EMPA#0033: It Gets Better (Don't Off Yourself!)

Season 3, Episode 2 (EMPA#0033): It Gets Better (Don't Off Yourself!) Recorded NYC, October 3, 2010 Carmen Kickass and Luckylicious proudly bring you the thirty-third installment of Eat My Pagan Ass. In this episode, we bring everyone up to speed on just where the heck we've been all summer long. Lucky's been on Fire Island, the notorious gay haven by the sea, communing with the elements and checking out all the delicious, roasting meat (see poem below). Carmen has been hopping the globe, stirring up trouble on both U.S. coasts and beyond. Both of us are asking "What the fuck is going on with all these gay suicides?" and you can bet we've got something to say about it. It's not all Sturm und Drang, however; we take a playful detour through the adventures of love (and how NOT to run away from the opportunity to love and be loved in return); we celebrate the official recognition of Druidry in the U.K. as a legitimate religion; we reply to some listener emails; we dish on J.K. Rowling's recent appearance on the Oprah Winfrey Show; announce that the legendary Enchantments magical store in New York City is alive and well on the Lower East Side; ruminate on the coming Samhain season; explore Carmen's unnatural fascination with large zits (gag); mention Perdurabo, an updated biography on the man, the myth, the legend himself, Aleister Crowley ("Uncle Al"), written by Richard Kaczynski; and last but not least we hear a wonderful new song by Jeff Altergott called "It Gets Better" dedicated to all the GLBTQ youth out there struggling with daily harassment for being who they are.

Featured artist: Jeffrey Altergott And now for a poem: Fire Island September 18, 2010 by Lucky de las Brujas Roiling tides that presage the storms at sea, Half-naked (or fully bare) boys with tans Hurling themselves, laughing, carefree, Into the swelling waters, finding fun In daring Dame Nature herself. Thongs on feet that flip, now flop, Now left alone along dry, sometimes-splintered boardwalks, Abandoned by their owners, Who prefer to feel the fire of the sun In the hot sands baking—almost burning— Between their carefully manicured toes, Connecting body to beach, man to eternity. A timeless sounding as surf sinks into the porous shore, Ephemeral sea foam fizzing into nothingness. Dingbat birds with tiny bodies, long legs, and even longer beaks Chase after the receding, briny waters Wanting to taste the sweet, moist meat of a fat worm Buried below the thirsty sucking mud. Pardon our sound--Lucky forgot to bring the good audio recorder and so this one was made with an iPhone.

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