Once in high school, in the late 70’s, when I was a senior, I took advantage of the prevailing cultural disposition to sign myself out of classes one day on the excuse that I was going to a Joyce conference at Marquette, and instead road-tripped to Madison with a number of friends on that beautiful spring day, to munch on deep-dish pizza and to . . . enjoy ourselves.  The

“Wow.  I never thought I’d be in a position one day to talk rhetorical strategy with the Billy Jack—a man who, for my entire generation of politically active youth weary of the toll taken on our country’s moral credibility in the wake of an ill-advised Asian war, spoke Truth to Power by way of both his personal philosophy, heavily influenced by an organic and beautiful Native American mysticism, and, when

“Crawl on me, sink into me, die for me,…” Hmm.  Okay. “Blood on her skin, dripping with sin, do it again,…” Well, that’s different.  And oddly appealing. I’m going straight to hell. Answer ghosted here->“Living Dead Girl,” Robb Zombie

…and here you thought I was gone.  Silly boys and their toys!  Saddle up and let’s get rocking.  Don’t mind the tutu.  Just cause it’s pink doesn’t mean a thing.  If anything, it’s more manly than anything I’ve got on right now. Right.  Before the almighty Goldstein returns I figured I might start this conversation.  I don’t see it covered here yet and if I repeat something…I apologize for nothing.