Love

Dear Prince, You will be sorely missed…

The majority of what follows was copied from my Facebook page. I added a few thoughts. Only a few.

Today has been a rough day. I was going to write an entry in my blog (which I haven’t done in at least a year). I just do not have the motivation…the will.

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The closest I could get my hair to look like this was a Gheri Curl.

I had to give a presentation in my PSYC class earlier tonight (there is a lot to catch up on, dear readers, in the life of the X; details coming in the next few weeks). I can’t believe I made it through it the damn thing. However, I somehow managed.

It seems silly to let the death of someone you do not know personally get to oneself like this, but it is getting to me. It seems silly that the first thing I sit and write that is non-academic is this…

Seriously.

I decided to play an instrument because I was influenced by Prince. I wanted to play the guitar. My school district said that was not a band instrument (I later learned there was a stringed instrument program – I coulda been a violin contender!).

I decided on the saxophone. I have no regrets. That inspiration led me to learn to play the flute, the clarinet, percussion, and the Jew’s harp. He is the same reason I studied dance. For years I styled my hair, clothes, and much more after him.

I lost my virginity to Prince’s music.

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But we still have your music.

Back in the darksideradio.com days, I would play Prince’s music on my show. In the midst of a retro-Goth dance fest that occasionally featured a block of songs featuring the word “fuck” and a block of songs that illustrated how deranged the Eighties were with all the pro-stalking songs (I am looking at you Blondie and The Police…), there was always a a block of Prince songs. The listeners never questioned his music being there. One sent angry direct message Tweets if she had not heard a Prince song before the second hour started).

I am not sure what Gen X did to 2016 that has made it decide to take all of our heroes from us. Maybe next week I can smile and imagine an afterlife where Prince and Bowie are performing one awesome everlasting show.But not now. Now, I am just beside myself. Maybe I will copy and paste this as that blog entry.

My heart hurts.

What I Learned About Expecting and Resenting

If you have read my last few posts, they have been a little “off” from what I normally prattle on about. Instead of misanthropic hackery, violence, drinking, or random sex bits (talk, not the actual bits), the darkness of my words have been coming from a different font of creativity. One that is totally familiar and alien at the same time. While I have been finding it difficult to get into the swing of things, I do follow other blogs; many of them are similar to what used to come from my twisted brain. Sometimes, amidst the words of others, I find the strangest wisdom, from the most unexpected places.

Good for killing things needing killing, not so good for handling resentment?

Good for killing things needing killing, not so good for handling resentment?

A couple of days ago, I came to an understanding. At first, I have to admit, that I was a bit dismayed by my new appreciation for things. Then I was afraid for a day. Really afraid. There are things that a Sig Sauer cannot touch; there are things that jujitsu cannot bend, break, twist. It is one of these things that has brought me to where I am. It is one of these things that has walked into my office wearing a propeller beanie, striped shirt, and sandals and happily asked where I store my bacon. Sometimes, reality sets in and it is a real kick in the juevos. Did I spell that correctly? I have no idea, the Spanish I know is not Spanish at all.

I was reading a fellow writer’s blog last night. This particular entry had a sentence that has stuck with me. It was with me when I went to bed last night. It is still ringing in my head. It helped me move from the sense of impending doom that I have been feeling for the last week, and into a sense of sadness. Now, I am used to depression. Anyone with OCD can tell you how neglecting avoiding obsessions and compulsions can put you into a serious rage, or a equally serious fit of depression. But this is new. You see, instead of feeling like the world is coming to an end, this is more like coming out of the bomb shelter to view the post-apocalyptic world for the first time. Not unlike the C.H.U.D.s, I am blinking in the hazy sun, and looking for flesh to eat. Only I am not eating flesh, or going to eat flesh; I am wondering what is next for the world. You know, what to expect.

I had not realized this until I read that blog entry last night and saw this sentence: “Expectations are just resentments under construction.” Wow. What? Damn. After I read that, the sadness set in. Now, do not take me the wrong way. The snarky chica that put that phrase on the interwebs for all to see is not causing me sadness. The post that the quote I stole came from was actually pretty humorous. It was the realization of my own state of being/thinking/existing that has driven me to the brink of crying like a bitch-baby with a diaper rash made of glass.

We're all stars now, in the C.H.U.D. show....

We’re all stars now, in the C.H.U.D. show….

