If the evil insect rushing about overhead divebombs my glass of Oban things will get ugly. Oh, wait, it'll presumably be dead and drownt. So things must get ugly now. (Imagine clapping of hands, as if Yours Truly hears a distant and gleeful folk melody which inspires such maneuvering.) (sidenote: it is with minor sadness that I report Justin believes/knows that I have within my body a voice not so VH1-ready. This evidently evident post-drunk Chinese midget night of songs for a dollar.) And I am not, repeat, not, speaking of the insouciant and diabolical evangels next door fond of marathon praising the high powers to the beat of a drummer I'd like to send off to remedial drumming camp.
Implorement du jour.
O, high power, if there is indeed one, please let there be a remedial drumming camp and let it not only be far far away but require the inept and tireless drummer of next door to be enrolled and away for aeons.
Invited straycat Extra in for a dose of petting and conversation until he got carried away with night-addled claws beseeching spaces in my skin. And the nouveau primitif thing is as off the mark as Mr. Inept searching for a beat.
Hanging - in the proverbial time passing sense - is unfamiliar to me right now in the realm of the Middling City. More familiar with how to make & do in the Shiny Apple, it is a challenge here and now.
Despite the Republicans heading there soon soon soon.
Watched a moment of Kerry in '71, in uniform, in C-Span schedule, and glad to have done so to witness the historical doc in its state, not spun upon by spinners far and wide.
Fleet boat veracity or not, this choice is the better choice.
And, as my favoured wife beater states:
The only bush I trust is my own.

Bushels of Love.

Mark these words.
I will never - like so ever - participate or watch the Olympics, cold or hot, unless the sport of Jarts is admitted to the playbill. And once I hear this sport of danger is part of sporting matters then I will train like Charles Dickens (sipping Noni juice, practicing yoga and meditation, doing extra cardio workouts) to make the grade. Speaking of grades. Me and other members of the roster of sporting student life members of Parsons School of Disintegration have compared and contrasted our grade reports. What I lovingly refer to as our Approval Ratings. I rated fairly well, except for the obvious snag. Onwards.
Back to jarts. A memory. Jarting about one fine summer evening I nearly impaled the teacup poodle of my pal Sheryl. It was then that I duly noted, even in the midst of a wild yet geeksome youth, that this was really a fabulous and exhilerating game wrenched from the conceptualists of hell.
So many interesting things reported to me as of late. Like injuries sustained from dogs. Like dreams of sharing drugs with higher-ups in the political realm. Like fantasies of others that are far from what might be respectable. And so much more. I cannot even name a name, even though I suspect that some of these shards might be sent onwards to Yours Truly in hopes that they appear on this illustrious, ever informative page.
One last item.
Erin called to invite me to a Vinnie Gallo/Sean Lennon gig ce soir. I faltered. A gig in the Middling City. An invite in the Shiny Apple. What was a girl to do. No. The answer. But a sweet consolation is that I will watch the celluloid blowjob with Erin next week in the form of Brown Bunny. And to see if Vinnie has once again eked out quiet and swimmingly contra mainstream art as I suspect or if he has completely gone nutty bumpers.

Love bumpers in the night.

In addition to the wise Lead Boy Colleague words here a snippet from Sam, opened unto in the most serendipitous manner, from From an Abandoned Work as Interpol sends out decibels from a world without sun, safety net, assurances and routine.
Sam says:
...I might be sprawling in the sun now sucking my pipe and patting the bottoms of the third generation, looked up to and respected, wondering what there was for dinner, instead of stravaging the same old roads in all weathers, I was never much of a one for new ground.
There is sun and now I must be going to forage for visions then images then pixels then further fame.
I leave you.

Left of Love.