What is in, what is out, a Vegas gift shop with many more Luigis than Marios (we know why), and Satanic hills. I rarely think about Satan, the enemy of mankind. It always seems quaint to me that some group of jellybaby try-hards wants to appropriate Catholic ideas about hell—harmless, except that they’re the sort of people who wear shiny polyester red shirts to the sex party, and hang around the edges of the room, twirling their mustaches out of a lack of anything better to do. “Wouldst thou like to live deliciously,” erm, no thanks, Gerald


. I’ve also always been vaguely amused by the conflict between the Satanists who worship Satan qua baddie of Christianity, and those other Satanists who create their own version of Satan to worship—individualism! freedom!—and pretend it has nothing to do with Christianity. The issue at stake is whether apostasy could ever become formalizable in positive terms—I suppose I’m skeptical. If you piss on the altar, you’re paying homage to the church, as Raoul Vaneigem more or less said. I found my own neo-Platonisms as a teenager keen to kick against the Catholic pricks of my childhood—tarot, the very dumb Crowley stuff laundered by British invasion comics in the 1990, etc.—so I’m not claiming to be above the general apostatic impulse. It just didn’t lead me to Satan—too ready-to-wear, too visually overdetermined with its horns, deep reds, and whisper of vampirism. If I’m going to pledge my self-respect to a demonic agent, I at least want it to look and act unexpectedly.