Usually due on Wednesday, hitting the streets today.

Here’s this week’s 100 Word Song.

And here is the latest “bestest SPAM note ever received” that I ever just recently received (written by CS Lewis, presumably):

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click to enlarge.

Oh, and here’s a tune that makes me happy. Friday happy.


If I were a Drag Queen, she would be my Drag Mother.

No, scratch that. That’s not what I meant.

What I meant was this: she is to me, the Bloggerish version of what a Drag Mother would be.

There, that’s better.

More experienced than I, she took me under her wing – for no reasonable reason – and let me know point blank how it should be. She followed my posts, and freely told me what I was doing right. She honestly told me what I was doing wrong as well. Lovingly holding my feet to the flame when she felt – knew, really – that I could do better. And, when I was truly beginning to doubt what it all meant, to the point of voicing ideas about reinventing myself as a woman (again, in a bloggerish fashion only, as an actual operation would be far too costly); she took the time to privately message me, letting me know that change was good. Possible. That sometimes it was quite all right to shake things up and strip ’em down. Or, if the WordPress Daily Post people are reading along, to “start over.”

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And so it is.

And so I will. I mean, change implies growth, and growth is indicative of, well, growth. As such, moving forward this bloggie of mine will need to grow along with me (first point of concern – stop calling it a “bloggie.”) I’m going to trim some fat. Need to copy a paper on the merits of same-sex marriage for PSYCH101? Better snag it quick, as “stuff i have to write for school” is going bye-bye. Older posts too, may fall off the screen, as I re-tweak the site to satisfy my current outlook, and present a more polished appearance.

I’m going to get involved with more prompts as well (you’ve been warned, Prompt People!) I like these exercises, because they force me to focus more on form and fiction, and less on my usual lackadaisical pissery. Rest assured, you’ll most likely still get a mouthful from me at least once a week about some sort of imagined injustice or “woe is me,” but for the most part, this kid is going to try to keep things tight from here on out. Like Morrissey, I’ll now channel my mopey nature in an effort to be all creative n’ stuff – instead of just sitting around being mopey, like Morrissey.

Esthetically speaking, I’m none to sure if I’ll change the look of the site overall, but I can tell you this, the Darin Love ain’t going anywhere. I connect on a lot of levels with BD, and though my readership is small, I’ve got to continue to spread the gospel of Darin – yes – even “beyond the sea” if need be, funny guy.

Speaking of, the music will stay as well. I mean, how could it not? As it was my first-ever best friend, and a constant companion even these 43 years later. I can’t promise you anything current as, with age comes the belief that nothing new is “as good as,” and therefore worth investigating. But I can tell that every post will continue to have a link of some sort at the bottom to sonically reward you for your patronage. In truth, I sometimes think it’s my biggest draw.

Hey, what’s my word count?


Cool, time to wrap it up then. Drag Mother hates when I bloat my posts with unwarranted and wasted words.

So, there we have it. Change is good, starting over, quite all right as needed. I know that it’s a lesson I learned a long time ago, but apparently one that I need to be re-educated on from time to time as well. I’m excited to see what comes next. Thanks Drag Mom for the confidence. Thanks WordPress for the prompt that forced my hand on this decision. And as always, thanks to all of you screw bags who continue to read along =)


What? You didn’t think I was actually going to ignore my music snobbery, and pull the obvious Bowie card here, did you?

150 Words Plus A Sentence

Listen, there are some really good writers out there, and a group of them have a weekly challenge they call “Master Class.” Please click on the image below, or visit my “Master Class 2013” tab above, to learn more.


I’ve never had the nerve to join in the fun before, but I felt I should give ‘er a go for the upcoming Spring semester. Just to see if I can do with literary prompts what I feel I’ve become pretty proficient at with musical ones.

Although there’s no limitation on the word count with this challenge, as you can see from my post title, I will attempt to keep my entries down to 150 words past the prompt sentence. I feel the brevity of the exercise will help me to become a better writer, while at the same time guarantee that you’ll not have to suffer through my usual 1,000 + words.

So, without further ado, here’s this week’s Master Class 2013 entry.

And, in a partial ode to my constant fear that I’m writing something that someone else already did, here’s the tune I chose to kick this venture off with…


First one of 2013, AND we get to start it with The Afghan Whigs! I so love it when an “authentically new wave” new wave band is chosen for the prompt.

Here’s this week’s 100 Word Song.

And just for Desi, here’s another authentically new wave act – this ditty being the possible topic for another post about my Club Harvey’s days…

An inconsequential diversion

It was at Club Harvey’s where I first heard them.


Club Harvey’s, – a little nightclub buried within a Jacksonville NC hotel – where once a week all the pseudo punks and drunks, all the closet Goths and the geeks, all the Wilmington art fags and hags would come out to play, while DJ Jane Doe spun her wicked mix of subculture cacophony. I was a personal friend of “Jane” (Brenda being her actual name), and though it would be years yet before my own DJing Cherry was popped, she occasionally allowed me into the beloved, albeit claustrophobic, red carpeted booth in order to hand-select some of the – I must say – choicer cuts that were played.

I wasn’t in the booth the first night I heard them, but I wish I had been. As the first night they were played over the surprisingly good sounding speakers (for a hotel nightclub at any rate), there was a club boy in attendance. Just your normal average “douche about town” club boy. I’m sure in reality that he wasn’t dressed nearly as disastrously, but I recall that at first notice I thought to myself that his style had an uncanny resemblance to that of Vanilla Ice. And no, I don’t mean the “I resurrected my career through tattoos and bench presses” Vanilla either. Were his eyebrows replete with carefully shaven hash marks? I’m pretty sure not, but it wouldn’t have surprised me had they been.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m quite sure that he was a nice enough kid. And over the next several months that he spent bonding with us during our weekly temporary Punk O Rama hootenannies, this indeed proved to be the case. But that first night I absolutely hated him. Loathed him in fact.

You see, here was this average run-of-the-Chess King club kid. One who carelessly busted up well more than one fondling couple, all in an effort to get his skinny white ass to the dance floor when first their song came on. And he then spent the next six plus minutes or so simply obliterating every move. All while us supposedly more seasoned and “in the know” types stood there, simply dumbfounded. No industrial stomps, no voguing, no Gothic posing came from us in response, no sir. In fact, all but none of us even knew what this strange new – albeit decidedly alternative – sound was. No, it was left to just this one plain old (young) Vanilla Icean to show us all how it should be done. With almost every single part of his body at one point or another touching the floor – and I could have sworn in at least one instance – the ceiling as well.

The first time I heard them, this is what I remember.

I’ve honestly no idea why the memory is so strong. And I’m equally perplexed as to why I seem to feel the need – all these years later – to now regale you all with the tale, unless of course somewhere deep within me, I felt that maybe you too could also use a simple and inconsequential diversion for a spell.