Champagne bomb went off in my head this AM.
Slargled champagne at Marty and Susan's Mexican fiesta last evening starring Yours Truly, them and Janine, who skips to and Empire State fro.
Marty, bien sur, hard at work at table to stove to table to sink to stove to oven making and doing. And then the champagne. And then an excellent Frenchie red I brung to said fiesta.
So today back to Law School, dragging the brain to the four fair use factors, kicking and screaming. Spotted a boy colleague at Nova Photo and he provided a necessary and helpful CamelLight to the bomb scare as I picked up some excellent would-be starlet-heading-to-Hollywood work I shot yesterday.
Yesterday, as well, was treated to the entire side4, as in Frampton Comes Alive, the album of my nearly Perfect formative years when I wore the shit out of that vinyl. 97 Rock didn't play the lame cropped version but let Frampton and Pals wail away, voicebox away, and I thought about the song being a mantra (Do Youuuu FEEEEEL Like I Do) for the Good Times, Good Times, Good Times, Good Times. Hell, it was the late 70s. I had just had my head blown by Dark Side of the Moon, as I've regaled You, harangued You about for years now, and FCA was a furthering of the ponderous teenaged condition of things getting better, of crazed adult super-freaky concert and disco times just out of my transformative reach. But I ever thank the vinyl and babysitting goddesses for sending me JoJo and her daughter and the weekend-long sitting gigs where I discovered the aforementioned rock and roll joys of yore.
Yore Love.