Fat Tuesday

First, music. I have “Detachable Penis” stuck in my head after hearing it on the radio today. I can’t find a good link, but here is a not terrible one for King Missile. To put it simply, they’re fucking weird. Everyone needs to hear “Detachable Penis” at least once, but my favorite King Missile song […]

First, music.

I have “Detachable Penis” stuck in my head after hearing it on the radio today. I can’t find a good link, but here is a not terrible one for King Missile. To put it simply, they’re fucking weird. Everyone needs to hear “Detachable Penis” at least once, but my favorite King Missile song is Gary and Melissa. I found to my dismay I actually don’t own a single CD by them, but am resolving this as we speak.

So for anyone who cares, I’m getting that Thomas Dolby LP I whined about the other night ripped to Mp3 by a friend. If you want the original version of Radio Silence, the one that didn’t suck, the one that was the best song on Golden Age of Wireless before Dolby screwed it up, let me know and we’ll work something out.

Which leads me to the rest of this blog entry. If only I had one.

Meanwhile go read this. This is fucking awesome – an entry in TranceJen’s blog about marks and scars and self-destruction. S’fucking brilliant: Letter Re: My Heart

That’s certainly better than anything I’ve got to say.

———-

So anyway, Today is Fat Tuesday. Someone asked me today what I’m giving up for Lent.

What, I thought, The Fuck?

I dunno. I’m sort of mystified by the idea. But the tradition seems sort of entertaining. Binge on life’s pleasures, cast them away for a fortnight (or whatever), and then be cleansed spiritually and physically; start again.

I should be there (In New Orleans or other points south and east of here), reveling, drinking, dancing, carousing and flinging beads and doubloons in trade for sexual favors and glimpses of luscious flesh. Dressed as a pirate or some dashing rogue, snatching kisses and vise-versa.

Alas. Here I sit, still working late of an evening, sipping water and lamenting on the lack of carousal allowed by modern life. Where is my rapine? Where, my pillage?

I’m coming to get you. All of you. Lock your doors, or not, I do not care.

Ah. One could wish.

Instead, I shall go watch vampires fight puppets. Hey, it beats working. (And that will be a whole ‘nother blog entry)


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