Passed Along Without Comment

Frank.

Truth.

Oh, Sure, Jimmy Page Can Have an Occult Shop, but Me?

Not that I’m putting any actual effort into having an occult shop, or for that matter, a fourteen year old groupie, but I just thought I’d continue to articulate my goals.

–Have creepy, evil occult shop

–Have lunch with Jimmy Page

–Buy a house

–Dye my own yarn and make me something from it

–Do the dishes

As previously noted, there are any number of problems with the woo-woo shops in Nashville. One, they’re all hung up on making sure that you know that they’re all feel-good, safe places to hang out and buy crystals and talk about aliens. Two, they’re not occult shops so much as New Age shops. They smell like hippie incense. The kids working behind the counter are all so young, why bother to ask them for help with anything? I don’t trust that the herbs are what they say they are.

An occult shop should be dark and poorly lit. There should be a wall of herbs, some imported, some grown out back. There should be someone on staff who can tell your fortune. There should be someone on staff who can give you magical advice and direct you in spell-compilation. It should make the neighbors nervous and seem mildly offensive and scary to the broader community.

And it should be the kind of place you might run into Jimmy Page, should he happen to be in town.

Anyway, this was all a big tangent to get around to the meat of the post, which is ole Page talking about his magical practices in Guitar World— “You mean talismanic magick? Yes, I knew what I was doing. There’s no point in saying about it, because the more you discuss it, the more eccentric you appear to be. But the facts is – as far as I was concerned – it was working, so I used it.”

Okay, It’s Probably The End of My Sex Life

But it’s not like my sex life was that great to begin with.  I mean, let’s be honest, folks, if you lack the skills to convince libertarians to fuck you, you lack skills in general, and if ever there were a girl on the planet who liked to play “Get drunk and try to convince libertarians to fuck you,” well, it’s me.

Oh, shut up.  I don’t ask you why you like to fuck types of people do I?  No, I’m not poking around in your past history questioning why all your sex partners seem to be one tequila shot away from a church-destroying sex scandal.

So, let’s just accept my quirks as being just that, quirks, and move on to the point of this post which is, even if I were successful at bedding libertarians in the past, those days are over.

In fact, I am no going to have to bank on the conservatives being right–that gay marriage will soon lead to all kinds of debauchery like men marrying garbage cans and women marrying anteaters, because, really, an anteater is probably the only thing that’s going to find the new nighttime me attractive.  Even Mrs. Wigglebottom hid under the bed all night long.

So, it isn’t pretty. 

There’s a chin strap apparatus and then this nose thing with a giant tube and you have to stay on your back all night and the noise from it is all like Luke, I am your father, and bleh, yes, the whole thing is a little depressing and I desperately wanted to call out to the Butcher and ask him if it looked as stupid as I thought, but if you open your mouth with the thing on, you kind of feel like you’re choking.  Not that I could open my mouth, with the chin strap.

But, I think I did kind of regress back to the last time I slept that well, because the one time I woke up last night (as opposed, you’ll remember, to once every two hours), I was going “blublblrberb” and blowing spit bubbles like a tiny baby.

And, when the alarm went off, I felt wide awake.  It was really weird.  And now I feel great, really alert and kind of in a silly mood.

So, there you go.