biography

The End of My Long Hiatus +PLUS+ Str8-tards should just STFU!

text-manipulateDid you miss me?

?????

Come on, dudes.  I’m just looking for a standard portion of totally unwarranted validation here, so I can feed the ravening beast of self-esteem.  You know?  So stop making such a bernie-sanders out of everything.

Well, then. Poor Bereft You, aching with the manque de moi, staring at those used syringes and pre-mixed speed balls, praying for an overdose and that final passage on the Good Ship Lollipop – I do feel your pain.

(PRO TIP:  Be sure to have some old-style double-sided razor blades and a bottle of Percs handy, in the case the speed ball turns out to be just as much crazy-ass fun as the last one, thereby feeding your delusion that your life is not a fucked-to-Kingdom-come bomb-site, but a perpetually self-renewing gay-day pass to Canada’s Wonderland that you share with Athena, your personal purple Unicorn.  

Oh, yeah, don’t forget to run a warm bath.  You’re welcome!)

Now, and with a big, obvious sigh of relief, back to me.  For it’s been weeks since I posted here, after a veritable golden shower of inspired scribbling that will serve perfectly as the main corpus of my roman à clef-style autobiography and magnum opus, Runs Like A Girl.

Oh, boy oh boy oh boy!  They’re gonna eat it up in Des Moines!  All of it!  Eat it up like friggin’ corn dogs and red-eye gravy!   And I wanna tell ya, it’s a very, very happy camper called Dave who’s whackin’ off while fantasizing about his own personal five minutes of man-meat-drenched fame.

With the title of my life-story mind-mapped in its entirety, in part thanks to a couple of handy apps I downloaded from Google Play —“Trudly”, which takes your family tree and reworks it so you can plausibly pass yourself off as the 1972 love-child of Margaret Sinclair and some coked-up stud from Studio 54; and “Obaminator”, which pushes random insulting versions of “Obama” to your cell phone so you can intimidate those libtards on Buzzfeed—only the tedious transcription plus the creation of the actual text remains to be outsourced to an underfed, resentful Third World laborer.

That is, assuming there’s a feisty young Ahmed or Haizan with a typing hand and a few fingers remaining in any of the –istans who isn’t double-booked modeling for GAP or too busy figuring out how to wire his suicide bomb to his iPhone 5.

I tell ya, the global search for available slaves is getting so competitive, it’s hard to resist venting my annoyance with a nice, hard boot in the face to the Islamo-terrorist who polishes my shoes at Union Station.  So I don’t resist!

I mean, it almost takes the fun out of flying to Mumbai, rounding up a busload of civilians for “call-centre work”, shoving them into a concrete bunker containing a pile of un-sewn blue jeans, pointing a machine gun at them, then locking them up overnight with a couple of Happy Meals and setting fire to the place.

What burns me is I only included the Happy Meals ’cause it was women and kids. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s wasting perfectly good food.

Anyhoo, now that I’m no longer lightly beaded with sweat from laboring over my title, I am well disposed to begin Venn-diagramming my latest, in fact, my only, contribution to the literary schwa that is self-help literature, provisionally called:

“I’m OK, You’re a Retard:  Why White Str8 Males
Have WAAAAAY Too Much Self-Esteem and
Why I’m the Gay to Deal With It, Bro!
Yo!”  

Oh, stop.

Oh, it is not.

Really?  You think so?

Well, believe me sincere when I say that the fun never pales when it comes to watching you squirm with discomfort as I fish for a compliment.  But Dude – you just have to remember:

Never, I mean jamais, I mean Nuh-nuh-NEVER forget how good I am to you.  Ja, OK? Bitte sehr please??

Which segues like the grinding of unlubricated gears to the REAL topic of today’s post, namely:

duct-tape

Fig. 1:  Shutting the fuck up:  Correct placement of Duct Tape

SHUT THE FUCK UP, WHITE STR8 DUDES
(a.k.a. Str8-tards)!  (Fig. 1)

Yeah,  you heard me.  SHUT THE FUCK UP,  ’cause no matter where I roam online in my hunger to hear the IQ-destroying, toxic talk radio that is the “Innernet”, white straight guys are the static.

HSSSS! CRCKLLLLE! BZZZZZ!

