Yours Truly began this fine, sunny Middling City day at the gravesite of a dead president of the United States of America. Today, lest you don't have this inked into your Day-Timer, is the birthday of one Millard Fillmore, also a founder of the MCClub and MCU medical school. What happens at the event is the laying of wreaths, some speeching, some singing and/or bugle reditions of tunes, all under the ever-watchful gazes of two members of the Knights of Columbus, in capes and feathered hats. As is custom, it was a freezing cold morn and after the last notes are still hanging over the tombstones, all in attendance split to their cars lining the cemetery roadway.
Onwards then to search out a few more joints to include in the Shiney Happy Mag piece.
As I motored back to the home office hovel I spotted a woman maniacally talking in her automobile and wondered a very modern thought:
In this day and age does one suspect another of insanity when said other is speaking to apparently no one in the auto - or, more tech-centrically, does one assume one is speaking to another, distant other via a cellphone set to speaker mode.
I ask you.

Asking Love.

As a guilty pleasure, namely Norah Jones (that track #5) warbles in the background and every record store geekboy I know and have ever known I hear cackling & moaning & groaning now suddenly so heartily I can barely hear her singing about that yellow or whatever grass all high and shit any more. Thanks, guys.
Because I can I am deciding I must paint my nails Red, Red Rhine. You know, I must have selected this colour as I do all of them, by name, and as We all do know Yours Truly loves Neil Diamond more than most people, etc. and Neil did pen that song Red Red Wine. See, all things in sooth can be Perfect if We just freakin' look hard enough.
Yours Truly has just been tweaking, if I can deign to call it that, a hand-crafted website using some allegedly simple software, Freeway. I have been communicating today with websitegeekboys, none of whom were able to offer up any super-helpful hints and there were no offers of an onsite rescue effort.
So Imagine:
YT sipping a coffee, nervously following along with the pamphlet that came with Freeway, all stressed out as I am having flashbacks to art school and that godawful and binge drink-inspiring weekly seminar called god only knows what... the one in which YT struggled not only with the diabolical DreamWeaver (amusing myself, and classmates, as you loyal epinw'ers know, by singing, fingers up in my rock gesture, the song DreamWeaver) but to hear the instructress's pianissima voce over the whirr of the Parsons School of Diabolical Seminars's a/c system, set to Arctic.
DreamWeaver, Freeway, Passports to Hell.
Well, I did follow along paranoically and did build myself a slammin' 1-pager and finished and thought Cheesh, I wanted a mega-page site. Now I'm trying to retrofit some more intermediate info onto the rickety and rinky-dink 1-page wonder to not-quite great effect. So I just randomly began toggling about like I knew what I was doing. I did and still do not.
As an artist I do resent having to follow directions and I think directions sometimes are for followers, the weak-minded. But it appears I'll have to follow a bit closer to get pages 2, 3 and beyond flowing like a DreamWeaver towards the morning light.

Always. DreamWeaver. Love.

Richard Wicka has been kindly sending me along commentary about my Five Minute Video Series contribution and, surprisingly, there have been a smattering from far and wide - not just emanating from the Middling City. One person from MC, however, did review my tale and ended by referring to me as a Snuggle bunny. Yipes. I gave a hard-hitting account of an event, presented it in a gripping style veering into comedic interludes. I would hardly classify this narrative style or presentation as being that of a . . . Snuggle bunny.
So another holiday slew of mayhemic events has passed and it's back to beeswax, so to speak, getting the last of the wrapping paper jetsom into la poubelle.
Wrapping up a little piece for the Shiney Happy Mag, a Pulitzer-worthy assessing of joints to get home accessories and the like. I walked into one place in the midst of an MC storm looking quite like a girl version of the Unibomber before I defrocked and let the proprietess know I meant her no harm, just free publicity, some glorious ink.
Time to sort through matters, snip off loose ends, correspond and more.

Corresponding Love.