Well, well well, well well well.
Firstly,
minding my own business at one of last evening's photographically opportunistic gigs, a private all-femme high school reunification, I was smiled at by a woman proudly wearing her clipped-out portrait from thirty years hence, not sure if she knew me or not as the room was only full of this class as well as a few waitresses filling chafing dishes with chafing waters. I was there to wrangle all of the amassed into a portrait = a pending summer Olympic sport, and more fun to watch than ribbon dancing to boot.
I though OK, she knows me so I says my name and she says in an odd voice OhMyGodYouLookGreat whilst hugging me.
I then realized she had no idea who I was and thought of telling her I was merely the hired hand photog but let her swim in her case of mistaken identity as, You know, sometimes it is just so not worth the price of admission to get into details.
This fine morn gig was a race and the road crew included a group of Middling City U students all decked out in the decade of their births - the 80s - all grooving on the tackier edge of those mauve and teal-infused, teased, bisexualized times. The group of them, about half a dozen, came to shepherd runners dressed as an 80s band and they were outfitted well and accompanied by a vintage boombox blaring Journey. A few of them gleefully asked if I was down with Journey and I assured them I was. Then they also gleefully showed me their vintage cassette tape, a holy rock relic of sorts. Who can forget the new mode, compact disc, when some of us owned but a few and we thought it could be a passing fancy, reading audiophile articles that they would be a flash, a lower-rez version that would be outpaced soon(er than later) - but no.
Haunted by a Chaos song heard on the radio, finally something new to get auditorially hepped for. Bought the last Smog. A gem.

Smoggy Love.