Static!  Sound and fury, and oh boy, the fury – signifying nada.  Niente.  Gar nix.  They out-pontificate Pope Francis – shout-out to Francine, BFF!  Love ya, girl! – and they out-entitle – hmm…

I’m stumped, cause there ain’t no one more fucking entitled than a white straight male.  To wit:

We have Gay Pride?  They’re all worked up.  They gotta have Straight Pride!  Down with the oppression of the one human class who’s never actually suffered any, and down down down with one nano-second of paying attention to anyone but these spoiled-rotten rejects from privatized childcare.

I want to marry my partner?  Nuh-nuh-NO!  That’s not traditional!

I’m gonna take this real slowly for you:  Equal marriage is just as traditional as traditional marriage. It’s the same institution of marriage, get it?

See what I mean?  Dumber than cum!

As for your spiteful, slippery-slope argument that equal marriage means we’ll all be hooking up with our pet hamsters in mass ceremonies and fucking dogs in the town square, I wonder if you’re just jealous about the options available to the broad-minded now that you’re squirming with boredom in your sex-less common-law arrangement with your high-school sweetheart, “Suzy behind the goalposts”, and driving a second-hand Ford Focus, that kid-crammed, four-wheel-drived slap in the face, the vehicular expression of your thwarted Lamborghini dreams?

Dumb, and lacking in gratitude.  I wonder if you geniuses have ever stopped to think about the selfless service we fags have performed over the years?  Namely:

There’s at least ten percent more women available for you, and all because of gay men!

Yeah, not so clever now, are we? But instead of thanking us, you sit there in your soiled bathrobes, mouths glowing orange in the dark from powdered cheese and masturbating compulsively as you post misspelled comments online about abortion, “gay” marriage and socialism.

DUDES! Get out and objectify some piece of tail!  Now!

Surely it’s no secret that the online static is all about male bonding; the actual content is just a good old stinky red herring. (Notice how they always go off-topic? Exactly.)

Str8-tards care about only one thing:   that other str8-tards see how MANLY they are <scratches balls, farts>.

It’s the VR edition of hangin’ out with their bro’s at Fred’s Garage and Live Bait, where they can snicker at the Sports Illustrated calendar and tinker with their camshafts.

But I bet you a triple-triple at Timmies that all you’d have to do with some of these hammer hawks is bring ’em  home, sling ’em a couple of beers, and they’d be down on all fours sucking dick faster than you could say “pedophile hockey coach”.

I’ve written about these Geezer Libertarians before.  But now I’ve reached the tipping point.  I tell ya, I’ve had it had it had it up to the very tops of my Louboutin pumps – the ones with the plexiglass soles and nine-inch heels that I wore to Pride with my chain-mail jockstrap, and you gotta admit, it’s a look! – with the stupidity, the ubiquity and the iniquity of the belly-scratching, Fox-watching, wind-breaking, closet-casing, homophobic, racist, misogynist, all-denying, all-knowing, asshole-speaking white male str8-tard-iverse.

And there’s only one way to deal with it.

Luciano?  Take a memo, baby!


MEMO
TO:  All Str8-tards
c/o the Str8-tard-iverse.

Hey, Str8-tard!

Are you gay?

First, look down and locate your penis.  I’ll give you a few minutes.

Ready?  OK.  Is it hard and in another guy’s mouth?

Are you now, or have you ever been, ejaculating all over another male’s pink, gaping hole?

Check your left nostril:  Is it shoved half-an-inch deep onto a bottle of amyl nitrate?

Have you recently tag-teamed a barely-legal twink (proof on file) with the other members of your all-male show-tunes choir, “The Sondheim-ites”?

Was there ever a night where you got trashed on girl drinks, acted out the entire party scene from “All About Eve”, then faked a suicide attempt?

Have you ever attended Wagner’s Ring Cycle at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden dressed in leather harness and chaps, and sporting a butt plug that doubles as a puppy tail?

Are you holding crumpled, autographed programs from every city in Madonna’s most recent world tour?

Do you make protest signs, take off all your clothes and march against oppression and bigotry at Gay Pride, then say to your friends, “I wouldn’t be caught dead at Spa Excess! It’s full of Asians!”

If you answered NO to all of the above, I’ve got news for you: You’re not gay!

So SHUT THE FUCK UP about gay rights.   Next:

Are you a woman?

Look at your chest :  Are you at this moment nursing a minimum of one infant?

