Recently distracted by oso many things. To begin.
Firstly the idea of a blogger convention of sorts at this year's SXSW, Monday. Has Marty Boratin departed? Is it feasible to travel to TX mere days before departing for the BigA? As I'm an official grad student, and an art one to boot (and did I mention that I've resurrected the dusty Frye cowgirl boots and that they could harm you), I believe it's in the bylaws that returning to one's roadtrip days is advisable.
Secondly it's opening night of the new Johnny Celluloid Explosion. Story line, schmory line. It's all in the orgasmic casting of the lead, baby. I mean, who even remembers whatinhell Donnie Brasco was about, to Perfect me it was all about the scene when he does pushups.
Thirdly is the return to basics on this fresh-snow day. Meaning The Bends and all its sonic and poetic merits.
Fourthly is the piracy that I've been engaged in for my Intellectual Properties class, and I cannot divulge any secrets but I'm in the process of setting up an online business of copyright-infringed works. (my head rolls back, chin up to ceiling, raucous laughter).
Parting thought is that that little sneak, Beth, took all my epinw closures, the love-full gestures, and created icons for about two months of them. They are beautiful, in the spirit of the Starbucks Do-This! campaign of drawn-upon cups meets Jim Dine and were produced on the nickel of some Manhattan corporate giant that believed the sneak should be paid quite handsomely to do... something. Only she wasn't doing that... something. She was surreptitiously sending me my mad props.
Cowgirl Love.