I've examined my subconscious and am fairly certain that what happened last last night was not some sort of retribution. My elder stalker, a richly brought-up man who is perpetually slumming as a barkeep of a low-rent, scuzzy joint, and who obsessed about me at one time enough to send several bouquets of long-stemmed roses to my office, rushed out of his own bar last night with a smoking microwave oven in his hands. Muttering, as he moved towards his car parked in front of his shithole, Try to be nice and people try to burn the place down. I had left the smokey back room where my pals were still playing pool and trying to open windows and was sitting at a crappy plastic table talking to a few random people. Polly had given me a rose. I wondered what happens when a rose is microwaved. There was a microwave in the corner, unplugged. I plugged it in and set it on cook or whatever after putting the rose in the middle of it and concurrently noting that there were several paper towels stuffed in there and a rim of thick white grease was around its door. Cooked and imploded, that's what happened. Then, after a few minutes, I smelled smoke and the paper towels were smoking and I said to Mark, Well I didn't think anything of the paper towels, don't people use them for microwaving. I know nothing of microwaves and am a firm believer that slow cookin' is good cookin'. So eventually we all left the shithole and it was way time to be sleeping and the owner/stalker had been watching me and I was not certain he knew it was me or not as he was in his cups and I was purposely sending out the vibe that I was not who I am/was at that moment - a scientist, a just-off-the-dancefloor-across-the-way hellion.
I remain.
The microwave does not.
Your Perfect Nancy.

Well I'm at ol' Peace Bridge, at the one Middling City fringe, and fishing about for quarters to pay the $2.50 toll when I was suddenly startled by the manic and very loud voice of the man toll taker. TAKE YOUR TIME... FOCUS... FOCUS... YOU'RE DOING FINE...
At the end of our transaction he handed me a small plastic packet the size of those crack baggies you find on the ground. Now with his kooky behaviour and all I admit in a flash I thought he WAS handing me a crack baggy. It was one of those giant LifeSavers. Wintergreen. Tasty. I sucked on it for about three minutes and tossed it from my moving vehicle, over the side of the bridge.
I went to Orangeville, more specifically, Hockley, Ontario, to have needles inserted into my accident-addled shoulder, to be snapped and cracked and popped. I feel different now, more... focused (or was that the toll taker) and postured.
My online class is a bit of a flaming fiasco and all of us 15 are apparently in the same chaotic boat.
All.
Love.

As I was logging in to Blogger saw that one of the 10 most recently written to included one entitled Boobs Are Good. Failed to investigate that one.
The men of Blogger are sending all of us Blogger Pro pioneers Blogger hoodies for being such, a very nice treat.
Reine just sent me a very hilarious advert for a tech company, great cgi images of cowpokes herding kitty cats over the plains, wrapping balls of yarn, lamenting their facial scratches from their charges.
Speaking of charges.
Look, whomever granted me those several student loans, I'd appreciate not hearing from you for at least another few years. Why keep sending me paperwork telling me where to address any concerns? Do so in two years, okay? Thanks for your attention in this scholarly matter.
As my 40th approaches, and so does all the charming chaos of change, I remind myself Hey, Baby Poet (and all the other semi-secret self-nicknames) this is what you wanted. HAPPY FUCKING BIRTHDAY.
Time to rock on and chase down the book that mentorJR recommends, The Garden in Ruins.
Love.

As she was in her ivory wedding gown, tea length, she opted out of crawling across the dance floor at her wedding reception alongside me and Michele. Hungry Like a Wolf. Duran Duran. Michele looked at me, Remember? I did. It was a dark and tipsy night at a gay bar with karaoke. I had been banned for over an hour for doing Leo Sayer's You Make Me Feel Like Dancin' in an authentic style of his high-high falsetto. The karaoke mc was not impressed, snatching the mic away from me as my last tortured and disco-ridden note hung in the smokey air. So, about an hour later, when I was unbanned, my selection was Hungry Like a Wolf, which I performed with aplomb (as well as bumps and grinds) to the delight of several. Suddenly yesterday's bride/Annie and Michele were crawling across the floor before me, on the gay bar's small dance floor/karaoke staging area.
So last night's dual re-creation apparently resulted in gasps from those who noticed it, according to another Michelle (note the 2 l's), Michelle Gigante, a famed dancer/choreographer/actor. Gasps. At a wedding. And their wedding photog, one I do not know but by name, snapped it all up into his Canon.
More to tell.
Suddenly, minding my own business and all, after a few more cocktails, the same Michele (1 l) came up to me to propose a new dance move. It somehow resulted with us rolling atop each other à la Madonna's Like a Virgin performance on the video music awards show of yore. This amid some other questionable dance moves by other guests, some vintage pogo-ing by Gary, schemes to catapult guests off the nature-induced wavy dancefloor by other mischievious guests and cross-genre mixing and matching.
We were busting loose, sending the newly-linked off on a plane of freeform expression and unbridled passionate movement. Giving their guest list, vendor and site selections, engendered and biographical leanings, their fateful happenings along life's path, their ensembles, the Swedish Fish favours (yes!), the deluxe florals, their scents and their whole day a collective, celebratory high-5 - all this under the hyper-planned and overhung and irascible spiritual presence of the whole site's daddy, Frank Lloyd Wright, creator of Graycliff Estate.
FLW's most triumphant building still standing there, according to Perfect Me, is the heat house, a small and semi-sunken structure which housed all the mechanicals of heating the main and guest houses. Now it is a bunkerous shell perfect for a studio with one window facing trees and a small and wide door painted with chalky lead paint.
All.
Time to caffeinate.
Love.