Do you take to your bed with “the vapours” every lunar cycle?
While in bed, do you hug one of the many adorable stuffed animals to hand because they care?

Does your boss chase you around your desk brandishing a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream, while you simultaneously make half his salary cause you were passed over for promotion?

Have you recently, or ever, been the victim of an “up-skirts” video prank?

Do you wait in the rush-hour cashier line-up for twenty minutes, then, when all your groceries are totalled, open your handbag, rummage around for your change purse and say, “Twenty-nine ninety-nine? Let’s see, I’m sure I have some nickels I need to get rid of! Let’s count out the exact change! By the way, your new uniform looks just darling!”

Do you wear your hair in a girlish, Marlo Thomas-y flip, and was there, last time you checked, a vagina between your legs?

NO?  You’re not a woman!  Congratulations, dude!

SHUT THE FUCK UP about women’s issues.  Furthermore:

Are you black?

Turn out the lights and look into this mirror.  Can you see your eyes, and only your eyes? Now smile. Exactly.

Do you find yourself from time to time craving a mess o’ grits and collard greens?  Jerk chicken?  A bit of man-pussy on the D L?

Do you experience an irrepressible urge to get shot while at a full stop at the traffic lights?

Do you find yourself spontaneously rioting in economically-depressed urban centres due to decades of oppression?

Are you 85 years old yet still manage to put on your Sunday Best all-white zoot suit and shoes with spats, then head cheerfully to the only available polling station in your county with your walker and 14 pieces of ID cause you can’t afford the bus?

Do you use, in your casual, day-to-day conversation, terms such as gangsta, fuck that shit, homey and bootilicious?

Do you have, or have you at any time in your sorry life had, rhythm?    NO?

Then you ain’t black, muthafucka.  SHUT THE FUCK UP about Black Lives Matter.  

Just SHUT THE FUCK UP.

One, two buckle your shoe, three four SHUT THE FUCK UP.

The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Why did the chicken cross the road?  To SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Knock, knock.  SHUT THE FUCK UP.

It was the best of times, it was the SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Romeo, Romeo, SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Oh Jerry,  let’s not ask for the moon.  We have the SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Get the idea?

And never, I mean NEVER – you know.


BONUS QUOTE:

Seen on “Living Blue in a Red State“, a Facebook page devoted to keeping the discussion going around Liberal values:

“Scientifically speaking, punching Donald Trump in the mouth
would be considered fisting.”

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The Chrysler Building, for the Second Time

brokencup_0005

A beautiful, perfect, plain and pure white cup…

When I first visited New York City, in 2012, I went by bus, and distinguished myself at the end of the 10-hour journey, as we prepared to plunge into the Lincoln Tunnel, by hyperventilating noisily on my first sight of the glittering Manhattan skyline.

This, I reminded myself, was what I had been waiting for all my life: my homecoming to the city that had never been my home, my “Midnight Cowboy” moment.  It was merely a passing inconvenience that, to any casual observer, I was apparently in the throes of a psychotic meltdown or expiring from anaphylactic shock.

Luckily I was in New York City, and no one paid me the least attention.

I stayed in a hotel on the Lower East Side, Chinatown to be precise – I had chosen only the price range on a website that for some peculiar reason made hotel choosing into a kind of location lottery – a hotel whose rundown façade filled me with alarm, yet which, once I’d settled in and gotten my New York legs on, turned out to be not only acceptable, but charming.

This alarm-to-charm switchover was a metaphor for the city itself, and an apt first lesson for a New York neophyte, namely:  That anywhere else, a scary, too-small, sub-standard living unit might be a slum, but in The Big Apple it was a find.

For the next five days I set about living the way I fancied a real New Yorker lived, under the bemused, expert guidance of my friend, John, and heartened by the Looney Tunes capering of his fox terrier, Flora.

I brazened through Manhattan as though it were my private estate; traveled to Brooklyn on the subway (a quick and merciless ad hoc training session, consisting of a demonstrated swipe and a raised eyebrow, both administered by a real New Yorker in under five seconds, took place at my first, unsuccessful, attempt to mate MTA card and turnstile); and  refused to be a tourist, to gawk at Times Square, slouch around in trainers, or purchase tickets to some Broadway show.

