THE MYSTERY OF THE NOLUCK

     (Background music, "Laura's Theme" from Twin Peaks)

Diane, as I stand here in the Valley of the Stag, clutching my bag
 of donuts, wondering what mysterious things will enter my view in
 the next few moments, I want to tell you everything about my past,
 whether it's germane or not.

My past whirls around my head (or is that flies?). I'm not sure
 where to begin. My mother used to read a lot of Theosophical works
 before I was born. I remember it well, the hard edge of the books
 pushing on my nose as she rested them on her stomach. She read
 aloud, screaming the words into her navel. How could I help but be
 born knowing it all? It was then the Gods chose me.

(There's only one jelly donut in here, Diane. That will make it
 more difficult to recall all the juicy details.)

In 1972 or 1734, I don't remember which year, I actually touched a
 book on the Craft. It was What Witches Do by Fewart Starar. I
 leafed through it, and put it aside. I didn't need anyone who had
 studied to tell me what witches do. I'd known in the womb. I didn't
 accept their explanation about the need for nudity. After all, if
 the Gods had meant us to run around without clothes, we'd have been
 born that way.

January, 1974 (or 1794?). It was in Costa Mesa that the Gods struck
 again. I found myself in a Volkswagen bug with -- yes, Diane, it
 was MORTON! He was blond and dressed in a red velveteen rabbit
 suit. We were on a quest, seeking a communication device, or a 7-11
 with a clerk that spoke English, whichever came first.

We managed to find the communication device, and opened Channel D.
 Having accomplished our quest, we returned to the orgy. Nothing
 much happened with Morton that night. There were five ex-GI's at
 the party, swarming around me like flies on a garbage truck. I
 accepted this as my due.

There was more, but this pineapple jelly donut has given me
 indigestion. (Note that for the future, Diane.)

My next clear memory was Morton at my doorstep, clutching a large
 heart, trimmed with paper lace. It was still warm, and I could
 almost feel it beat. Faced with such a token of love, what could I
 do? We rushed to the nearest love feast.

The feast was held at the residence of Grandma Fed, and it was that
 night that I met everyone who was anyone in the current Craft
 community. Little did they know that the new person in their midst
 was the greatest of them all, destined to become -- but I get ahead
 of myself. Thinking back, they must have recognized my true worth,
 because their unspoken acceptance surrounded me, like smog.

Speaking of smog, after Grandma Fed had shared her recipe for "poof
 powder," we decided to see what we could do about the Thing.
 Something had fastened itself onto Morton, and gave him terrible
 headaches that only responded to large doses of Glenfiddich.

Grandma Fed took charge. He gave me a magical weapon and made
 Morton and I lie down side by side, and sent us into another plane.
 (Eastern Airlines was still in business then.) I saw it...the
 Thing. Shaped somewhat like a crescent moon, with closing devices
 at its points, it held Morton's head in an astral grip. Unafraid,
 I raised my weapon, and gripped the closing devices. Slowly I
 removed, twist by twist, the infernal apparatus. Tremendously
 pleased with myself, I opened my eyes and found to my astonishment
 that the rest of the group had dozed off. I still clutched the
 magical wrench, and beside Morton's head lay the C-clamp he'd been
 wearing as a hat. Right then and there, Grandma Fed resolved not to
 tell his students about power tools.

Much as I hate to digress, I must, because I forgot to dictate this
 part earlier. Grandma Fed was of the Agriculturan tradition, but
 had no Agriculturan High Priestess, so he couldn't truly have a
 coven. No problem, he simply formed an Uncoven which had all the
 teaching and initiations (and none of the calories) of an
 Agriculturan coven. It had all the same offices as a really coven,
 but it wasn't.

We continued to study with Grandma Fed, in the Agriculturan
 tradition, but for reasons that I am not free to divulge, he did
 not initiate us. This might perturb you, Diane, but, believe me,
 there was a reason for it. We were initiated into the Vespucian
 Tradition. It was only later that we realized no initiations were
 necessary for the two of us because -- but that comes later.

