dolores666's photos with the keyword: Alternatives

There must be an irony somewhere in the fact that when I’m in the Great Dumps the best solace comes from monsters, oddballs, dissidents, mutineers and fauna of that ilk. Thus with this year’s Anti-Mawk Festival. Too despondent to organize the usual alternative merry shindig, I was thinking of cancelling it when the Renegade Uncouth Larvae of the Final Void crawled out of the inter-dimensional woodwork and came to me with a maaaaarvelous idea: Why not have a Universal Day of Lamentation, Detestation and All-purpose Kvetching instead? See what I mean? Such a spiffing notion. So, that’s what we’ll be having. The event will take place in and around the pond at Vicky Park. (In, literally, just in case the Deep Ones wish to attend –Bumba knows they have good cause to grumble, poor things) As usual, you’re all invited. You’ll all have free access to food, drink, drugs, shows, poetry recitals, communal defenestrations, workshops, effigy burnings and anything that might be going. This year, as a bonus, there’ll be a competition for the Best Carping of 2018. Prize yet to be decided but the toss is between a Garrote Florido (Flowery Club) and a fortnight cruise for two to the slimy canals that coil around the fringes of Unknown Kadath. The gaudeamus, or rather the lamentates, will take place tomorrow, Wednesday 13th. Time to be advised, in Lemurian code, via the Today’s program, just to aggravate John Humphys or whichever State Stodge is presenting it. Keep your ears peeled, folks and see you all there, I hope. Here, to put you in the mood, have a link to one of Tom Lehrer’s best on the subject of these ghastly “Whatever Day/Week/Year/Century” capers: www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Vm-8eXFgqA

Baby Bug For Aki Kaurismäki, who puts his trust in Dogs. The Red Mood persists. I’m considering making a copy with the text in Catalan, changing theBoris bits to, say Puigdemont -or any of those pathetic “exiled” non-starters wold-be candidates to the presidency of the Generalitat- and sending it to my little brother, who is suffering greatly under the strain of the ongoooooooing political Panto. A word about the Bug. A few days ago I came across a rather nice interview with the Finnish director Aki Kaurismäki in which, amongst many other things with teeth, says that the world would be better run by a dog, or even a snake, than by the lot of idiots and/or psychopaths that are running it now. It reminded me of my own assertion that a tadpole (or, for that matter, a bug) could do a better job at managing the whole planet that any of the current politicians and their meat puppet-masters, the International Money Mafias. For the love of Bumba give me a tadpole to vote for!

A great wind has risen from the South, tearing a breach between the worlds and carrying in its wake BoulderGirl and her Companions and her spinning Wibbles. See her come leaping over the Mountains of Madness, to bring us the merry dance of chakra scrubbing (whatever a chakra may be when it's at home), for to rid our poor souls of Crapitalist Crud and other Chicagoesque miasmas. Watch her Wibbles wobble and whirl & swirl and fade in & out of several dimensions all at once. You have never seen Wibbles like this in all your travelling days, for these be not only self-aware Wibbles but self-determining to boot. They know neither god nor master, like BoulderGirl herself doesn’t either. They travel and minuet with her only because it pleases them to do so. Even the Webby ProtoShoggoth is impressed; he thinks that were he the marrying kind he would very much like to marry the unruly lot of them and to hell with the quiet life he always claimed was his fondest heart's desire. The Flying Bijou Elephantine Entity, ancestress of all things pachydermic, is simply trunk-smacked with delight. Come, get up from your spuddy couches and out of your petty shell-worlds and join us in a spot of carousing and ecstatic boogie-woogie. What do you think you have got to loose, other than a few preconceptions? Look, even the delectable Kokopelli has come out to play us a tune or two! Allons enfants, Avanti, o popolo, life is effing short and true pleasure even shorter, not to say more infrequent than a Tory with a brain. And who knows that all that dancing-dancing might not open a proper sipapu in the fabric of our crummy old self-inflicted reality and then...Fifth World is our oyster!