Yesterday was Deposition Day. The day that I first-ever laid eyes upon the woman who nearly crushed Yours Truly with her mother's sedan exactly two years ago on the 21st of avril. A quick glance was sufficient. And her mother was there, and she sat, non-stoically, during my interview, rolling her eyes and sighing aloud and shaking her head as if she had written - even produced - the accident. The other driver woman was mysteriously absent, sent down the hallway to wait the two hours. I had to divert my attention from the shaking and sighing mother by telling myself that she was deranged and had a nervous condition to not glance in her direction with my patented paint-melt stare. I had met earlier with my attorney, Tom, and told him I was afeared of becoming emotional rehashing. I did not, only once I found myself sort of lost in that memory, looking perhaps too intently too long down at the conference room table. So, the joyous part of this accidental tale is that Tom hammered, to usurp his verb, the other driver woman until she admitted that she ran the red light. Lead Boy Colleague, an expert in all things depo, said now my fate, or case, is sealed. Or something to that effect.
And so on.
Convinced Middling City U's Law Library that they should indeed give me, a litigious alum, a permissive card to fondle (not borrow) all their legal tomes for the next year. But, thankfully, that'll be necessary only until the end of my Parsons School of Law course in IP. . . a few more months where I can glean more info about all things CopyLeft. JW,Esq. thinks I am now an IP geek and, coming from senior corporate counsel for Oracle of the left banks of the USofA, I take that as a compliment most deliciously supreme.
After this long-ass day of freelancing, regal legal researching and more more more I find Oban and Orton and some digital editing to be just the thing to usher in a new day.
New Love.

special ps: link to this Kill Bill-related game, discovered as a link on a Japanese blog.

Sent to Yours Truly by David Hoffman, epinw-mentioned previously, pals with this rock & roll trio that includes a girl who used to revile me and my newspaper column, who moved from the Middling City, and who apologized to me years and years later.


Fancy Pants by Kate Mosstika

Live thinking that you brought yourself out the waste
So sly thinking that you caught yourself - I'm the slave
Don't lie to me and tell me you disagree now
'Cause I know just what you're freaking on
When the times change and you want in on our palisades
You'll find that you're not wanted anymore
Lay me, oh my Amy, but you're just too messy late
Fancy pantsy Nancy J. Parisi -- Jeez he's singing about me
Blah thinking that I brought yourself up the blame
So sly thinking that you brought yourself up the same
Don't lie to me and tell me you disagree now
'Cause I know just what you're freaking on
When the times change and you want in on our palisades
You'll find that you're not wanted anymore
Lay me, oh my Amy, but you're just too messy late
Fancy pantsy Nancy J. Parisi -- Jeez he's singing about me

Where have I been. I will tell you where I have been not. Not at the law library of Middling City U. Not getting my artwork ready for the somewhat venerable CEPA Gallery auction with a cocktail preview reception TOMORROW night and there they are, I'm certain, the entire staff, pacing pacing pacing Where in H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks is her Perfection. And not avoiding the grand tradition of too many turbo-powered Polish beers and honey liqueur/Krupnick at my favoured Dyngus Day extravaganza nestled deep in the Middling City's east side. Much to my current chagrin. Highlights include: a conversation with a woman of a certain age who informed me that she dates her Dyngus Day date but once a year and that she likes to beat the crap out of him, a man most Slavic who had the most dense chestpatch that I couldn't help but squirting and marvelling at in sheer disgust until his large-scale lady friend dragged him out by his dishevelled blonde hairs, my dollar store faux camera which does not leak and has a powerful jet of water reaching upwards of 10 feet to my utter Perfect dee-light and a collage of faces dripping with water and red from the aforementioned bevvies.
Lead Boy Colleague left moments ago, helping me scrape my framing brain cells together in his usual helpful manner and JW,Esq. contacted me commenting that to round out the post-Dyngus malaise I should have thought to ingest Jaeger shots and cheap red wine as well. He also thinks I'm a perfect Intellectual Properties nerd, with my Larry Lessig fanaticism and all and I heartily concur and rest my case, yer honour.
It's a Fake Plastic Trees re-re-re-&-repeat sort of grayness and now it's time to wend my weary-assed way to CEPA where the people with the white gloves are salivating awaiting my arrival. ETA is like so now.
Salivational Love.