                    WHICH WARS?

Members of Grandma Fed's Uncoven discovered that we had been
 initiated by a really coven, and as such were better than they
 were. Two of them left in a Huff (slightly smaller than a Fiat),
 and there we were. Others left. Grandma Fed got married. We decided
 that was a good idea.

So we did a TV show, and then got married on a Thursday night. Then
 we went to San Francisco to attend a ritual hosted by Gideon
 Penfold, which has absolutely nothing to do with this story, but
 gives me a chance to name-drop.

In November, everybody moved to a different place. We went to
 Pasadena, and entered a stream of the LA Craft by joining a
 ceremonial magic lodge headed by Prick Grunion (a grunion is a
 small fish that inevitably beaches itself). We started going to
 every ritual we could find.

You wouldn't believe it, Diane. It would seem at this point that
 everybody we knew was sleeping with someone else's spouse. Those
 who didn't ticked off the people who wanted to sleep with them.
 Most of the groups fell apart.

Being good fun-loving pagans, we took it in stride. A lot of other
 political stuff went on, which some might describe, but has nothing
 to do with this story.

A really Agriculturan coven was formed, and although we tried to
 join them, the HPS thought Morton should learn common courtesy. As
 manners are not necessary for one who would eventually be chosen by
 the Gods, we ignored her ideas and moved on.

                    THE SAGA OF 711

In the fall of 1975, Boe J. Sonofwill and his wife Ocean were
 starting their own group. After six months, they finally let us
 come to a ritual. Many spirits were contemplated that night and
 then we drank them. Thus was given to us the magic number of these
 spirits, and it was -- yes, Diane, I'll tell you -- 7-11.

This tradition had two keys you had to find out in order to
 practice this tradition. One was figuring out what 7-11 stood for,
 and the other was "Approaching the Altar." This might sound simple,
 but after you've contemplated several fifths of spirits, it is
 harder than it sounds.

Boe had been in written communication with the "leader" of this
 tradition, King Flower, who had given him all this information. Boe
 also went to England and met with Saxon, who claimed to be a member
 of King's group and gave Boe further information as well as a
 sacred copy of the Rolling Stone. Boe came back with a lot of
 information we like to say he stole because it makes us look
 better.

Boe and Ocean broke up, and I'd give you the details, but that
 would be in bad taste. Others writing such a history might include
 it, but I won't.

Ocean went to England and met Saxon. She brought back a lot of
 gossip, which we loved, because in the future, when we went to
 England, we could say Saxon was a lousy contact and ours was
 better.

While Ocean was over there, she slept with a guy to get her third
 degree (Okay, she did the Great Rite, but I'm saying it shorter)
 (hey, Diane, does this make her better?) and came back with a
 conviction that 711 was a bunch of garbage.

A bunch of garbage? Perfect! We insisted on having our 711
 initiations. She screwed up the herbal potion and we threw up for
 three days. (Thus began our sacred mystery of the plastic bucket.)
 Still, we had the initiation and all the material we wanted, and
 another initiation to brag about.

                    THE QUINTELLA
                         or
               How to Kick All the Cats

Just to make sure we didn't miss out on anything, we worked with
 the Quintella with some of the other weird people in the community.
 Here I could include more gossip and stuff debunking other people's
 claim to a tradition, but I don't have time. I'm almost out of
 donuts.

The Quintella broke up after everyone involved got tired of each
 other's bullshit.

Another guy showed up that we don't like, so here's where we take
 off on him. His name was Sherlock.

He studied with the Agriculturans, and was doing great until he
 left his wife for Grandma Fed's sister. The Agriculturans thought
 this was tacky and threw him out.

Somebody else decided this was the perfect chance to snipe at the
 Agriculturans, so she and Boe gave Sherlock his initiation.

