The Baby Rockstars contacted me in exultation to say that they're opening for the openers for The Goos on Tuesday night and would I, as their official chronicler, be there? (much mulling)
I replied
I am on sabbatical from the paper. Although I don't doubt that I can get credible creds from another source I ponder.
I have also enough history with the Goos, JesusRockinRollChrist, going back to pre-nosejobs and gigantic hair and guitar-fumbling, to think Shit I can be there if I so choose.
One of my art patronesses, Fern, contacted me and selected and purchased one of my most sensual for a gift to a woman in Italy. Fern and husband have a ***** art collection and one of mine - or is it two? - hangs amongst. So now, after this blogging, it's descending into the bowels of the darkroom to print and print. And then frame and frame. And deliver.
And then another two deliveries.
As the cats, my perfect little fuzzy angels, do nothing more than lounge and wait for me to open the door and join them and then lounge at my feet or hands. Awaiting the love that emanates from me to them.
Ron and Rio are heading this direction shortly, oh, tomorrow.
Hello Oban purchase!
Got a fab booking just seconds ago for a day and a half that'll have me scrambling on the floor with children.
After sweating last night saw that VH1 was airing I Love the 70s and it so happened (in case you wondered if there is/was a God) to be 1973, the year that my life changed, when it derailed from what could have been a middling Middling City middle class existence of pastel houses, solid definition and maybe church on Sunday, to see the great rock and roll possibilites beyond. Dark Side of the Moon.
I was 10, I was enlightened and forever I thank my conservative-minded cousin Frankie for giving up the goods.
Gilmour was on, in a '73 interview, stating: This is not about drugs, you can trust us. I thought Jesus, I was 10 and if you had told me that then I would have perhaps had a naive trusting childness hearing that statement but was savvy enough to know there was something extra-terrestial boiling under that surface.
I rest my artful case.
Love.
ps: parting thought = Jim Ramer at Parsons rocks