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Peter, Peter ... I Can See Your House From Here

We celebrated the weekend of pagan fertility rites by heading down to Brighton ... where the skies wept in sadness the whole time.

Gray, dreary Brighton during bear pride on a bank holiday weekend. No postcard can do it justice.

For as upleasant as the weather was, it was so good to be by the ocean sea.

The highlight of the trip was dinner with the luscious lesbain Mak makes out with and her lovely lover (with kicky new short hair). This event only barely outshone finding Cyber Candy ... a small hole in the wall that sold two things I thought were only found at my Grandma's in Cincinnati. Beeman's chewing gum and Barq's Root Beer.

We headed back norf early yesterday morning, and spent the afternoon with the S.L.A.G.S. at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern. Turns out the average BMI reduces as the evening wears on and boys with real haircuts show up to dance.

Have I mentioned that I think there should be a moratorium on clipper cuts and shaved head? Enough already. You look like a bunch of concentration campers, and nobody's casting for the muscial version of Schindler's List (which would, of course, be called Schindler!).

Off to the Walthamstow dogs this afternoon. I'm wearing my PETA shirt.