I have been existing with my own expectations of things to come. Are my expectations truly the beginning of resentment? I find myself having to chuck aside the fears that I had about my future; fears that turned to foreboding that turned to anxiety that turned to expectations. Now it would seem that they may be turning into resentment. Or at least destined to turn into resentment. While I do see a bit of cynicism in the statement, well, a lot of cynicism actually (sorry, snark! I mean no offense). Why? Because it appears that the statement is saying that if one holds expectations, then one should expect that these expectations will not be met. Since they will not be met, then resentment will set in to replace the failed expectations.

As a reformed optimist (I kicked the habit last week), I always thought that it was always a good practice to expect the best, highest outcome. That optimism turned into cynicism. Why did that happen? How did my waiting for the best turn to waiting for the worst? I have an idea, but I choose to ignore that idea. After reading that blog, and letting that post run through my head like a mantra or some wacky self-affirmation, I came to see that what had happened is that I began to expect the worst. And then it hit me again.

First, I was expecting something good. Second, I began to expect something terrible. That second expectation in itself was sufficient to cause me some resentment. Really, what else would come of a dream suddenly becoming a nightmare? Resentment. I resented that whole turning to begin with. Then I noticed that it was possible that the resentment was still building; it may only be the part of the iceberg that is seen from the Crow’s Nest. But what is the resentment directed towards? After thinking about it, I have no one to resent but myself.

You mean that nigga is talking about my dick AND stealing my image?!

You mean that nigga is talking about my dick AND stealing my image?!

And at that, I am the consummate professional. I can elevate self-hate to a level that rivals the ingenuity that was required to build the pyramids. Most people that know me, know that I am a hater. A damn good hater. If you manage to get on my bad side (which is really easy to do, do not test me), there usually is no good side to get back on. I carry a grudge like Shorty Mac carries around his massive cock: in my pants and ready to thwap a mushroom stamp on a bitch’s head at a moment’s notice. But resentment? That is something I have never really considered when it comes to myself. Even less so when it comes to things that I hold close to the fiber of my being. Now, I am dripping with the stuff. It is hanging around my neck like and albatross (what in seven fucks does that mean, anyway?) or like St. Anger (I wish it were just anger, I could roll or role with that).

 

Always Stay in Character. Metagamers Need Not Apply

Unless WordPress is up to shenanigans, there are a lot more people who follow this blog that I suspected. At first, I assumed that there were only two or three of you checking out what is going on around here. It appears that there are billions of you. Okay, not billions, maybe a thousand. Now, while I may have this “following,” I have to say that only a few of you read this damn thing. Like, what? Maybe six of you. Who knows? In any case, I feel the need to celebrate! I will do this by offering you dear souls a full disclosure: I have been lying to all of you.

I bitch and bitch about never writing, or never being able to write, or yadda-fucking-yadda. The whole story is I write a bit more than I let on; I save a lot of drafts. I just never go back to them, or save them as “journal entries” because I think having a diary entry looks a little strange. Other people see a nifty title, I mean a title that makes you want to grab your schmeckel and prepare to let loose the hounds of spooge while you read this salacious bit, and then click on said title and having nothing to read because it is private. And then you lose your reader’s boner and return to Facebook. Or porn. It is like walking around a bunch of kindergarteners and saying: “I have got a secret!” and taunting the double Hell out of the poor little wretches.

But I digress. I was not even meaning to talk about that random crap up there. Since I bothered to do write all of that, I am sure it is relevant somehow. More than likely it is obvious only to myself. I really do not care if that is the case. I am a narcissist, you know. Now where was I..? Oh yes, my title. If you got what that meant, give yourself a pat on the back, fifty experience points, and fifty geek cred status points (or whatever geeks give out like victorious jocks doling high fives in a sweaty locker room). Be on the lookout for more point opportunities, give yourself what you think you deserve, I am a lenient, if not all power storyteller/dungeon master. If you did not get it, feel free to Google it while the rest of us wait. Do not pretend like some of you did not do just that already (we all know that some of you refuse to admit not-knowing anything about everything and Google shit before posting to message boards so just stop with it already). Is everyone back with the group? Good let us continue.

"I'm too sexy for this square."

“I’m too sexy for this square.”

