WEEKEND’s favorite activity at the many parties to which we are invited is fearlessly outing the elephant in the room — it’s why people invite us … well, that and our Christopher Walken impression. The elephant in this room, in the room that you’re in, with your desk chair and your desk lamp and your … mug, is that Valentine’s Day (or should we say El Día de San Valentín) is Lupercalia. Admit it: the sooner you do, the sooner you get to take your clothes off. And no offense, but the ones you have on right now are like “ZWHUYT?!”
A lot of people will tell you that the Catholic Church came up with Valentine’s Day to replace the ancient pagan lovefest of Lupercalia. (They’re right, but also don’t you think it’s weird that a lot of people will tell you that? Don’t you think it’s weird that we know what people are going to ask you? Think about that.) They’ll tell you, “Yadda yadda, it used to mean something but now it’s just an excuse for Hallmark to stamp a heart onto a folded piece of heavy stock and sell it for three dollars and Russell Stover’s to throw a bunch of crap into a heart-shaped box.” Granted, at least that purchase will be delicious, but only half of the chocolates are because the other half are weird flavors, so when you average it out it’s a pretty neutral flavor profile overall LISTEN. The point here is that we have all the tools necessary to facilitate a rebirth of Valentine’s Day, that we can make it stronger, faster, better — with the power of fusion. Nuclear fusion? Ha, you wish. Not this time.
Imagine, if you will (which you will, because we’ve taken control of your mindwaves), a combination of the delightful commercialism of Valentine’s Day with the raw sensual energy of the Lupercalian festivities. Sex! Stuff! And without all of the asininity of false emotion. Just eat the candy and do it.
We know what you’re thinking: “Can I be orgy referee? They have those, right?” And the answer is no, that’s Ralph’s job, and sometimes, but only when we run them. The important thing to consider, we mean the part of the four-step “Visualize and Attack” model on which you were primed immediately prior to reading these words that is most vital at this point in our personal, sexual and historical narratives, is to RESIST. RESIST the notion that love and commercialism coexist. There is no love without advertisement. RESIST the notion that eating chocolate will make anything better. It feels good. RESIST the notion that we are somehow incapable of experiencing only the basest aspects of either tradition and finding the mixture sweet and satisfying, if somewhat metallic tasting. This is our time. This is your time. Do something regrettable with it.
But the prime method of RESISTANCE, the one-two punch to the turkey-necked throats of our oppressors, is to take back the reigns. Buy a folded piece of heavy stock with a heart stamped on it and cross out the heart and write over it “FINGERS” and “JOINTS.” Open it up and cross out “Valentine’s,” write “NOW” after “Day.” Give it to your lover, a bum, your chihuahua, and if they throw it back in your face then you know they weren’t worth it to begin with. Because to understand the closest thing our mind chemicals can approximate to the ideal of “love” is to understand the movements of bodies in weird ways. Gingerly place the point of your elbow in someone’s ear, for example. No one in particular — even just someone else in the room with the ugly clothing and the … mug. We’ll wait. Did you do it? Was it wonderful? When, WHEN have we steered you wrong?
Be forewarned: this is the kind of serf that seeks a master, the antiworm that strive for the safety of the can. But we mustn’t let it. We must grab the worm by his worm parts and say, “Look here, worm! I’m going to make a circular motion with my tongue on the surface of someone else’s hip, and they’re going to like it!” And the worm will say with a lavish whip of its wormy tail, “Wouldn’t you rather kiss on the lips, on the mouth, like a nice dear?” And you will grab his worm parts a second time and squeeze until worm chutney comes out of his eyeballs (it’s okay — it’s delicious and vestigial) and you will explain in a level tone, “I am going to massage the webby parts of my lover’s hands, between where the fingers are. I don’t want to survive, damnit! I wanna live!”