Halloween at IVC

Kiss the boot of shiny, shiny leather
Shiny leather in the dark
Tongue of thongs, the belt that does await you
Strike, dear mistress, and cure his heart

Senator or rock icon?

     I’ve got a bad cold, and so this might just be the ravings of foggy-headed sick dude.
     I’ve been at home in bed, natch, but Rebel Girl's been fightin' in the trenches. At the college, she's been pursuing the mystery of the “half staff flag” outside A100.
     Why on Earth would President Glenn Roquemore lower the flag (‘cept when he replaces it every ten or fifteen years)? He doesn’t generally notice much of anything, let alone somebody famous’s death. The last time was when Lady Di croaked in that Paris tunnel. After sixteen years, he still grieves.
     Long story short, the Reb has heard that Glenn’s been bilious and melancholy all week. She’s deduced that Glenn is mourning the loss of Lou Reed, chief songwriter of the groundbreaking 60s band the “Velvet Underground.” He died on Sunday. Hence the half-staffery.

     Glenn, a Velvets fan? Can it be? Don’t see how.
     Still, I seem to remember the Reb telling me—was it yesterday? this morning? my mind is so fuzzy!—that denizens of A100 started noticing a dirge-like sound, complete with droning atonal violas, seemingly emanating from the moldy interstices and poke holes of the much-modified (and thus thoroughly honeycombed) walls of Glenn’s Cavern—a lurid hovel reportedly decorated with black light posters of Keanu Reeves in The Devil’s Advocate and Point Break.
     Craig, that diehard devotee of the West Coast Sound (Byrds, Turtles, Eagles, Spirit), identified the source of the dronage immediately. “It’s coming from over there,” said he, pointing at Glenn’s deceptively solid door.
     Perturbed, he added: “I think it’s one of those kinky tunes by that weird-assed New York leather band that dare not speak its name. ‘All Tomorrow’s Parties,’ I think. Or maybe ‘Venus in Furs.’”

     David G soon came by with a white saucer (an old trick) and verified the identification. “Yep,” he said, lifting the saucer from Glenn's door. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, I'm hearing an endless loop of ‘All Tomorrow’s Parties’!”

A blackened shroud, a hand-me-down gown
Of rags and silks, a costume
Fit for one who sits and cries
For all tomorrow's parties