Another confession: there was a time when I was an avid LARPer. I really, really want to spell that out but that just seems plain wrong on several levels. Levels that I cannot get into right now. A damn I used to run around in makeshift costumes and pretend to be a vampire. Typically, I chose to be Brujah or Ventrue…whatever. No, not whatever. I chose those two clans because I could always be pretty. There. I said. I am totally geeking out, so I need to refocus. Anyway, I was a LARPer. A damn good one, as well, apparently. Why? Because I participated in a LARP at GenCon one year and won “Best Role Player.” That is fucking why. I was a LARPing badass.

You know, there is a lot more to LARPing than people let on (those of you courageous to admit that the title up there totally befuddled you and chose to read on rather than be a Googling know-it-all will get to understand said title now…somewhat). It takes a lot of work running around pretending that you are some undead thing that you are really not. The key is to always stay in character.

A segue: I am phobic of caterpillars. I do not know the name of the phobia, but I am deathly afraid of caterpillars. It has to do with tent worms. To this day, I will burn a whole section of apple trees to rid the orchard of one tent worm. Caterpillars scare the shit out of me. If you taunt my fear and provoke me with caterpillar(s), I will probably do very, very bad things to you. Horrible things. Painful butt things. Never fuck with a man’s fears, home-slice.

Now, when you create your character, there are built in flaws and advantages. Letting others know these things can be positive or negative. Usually negative if it is a flaw. Every damn vampire I created was afraid of caterpillars. Every LARP session, I did something to flee a caterpillar. No one ever picked up that I had this issue except for one person during that GenCon. And she was one of the non-player, storyteller characters. She watched what I was doing, and at one point called me on it secretly. We played a wonderful scene. She made motions to go “out of game” (geek points!) to discuss the issue, and I refused. We had to play out the scene. Assuming she wanted to know what the score was, the scene worked in my favor.

No. I am not a vampire. I just like cemeteries. Really.

No. I am not a vampire. I just like cemeteries. Really.

After the LARP, she asked me about the caterpillars (see, in the scene I was spoked by a caterpillar on a flower). I told her I always had that fear in my characters. She pointed out that it was not on my sheet. I responded, no, but I would have treated it like any other phobia if called on it. If someone caught me acting and gambled, then it was all good. That is kind of how life works, no? She asked if anyone ever caught it, and I said no because most LARPers are so caught up in the “story” to add nuance and curiosity. I told her that I did not want to go out-of-game because one should always stay in character. She liked my bit.

Staying in character keeps the metagamers at bay. Every game has people who know so much about the game that once they find out a small detail out about you, they exploit that to there advantage. It is like playing “Street Fighter” with some asshole who traps you in the corner and abuses you with Chun Li’s lightning leg, or some ten-year-old who only knows how to jump kick, and has to actually jump when the fighter on the screen does. You people who remember arcades know what I am talking about. Metagamers love “out-of-game.” Somehow secret details from the break area enter the game; you can call foul, but you cannot unring a bell. So, always stay in character and you can avoid the metagamers. Damn. That was anticlimactic, even by my hack standards.

Another thing, and perhaps the most important thing that metagamers miss, is the very thing that they not only seek out, but proves to be their very undoing. They look for the endgame, know what it is, plan for it, and wait. They are always successful…at least in that perspective. However, since they know that, they tend to avoid the rest of the game; they miss subtle changes that show that endgame is not coming. No, for them, that has played out already and they are now simply waiting for the deathblow which has ended the game for that LARPer.

It is strange to admit that I find myself currently a metagamer instead of the consummate Ventrue who totally dominated the “Masquerade” at GenCon years ago (2d20 experience points if you get that first reference, major geek points if you get all of this). I have been waiting for an endgame scenario. I waited too long and missed it.

“…to survive the tide…”

Oy. It has been one of those days/years/decades. I have no idea where to begin or where to go with this; I seem to be having that problem rather often when it comes to writing in this blog. No, extend that. It goes way beyond this blog.

You never know how much you will miss a place until you are actually faced with leaving it. You know? That trip to Disney or Cedar Point lasts forever while you are in the lines or taking pictures with a gigantic anthropomorphic mouse. Then you head for the gates to return to your car, or bus, or motorcycle, or long-distance walking shoes and are faced with the prospect of leaving. The difference is most of us return home, or to something like a home. Which leads me to the following question: would you miss a place more if you were not so sure that you had a place to return?

Yeah, yeah, yeah…

I fucking hate January.