Boe decided he wanted to do 711 again, but he had burned all his
 papers. We gave him copies of the stuff he had given us, but kept
 back the stuff Ocean had brought back, and snickered whenever Boe
 wasn't around. This made us feel great.

We decided it was time to reveal ourselves as the Chosen Ones, and
 start our own group ... the Noluck. We had a ritual and did it.

                    THE NOLUCK

There were a lot of people at that first ritual. We did a rite and
 ate lots of food. We sent someone out for more food, and he came
 back from the 7-11 saying "No luck. They're closed." This was the
 omen from which we took our name.

Gosh, Diane. So much has happened since then. I could do paragraph
 upon paragraph saying nasty things about Boe, and Sherlock, and
 bunches of others. But this is a short tape.

The Goblin came to the Noluck. He started studying with Prick, and
 then with Boe, but he deliberately poured wine on Boe's white rug
 during a ritual, and Bow threw him out. Obviously the perfect
 person for Noluck, so we initiated him immediately.

We spent the next three years doing our own thing, developing the
 system we use now. We only initiated a few people who trained with
 us, with one notable exception.

We went to a party in Bakersfield and found a group that claimed to
 be the only American group of the tradition of 711. It turned out
 to be led by Sherlock. We knew one of the women in his group, and
 realized we had a chance to get back at Sherlock. So we took this
 woman in the bedroom, said "Zap! you're an initiate." Then we took
 her out to the members of that group, told them she was their High
 Priestess, and their High Priest was full of it. (Ye Gods! It's
 great to be the Chosen Ones! Other people actually do meaningful
 rituals, with preparation and everything! But we're above that!)

Boe had gone to England and Ocean had gone to England, so we
 decided to go. We did a ritual focussing on the sacred copy of the
 Rolling Stone (Boe had given it to us) asking for contacts in
 England.

In the days after the ritual, we could tell our spell had worked.
 We got all kinds of contacts ... especially through the Personals
 column.

When we were over there, we met all kinds of people we can gossip
 about, and we will, given the slightest opportunity.

Naturally, the Gods led us to a contact better than Boe's. We met
 Mr. Smith, who let us visit him. On our visit, he found a sprig of
 mistletoe on an oak tree (oh, wow! What a surprise!) and decided we
 were good guys. He taught us all the secrets, and now we know
 everyone else is wrong. We ignore the fact that Mr. Smith may well
 be the one King threw out of his group. If we acknowledged it, we
 couldn't be so superior about our descent.

               THE CLAN OF THE CARE BEAR

We used all this good stuff, and Mr. Smith decided that we should
 be made members of the Clan of the Care Bear, the true name of
 King's group. So we were. We went back to England, and Mr. Smith
 laid hands on Morton and made him Magister, chosen by the Gods. (We
 also ignore the fact that Mr. Smith himself has said in his book
 that he no longer holds to the Magister being chosen by the Gods.
 We're very good at ignoring things like this.)

Now we are truly the Chosen Ones, the only ones in American Craft.
 We don't have to work or be good, or do any of the silly stuff that
 other traditions do. The Gods have given us our priesthood
 (especially Morton), and we don't have to worry about spiritual
 growth or any of the nonsense of having to earn it by effort and
 personal virtue. (And it's a good thing.) We just sit around being
 Chosen and figuring out ways to cause trouble with other groups.

We wrote our training manual. Our people have to do ten guided
 meditations, two aspects, and read "The White Goddess." Then we
 initiate them and see if they can make the Clan.

We decided to form a church. So we did. We incorporated the Auld
 Kernunnos Church. We chose this name so our initials would be
 A.K.C., and give us a chance to be bitches and howl at the moon.

Where's the mystery? We are a mystery to other groups. They have
 many questions, unchosen peons that they are: When do we hear about
 love of the Gods? Where is the part about serving the Gods? Is
 causing trouble in the Craft community part of their Work? Don't
 these people have anything to do?

Well, Diane, there we are. Now everybody else can sit down and cry
 because we are the elite of the Gods and they aren't.

Please type this up immediately.