Cheez and crackers. OK more consistent blogposts, more words of wisdom and freewheelin' revelry here... and there.
Again on borrowed time/computer as the new fucking modem is not working and perhaps it is the port of ethernet magic that is a-fried out but that will only be gleaned after a long and intense and recurrent SOS call to some techie person who hopefully I can comprehend - as in their accent. The last techie was a gruff older man so gruff the gruffness obscured the actual words he spake.
Last night we landed after 3.5 hours in car, Kennedy and I that is, in front of the storefront gallery where some jazz happened starring our pal Peter Brotzmann. He was out in front having his customary Starbucks Americano and dark smoke when I unfurled the window to toodle out the window Excuuuuse me, which way to Buffalo. He stared blankly, then away. I toodled again. Same response. So we meandered towards him across the near-barren street of half-baked and half-assed businesses and decrepit row houses until familiarity swam across his face. We talked. The show began. I shot. Intermission. As I was on a road trip and had not had venison jerky it was beer time. Lame-o gallery (with a name like Faulty Metaphors or some such thing) had none. Grabbed $10 out of my bag and wandered to the convenience store. Found there some choice greeting cards. One to send to an accident victim. Birdhouses on the front. I ask, what do birdhouses have to do with accidents. Next. To a wondrous friend. Image on front is a cat, wearing a hat, sitting in a basket. At his feet, a bird, apparently dead. Inside. Sentiment is about You are a fab acquaintance.
And this fucking store has no beer.
Really.
Asking about in line waiting to purchase the excellent cards I met a woman named Janice.
Janice, a mom just off of work, ended up offering me a ride to a pizza parlour where I could buy a six pack. Janice explained excitedly that this joint had a wall of beer and she knew of this despite the fact that she does not drink.
Her car was a purple sedan with 10 pine tree air freshners and on the back seat were eight bags of snaxx for her two teenaged kids.
I did not have my seatbelt on in case Janice turned out to be a nut and I had to dive and roll.
Janice drove me 1 mile. We got out of the car and walked into the pizza parlour together. Janice explaining all the way about how I should trust no one else in the gallery's neighborhood and, most importantly, I should tell NO ONE that I am from the Middling City, as they'd take advantage of my naivete.
So, Janice drives me back to the gallery and Peter is there to witness me exiting a purple sedan. He raises his two eyebrows. I tell him about my new pal, Janice. I show him the greeting cards. May send him the one with the cat and limpy bird.
Ended the night at some Indian restaurant where I was served my scotch and soda with a deathly blue glowing ice cube. Upon leaving I placed the faux glo-stik cube in the to-go box in front of Peter.
The waiter nervously ran up to say
That ice cube remains the property of the restaurant.

I remain Your Perfect correspondent to all things Me.

Corresponding Love.

Well Well Well.
No, not so well for the DSL modem which fried out.
So no internet system for me, yet.
Apparently the trouble is far deeper and darker than I can figure out.
So borrowed internet time for now.
But onwards.
And onwards right now to Pittsburgh to see Peter Brotzmann, sax artiste, for the night with Kennedy.
So more later so all for now.
School officially begins again Monday, fercrissakes. So new cyber pencils must be sharpened, then, fer sher.
Love for now.