s manifesting as the work stuff. I don’t know.

I’m hung up on poetry too, or rather the idea of writing poetry. It’s not a foreign pursuit to me, but that’s the whole thing. The idea of writing poetry or being seen as someone who writes poetry always appealed to me a lot more than poetry itself, or the act of writing it, even if it wasn’t half bad. This isn’t a case of imposter syndrome. I didn’t feel like an imposter. I was faking it to get laid and for social status. Hard to believe that bullshit works, but it does. Anyway, I actually was an imposter. I was a liar, straight up dishonest. That’s probably why the poetry was so bad. You can’t fake that part of it. Few people are going to say to your face that it’s bad, but that doesn’t make it good. They’ll heap praise on you and suck your dick, mostly because (I believe) they don’t trust their own good judgment and they don’t want to miss out on a chance to rub against talent. It’s a weird scene. Hell, every scene is weird in that sense.

Anyway, now I’m rambling again. The point is, I hope to never ever again catch myself being an utter phony, unless it’s going to save my life or something. It’s taken a lot of work to make mirrors my friend, if you know what I’m saying. I can look in a mirror now instead of rushing past it in horror and shame.

Poetry. How do I really feel about poetry? I actually really like some of it. It’s the writing equivalent of putting together a touchdown play inside the ten yard line. It’s easier to set up a play on the open field. You get down close and short on room and everything gets fuckity. I do admire poets and good quarterbacks. There’s a very specific talent in both, if rarely connected. Not everyone can do either job. There are a select few that can get it done.

Anyway, I feel like shit. The anxiety is still with me. It’s best to keep it moving when this happens. Move a muscle and change a thought and all that. Just have to figure out which thought needs changing and I feel utterly shattered today. I’m going to have to sift through the shards to sort out the feels.


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