Valentine’s Day in Blogland is a parade of witty deprecations and witty depredations and, sometimes, witty imprecations, all in the service of a sort of gung-ho been-there-done-that crusty hyphenated public hue of world-weary jade. Let me say this about that: if I had a goddam date I’d be going on it. Especially this year, and especially after this week, and especially because I’m in no mood.
Generally on February 14th I go and drag myself out into the trenches just in case some winsome quick brilliant creative bright-eyed book-lovin’ quirky perverse sly and cheeky pragmatist who just happens to be single should be out prowling around on Valentine’s Day because she doesn’t have a date either. Sure, that could happen. Then again, after the Red Sox pennant this year we can count on probability being all screwy until April 29th at least. But you get your V-Day ticket stamped, see, and then you don’t have to do it again until next year. Not counting New Year’s Eve, when the rules are different.
To be fair, I dislike formal dating as much as I love meeting future obscure objects of desire by chance and happenstance, and that’s a lot. But that’s fodder for another post on another day; tonight I’m off to Miss Saturn‘s Hulapalooza burlesque in Williamsburg, where we’re told “There’s gonna be sweets and sweeties — and scantily clad people hula-hooping together in one hula hoop. Yay!” And Harvest Moon is on the bill as well, which always makes me happy.