I did, on the other hand, at 611 Broadway and purely by accident, find a branch of Crate and Barrel, where I bought two beautiful, perfect, plain and pure white cups and saucers from a deliciously snarky saleslady.

Everything about this saleslady was New York to me, from the nonchalant elegance of her outfit and the asymmetric perfection of her haircut, to her perfectly deployed daytime makeup and important yet self-deprecating jewellery;  when she greeted me with, “Can I help you?”, it was impossible to miss her silky undertone of Let me save you from yourself.

She had the air that working at Crate and Barrel was somewhat beneath her, but that just for my sake she would conquer her distaste and make a noticeable effort. I indicated the pure white cups and saucers I wanted, and to her credit, she whisked them off the display for wrapping as though no other selection would have pleased her quite as much. It was an admirable performance that somewhat mitigated my failure to have purchased tickets to anything at the Harold Clurman Theatre.

Everyone in New York, or so it seemed, dressed to impress;  walked, talked and ate to impress.  To step out of my alarming-then-charming hotel was to make an entrance, and god help you if you ended up on that stage in sweat pants and Crocs, with sticky palms and searching for your lines like an actors’ nightmare.  I soon understood that no effort I could yet make, no straining at fashion, or feigned worldliness or fast talking, would make the grade; I would never, not yet anyway, pass. The best I could hope for was not to be instantly labelled an out-of-towner.

For my first attempt, that would do.

Five days later, happier and wiser, I was no longer a New York virgin. My budget was blown; I’d seen the Monet waterlilies and Picasso’s “Le Desmoiselles d’Avignon”; I had shopped for food, been asked for directions, and made dinner for John; I’d been to Flatbush and, by the time I’d seen a guy jerking off at 23rd Street Station at four A.M., I felt reasonably confident that I’d covered all of the key New York experiences.  And I had acquired absolutely nothing that could be called a souvenir.

Nothing except those two beautiful, perfect, plain and pure white cups and saucers.

That evening I packed them with care for the bus ride home, taping the tissue paper in place and nestling them in the folds of a sweater so they wouldn’t be jostled. On the Megabus, all through the night, I checked on them hourly, as though I feared they might spontaneously crack and disintegrate as Egyptian relics are supposed to.  Sometime around Rochester I awoke with a start, believing that I’d only dreamed I’d packed them; that I’d actually abandoned them in the Chinatown hotel room.

~

Once installed in my Toronto apartment, my cups exerted a special power.  They created a morning ritual around themselves, made the mundane fact of caffeine addiction into a Zen ceremony. I loved the dark reflective pool of steaming coffee held in the thin circle of white porcelain, loved how the cup felt in my hand, how well balanced, how perfectly it met my lips.  I loved that we, the cups and saucers and I, had finally met, that we shared our secret of New York.

The cups and saucers began to relax, let their hair down, so to speak. The newness and optimism dissipated, and they became subtly but unmistakably aloof—

so that you felt they’d let you drink out of them, but would be hyper-vigilant for any rude noises you might make, and they’d watch to make sure you always used the saucer, so you shouldn’t dribble on your nice pants— klutz! –

– yet they were no less dear to me for all their little foibles.

~

I cherished those cups for the next four years; I guarded them like a father guards his nubile fifteen-year-old daughter. Not everyone got to drink out of those cups. Sometimes I would use one myself, but give my guest a two-dollar President’s Choice mug, just to make my position on their status clear, vis-à-vis my good dishes.

Sometime during the last reign of roommate terror, both the saucers got smashed in the Great Late Night Dishwashing Debacle, a tale too bloody to recount today. I must emphasize: Both saucers.

But I still had the cups.

Now it was like I’d bought my daughter a sports car and she was staying out late driving around with boys and getting home JUST in time so I couldn’t say anything about it.

Then one day — a day like any other day— I was in the kitchen and lo! the spirit of my mother shone round about me and I was sore afraid, and my arm made a great sweeping mother-movement and clattered through the stack of dishes like the rampaging hand of god and swept one of the cups off the draining board.

I actually cried out: “NOOOOOO!”  A great big werewolf howl.  As though howling could arrest the fall.  As though how I felt could change anything.

After all those weeks and months, after four years of caring for and protecting and chaperoning that cup, it was, in the end, me that broke it. Little old careless mother- distracted me.Chrysler-Building2

This is the way the world ends. Love, life, your white cups, your nice pants. Your marriage, your job, your great-aunts and your grandsons.  All the things you care for.

