The 35th Precinct

Did you know that calling Richard "Peaches" is demeaning because it focuses attention on his amazing ass and reduces him to a piece of meat?

Yes, I'm sure he's devastated to know that countless women are ogling his ass. It's not like he's ever admitted to loving female attention, or, indeed, any attention at all. Oh, wait...

If Richard ever says that the nickname irks him, then I'll take complaints like these seriously, but until then, fans need to stop policing other fans' chosen method of engagement with fandom and shitting on others' harmless squee.

According to Rammfen, every time you lust after Richard, part of his sensitive artist's soul dies.

Oh, fuck right off, you self-appointed guardians of Richard's soul. I'm fairly certain he doesn't give a fuck if fans lust after him. I doubt he thinks of the fans at all when he isn't onstage doing his job.

Attitudes like this one make Rammfen an irritating, uncomfortable place to be. It's just so smug. So, you understand the band better than all the other misguided plebes, do you? Please, o, great one, enlighten my simple mind.

I wholeheartedly agree with this confession, however. That makes me happy, too. Very, very happy.

I'll produce more substantive posts eventually, but right now, I'm just happy to bob along on life's currents and learn how to breathe without my mother's hands coiled possessively around my soul. I haven't done much writing, but I've been reading voraciously since the beginning of October. I think I've logged 1300 pages in the past ten days, and I'm currently having a third go at Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, which I bought a ridiculous number of years ago but twice abandoned in the face of the detailed description of the wealthy London social milieu in 1808. I just couldn't find it within myself to care about endless dinner parties and drawing-room politicking. I still can't, quite frankly, but the book is more digestible when read in fifty-page increments, and while the subject matter is dreadfully dry and deathless at the moment, there looms the promise of magic, and sometimes the prose drifts into the lyrical and convivial. Mr. Norrell and his coterie of puppeteers hold no interest for me, but Mr. Honeywell is a sweet old soul, and Childermass is obviously not what he appears. And so, I will persist for the time being. Perhaps the third time will be the charm.

It damn well better be. I paid nearly twenty dollars for this doorstep cum ad hoc murder weapon.

Oh, boo hoo. What is with the holier-than-thou dick-measuring in this bandom today?