Finally a call from recuperating Lead Boy Colleague, who phoned as I was about to be hit upon by the fat-headed, RayBanned Canadian border patrolman. I says to LBC, call back and then *poof* I was outta range for the next 8 freakin', unbearable, no-cell hours.
Patrolman: You an artist.
Yours Truly: Yes.
PM: What kind of art.
YT: Photographer.
PM: Have a CAMERA in there?
YT: Um, nope.
PM: What if something happens.
YT: (pause... thought of cleaning up salty tongue) Well then, I guess I'll just be out of luck then. No, I'll SKETCH something.
PM: Eww, I love beautiful, multi-talented women. Would you take my picture.
YT: Would your family buy it.
PM: No, probably not.
YT: Well then, Cliff, let me proceed along to exchange my dollars for doe-lerz and be on my way.

And then on way back:
YT: A box of crackers. (to query on American side from crimson-faced codger in the bigshot/security/First Line of Defense boof)
CFC: Crackers.
YT: Yes, crackers.
CFC: (pointing back to stopsign I apparently breezed through) That octogon is a stop sign, we don't want you sending any pedestrians to the (note article, we are back in the ol' USofA. To non-Middling City people - Canadians are articleless in ref to institutions. Example: We Don't want you sending any pedestrians to hospital.) hospital.
YT: (paint melt stare)
CFC: ID please. And open up the back window.
(time elapses)
CFC: Open up the back hatch.
(closing hatch he comes back to my window, hands me driver license)
And get yourself a CLASSY bumper sticker.
YT: Funny, that's what my father said.

*Thanks Rio and Ron for getting me so in trouble with the border authority.

Last night's Buffalo Conversation 3 gig had an odd snare when a producer from the television station had had enough of seeing my illustriousness on camera, stating this thusly
YOU are in too many shots, move back to here (leading YT to an outer ring).
Fine.
Then, as luck would have it I was featured prominently in the next several shots. Much, I'm sure, to the chagrin of Mr. Producer.
Smoke may follow beauty but television cameras follow rascals.

Rascally Love.

PostScript:
I am more saddened by the loss of Ray Charles, a man who filled my ears with beautiful voice and music, than that of the 40th U.S. President who I protested and abhorred vehemently a few decades ago.

Ron and Rio (of KY fame) sent me this bumperwizer (along with two new musical choices. Presents are on the Things That Rock list. I need more presents. Thanks in advance.):

You say tomato.
I say Fuck YOU.

It immediately was slapped upon the car and now I have got to thinking. Say, for example, I'm at a gig and all dressed like a hotshot with the 50 pounds or so of photon-capturing equipment. Some client takes a gander at the bumperwizer. Are they offended. Do I care. Onwards.
As if I need further post-hippie, Niman-esque reasoning that WalMart equals the downfall of human civic planning and civil interaction the following happened to Yours Truly this past floral-enhanced weekend.
Bought the mower. Let teen gangmembers assemble it. Oops, they forgot to insert the oil into the engine, but I'm getting ahead of myself and my story. They take turns gleefully mowing down the grassy chaos that was my backyard until said mower is seized, over, kaput. Sunday I used my geometric knowledge and, making calculations, tipped the mower over and stuffed it into the automobile. En route to WalMart/EvilCorp began to notice a most pungent smell of petrol in vehicle. Way overpowering. Arrive at WM and wheel the mower to the outdoorsy section where they say Nope, head over to the Customer Service Desk. En route there one of the wheels wheels right off the mower, damned teen gangmembers. The greeter greets me with a smile (assuredly 100% dentures) and slaps a sticker onto the errant wheel, directing me to Customer Service whereupon I stand in line marvelling at the girth of the neck of the man in the super-extended wifebeater in front of me. My turn at last and the woman behind the counter asks Is there gaaaaas in that. In my best squeaky dumbass girlie voice I say I don't know (I reek, the mower is covered with gassy juices and there's gas on the lino). YOU CAN'T HAVE GAAAAS IN HERE, IS THERE GAS IN THERE. She runs from behind counter, opens gas cap and runs the 3-wheeled mower right out the front door, past the aged greeter. Many minutes later she returns, I get my money, I leave and head to a real store. Another corporate giant, for a re-con (as they say in the mower biz) machine and get indoctrinated into the sphere of those who KNOW small engines, mowing, oil pan dripping, mulching v. shooting. My prof was a man who saw in me his accolyte, a ballcap-wearin' butchy (ha.) type to impart all his mower wisdom and I soaked it all in, for the moment.

Mowing down Love.