Into the Mystic Menstrual Mistrial Night We Go, Hey Ho, Hey Ho

I, Sleeve Consefuckingquences, hereby dedicate this branding, spanking new weblog as a birthday present to Ian, whose loyal pseudonym I have been since the turn of the century at least. Please, gentle public, consider everything within to be provisional, including the wretchedly un-purple pink-ass borders hereupon; there ain't much I can do about that shit right now, 'fraid to say.

What shall be the nature of this entertainment? Likely much as before: politics, occult, attempted satire, merry jests & boastings & all such rat's-ass claptrap. Gone of course is any pretense at furthering the non-existent agenda of Purple Ass Press, now defuncter than ten Buffalo Bills. Perhaps, with a renewed purity (and pinker-than-christ borders), a genuinely blessed agenda'll emerge, one dedicated to th'uplift of all those beloved souls under the "loyalists" heading to the right, then to th'upswell of those they love, and the beloveds of the latter, and so on till all are just a wee fleeting bit elevated though they know it or not. . .

Or, at least best, I'll find a better reason to stay awake till one a.m., drinking the barley pop, digging the hushed roar of my cityscape from my Capitol Hill balcony, reflecting on the beauty of my family and yours, keeping my eyes off the solitaire program for a while, and shrinking my cynicism into little flitty flecks I can brush brashly from my lapels with the usual insouciance of an overgrown adolescent. Or some such silly helplessness, yes, gods, yes.