'Tis the season to get cranky
FA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA...
'Tis the season to get tipsy
FA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA...
Don we nowsville our peppy apparel
FA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA...
Then we'll watch some blazing yule log
FA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LAAAAAAH.

Just got off phone with thee Elliott Caplan who says, and I really really don't think he's blowing smoke up my arse, that he digs my digvids that I dumped on him via a nice, tidy dvd.
Tomorrow afternoon we meet up in the Middling City suburbs to talk shop. Then call it a wrap. Not rap. This is so shop talk.
Out of towners are descending upon the Middling City in droves, all looking for high times and misdemeanours and squeezing them in right now to the miasmic schedule is mandatory. Justy et al will be looking to score some jubilance this evening and I am hoping beyond reasonable hope that he et al are not thinking It's Pink Flamingo Time. But, then again, holiday time is the only time Yours Truly darkens that rotting doorstep.
Until then, until later, Yours Truly remains Your Favored, Perfect Nancy.

Love's Sweet Remains.

post script, post haste:
Jesus H. Christ (the season's reason) forgot to freakin' mention that I sent off the paper. The PAPER. The brilliant essay on what completely rocks about the photographs of Gillian Wearing, Brit photog of my certain age. Sent it e-off to the instructress who I'm sure is shopping it around to various scholarly pubs.
As in pages full of brilliance, not ginjoints, ferfucksakes.