Satire? Not really. Cartoon journalism? Sort of, In any case, welcome to the freak-rock scene, where Jenni Love is the latest ""female funk/punk"" queen, along with her band, The Great Mother Goddess Cult, and their piquant repertoire: ""Hypodermic Skin Erection,"" ""Celebrated Lady,"" ""I Got Fucked by a Man From Mars Last Night,"" etc. Raised rich and strange on Long Island (father gay, mother alcoholic, grandmother a bitch-on-wheels, sister a semi-vegetable), Jenni is perfect freak-out material. And her grundgo appeal to the pop market can only rise, were it not for the snipings of Mott Folm, a hostile, sickie rock reviewer. When Folm soon disappears, therefore, Jenni is indicted for his murder. But she didn't do it. True, she may have played footsie with Folm, to call him off her case, but as for his disappearance--there seems to be a strong possibility that UFOs might have spirited him off! Drexler's reportage of the far-out scene is fine, as in this description of a rock club: ""a few people bounced around a small cleared space, looking like fallen bats; punk ladies adjusted their night-out nighties and white stiletto pumps. . . a freaky photographer kept taking pictures of a girl who told him not to do it, and slapped him in the face after each click of the shutter."" But the rest of the book is just self-consciously outrageous in Drexler's usual pop/feminist vein. Blasâ€š and weird--without a bullet.