OK, so my Good Friday greeting card scheme never panned out.
Happy Good Friday!
-or-
Remember! No Meat! Good Friday! (the tri-fold)
failed to capture the collective Christian imagination.
Living in the vicinity of a Middling City Polish bakery one cannot forget annually that from 1-3PM the hardcore and zealous do not speak! Do not shop! Do not a thing!
Then they queue up outside the bakery door, somber, like the joy has been drained from their forms, so long a line that they block my driveway and, invariably, I'm in a special super rush and one of the somber has left a shitty American sedan in my drive and I must get out and push through the line to yell this special annual Good Friday greeting in my best and richest Episcopalean Church Choir/Diocese-trained alto:
Whomever is in my driveway will roast in the conflagration of Hades for all of Eternity much like they've eaten a Middling City Sahlen's hotdog - displeasing God and his cohorts all the while.
Off to write poetry, nay, to fine tune my pomes, for a marathon poetry reading in 9 days or so.
The Resurrection of Baby Poet.
Post of words from my irreverent post.

Monday = Dyngus Day... yahoo.
Dyngus Day is when it's absolutely okay to whack complete strangers/men usually with pussy willow branches. And in turn these strangers squirt all the ladies in the house with super soakers (actually most joints allow none of those any more) or squirt guns. Recalling a few years back when I loaded my squirt gun with cheapo vodka and fired into the mouths of strangers and new acquaintances.
Yesterday went with Lead Boy Colleague to Middling City's famed Broadway Market and for a Wednesday avant Easter it was fairly crowded with those tooling around to buy their butter lambs, fat sausages, plants, buckets of candies, pre-decorated eggs. Shot from the hip which is always a gas - wide angle at the ready, everything preset and then the funnest thing of all, floating invisible amongst the unsuspects.
Bought $7.50 worth of pussy willow branches which is a heavy armload of them - three bunches. The hardcore vendor/carnie/haggler wouldn't cut me a break. After leaving the B'Way Market, and back on the sad east side street I wound up and gave Lead Boy Colleague a good whack on the behind area, sending those tiny gray kittens shooting all over the place.
After that we went to GiGi's Soul Food joint, my idea. Note to self: GiGi's makes the best tuna fish sandwiches in the world.
Soul Love.

Fired off, armed with caffeinated recollections (exhumed from as far back as fourth grade) and très dusty Compact French Dictionary, an Easter card to ma famille Française. They might write back that I've made a hopeless hash of their mother tongue, that I might think of practicing a bit before tossing malapropisms across the universe. They wrote to me and I responded via the French Yahoo site link: I chose a template incorporating an odd face made from a coconut with a ribbon about the head. I think it was an Aunt Jemima-esque Easter coconut and it'd never fly in the USofA.
I assured my French family that I agree(d) with Chirac, as do most of the people I know.
Mais maintenant la guerre pour pétrole est fini.
(But now the war for oil is over.)
Joyeuses Paques.
And Happy Passover to you, too.
Joyeux Paques is like Aloha... means both Happy Easter and Happy Passover.
Off to newsy deadlines.
Paques of Love, incorporated from lush and lusty France.

Tossed Do You Realize by Flaming Lips on the hi-fi for wordy inspiration. I want to see them again soon and bask in their superstardom.
Tonight I'm returning again again a-fuckin-gain to the suburbs to see famous photog Joel Meyerowitz give a slide show & tell at an extra-Middling City college.
This past Saturday night went to an art op following a freelance gig and upon entering several people scooted up to pronounce that an SNL castmember (don't watch it so I don't know if she's current or not but crikey I better do some online prodding so I can write a snappy and quippy and informative kapshin) was IN THE HOUSE = Molly Shannon.... Shannan.... Schannihn?
The one who was shot for the cover of RS a few years ago with fellow SNL castmembers and I'll never forget the following month an astute RS reader noted that nobody bothered to airbrush Molly's stretch marks. I was so curious I looked back and thought What stretch marks?
Talked to her and she was small and wrinkly and very nice.
At thee very same opening met someone much more significant for the likes of me: the current director of Visual Studies Workshop (Scott David Laird) who I chatted with for a long time, drinking much of his booze he had imported for one of the Brooklyn artists strutting his visual stuff. It was the sugary crap that the uninformed drink - bourbon. But it was a better one and it was passable. Especially that I was too busy schmoozing to really allow my honed tastebuds a true embrace.
I asked Don't you know that single malt scotch is better? He insisted he did. Then what do you like? I asked, suspecting that he lied.
Oban was on his top three list and now I not only think he's worth schmoozing for art reasons but for other, nearly more important matters.
Over and out to the 'burbs for erudition.

Tossed Do You Realize by Flaming Lips on the hi-fi for wordy inspiration. I want to see them again soon and bask in their superstardom.
Tonight I'm returning again again a-fuckin-gain to the suburbs to see famous photog Joel Meyerowitz give a slide show & tell at an extra-Middling City college.
This past Saturday night went to an art op following a freelance gig and upon entering several people scooted up to pronounce that an SNL castmember (don't watch it so I don't know if she's current or not but crikey I better do some online prodding so I can write a snappy and quippy and informative kapshin) was IN THE HOUSE = Molly Shannon.... Shannan.... Schannihn?
The one who was shot for the cover of RS a few years ago with fellow SNL castmembers and I'll never forget the following month an astute RS reader noted that nobody bothered to airbrush Molly's stretch marks. I was so curious I looked back and thought What stretch marks?
Talked to her and she was small and wrinkly and very nice.
At thee very same opening met someone much more significant for the likes of me: the current director of Visual Studies Workshop who I chatted with for a long time, drinking much of his booze he had imported for one of the Brooklyn artists strutting his visual stuff. It was the sugary crap that the uninformed drink - bourbon. But it was a better one and it was passable. Especially that I was too busy schmoozing to really allow my honed tastebuds a true embrace.
I asked Don't you know that single malt scotch is better? He insisted he did. Then what do you like? I asked, suspecting that he lied.
Oban was on his top three list and now I not only think he's worth schmoozing for art reasons but for other, nearly more important matters.
Over and out to the 'burbs for erudition.