As it's spring (although troublingly the wall of bushes has lost its ability to bud, remaining a wall of sticks all dry and casting thin shadow) chanced upon a Mercury Rev disc (stereo phobic '92 Yerself is Steam) with David Baker (Alf-obsessed roomie of yore) howls. Now it's time to move on to the '98 Deserter's Songs, never kept with the others of the collection. DS, no Baker howls, bordering on Wayne Coyne reedy voice and a sonic landscape everyone needs to give a whirl in spring.
Justy alerted me to the fact that Kristin Hersh is actually heading towards the Middling City on May the 9th, a day to Sharpie down as being important as 50 foot wave plays Mohawk Place. Actually a show to anticipate. And buy merch at. Justy may actually jet in for this event and jet back with Yours Truly to the Land of Apples across the Empire State.
Oh, if anyone has seen my research paper topic and its attendant interminable hours necessitated by it, and my enthusiasm and care, please contact me immediately.

Distracted Love.

Hello confused readers.
Beth called my attention to a pertinent fact that I described the creation of a cocktail of Maltov proportions but not its intended target. That being the rollicking evangelicals next door to Yours Truly, who have a knack of salsa-ing for the Lord on nights when my concentration is most needed. That's the story.
Booked r/t flight to Israel today with an extended layover in gai Paris. Just enough time for a few kir royales and some art looking.
Onwards to digital editing.
Love edits.

nancyjparisi@gmail.com
Wowee. I am a Gmail pioneer. First, a Blogger pioneer (though these fuckers have never selected Yours Truly as a Blogger of Note but, to borrow Brucey's patented phrase... They'll be sorry.) and now this.
Yesterday's toppermost of the poppermost happening was the shooting (no pun intended, for real) of an army lady who is also a college type who has returned (4 days and counting) from Iraq. Who is shell-shocked. Who is shellacked.
I was in her mother's kitchen discussing the various poses and stances and attitudes and such I wanted from her and her likeness (as Avedon says, an OPINION and so freakin' be it).
Her mother trotted off and retrieved this femme's helmet, pointing to a sore spot, a bullet hole made when little army returnee was over there in the hot hot desert, in the hot hot action. A graze mark. While on her head. And how did this happen, I asked, her mother wanted me to ask, the army girlie did not want me to ask. Well, she began, one of the new recruits emptied his round accidentally. Accidentally nearly shot her head off.
Blowback nothing.
Friendly fire.
Shot her amidst some flags her mom had festooned in front of the family's suburban property.
Plastic flags for a nearly gunshotheadoff lady.
Sounds like a song.
Patriot Act of Love.

Plastic, nope, plastic is a mistake for a shattering is necessary. And there is not enough gasoline in the lawnmower out in the barn for over the sultry winter it has apparently evaporated. So where is a siphon. Who owns a siphon. My father, for one, but I'm not driving over there to siphon gasoline into this bottle. So it'll be off to the gas station for a gallon in the handy red plastic. Then the bottle, a funnel. Whatever. Then the fuse. What to use. An old tshirt. But which, since after the cleaning and purging and corporate reorganization there is less clutter, or so it seems in my mind. Tshirts are all concert tshirts and things relevant. So which. An old rag. The SoCo bandanna that lingers somehow making it past all the purge action. Stuffed into the bottle. Tossed. Flames. Smile.
The End.

Maltov Love.