A flurry as of late of Nancy Pants references, much to the astonishment of Yours Truly. First the long overdue email from NYCbased David Hoffman (not so-named barkeep with heavy hand at Hamlin House) who had heard and then hunted for a song by a woman who names me in her song that sort of rambles about. Then that harkened up the song of way-yore by Kenny Kearney, "Nancy Pants," whose lyrics I will not quote here and now. Then a Friendster testimonial by Steve Bartoo, then another ref to NP. Fascinating, Jung-style synchronicity. And there should be no mental leap to the Police. Thank you.
Out last night following a full day of scholarly activity with Justy and Erin, flitting from bar to bar to bar in Williamsburg and at the first one one of the boy Marc Jacobs models lounged about looking somewhat extraterrestrial. Ended the evening by making the aforementioned sibs give me a whopppppper of a hickey, the hot new spring accessory trend that I am starting. Now. Go get one for when is the last time you had a well-placed hey get a loada this hickey. I rest my bruisish case. Now that I've informed New School U that I do not care to be innoculated contra meningitis thank you and now been free (ha!) to register for not one - but two - (ha!again) terms of Parsons School of Law/Art/Teaching/Snark I am free to leave this melodius metro area for the trans-statal crossing towards the Middling City and Kennedy.
Hickey/Vehicular Love.

So now is the cd of choice.
That line confused You and for that I am not sorry for mustn't we, from time to time, challenge the syntax, the lack of commas and other dashes and hoopla.
So, Peter Gabriel, holy crap '86, the fortuna of Red Rain (with its quiet and building start) and In Your Eyes (with its Perfect timed arrivals into moments of driving), the unfortuna of Sledgehammer. And I'm sent into a moment painting Scot Fisher's mother's house out in Hamburg/Angola with Ani - and Scot came to say Hi and there he was, on the sofa we had drug over to the kitchen area, sprawled watching a Gabriel video on the television but I think most assuredly now, truth hovering just over and left to the scotch fumes, that it was for Big Time. Gabriel disc in the midst of where I rest my head in NYC, appropriate as I'm about to dive into Gabriel's online world of concerns via his site MUDDA. I'd link You there, but oh well, link to it here if you are so inclined and not on a speedboat of hurry and worry. Last night Beth (who puts me on buses) and I stood on a transferational platform (the first, I will indent, was a platform where not trains of any Letter stopped and we stood there talking for moments until we noted this and replied Hey, no trains stop on this side fercrissakes and righted our Gotham-crawling path) for the F to Essex Street (from the J/M/Z from the 4/5/6) to get to Tonic for Yours Truly to shoot some jazz creatures before the red velvet and before the adulant crowd.
In Your Eyes, I mean who really doesn't dig to the max a song (well perhaps anyone within earshot who hears it being played and replayed and rereplayed and rerereplayed) about driving and beyond. And who can't float with ideas looking at the wooden joists above free jazz while players slip and slide along instruments of choice. Chad Taylor, a drummer to excavate, and elder saxman Fred Anerson and the kid bassplayer = primo. Beth, in my eyes, transformed herself into the most effusive jazz fan and I was duly impressed.
Joist Stare Love.

En route to the Slavin family seder in Harrisburg - as in PA - made a quick sidebar foray into the Zippo Centre, rimmed with lighter lamps along their driveway. Inside, Zippo art and all things merch. Had mysteriously forgotten my sunglasses when leaving the Middling City and, lo & behold, there were several Zippo sunglasses (not fabricated in Bradford but in .5 my motherland, Italia = even better). Have to say Zippo makes a better sunglass than Revo, Brooks Bros., and that other old-school company. Then came lighter shopping. Met a 12-year old kid, Brandon, who happened to be purchasing the same model that I was oogling. It looks like the body of a beetle in the sun. So we're both at the checkout and this kid, completely eyes glazed over with Zippo lust, gave me a quick tutorial on how to undo the Zippo screw to douse the Zippo cotton while his puffy mom hovered over this Zippo kid talking to the eager-to-learn older lady who, I'm sure in his kid brain, seemed at odds with the moment as she, at her advanced age, had never ever loaded up her own lighter with flammables. Onwards to PA for seder and four glasses of wine and mucho laughs and this morning a quick spin in the Porsche of Stu, Beth's dad.
Now time to push towards NYC for high times and Parsons-related misdemeanors. And how I mean that.
Zippo Love.

Whilst listening to the Spinners on a Middling City classic radio station I multi-tasked by driving down Bailey Avenue, marvelling at what it is in the sun. When, much to my astonishment, moments later, I spotted up yonder The Statue of Liberty drifting down the sidewalk up on the right. I noted two gangstas in uproarious laughter, so obviously not fans of the far-flung genre dubbed Performative Art. After a red light moment passed The Statue of Liberty in his perfect oxidized bronze robes and beacon headdress. Gave him a big beep beep beep and he turned most beatific towards my golden Forester, right arm upstretched to the sunshine of Bailey, a ray of good old-fashioned American know-how.
How to Love.