If heaven has a ghetto we know you runnin' it.
That is my favored quote in a long while, spotted on a concrete pillar in the Middling City's dying and depressing Broadway Market, alongside the t-shirt-making stall where I was purchasing iron-on letters. Where the proprietress was taking Forever to install the letters on my already-made shirts and then, when she reappeared from the back room, I knew so absolutely why.
I had asked her to space the letters along the image on the front of two shirts. Instead of taping the letters to the shirt, in a sensible and time-saving manner, she was lying them on a table and then taping them together and then removing them for a readjustment if they weren't spaced well. For nearly an hour.
When I suggested the other method, taping them to the actual shirt, she looked at me like I had just saved her from hours of needless toil. Oh, I had.

Speaking of toil, cannot get excited about Howard Dean. Or any of the Dems. O wa do dem. Dem Dem Dem, to quote some reggae tune of yore.
Dean is too rumpled, cranky, non-telegenic.
Being a lookist I want a telegenic Prez.

Onwards to art.
All my stumping, ghetto-centric sloganizing Love.