I tend to appreciate duality. However, Janus and your namesake month have never been anything but a source of ill for me. I have been listening to the same song on my iPhone when I am in transit places since September. Maybe even before that. Maybe it was the mantra the song had become. Maybe the universe was trying to tell me something. Maybe I should have listened.

It is taking every ounce of strength I can muster today to stay here at the Foundation and manage daily affairs. I came in to an empty desk. I have piled that desk with work to accomplish. This work will never be accomplished. This desk will never be clear. I sit and look at it, and realize that it will never be clear. I have come to realize that eventually, I will have to sit at the desk…

Even with the chatter of the Board of Directors earlier, the Boardroom was empty. Many of us know a person that walks into a room and has that sort of personality that fills the room. Sometimes the person is smothering; sometimes we would prefer that the person vacate so that the rest of the people in the room can move/breathe/walk/talk freely. Other times…other times the person contributes such an air that others suffocate as soon as that particular air leaves. The Boardroom was very empty. I twirled my pen and sat and stared at the emptiness. Thankfully, the Board Secretary takes excellent notes; I have no idea what happened during the meeting. I was absent in the empty. I am pretty sure that the Veep took over presiding the meeting at some point. I remember him calling votes and asking for seconds…on votes as well as danishes.

Now, back in my office. I just want to burn the place. Not my office…not just the office…the whole place. Like cleaning out the old dead growth in the orchards. Last night, I went out to set some of the old growth to flame. I figured I would get a start early so that planting in the Spring of the new trees could start sooner that usual. Whatever. Any excuse to burn things, right?

Orchard Hand: “Mr. Sir. X, this is not the best time to try burning the orchard. Really, it is never a good time, but now is really not. Too much snow.”

Me: “When did I start paying you to question my burning needs? Look, this fire is going well.”

OH: “Yes, sir. That it is. Starting to go pretty good. However, soon this shed will be engulfed. The snow will put out the fire. However, we’ll be burnt up before that happens…the smoke will get us before that.”

Me: “Oh. Yes. That. You may go for the day. Take your son to shoot some dangerous or delicious animal.”

OH: “After we leave together. By force if necessary.”

Me: “Fine. I am going to fire you as soon as we get up to the estate.”

OH: “Sure you are. Just like always. Now come on, I’m starting to smell like burnt apple-cherry crisp.”

“…you’ll never walk alone…”

No, this is not about Dionne Warwick or whomever may have sang the song with the title that consists of the same words of the italics above. This is my way of saying some things that maybe need to be said. Maybe they are better unsaid. Maybe they are better off forgotten and ignored. Who knows? I certainly do not. What I do know is that I have to get out of this office before I have legal issues surrounding arson, insurance fraud, and a lot of disappointed community members without a place to freeload off of the largesse of the Thunderdome. They come in daily. They tour the grounds. They enjoy the free food court. They swim in the pool, enjoy the arboretum and dodge the koalas and cybergators. Yet when they leave, they pause and look at the statue commemorating a loving and valiant Lord or Lady Phant (really, I cannot even think about that now). That statue was supposed to be a shrine, now it only serves to remind visitors of that tragedy. And that is what the Foundation has become, that is what has become the Rothechilde legacy.

Looking at the clock I find myself wondering if it is ethical for me to leave early for the day? I mean, there is an answering machine. Also, this place has gone on for months at a stretch…even with the ineptitude of Smeagol trying to run this place. So, yes. I think I can go now. No one is even going to notice that I have gone.

The Chauffeur

“…and the droning engine throbs in time with your beating heart…”

Duran Duran, “The Chauffeur”

Except for the brief mention on the The Foundation Page, I do not believe I have spoken much about the other members of the prestigious Rothechilde Foundation. They are a wonderful group of people, without whom, the Foundation would not be the monster of charity that it has become. In addition, they are my “family,” in far more ways than one. They have all been selected by me to hold close and dear. That does sound a bit narcissistic, even by my standards; yet, we all have family that we have selected. Most of us choose not to say such things for fear of retribution from “true family.” I, however, am not bound by such limitations.

