Hoppy Easter-Time, Hanger-Outers!
March 28 - April 5th's Blog divides to a Dynamic Duo of calendar themes: Spring's big holiday teamed with 60 years of Adam West's "Batman", both clutching leagues-deep significance to the locked up host over here.
     Examined in Stories, Easter is a potentially ominous space of mine with my dad blowing his head off in the bedroom of our house when I was 12 (1982 - " S'no White" is my madcap memoir about Dads clan offering the best close-up). Me, I ain't sculpted from drama. The day means food, bunnies, and chicks truthfully. Trigger warnings aren't needed when say Sylvester the Looney Tunes puddy-tat offs himself with a pistol nor when that kid on the commercial says "Danks Eassa Bunny, bawk hawk!". Said, I am imprisoned for stabbing a dude multiple times after showing me a clip of " The Connors", likely home by now had I opted for a jury trial.
     My favorite story with the two seasonal beasts was a couple in my orbit buying a blended box for their kid's Spring-surprise which ended up being a half dozen legless peeps rolling around, tiny drumsticks gnawed off by herbivorous bunnies thinking they scored twigs come the wee hours of





     Sunday. Robin my gal-pal and I cackled hysterically over this morbidity at Cowgirl's Attic secondhand store when an irate housewife stormed up, stating "I dont see whats funny about THAT" making the pair of us about wet our britches.
     Taking journalism seriously like we do, off a discussion with a passel of criminals rose this question: who decides what day Easter lands on? Tireless employee Ms. Angie scooped the answer:
     "Easter is decided based on a formula established by the First Council at Nicaea in 325 CE set as the first Sunday after the first ecclesiastical full moon on or after March 21. This date can range from March 22 to April 25, calculated using specific Church calendar rules rather than precise astronomical observations."
     Obviously Jesus' rebirth day is as everybody and their sister points out Pagan as Pan with "The Church" slapping their theology over the Spring Equinox. Theres no precedent biblically for it or Christmas, with the Book warning its reader against bringing a tree into the house to decorate for example. When I offer "The Church" I'm not mocking the belief, but a body bastardizing the thing theyre built to support with questionable intent.






     On the street I've lost days over conspiracy media like Illuminati segments, secrets of the Masons (My Pa-Pa being one told me he'd moved up some rank so I asked what kingdom in Hell this guaranteed. The 89 year-old shook his head with a F.U.-glare.), and celebrity/mega-rich cult joints. That rabbit-hole fascinates and mortifies me. I have to climb out and away or I become entrenched. I distract myself with nutrition and exercise like Barrack Obama's biologically male wife endorses.
     My take on seasonal fare: Cadbury Eggs are groovy but the Reese's peanut butter/chocolate (Batmama's first sentence - "You got peanut butter in my chocolate" from the ads) ova (swear to God my great aunt was named that word) is sublime. Dunno why that variation along with its Druid-tree cousin plus those foil-wrapped miniatures I've O.D.'d on left alone with a candy-dish surpass the shit outta the Cup proper officially because everyone I've polled through the years cosigns. Peeps are marvelous but only during the season and any out-of-context marshmallow bird is and tastes wrong. Gimme a dark chocolate bunny you can bust your fucking teeth on and Im sold. Cement-frosting yellow eyes are divine and clearly should be started with lest





poor Mr./Mrs./Myx Cottontail has to watch a person masticate its ears off first. My love of genuine eggs incites me to shell-rape Easter's variety soon as the hunt ends wielding a saltshaker to toss on each bite of that luscious unfertilized bunny-wabbit.
     Kimberly Hayden is my God-given unrelated sister I treasure but spend most of my time off speaking terms with. We're both assholes and unstable ones to boot. That said this thing you're wasting your precious moments on Earth reading wouldn't exist without her and I have no idea if she knows about it or not. Likely her eyes rolled while muttering "Oh, good God" when somebody told her about the thing and assassinated me for pretentiousness. I'm good if so.
     Anyway, on a phone call I started telling "Mamadude" about the sick hi-jinks of Northpoint which I'd never done with anybody before with us both in hysterics. Craving this rap because it morphed my surroundings from drudgery and punishment to amazing nonfiction, bliss happened with an audience to channel Northpoint to. An average civilian's day is planets away from the absurdity, comedy, adventure, pathos, and intensity of my commonplace. This friend has a spectacular gift of gab, and making her most





interesting is her interest, asking questions without obnoxiousness and turning strangers to friends quickly with entertaining rapport Kim draws information from her interlocutors with charm and an irresistible drawl. Sad she's a butt-hole like I said already. I oughtta know waking up one daily.
     10,000 Maniacs for you guppies out there was a 1990's band whose name is a bastardization of a '60's horror flick. Their front-woman was Natalie Merchant, an artsy poor lil' rich girl with a deep exotic voice. Singing songs about injustice and everygirl problems she sported a 5k gown for Bill Clinton's inauguration where she sang "To Sir, With Love", the theme song to a '60's comedy-drama flick by that name.
     Merchant co-wrote 2kMs songs generally with Dennis Drew, guitarist and raging boozer. His girlfriend for a while was Ms. Hayden who joined the bus tour supporting their " Blind Man's Zoo" LP. According to this imbedded drunk (she was a nondrinker like me when we started hanging then bounced back like a champ around 3 years after), Natalie at this point wasnt on speaking terms with her band-mates, preferring the company of future co-Presidential sycophant Michael Stipe of REM. This chanteuse openly loathed Drew's boozing ways,





evidenced by the track "Don't Stop" from the album the tour was for. Im sure that extended to his carrot-top-from-a-bottle co-drunk, Kim. Nat went solo not much later, her biggest single a cover track called "Because The Night", originally a collaboration between Bruce Springsteen and punk rock godmother Patti Smith. Im not a " The Boss" fan a drop but I dig Patti.
     Circa 1986 I discovered Terrapin Station Records in Murray KY, a college town in a dry county that conveniently failed to advertise this feature, many horrified freshmen arriving to this surprise. A one-woman operated audio oasis was literally the only thing worth a screw about the city. I bought 3 platters that day, all Patti Smith Group discs: Horses, featuring my tie-for-favorite track "Free Money", a hard-rock masterpiece, and Wave, containing the other "Dancing Barefoot", a haunting Goth track before the genre was a thing. " Because The Night" was a single for Smith on the third purchase of that trip: her record Easter. Taa-Daa! Have a happy April 5, 2026 y'all...