Wait A Minute. They Make Nick Cave Dolls?

I want one.

About to wrap my head around a cocktail party in Piedmont immediately followed by incarnations of Mike Keneally in shan franshisky. They go together about as much as they don’t.

I’m thinking about what to wear to the cocktail party, focusing on how good it will be to take it off. Shall I stuff the outfit in a garbage can in the tenderloin on my way to the show? Leave it on the corner where its complete lack of style can outrage a passing sex worker?

This isn’t whining, per se: it’s just a moment of regret. I could have openly indicated that I don’t do cocktail parties, but I dint.

Hello Death. Goodbye, Avenue A.

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