So el grande Mercury Buckets to Dave Pietrowski for Sabres tix for tonight-premier time for Yours Truly, former diligent floor hockey and street hockey left wing.
Still have to contact Dave about the big huge f-up in the mag that mysteriously published an incorrect date for World's Largest Disco. Twice. Even in the title. I was, to say the least, mortified. As if there was not enough to be edited and done on the mag without mucking up an otherwise stellar piece which does, in sooth, state that the WLD happens the Saturday aft T-G, which any Tom, Dick & Harry would just know is not the titular date given. Egads again.
Saw Marky Mulville last night at gig out in the dark exurbs and he says he is iceside tonight, shooting the game, so I said I'd give him my coordinates so he could doc my sporty moment.
We were both at a gig sans cheese cubes, lots of crudites but, curiously, no cubes of solid milkfat in sight.
Moseyed afterwards to meatballs and vino for a well-balanced, nutritious evening.
Today garnered an advance copy of Mark Goldman's pending book of Middling City troubles, City on the Edge. Pub date = January.
Spoke to a Prometheus Books employee and, at some point, mentioned that YT had worked for them back in the day when they were in the MC, at the then-not-so-terrifying corner of East Amherst and Bailey Avenue. Back when YT slogged away as assistant to both directors of advertising and promotions, choking on secondhand smoke puffed out by nearly everyone in the basement office with orange shag carpeting which yielded a small crop of mushrooms after each and every rainfall.
YT took fresh air breaks, hanging/hiding out with either the acerbic (in attitude towards the joint, not YT) designer or the shipping and receiving guys where the titles were piled up awaiting loving eyes.

Lovingly-eyed Love.

Urban, vehicular fable.
Written, demi-appropriately, to near-vintage Roxy Music in a Shiney Apple-related memory jag. This is driving music in the far and away sense.
Fable:
And by fable Yours Truly means You read a parallel meaning, dig.
Yesterday, amongst a typical marathon day of several gigs far and wide, interspersed with necessary electronic linkage to the world-at-large, decided to try one of those small, vehicular gestures that can make all the proverbial difference.
The car had been pulling to the right, often. It got me to thinking that perhaps I should motor over to see ol' Mat Sims at the dealership to swap out cars - again.
But no.
For a mere 75¢ in quarters YT wrestled with a borrowed hose (three minutes and counting) and its attached air-o-meter, filling all four sporty tires.
To the brim.
The tires were at 20 p.s.i. and they prefer to be about 45 p.s.i. That is shop talk for pounds per square inch, whatever the hell that really means and, being a very busy freelancing woman on the g.o. go, who can really care.
That is another matter altogether, to be Googled or Wiki'd perhaps never.
So in lieu of frustration, possible substitution, YT invested a meager amount of time and money to meliorate. Problem solved.
This fable may be applied, in whole, to the concept of relationships and to friendships.
Thank you for Your attention in this matter.

Respectfully Submitted, Love.