Dark Angel vs. The Flyswatter
(aka The Casket Myth)
After all, I am The Responsible One, but
biding time for brain readjustment can be
a bitch! For example, the world is now my
oyster (or spreadsheet). So I put on a suit
and tie, go to bed at a reasonable hour, lie
there 15 minutes and WHOO I’m ex-
periencing something even better than
most dancefloors. Welcome back to
Oz! So I strip out of pinstripe and
power red (stop your niggling it’s
decade appropriate – I don’t
piss on fashion). It’s one hour since
Sunday and I’ve taken a nip,
just the weensiest sip.
It’s a magical elixir that
modestly improves my skills at
Vampire Loving Cheesecake, the
latest version of which now calls me
Daddy (and sometimes Big Daddy).
Long story short, this most culpable of
pariahs, this natty bozo, his nagging fangs
sated, now wows his fellow online crusaders
with kowtows and bow wows. Suddenly,
sunrise and all that, WHOO I’m experiencing
four times the value. And I’m two hours late.
Hot holy Garlic! I set about power-pacing
the apartment, which is some sort of disco
with nothing but nipples and feather boas
flitting about through a smoky haze. OK,
maybe it isn’t Michael Jackson in the
Burger King line, but it’s undeniable.
It’s valid! And I, Responsible One,
all groggy from fleeing deadly flying
monkeys; urgent calls from London,
Delhi, and Boston; trying like mad to
get made standing up; I, dear, have had a
fabulous week so far. And how the heck are you?
