Like a cheap bar the Edwards doers and shakers and mess-makers (before the drop-out) basically papier-mached one of his appeals flyers to the windshield of my Middling City vehicle. So I can think of Edwards with every drive. Which I was just doing, returning from a gig at Middling City U. First item on agenda when Kerry stomps Bush is to appeal to him to rid the country of:
1. cornball musicals with no redeeming social value
2. cornball mod dance with same.
Had to shoot a percussion ensemble. And they're good. Only trouble is my editrix failed to mention the gaggle of mod dancers that were accompanying the bangers and whiskers. In what appeared to be mall attire, garments in that weird stretching shiny sort of textured rayon that was interesting for about five minutes a few years ago, they cavorted onstage. One number had me swallowing my groans, straining to be unloosed. Cutesy, near-mime gestures. It's a freakin' good thing I'm not reviewing that travesty. Drumming: primo. Dancing: barf bucket.
Speaking of such, still recovering from some mysterious bacteria in some food eaten a few days back. My stomach acids are still negotiating the re-acceptance of solids which, at this point, it feels is Martha Stewart to its good will investing.
Analogous Love.