Damien Hirst is in the news today, oh boy. It seems his diamond encrusted skull (how decadant is that little piece?) sold for big bucks at auction. I must admit I am an admirer of Mr. Hirst's artistic and promotional skills, which in today's world, seem to be required to get any kind of attention. It's his facsination with death that resonates with me. I'm in the same club. Maybe to some extent we all are, I mean, it's the one great mystery that we never seem to get to the bottom of, until we get to the bottom of it, if you know what I mean. I first heard about Hirst when it was all about his shark in formaldehyde. There was also the cow's head with a swarm of flies, and well, there's something Edgar Allen Poe-ish about this British bad boy, that well, puts me in the mind to do the Funky Chicken at the next Masque of the Red Death!
So I Googled and landed on Wikipedia and learned that Hirst used to insert a cigarette into the end of his penis when speaking with journalists. That's saying something right there don't you think? I guess it's one way to extend the enjoyment of smoking, but is it really wise care and feeding for the old penile member? Seems Hirst's mother is quite the character too. She once took his vinyl copy of the Sex Pistol's "Never Mind the Bollocks" melted it down and made a vase. Now that's not only valid music criticism, but she made something functional in the process. Way to go Mummy!
