Archive for February, 2006

Ice Weasels Ripped My Flesh

Wednesday, February 8th, 2006

The Lateness of the Hour

A friend quotes Rob Brezsny’s Virgo today in her blog, and that means I must follow suit, as sure as willy follows nilly (and wins a Grammy, but that’s another story). It’s not just a good idea, it’s some sort of Natural Law. And I don’t have the strength in February to go fighting a Natural Ticket.

Rob’s weekly astrology columns always amaze me, not because they’re in/accurate — astrology is all things to all people, and I’m good with that — but because they’re so precise. Brevity may or may not be the soul of wit, but it sure slaps leather when it comes to tapping the pulse of the yearning disaffected. Who doesn’t want solid thoughtful witty advice in 150 words or less? I know I do.

Happy Valentine Daze, Taurus! After extensive meditation about what advice would be most useful for your love life in 2006, I rejected this observation by The Simpsons’ creator Matt Groening: “Love is a snowmobile racing across the tundra and then suddenly it flips over, pinning you underneath. At night, the ice weasels come.” Do not, under any circumstances, make those your words to live by. Instead, consider the following counsel from Norman Mailer: “Love asks us that we be a little braver than is comfortable, a little more generous, a little more flexible. It means living on the edge more than we care to.”

I have the sinking sense that when they make the movie, Rob will be played by Robin Williams or Jim Carrey. Obviously he should be rendered by Philip Seymour Hoffman, or someone equally wickedly skilled, but who listens to me?

Braver than comfortable — that’s a notion to live by.

The Photographer’s Notebook

Tuesday, February 7th, 2006

Miss Saturn I-IV: II
Miss Saturn, in nefarious scarlet, at The Delancey

Date: Mon, 12 Dec 2005 13:21:59 -0500 (EST)
From: Linus
To: Pierre, Seth, M., Blind C.
Subject: Last Night

So I completed Day Two of my Three Days With Saturn shoot for New York Cool
last night Jenny performed at The Delancey (which is a pretty cool place, I had
never been) as part of the Byte party, a fetish S&M-lite kind of thing.

I’ve been to one or two of these sorts of parties over the years, usually with
Chuck, and while I’m not interested in the sexuality of it the vibe is usually
pretty relaxed and fun. So I watched a lovely girl in a lacy angel outfit with
excellent feather wings chat with friends while a guy wearing leash and collar
licked her ankles until she got annoyed, and then she stood on him, sticking
the spike heels of her Scotty-style clear plastic platforms in his mouth and
making him lick the soles. He seemed pretty happy about it, and after she
ground her feet on his nipples for a bit — posing for beaming pictures all the
while — he scampered off into the corner and cowered with a big happy smile.

Two compact hot girls dressed as elves got elaborately tied up in the doorway
of the “dungeon” room, their wrists tied behind their heads and their upper
bodies bound in baroque complications; there were cameras everywhere, so I
demurely did not shoot any of the action. One huge guy, probably 6′4″ or
better, hugely muscled but going a bit soft, wore Marilyn Manson light
blue/white contacts, a leather thong, and nothing else. He had three-inch
black fingernails. A girl in leather halter top and fishnets enthusiastically
shredded her fishnets, bit by bit. Lots of spike hair, random leather. Very
laid back.

It was Mistress Harlequin’s birthday and there was cake promised for later, and
I’m sure the cake would have been an outrageous hoot, but it’s not like I know
who Mistress Harlequin is, or anything, so I left that part alone.

I got all inspired at home when I noted that Miss Persia at the door would pass
judgment on all patrons, and that if you came in or qualified as “leather,
latex, creative goths . cyberpunks. cyberdrags . material girls.
fashionistas… alternative sexiness…… and anyone who can leave their
inhibitions at home!” it was only $5, up to $7 if you at least wore all black,
and $10 if you came in “drab.” You know what lengths I’ll go to to save five
bucks, so I ransacked the closet.

I came up with my old faux-leather plastic pants (the PVC shirt fits a little
snug, it, uh, must have shrunk, so I left that aside), which are falling apart
but still hold together, a leather vest, and a black silk shirt. Miss Persia
asked me to open my jacket when I got there, surveyed the goods, and welcomed
me in at the insider price, which left me inordinately pleased.

Jenny and Selina were set to go on around 12:30, and they pretty much did. One
number each. The crowd seemed curious about the performance but didn’t get it
– Jenny did “Personal Jesus,” with a few new tricks on top, Selina did “Little
Red Corvette” — and if I hadn’t been there to whoop and holler I think they
wouldn’t have had much applause. People had a different agenda.

Since faux-leather plastic pants don’t count if no one sees them, I went up to
Rockwood for a final Chocolate Stout before heading home; Ken didn’t notice
my outfit so I had to point it out.

The pants don’t breathe, of course, but they are plenty warm.

Ciao – L.

Silhouettes of our Former Selves

Monday, February 6th, 2006

Organic Chemistry

It has long been my feeling that April is not the cruelest month at all, apart from that tax thing that happens then — and who on earth let that get started? People, people. You know all that money is going straight to Texas. They don’t have state tax of their own, so obviously they must be lifting ours. Because if there’s one thing we know about Texans, oh don’t get me started.

February, that’s the cruelest month. Even in soft winters like this one, when the sun is apt to creep out and toss us an eight-ball of 60° weather when we aren’t watching for it, there’s something about the early dark and the trickling cold that never relents, that slips needy fangs in and keeps the flesh pinned to pale colors. The thin washed light, the hard chill, the way the covers on the bed just don’t want leaving. February.

The name comes from Februus, the Roman god of purification (sez the Wiki):

In Etruscan mythology, Februus was the god of the dead and purification. The month of February was named after him. He was also worshipped by the Romans, where he could have become Febris, god of malaria. In his honor, the Februalia festivity were held.

Presumably the malaria bit comes from the Latin febris = fever, which I’d call suspect, but I am a bit transported by the idea of a god of malaria.

Myrtle: Honey, it’s for you. It’s the god of malaria.
Ed: The god of malaria? What does he want?
Myrtle: I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?
Ed: Well what did he say?
Myrtle: He said, “Bzzzzzz.”

The pre-Gregorian Romans had the right idea — their winter had no months. It was just winter. And after that it was March.