Old home 80s dance joint days besieged me while minding my own business, hanging with Karen following her dad's untimely wake. Being the super-pal that I am I whisked her away from Amigone Funeral Home (listed somewhere in Ripley's for its namely uncanniness) to O - sushi and cocktail emporium. There we were greeted by someliere Bryan who brandished an excellent chard and then some comp snacks. We sat in the lounge and supped and drank and lounged until the cheeseball rock-type trio began to play their decibels into our left ears. One bottle down and Karen turned to me stating Well that did nothing for me, I'm getting another. Then more. Then drinks with the rock stars. Then more and more of the cast of characters from 80s-era Continental flowed into O and we all marvelled at our sticktoitiveness, our undying love for the niteliphe, the glowing bar embers of blue that, I was musing, reminded me of another bar where I practically lived during the 90s, Icon, where I became after-hours conscious of many things, including my fleeting and uneven affair with Jagermeister, my burgeoning friendship with Dorota and the realization that art and merrymaking can and should live side by jowl. At O the rock stars took a much for us needed break, we lounged some more and made our way back into the 10 degree F night.
Onwards to more. An art opening that I forgot to submit work to, an other night of gladheartedness I will not forget to submit to.
Glad glad Love.

Wow.
(or in Taiwanese WAU, I learnt, from Sienna's PalmPilotesque translating device)
Mere moments ago I splurted out the phrase That nice young man... as I'm in the Apple store (sigh... I'm up to date with all but who knows when the nextest shiniest newest magdaddiest and gigalicious machine rolls in, stealing my geek heart) and a nice young man wanted to help me but I stated, with a usual smirk... Oh, that nice young man just sold me something and now I'm checking me email. Like hell I'm checking my email. I fucking want to blog on the Stephen Spielberg screen, all 58,000 inches of it.
So I fell asleep, as is my wont, while music videos danced like sugar plums.
Awoke to Kellis's sexy milkshake song, a video I had not yet seen. Snapping to full attention in my mind I watched, being the new digvid mogul that I have become. (For JR's benefit if he is, and I believe him to be, a true blue-eyed epinw fan)
Her milkshake attracts the boys. And their life is better than yours.
So then the diner scene shows a milkshake shaker shaking like Kellis all over. Then the vanilla milkshake flies in every direction, spattering both women and men.
I ask you.
Does the vanilla milkshake signify jizz.
Is Kellis saying that she is one of the ejaculatory girls on the planet.
Color me questionable.
This, to date, is the only iTune tune I've purchased and it sounds like c-r-a-p emanating from the PowerBook's speaker(s).
Signing off, with some gladness in my heart that my bro Dems in Iowa saw through Dean, saw him for the Hitler-gesticulating hothead that he is.
Politico Love.

To hell with the ol' chestnut
Too many shoe styles, too little time.
Now, in this Perfect World, it is
Too many tiffs to find, too many computers to search.
Explication:
There is the aged iMac DV special edition. Attached, the mega cd burner.
There is the aging and for sale iBook.
There is the necessary newest PowerBook for skewel.
And where in fuck are the tiffs of John Simpson, brand Spanking new Middling City U president. I ask you.
Fired up machine #2 and nowhere on its desktop is Simpson. Search. Search again. There, whew!!!, is the slew of tiffs.
To be sent off to an eager p.r. type - asap - the freelancer's mantra.
To hell with Om, it's asap.
Had a funny overheard quote, via the airport, but it's gone the way of airplane wing de-icer on a windy night.
Fired off a note to mentor JR saying, in a nutshell, Hi and thanks and you rock for getting my brain into a new media direction.
Howard Dean, I have just learnt, lost bigly in Iowa. And that is no surprise to Perfect me. You cannot finger the air like so in this day and age. You cannot smile a sinister smile in this day and age. You cannot trade on the disappearance of your bro in Laos in this day and age. You cannot trot out your wife for the premier time in such a late fashion, if a spousal touch is to be employed, in this day and age.
In this day and age one cannot afford to be less than Perfect.
Aged Love.