Bad Medicine: Slipped Mickeys and the Albatross of Free Will

"Thank you, Classic City... Good Night!"
Ian Stoddard stepped down from the stage and waded through the crowd to the bar to grab a pint. He took a sip and surveyed the sea of heads and shoulders, searching.
"Where did she go?"
He snaked his way through the boisterous club, squinting in the hazy, low light at every niche and table.
And there she was.
Sprawled on a bench, slumped against the wall, her head skewed crookedly like a broken doll.
She stirred slightly, eyelids leaden, and softly moaned.
Ian stared daggers, and after a clenched number of seconds blurted, "What the hell happened to you?"

Veronique was an otherwise bright and witty woman -- 'fun to be around' as one might say. Though she did have a penchant for blathering boilerplate phrases in the form of "All ____ are potential _____;" "I'm against ___-ism, ___-ism and people who are ____-ist;" "____ is a social construct," and so on. You can fill in the blanks.
Ian chalked up her spouting of de rigueur tropes as a vestige of days at Uni. He endured this because she was Basically a Good Person. And hoping that eventually, being in the Real World, she would outgrow the parroting of her professors from Navel Gazing Studies classes.

"What the hell happened to you?"
Again she stirred, unable to look Ian in the eye.
"I... had a shot."
"One shot?"
"Yesss..."
"What was it?"
"I don't... know..."
"What do you mean, 'You don't know'?"
"A man... gave it to me..."
"Who?"
"...I dunno."
"So some stranger offered you a Mickey Finn and it's just 'down the hatch' to you, is it? Did you want to be a victim?"
Veronique's shoulders slunk forward, as if she were collapsing upon herself.
"...Yes."
"A victim of your own stupidity!" Ian blared, furious.
He continued to read her the Riot Act until the bloody obvious settled into her thick skull, which took all of seconds flat.

What drives this mindset?
Intentionally putting oneself in a high-risk situation?
Having an external locus of control orientation? ['If I leap into a pool of sharks, it's still their fault for eating me.']
A cheap grasp at moral status through victimisation in the face of the cold, hard stare of Social Darwinism?

Ian took a deep breath, leaned close and hissed, "You're fond of pithy platitudes. Here's an old one for you that you've probably forgotten: Don't take sweets from strangers."

Metagnostic Moomba: The Sneaker-Set Parade

The lamplights are aglow
on the streets of Sheffield
and the evening dew has settled
on green blades underfoot

HOP-HOP-STOMP

Down the pavement comes the procession
batons awhirl and cymbals clatter
sneakers red and sneakers blue
hearts and smiles are on the march

HOP-HOP-STOMP

Charming the spirit of Nooralie
wives with spears in the air
Doppler drone of the thunner-spale
drifts through the ville, sonorous

HOP-HOP-STOMP

Clad in their modern-day lap-lap
the new stomp of a kapa haka
unbridled joy enthusiastic
with humble attire -- paper, not plastic

Ein Wunsch: Vier Pfennig für vier Brüder

Meeting Minutes 033109: Rig-One Avatar Hub Legit

Pensador Paradoja: Fuego en la Mente

Genmetsu: Ned’s second wind bodes ill

“Arm candy makes good copy”

While the sad lament of unrealistic middle-aged fantasies is quite common, fair quarter must be given to the understandable need for idealism at any age.
Unfortunately, it is not until mid-life when some realise that that which should have been recognised in earlier years is as pertinent now as ever.
Ideals of beauty, depth, and most of all, potential, are timeless qualities that beg to be acknowledged, regardless of circumstance.
So why must the man -- who has had decades with which to accrue wisdom -- blindly pursue Bygone Barbies and Caricatures of Cassandras whom he will never heed?

[SPOILT EGO SPENDS JACK ON SUBSTANTIVE INTROSPECTION]

Klæders nye Keiseren: Enter the Pod

Celebrate Decadence!

Let’s be frank: By ‘decadence’ we mean the point at which a creative function’s indwelling essence has rotted, leaving nothing but the outer rind of form. We do know that new forms come from new experiences. Fair enough. But unfortunately, using yesteryear’s zeitgeist as today’s boutade célèbre spells out the harsh reality that’s all too obvious to most outside the shell.

“Embrace the Clothes’ New Emperor”

Yes, the presence of the pod itself is deemed more important than what’s in it. Apparently, it just doesn’t matter:
• Where your good intentions lead, as long as you speak loudly of them.
• Who is in charge, as long as you oppose them.
• What your tattoo means, as long as you show it.

In the end, it’s all about the carapace...