Happy S&BJ Day

steak_and_bj_day

One month following Valentines Day, the supposed romantic highlight of the year, comes S & BJ Day.  You can look up what that means yourself, you didn’t hear it from me.  It is supposed to be the opposite of Valentines day, an anti-romantic holiday.

At its heart I think it is a reaction against crass commercialisation rather than against romance.  It is, at it’s heart, still a quest for companionship.  It does not reject the fundamental notion of two people wanting to be together.  Instead it rejects all the socio-cultural and commercial baggage that gets between two people.  It tries to pare the relationship back to raw basics.

In this regard it treads a well worn path.  How many times have you seen the narrative of the US Bachelor Party movie, where the groom or bride and his or her buddies have one last fling?  And how do these movies end?  With a wedding.  With true love and a lifelong commitment.  They end in happy ever after.

 

A Contingency Plan: by Suzannah Evans

What if we’re apart when the asteroid comes,
or the magnetic storm that shuts off the power?

You could be waiting for a train as the sun’s bulb
flickers out, high above the glass-panelled roof.

I’ll be at work. We’ll lose the phone lines,
the door-entry system will go haywire.

I will eat from the vending machine,
drink from the competition cupboard

and sleep on nylon carpet with my colleagues
all of us three-weeks unwashed. Stay where you are –

I’ll abseil down eight floors on a rope
fashioned from the supply of festive tinsel,

loot M&S, steal a bike and make for the M1
forty miles of silence and abandoned cars

so we can witness the collapse of civilisation
with a picnic of high-end tins

so I can lie in your arms on a rooftop,
our dirty faces lit by fires.

Winter’s final month

by Maira Kalman

by Maira Kalman

With Valentines day behind us, Fat Thursday, Shrove Tuesday and Ash Wednesday all duly celebrated we can at last settle into the rhythm of misery that truly defines the second month of the year and the final month of winter in the Northern Hemisphere.

How the hell did this February get so many “days”?

Gird your loins, the next bit of light relief is St Patricks day, on March 17th.

February ; by Margaret Atwood

Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It’s his
way of telling whether or not I’m dead.
If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am
He’ll think of something. He settles
on my chest, breathing his breath
of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,
not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,
declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,
which are what will finish us off
in the long run. Some cat owners around here
should snip a few testicles. If we wise
hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,
or eat our young, like sharks.
But it’s love that does us in. Over and over
again, He shoots, he scores! and famine
crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing
eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits
thirty below, and pollution pours
out of our chimneys to keep us warm.
February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the centre.
I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries
with a splash of vinegar.
Cat, enough of your greedy whining
and your small pink bumhole.
Off my face! You’re the life principle,
more or less, so get going
on a little optimism around here.
Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.