Everything:  All the people you mistrusted! All your wariness and boundaries and push-backs! And then it’s you that messes up!  You!

I actually contemplated smashing the other cup deliberately, right then, just to get it over with.   You know what I’m saying?

You only ever see the Chrysler Building once for the first time.

~

— {For John H. and Flora. Bisous. ♥}

 Today’s Existential Forecast™!

DavidGravatarToday will be overly diffident, with occasional outbreaks of sarcasm followed by regret.

Competence will be nominal-to-intermittent as measured in “oPrahs”.

GENERAL: A collapsible umbrella advisory is in place. The rims of cups containing scalding beverages are farther away than they appear.

Wear socks to determine if there’s water on the kitchen floor, or go barefoot to locate the one remaining shard of broken Champagne flute.

Three PM brings 100% probability of reliving the split with your ex as you change the Band-aid on your heel. Downcast gives way to defiant after a swig of “Absolut”.

Evening finds you unsuccessful in your attempt to mask your home’s lingering smell of chain-smoking with a devil-may-care spritz of Axe Personal Fragrance.

Yes, that caller with a private number is “Collections”.

TECH INSIGHT: Take extra care to place your smartphone in your back pants pocket, so when you sit down you can accidentally send your account director that text you drafted calling him a “sociopathic catamite”.

It’s best to get these things over and done with.

DRESS TIPS: Tentative recos are clip-on tie and loafers OR scarf with brooch and ballet flats. Crocs and sweatpants? Play it by ear, but only definitely if you’ve completely forgotten that at 1 P.M. you and the team are treating Ronald Lauder and Renée Fleming to lunch at The Carlyle.

Distractibility is high today, clocking in at eight-out-of-ten on a scale where:

1 equals making yourself a cup of instant coffee in under 30 minutes but still forgetting the milk is off;

and

10 equals setting out to check your calendar and ending up eight hours later with a new operating system that’s worse than your previous one (the “Ubuntu factor”); PLUS an order confirmation for purchase of a vintage “Mister Potato Head” kit from eBay; and a whole slew of hate mail from “just-repeal-it-then-impeach-the-socialist-towel-head-dot-com”.

Fig. 1:  Emotional turbulence (note decorative cushion)

Emotional Turbulence (Fig. 1):  There may be unexpected gusts of low-self-esteem-induced hysteria.

EXPERT TIP:
Never, but we mean NEVER, take refuge under a tree.

Instead, watch for the throwing of a small, decorative cushion, which signals that the hysteria has passed.

You’re welcome!

FUN FACT:
Count slowly from the outbreak of hysteria to find out how long until the cushion-throwing!

Today’s ATF (Asshole Tolerance Factor): Zero, peaking at 1. Some of you might want to remain indoors.

We’re just sayin’.

Overall outlook for —

MEN: Breezy, but with toe rubbers. You’ll despise, yet be powerless to change, the general perception that your mother still buys your clothes, and/or that you’ve just left a Presbyterian seminary.

As our fashion maven has it: “GAP ‘Relaxed Fit’ is death’s French kiss!”

POINTS TO PONDER: The way your boss stares at your sandwich while adjusting her pencil-skirt will make you question the cool-factor of waxed paper. Also egg salad.

WOMEN: Brave, with just the tiniest tragic hint of your grandmother’s pill-box hat. You’ll spend the day trying to project the plucky vulnerability of Dorothy Gale, while actually coming across as a more vitriolic Dorothy Parker, only without the redeeming wit.

WHAT WOULD IVANKA DO?: A Singapore Sling* at The Algonquin or similar establishment may help with your tendency to assume the role of “Ms. Quark-y Gluon Who Holds the Universe Together”.

But your PMS will hate you.

High tonight? (as in, Will you be…?) Seriously? Like, does the Pope wear Balenciaga? We totally think he does!

This has been Today’s Existential Forecast™ : We face the world so you don’t have to!™

~

*[Sorry — That should read “A Singapore Sling or five”. My bad! LMAO!! — ed.]

My bedroom is a portal to Hell +PLUS+ Carole King has much to answer for

sydow

Just ask Max…

Welcome, campers, to my first official blog post of 2016, and I have to say, I’m  absolutely choughed (rhymes with “choughed”) that so many thousands of you have written to me care of 392 Sherbourne, my squalid Toronto basement-in-the-sky, thanking me for my online efforts over the past year and a half.

