woah nancy, you DID blog the BR. i'll pass on the mv/ee.
This is what Eremite (aka Mo' Jiggs) wrote back upon seeing The Bummer Road (translated, curiously, with mysterious nods to illusory tactics, perhaps, as la route de déception by Babel Fish just seconds ago) had been blogged by Yours Truly.
In mere hours the fun-loving band Sloan plays that Middling City drunkfest aka Thursday at the Square which has, concurrently, inspired legions of motorcyclists to congregate downtown and terrorize one and all with their loud pipes that they believe save lives. I think a better plan would be to share the road wisely with motorists as I've witnessed this summer some incredible, irresponsible motorcyclist weaving and bobbing amongst vehicles doing about 55.
Forgot to note this past Sunday Westfield, NY was a destination for a piece for the Shiney Happy Mag and took the scenicest way down, stopping along the way at The Rez for some petrol and did truly marvel at a $6.99 lighter shaped perfectly as a miniature double-barreled shotgun.
With dual flames, bien sur.
While lunching in the beloved, vintage diner of the town I read the local (downturn of voice) daily and how a fugitive of prowess as of late had been spotted in the town. They did not, curiously, run a photo of said fugitive which I found rather interesting as if townspeople spotted a man who they did not happen to know from the diner, from the watering hole, wherever, how could they accurately do some fingering.
On the same topic here's a short tale of fingering.
A pal reported that his very backroads pal was surrounded, upon leaving a WalMart conveniently located in the midst of what some cityfolk might term Nowhere, by scads of troopers. A WalMart shopper, perhaps even a greeter (for we know they are all probably, safe to say, senile), fingered the pal of the pal. Incorrectly.
Moral:
Finger only with resolve and, if possible, consult newspaper file photos.

Fingering Love.

* This just in, added for erudition's sake.
One embedded blogpost image shows Bucky, the fugitive.
One embedded blogpost image shows Bucky, the mascot.
Lest you encounter a shadowy, becapped, strutting figure.

Here They are.
Ladies and Gentlemen, hippies and dog lovers, free jazz associates, and anarchic genre benders.
The Bummer Road.
Why now, as they played the Middling City oh but exactly three weeks ago during the MC's most hottest of a slew of days that inspired Yours Truly to purchase a/c for their stay.
As Mo' Jiggs, as pictured in scarlet, asked for a quick batch for a mag that will be featuring musings on their musings. I emailed Mo' Jiggs, as pictured in - yes - Birks, a selection of eight. Last time they played the MC some photos of them by YT appeared on that bountiful blog/site controlled by Thurston.
Note the dog, beloved Zuma, who has never given my hand a chomp.
Today, after a few gigs at MCU I wended to a bookstore and purchased one of those Dummies books to help someone land a 747 of sorts but could not offer up much help as the password for the unloosing of the machine's every bits and bytes could not be recalled by its newbie owner.
Well, YT stated, I can't do a thing.
If it ain't got that swing.
If it ain't got that admin password issue all under control.
And off I faded into the heavily-aired afternoon.

Heavy, airy Love.

Yours Truly is taking a long shot here. You may recall that I am not only a super-secret dart player of Zen proportions, but a keen shooter with both gun and camera. Recall that the FBI asked if I may have an interest in joining up with them after indulging in their for-the-media shoot-a-thon with guns of all ilks. So when I am taking a clichéd long shot, it is going, probably, to be dead on.
So here is an image of something blue, obviously a fishy member of the animal kingdom, a swimming part of Nature.
You are terrified of it, as I was. It is something that Literal Harold just informed me of, yet another frightening image supplied by a pal. And I am even more perplexed that after my decade of being the Arts and Crafts teacher at for The Summer Camp up in the corner of Maine, replete with nights off spent on the coast, and a very informative and chefly beau there, that YT never - ever - heard of this beast, this mola mola. I doubted Literal Harold and ran to Wikipedia to just see if LH was fabricating this creature that, allegedly, propels itself into the air, out of the water, to rid itself of barnacles.
It eats jellyfish. It is a sunfish. It likes to be alone.

From Wikipedia:
Breaching has also been observed. This is when sunfish jump out of the water as whales sometimes do. They are reported to jump up to ten feet out of the water. This is probably done to dislodge the large number of parasites on their body. Molas also seek drifting kelp in search of small fish to remove their abundant parasites.

Thinking of a nice, solid parallel to how we everyday people jump to rid ourselves of parasites and all I can come up with is how we might jump into another situ - coffee joint, bar, restaurant - to change our bodies, dump those existential parasites.
Off now to photograph the creepy Scientology Palace for the last of the Secrets of Allentown images for the small, shiney booklet for the tour on September 16th.

Mola Mola Love. (no)
Idea of Mola Mola Love. (yes)