Strangely, the person involved with the Foundation that I probably depend on the most is my personal secretary. My secretary whom has informed me that her title is Executive Assistant. When I pointed out the irony of her taking such a corporate identity in the workplace, she replied that it was more to distinguish her from the Board Secretary, and to get her position printed as a proper noun. Besides, she said: “You would think you would be more concerned with the pay increase that comes with the title. Oh yeah, you wouldn’t. You have no idea how payroll works.” That is my girl. Snarkier than Dennis Miller mocking Bill Maher. But…

…without her, I would admittedly be a complete and utter confused mess. For example, she is the one who suggested that I try matching my Derringers to my ties or cufflinks, instead of my shirts (for some reason, I have been adding color to my wardrobe. I am terrified and elated.). That way, I could pick a metallic color from a paisley or something to highlight the color or the “pearl” handles. I remember a while back, I was obsessing and stressing over some legal issues regarding elephants and alleged amok-running. I had not come to Samurai City for weeks; choosing to stay at the Orchard and Estates and never leave my bedroom. I think I lost count of how much absinthe I drank that couple of weeks and I had a crazy beard. CRAZY BEARD!!! I had no idea that I was getting that much gray hair. I seriously considered getting some of that stuff the jocks advertise for “weird beards” and “trashed staches.” I have since abandoned that cray-cray and opted for a clean shaven look.

Whoa! That is getting way off track. As I was writing, No wash, crazy beard, drunk as can be thanks to Alandia. There, no we are caught up. Anyway, my secr..er…Executive Assistant (I personally think she likes this to fuck with my OCD and make me type more) shows up:

E.S: “Hey! Get up. Get clean. Get dressed. We need to head down to Samurai City. You have an important meeting tomorrow. Press conferences, insurance claims, all that shit is not going away because you want to stay home and hide.”

Me: “No, thank you. I think I will enjoy a few more days solace. The Vice President can handle these things. Is it really six in the morning?”

E.S: “Yes, it is. And no, I got here last night. I do have keys. You probably were passed out or just couldn’t hear me over that movie of you and Charlotte that you were watching. You’ve got issues, serious issues, dude. Speaking of which, she could always come and get you, she says. She’d be sooo pleased to have to show up and deal with you acting like a baby”

Me: “No, that will not be needed. Fine! I will go. But I am going like this…”

E.S: “Naked..?”

Me: “Grrr! No, I will go in my silk jammies and this robe. I even think I still have a pair of slippers to wear.”

E.S: “Oooh cute! You’ll look like the bastard child of Howard Hughes and ‘going-to-the-courthouse-Michael Jackson’!”

Me: “Ugh You. Suck. I will be ready in a few minutes.”

E.S: “And that is why you love me.”

No, that is not why. At least not the only reason why. I do not think that I can put all of those reasons down without turning this blog into some kind of sissy sap-fest, and I have to keep a certain level of testosterone about, you know? But I will say this, this something that may be better left unsaid. I am not sure why I love my Executive Assistant, there are far to many ideas that come to mind, and my OCD picks out the same one, and the ADHD chases it away; distracted by the Vulcan-looking woman discussing sociopaths in the background. One thing I am certain of is that I possibly love her too much. The kind of too much that is disturbing because it may both please and frighten tremendously at the same time. Scary, huh?

It could be scary if I were simply your run-of-the-mill-type person. I am pretty different. I have a hard time relating to most people on any level but the most superficial. The level of relation that is left to public speaking, or mingling, or demanding the highest quality apples and cherries from one’s orchards while keeping your overhead low. With my Executive Assistant, the relationship is most different; I can talk to her, and she always knows how to motivate me when I would rather spend the day with my head in her lap ranting about not knowing whether to cry or head out to the range and shoot every round that I have stored on the property. She deals with my alleged quirks, and stands beside me when I clearly may not be acting as my best self (a rare treat!). And she will not leave! Either she is the most loyal person in the world, or she is a stubborn criminal who has something important to extort me with; I have fired her many times and she always replies with “Yeah, yeah…” or “whatever,” or “No, I’m not. I’m sure you meant to tell me that I am getting a raise and more vacation time.” It is a good thing that she never takes me seriously with those shenanigans, or I would never be able to leave my closets due to not being able to decide what to wear (which is a total nightmare now that my clothes are more than black and white). Hell, I would be really screwed seeing that I do not know how to buy clothes and rely on her to keep me looking spectacular.

And those are just the things that she does for me, personally. Apparently, she is the one who communicates with payroll, purchasing, and all of those departments that make up the Foundation. She says all we board people do is squawk in the Boardroom, demand checks, and make public appearances to take credit for the Earth rotating while she does all of the work. I always counter that she is not paid enough, and we should vote on giving her a raise. Her reply: “You have no idea how payroll works…”

Which is true, I do not. Thank the goddess I have someone who does.