Actually that’s a blatant lie, no one has written to me on this topic.  Or any topic really. And there are exactly 206 of you, so it would take each and every one of you writing to me at least five times to even push the level into four digits. Five times!  Don’t faint, dude, but this means you’d have to actually finish something.

OMFG, I am like SO BUSTED?!

Appreciation or no, yours truly has, geewillikers, outstanding contributions to celebrate. For example, my creation of a new online archetypethe literate troll (I trash your opinions and correct your grammar, and instead of Cheetos, think caramel-baked brie stains on my Harry Rosen bowtie); slowest response to Facebook messages (personal best – 4 months);  and Olympic-level distractibility (sets out to check email, ends up 8 hours later with a new operating system).

And let’s not forget the top-rater:  World’s longest blog posts.   I have single-handedly transformed the quick daily update into an infinitely-revised Proustian agony clocking in at 700 words plus.  And that, as my great-aunt Georgiana would have said, “takes some doing…”

(more…)

Done Done Done! PLUS: “The Kytt-yger!” + Fun Facts About Literary Icons #14

Never forget how good I am to you.  Deal?

First off, let this be my official announcement: There’s an idée fixe that’s been taking up WAY too much of my mental real estate. So, to make way for more positive, healing thoughts, let me say that

DON'T MAKE ME SAY IT

Shhhh… you know… Oh, c’mon!

I am DONE DONE DONE with posting my – well, let’s be honest, rather brilliantly written, but still time-consuming and ultimately spirit-dampening – diatribes about – shhhh – you know.

Oh c’mon. That guy who used to “run” Canada.   The suit.  The alien.

Yes, you do, the one with the lips like chopped liver and the eyes like a horror-film ventriloquist’s dummy.

YOU know… HIM.

Don’t make me say it!!

And while we’re at it:

I will henceforth and forthwith no longer debate evolution with fundamentalist christians; or, in my most reasonable tones, point out to male troglodytes and homophobes the error of their ways.  No, sir-ee.

I’ll just hire my friend Vinny to beat their fucking ugly brains to pulp with a lead pipe.

Time management skills – because it feels so good when you stop!™


And now, for a complete change of pace:

Yet another in a seemingly endless series of instances of how good I am to you.  As previously instructed, never, I mean never, forget this.

These.

You may very well be, in fact, wondering.  Today’s random act of literary munificence by yours truly concerns a long-lost poem by The Child-Bride of Amherst, Emily Dickinson.

Emily D, or so she recounts,  was once visited, while she was under the influence of a teeny bit too much laudanum,  by the spirit of William Blake, who, seeking to get better acquainted with the “saucy little minx”,

knocked back several scalding-hot cups of Lapsang Souchong tea, chugged a couple of tallboys of Samuel Adams, wolfed down the greater part of Emily’s coveted, company-only President’s Choice The Decadent Chocolate Cherry Torte, then, duly fortified after his long, ectoplasmically-fueled journey – and after what he considered a decent interval considering she was a virgin-spinster and all  –

Shtupped her.

Yep.  Just bloody frigged her.  Planted the  purple parsnip, gave her a right old rodgerin’.  Shagged the slag till she gagged.  Do wo’,  Bit of awright, How’s yer father.   Bit of boffin’,  copped ‘er off, got his leg over, polished his knob, had a nice long snog.

I can speak frankly, can’t I?   I mean, we’re all adults?

Anyway, this hitherto-unpublished poem was the result.   Yes, I am, and thank you so much for noticing!

Please! Mr Blake -- !Kytt-yger! Kytt-yger!

Kyttens — ? Tygers — ?
Flickering — Always — !
Down Our — Noon-to-
Midnight — Hallways — !

What — A Mortal —
Daily — Sees —
Depends — on His —
Dichotomies — !

~

Fun Facts About Literary Icons #14

This is why, for the rest of his life, Blake’s bro’s-down-the-boozer insisted on referring to their rakish pal as:

“The Daft Old Prick who Dipped His Wick In Dickinson”  

Since you asked.

(Ed. :-  A few brief minutes can, indeed, have far-reaching consequences. Ya bloody poofter…)