I've learned a new adjective today, goslings, and it's Peter Max. It's all there, the combination of Art Nouveau, psychedelia, and an Asian influence, all tweaked with cheerful animation. All this time I've been periphrastically thrashing about, now all I have to say is: Peter Max.

All these images are from ebay. The first is a thrilling scarf. The second, an astrological silk scarf. Next is from the box for Mr. Max's signature fragrance, and a rainbow scarf. And finally, some wisdom literature complete with Peter Max illustrations. They are affordable. Go get 'em.

Now I am filled with longing for a Peter Max scarf. Who knew that new longings could be kindled in my aged and jaded breast? And then I thought to myself, what other bastions of outré materialism have I left untasted?

Earlier today I realized that I was really slacking on my plan to become a philistine and that I'd better step it up. I discovered that there are Freemasons' ladies auxiliaries, complete with their own secret handshakes and goofy badges. And that the Order of the Eastern Star accepts both men and women and as they state on their website "people of any faith". Take me to the pdf of that application. There I learned that one needs a current member to vouch for you, and you need to profess belief in a supreme being. Oops. As Luis Buñuel would say: I'm an atheist, thank God. Well, I could shine it on for half an hour, just for the initiation. When asked, "Ms. Samsara, do you believe in a Supreme Deity?", I could answer distractedly: "Oh yeah, sure".

Then I got looking at websites for local lodges and found that they have theme songs. The one near me has chosen "Climb Every Mountain". How much fun would it be to get together with a bunch of old ladies every month and sing songs from the Sound of Music? Perhaps I could propose that we sing "The Lonely Goatherd", and "Doe Re Me" as well. I could work for the newsletter, and help plan events for charity. It would cut into my drinking, yes, but it would keep me off the streets, and most importantly, out of the stores.

Further examination of the tenets and beliefs and structures and rituals and meeting minutes and administration and...I dozed off. And then there are dues. It was becoming less and less appealing.

Finally, looking at the photos for various conventions, this group was resoundingly not diverse. We are talking white people, most with the look of hardened churchgoers about them (not a burlesque artiste nor an astrologer among them, no siree.) I tried to give them the benefit of the doubt: maybe they want to be more diverse. At least I hope so. I mean, come on now. Something about it began to make me a bit queasy.

Maybe my Masonic lodgings need extend to further than a Masonic themed vintage compact. I'll have to find a more diverse and less bureaucratic psuedo-secret society to belong to. At least in France the Masons admit atheists.

I was feeling so glum the other day that I went shopping. I've been trying really hard not to buy anything, especially more ridiculous clothing. So far this year I had shown amazing self-restraint, but now that I've fallen off the wagon, who knows what mischief I could get up to. Using stuff to improve your mood is kinda like doing drugs. And constructing an identity through stuff is a paltry thing indeed. Paltry! But you know what, I felt better, by gum. And I always follow the advice of my patron saint, Kate Bornstein, who says: rotate your addictions and it could look like moderation.

I found a photo print trapeze dress printed with images of Ancient Egyptian art (in homage to Akhenaten), a Vera scarf to hide what's happening to my hair, a handkerchief with teddy bears at the circus, and, the showstopper: a cotton 60s Alfred Shaheen dress for only $17.

It looks just like this, only it's a dress.










I promise a photo once it's up and running.