Saint Valentine’s Day Massacred?

Earlier today at the Rothechilde Foundation Thunderdome:

Me: “Greetings and Salutations, dear friends! What in the Hell is going on here? Have you all gone soft and sentimental?”

Charlotte (mouthful of chocolate): “Soft? No. But if my ass keeps eating all of the chocolate, the result may be my getting doughy in the middle:”

Manthony: “Naw, X-man, we ain’t gone soft. The Guvnor sent us some Valentine’s shit to send us into diabetic comas. Now, all this flower bullshit, I can always give ’em to some bitch at my club and get a pre-‘Steak and BJ day’ BJ. The cards, you can have them for target practice, mah nigga.”

Me: “Apparently, the sugar has made your brains deluded with carb-fed fats. You two are sorely mistaking me. I mean, since when do we sponsor any sort of corporate mass consumption that we ourselves are not responsible for creating ourselves?”

Madame Treasurer: “Well, we did’t include this sort of thing in the budget, and you didn’t write it in behind my back, so it is not our doing. What this is, is a gift from The Governor to us; probably some sort of thank you or reminder that he would like us to support his party when he’s out. The glad-handing season has begun.”

Me: “That makes me feel better. However, I must say that I cannot help but notice that my gifts seem to be missing; there is nothing here in front of my seat at our glorious table.”

M: “That, Sir, is because he didn’t send you anything.”

“Bye, bye, love…hello loneliness…”

Perhaps that is why I hate Valentine’s Day. No, not because I was denied gifty goodness — I am rather used to that. While it may seem hard to believe, I tended to get snubbed rather often when I was in school during the Valentine’s Day classroom card bonanza. Back when I was in elementary, it was okay to leave other children out of your gift giving to the class. Hence, this may be why a day of love began to represent a day of “Love-for-everyone-but-you” Day. A day that has made your dear author the eternal flesh exemplar of a Rastafarian Charlie Brown. While I bought the other brats stuffed animals made of real fur, and my teachers dozens of roses, I myself was lucky to go home with a card that I stole from some kid running about on a sugar high, erased his name, and then added my own. I was particularly fond of those with Batman kicking someone’s ass while suggestively leering at Catwoman and Robin as they all pose within a giant heart.

When I reached secondary education, my success rate as a Valentine receiver improved greatly. Teens understand the value of a dollar; when you give a young lady a stuffed Max Headroom doll covered with mink fur, your popularity skyrockets. Instead of having a beau take you to Showbiz (now Chuck E. Cheese) for video games and beer, you could roll with me and have a five course dinner served by quality home servants, or take a weekend flight to New York for a dinner in a posh five-star restaurant. So, Valentine’s Day did improve for me. As an adult, I enjoyed similar success. However, I began to resent being expected to buy gifts on Valentine’s Day more each year. Finally, I decided that I would not participate in the day. No red. No candy. No expressions of love to be set aside and sent on this wonderful fourteenth day of February.

The reason I am not fond of the day is because I think a holiday that encourages you to shower those you love on one particular day with gifts as a reminder of such love is unnecessary  Redundant even. I mean, for what other reason do we celebrate Christmas and birthdays? It is a day that Hallmark and the candy companies have decided that you should go out and prove your love with candy, cards, flowers, and jewelry – diamonds if you want some oral loving from the receiver of the gift. The day has little, if anything, to do with the man for whom the holiday is named.

 

True Love?

Saint Valentine  was a hitman for Al Capone. On February fourteen, ninety hundred and twenty-nine. Valentino killed seven dudes in a garage in Chicago at the order of Capone. His act was so incredible that he was beatified by the Pope. In his later years, he retired from his assassin’s lifestyle and performed marriages throughout the United States. Hence, the association with love. Okay, if you clicked the link, or if you happen to not be as gullible as a foreign exchange student being told that a “swirly” is how all piccolo players wash their hair at band camp. The actual story of Valentino still contains much gory, graphic violence. But that is where the similarities end.

