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Subscribe to this list via RSS Blog posts tagged in skyclad

 

 

Dear Boss Warlock:

Please help settle a dispute.

My boyfriend says that you're still skyclad if you're naked but wearing a cloak. I say you're not. What do you think?

Shivering in Sheboygan

 

Dear Shiver:

To quote Granny Weatherwax: "That's witchcraft today: all jewelry, and no drawers."

Well, let's look at the matter logically.

If all that you're wearing is a pair of jeans, are you skyclad? No.

If all that you're wearing is a shirt, are you skyclad? No.

(Gods help us, Pagan English actually does have a term for just such an absurd state of semi-dress: shirt-cocking. [See what hitting the pagan festival circuit will do to you?] Just what the female equivalent of this might be, Boss Warlock does not know. Readers?)

If all that you're wearing is a chef's apron, are you skyclad? No.

If all that you're wearing is a cloak, are you skyclad? Yes.

Why is a cloak different from a chef's apron, a shirt, or a pair of jeans?

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Recent Comments - Show all comments
  • Steven Posch
    Steven Posch says #
    You know what they say: "If they're looking, it's probably not at your feet."
  • Katie
    Katie says #
    …and if all you’re wearing is socks/slippers (the so-called Minnesota Skyclad)? It may look ludicrous, but it is so very practica

Posted by on in Culture Blogs

 

 

Merrymeet 1997

 

It's been hot work at Grand Council all day, so I head down to Gull Lake for a quick dip before dinner. What I see there astounds me.

Clearly, word of the wild witches has got out. Every fishing boat on the lake has—coincidentally, no doubt—just happened to drift over to our side, the prospect of naked pagans apparently outweighing that of walleye on this sunny late August afternoon.

Ritual robe hiked up to her knees, a woman sits at the end of the dock, dangling her feet in the water.

Gods, what's with these people? I say, taking off my shirt. I'm half tempted to wave. All this to see a little bit of skin?

Cowans, she commiserates.

Hey, screen me, would you? I ask, crouching.

Anything for a fellow conspirator, she says, raising her arms.

Screened by her back and generous hanging sleeves, I slip out of my kilt and over the edge.

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