Cosmic Law

Stardust. or How We All Go Back to the Same Place Sooner or Latter. Which is indeed better than a slap in the face with the proverbial wet kipper. Also, vastly unfair, seen from the perspective of this here & now perishable flesh. I mean, is it seemly than Henry Kissinger ’s subatomic particles should have the same fate as my own? No, not really. Fortunately Nature and the laws of physics know nothing (and care even less) about fairness, or decorum or such petty human matters. There. Have a splendiferous week. (And stay sane, for Bumba’s sake. The psychopathy levels are on the rise and rise and rise.)

Clock’s Ticking

Time’s Up. No rant necessary. The Tadpoles and the GMCA racoon have got it spot on. However, sometimes there’s news out there that can still raise a smile…of despair. Look!:
(Do it before the Antarctic shelves collapse totally and with them the penguins.)
The world in Their hands. Dear, oh dear… Never mind. Up Mehitabel! Keep on smiling, resisting, biting, irritating and making like difficult for Them. Beware of money business and have sponditious week, do. Love and lemon frappé.

More Brief Encounters

Brief Encounter 9. aka. Happy Escapes. Two of the creatures from one of my recent doodles have forsaken the smuggling and promotion of mystic inebriating substances and gone their separate ways, off into the big bad world to have experiences and adventures of their own. They haven’t seen each other for a while but now they have met at a very good garden party thrown by the Shoggies and are exchanging news and gossip. The square peg seems to have brought forth an offspring, which is quite odd as he is unquestionably male; but we don’t ask the whys and wherefores. Who cares, anyway; the little one is as cute as lace pants and she’s is most welcome and much liked by all, as she seems to have philosophical proclivities and she’s forever quoting W. B. Yates. Also, he has acquired a tag-along most flirtatious flowerette of uncertain but vague Austral origins. (Again, who knows and who cares…) The wormy squiggle, on the other had, has also produced a brood, or a clutch, or whatever, all by herself -but that’s no surprise to anybody because she’s parthenogenetic. Weekend sooooon come. Have a good one.

Why should not old men be mad?
Some have known a likely lad
That had a sound fly-fisher’s wrist
Turn to a drunken journalist;
A girl that knew all Dante once
Live to bear children to a dunce;
A Helen of social welfare dream,
Climb on a wagonette to scream.
Some think it a matter of course that chance
Should starve good men and bad advance,
That if their neighbours figured plain,
As though upon a lighted screen,
No single story would they find
Of an unbroken happy mind,
A finish worthy of the start.
Young men know nothing of this sort,
Observant old men know it well;
And when they know what old books tell
And that no better can be had,
Know why an old man should be mad.

Why Should Not Old Men Be Mad? by William Butler Yeats

Ailments Great & Small

Plead the Headaches. Or at least this is how I rationalize my half (or, rather, half-arsed) absence from … all sort of things, places and positions (or should it be postures, which seems to be the overwhelmingly dominant modus operandi in, out and around the agora?)

The other side of the coin, of course, is that is hardly worth my time and effort to express my thoughts, as they seem to be more out of step than ever with the mainstream groupthink of said public sphere.

Interesting to note that one of the definitions of modus operandi, according to the Merriam-Webster is:

A distinct pattern or method of operation that indicates or suggests the work of a single criminal in more than one crime.

In other words, the technique(s) of a serial killer? 🙂

Have a splendid weekend.

Tempus Fucking Fugit & All That

Birthday Poppet. On this day 75 years ago all sort of things happened, I’m sure, but not many that are actually of any interest to me unless I was into tubeless tyres and American drummers, which I’m not. So, on the whole the most interesting thing about 11th May 1947… ç’est de m’hi voir. There. Now I’m off to prepare the authentic Russian caviare canapés (for the Shubby, the Mi-Go and the local moggies, who like caviare) and to polish the cocktail shaker. The Cagnolitos of Tindalos have promised to bring me a distilled pan-dimensional, bend-free, incisively-angled liquor that’s guaranteed to make me see beyond the Wall of Sleep and restore my equanimity (a little dented by the enormity of actually being three quarters of a century old). Au revoir! Have a spiffing rest of the week, a massively wonderful weekend and a long, loving and resplendent, clear-headed life. Love, red rags and un po’ di mu’.


Bottled Bliss. Behold the Square Pegs! Weary with the supreme mug’s game of trying to fit into round holes, they have diversified into the trafficking of bootleg substances. They bring me the most intoxicating of potions as a sort of pre-anniversary warning. Ain’t they cute? The mixture itself is a secret formula developed by the Mi-Go and their cousins, the Lee-Loo, in cahoots with the Magister Artifex from the secret stills of the Moon Beasts of the beautiful Plateau of Leng. The Shub-Niggurath swears blue by it so it comes extremely well recommended. I intend to get totally plastered on it from today till next week, when I’ll wake up to the fact that tempus fucking fugit ever so fast, the wee bastard thing. I also will be listening to one if the best, most lucidly cynical songs ever written (by Dario Fo) and performed (by the glorious Enzo Jannacci) on the subjects greed, paranoid entitlement and the master/peasant dynamics. Enjoy and have a spiffing weekend.
And a bonus ball, for the sheer absurdity of it:

Give Me Liberty…Or Else

Life & Freedom. Life is freedom. Or it ought to be. But mostly it’s not because life is also full of pretentious autocrats with a God or Guru complex that are forever telling us what is what, and what we should do, and think, and believe, and worship, and respect, and how we should speak, and dress, and behave, and have sex, and use the cutlery. And, if said pompous prats are Guardian sinecurists, they’ll instruct us (or try to, anyway) in the correct way to eat beans on toast. May they all get shingles!

Fish Tales

Fierce Fish. aka The Fish, the Plodder and the PR Chappie. Nothing much I can add that you can’t see for yourselves. The Fish’s name is Bellona, the Plodder’s is Diletta and her new baby is called Tarquin. The little PR gent’s name changes from client to client, according to necessity and his own very elastic ethics gradient. (This is, of course, for darling dead Iain Banks and his funky Minds. We still miss you, baby.)

The Unexpected

Fluke. This is as it says on the tin. It’s a fluke. A fortuitous event, perhaps even a small singularity, who knows. Press the wrong button, click on the wrong tab, a slip of the clumsy fingertip and Bingo!, the unplanned and the unforeseen manifest. This particular materialization I liked so much that I’ve hardly done any work on it, just pretty much left it as it came out of that black hole that is lady Luck’s capacious and ever-wise belly. Serendipity be thy name!:-) Have a spiffing week.

Sacred Rites

Red Spring.
Spring is here, oh, Spring is here.
Life is skittles and life is beer.
Tom Lehrer
Or it should be. And if it isn’t is our own fault for being so/such …………………. (enter offensive terms of choice here).
And so far it’s being the typical English Spring: cold, wet, dull and Tory-ridden.
But let us try & make it the best we can, be only only to annoy The Powers That Be. Dig out your Tom Leher, your authentic bootleg Russian vodka, your Tolstoy, your Bakunin and your Rachmaninov. Defy, resist, bite and dance (The Rite of Spring, what else?) naked in the garden (weather permitting). And, above all, stay sane. Grooviness, love and borscht to you all.