If you ask me, I would have been much happier had modern Valentine’s Day stuck with the gory theme: the red could stand for the arterial blood spurting from the beheaded body of Valentine as it flopped in front of the executioner’s feet. The hearts we ingest could be symbols for the orgy of decadence that surely took place after this beheading…an orgy that could have ended with the beheaded’s heart being consumed by naked, Pagan Romans. Instead of Valentine cards promoting love, the cards would have the practical purpose of invitations to re-enactments or other sorts of parties. The flowers and candy? Well, excellent decorations and who can deny the decadence of chocolate. The presence of chocolate at an orgy increases the decadence factor by two thousand. Trust me on this one.

Perhaps that is too much for the common purpose. What if we stuck with the celebrating the day based on the apparent roots it has in Lupercalia. Now, that could be a party:

“While some believe that Valentine’s Day is celebrated in the middle of February to commemorate the anniversary of Valentine’s death or burial–which probably occurred around A.D. 270–others claim that the Christian church may have decided to place St. Valentine’s feast day in the middle of February in an effort to “Christianize” the pagan celebration of Lupercalia. Celebrated at the ides of February, or February 15, Lupercalia was a fertility festival dedicated to Faunus, the Roman god of agriculture, as well as to the Roman founders Romulus and Remus.

To begin the festival, members of the Luperci, an order of Roman priests, would gather at a sacred cave where the infants Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome, were believed to have been cared for by a she-wolf or lupa. The priests would sacrifice a goat, for fertility, and a dog, for purification. They would then strip the goat’s hide into strips, dip them into the sacrificial blood and take to the streets, gently slapping both women and crop fields with the goat hide. Far from being fearful, Roman women welcomed the touch of the hides because it was believed to make them more fertile in the coming year. Later in the day, according to legend, all the young women in the city would place their names in a big urn. The city’s bachelors would each choose a name and become paired for the year with his chosen woman. These matches often ended in marriage.”

Now, that is what I call a good time! Priests, spankings, and what appears to be the beginnings of the modern “key party:” the chick names in the urn. Awesome.

Now, if I could only find a bouquet of absinthe, I would be in business.

However, instead of awesome, we have gone with doing what the corporate hogs of the world want us to do. We took a “holy” day and completely secularized it into a means to make money by false showing of sincerity. You think I am being cynical? Are you a parent? Did your kid take Valentine’s cards and candy to her/his class for the other children to stuff in cleverly painted paper bags or shoe boxes? Do you think said kid really wanted to share the goodies with that grody little Roger who will not stop picking his nose and wants to kiss him/her? Or that smelly kid in the back who beats everyone up and takes their popcorn money? If your child did want to do such things, you have a child worthy of being beheaded just as Saint Valentine was due to the magnitude of that young ‘uns martyrdom.

I realize I sound like the what the Grinch may have been had he decided to steal this day instead of the other terribly commercialized holiday. Really,I do. I just do not care that I sound that way. While I may not be know for being a tender and loving soul, I try to show expressions of friendship, love and devotion to those that I hold in my own black heart on a daily basis. Whether it be showing up at a board meeting with bagels or doughnuts for breakfast, or taking dear friends out to my personal range for a full day of target practice and trying out the latest creations from that wonderful workshop of Professor Z, or surprising Charlotte or my secretary with my nude tumescence ready for some naughty and fun action, I try to do something that shows that the people I adore know that I adore them, and I try to do so more than once per year…and not according to the demands of Hallmark.

Have a Happy Valentine’s Day!

A Musical Interlude

Analogies

Love: a poem

Love is like a large piece of cheesecloth attached to a revolving bowling ball covered in fructose and postage stamps.

Love is like a black velvet painting of Elvis; except one of the sideburns is missing, the jumpsuit is on inside out, and Elvis is a black midget.

Love is like a made-for-TV movie starring Pia Zadora and David Soul as wacky, suburban neo-Nazis whose refrigerator is on the verge of breaking down while the dog begs for neutering. (Dog!)

Love is like George Bush’s left, not his right, but his left testicle swinging gently in the airspace over Panama, glowing gently like a neon ball or something, while the barefoot children beneath fill their buckets with chicken entrails and dream of Oldsmobiles and Saran Wrap.

Love is like Isadora Duncan, her svelte, taut, well-muscled body enwrapped in translucent, silk scarves suddenly swallowed whole by frogs with lisps.

Love is like bell-bottom trousers filled with lint, wax lips, empty Pez dispensers…but the lint doesn’t exist.

by Fish Karma (from the album: “Teddy in the Sky with Magnets” – 1991 Triple X Records)