This epinw blogpost brought to You via stolen wi-fi molecules from that suburban bread joint, Panera. Yours Truly has sharked up alongside their big box to grab and read and post and such.
Quite a quality girlie throw-down last night beginning with quaffs of Veuve and we old-timers did note that there was no gunplay, no ambulances called, this time around.
Liz had her pad wired with motion-detecting devices that chimed, sang, carolled.
On her three-foot tall snowman she'd recorded herself singing a tasteful snippet of a carole.
YT queried how to edit the thing and then recorded a hearty HoHoHO you skanky ho.
Moments ago, following a trek to the big U, ran into the PO to mail off a bunch of happy images made by me to clients and pals all over the dang place.
I eschew the lines and head straight to the nice, geek-friendly automated machines and usually end up helping a few others who are just baffled.
Well, up comes Middling City piano bar fixture Jackie Jocko.
He needed instruction, headed straight for me, as I was helping a lanky woman mailing off a package with wimpy lettering I could barely see, let alone some harried, nearly-going-postal postal worker. No wonder.
So there is JJ with his sprayed-on eyebrows and hair. Really an artform.
I told him he'd need a debit or credit card to use the auto-device.
Honnnney, he stated, I don't carry those around with me.
Well, I said, pointing off into the dank and distant corner, you'll have to weigh your package on the scale and buy the postage you need - over there.
Well off he meandered. He was back in a flash.
Missssssssss, he asked, can you help me with that when you're done.
There I was, using my handy cellphone calculator, math whizz that You know I am, dividing $1.83 by .39 to come up with five or so and then showed the MC Piano Man how to then purchase his separate first-class stamps.
Out came a wad of cash, high roller style.
I grabbed a few bills and shoved them into the machine, thinking that this part of the process would just more dauntation.
The stamps were spit out.
He was very excited.
I said Now lick and stick.
Happpppppppppppppppy Holllllllllllllllidays Missssssssssssssss Jackie Jocko said.
Same to you.
I didn't tell him I knew he is a star.
A real Middling City star.


Starry Love.

VH1 and Yours Truly will be entwined once again, or shall I say Viacom. The Ramjac of the media world, to ref the nearly-invisible, highly-influential Vonnegut.
To recap: images sold to them of various bands of national and Middling City ilk, documentation of Save the Music activities, Real World documentation, etc.
Going on a junket to document some of the madness for aforementioned in the desert, the plastique land of Siegried and Roy. Vegas.
And of course must recollect for You the fun facts gleaned by my wedding chapel fact-finding mission there several years ago. When I timed that one could land in an aeroplane in that desert, cab on over to City Hall and be married at a chapel on the Strip within two hours.
One very dear pal, who shall be unnamed at this juncture, did so and then a few years later realized the harsh realities of post-connubial-bliss extrications. Months, nay, years of extricating with assistance of lawyer/booze/fate. And thousands of dollars.
Those wedding chapels, resplendent with cakes of faux confection (pose with them for an extra fee added to wedding package), onhand photogs, earnest chaplains and Elvises to pretend that they're marrying you when in actuality the marriage has happened in a back room and Elvis is merely for show. Show show show.
A Middling City Holiday Tale.

I do mean tale.
We will call the lead Meredith for that seems festive, worldly, earthy.
Well Meredith looked forward to her office party, a little affair (with an office worker nobody knew about but eyebrows raised when they were near each other, as did pheromone levels) at a Middling City swillhole.
She had several and had a grand time to boot.
The next thing Meredith knew she had driven into the front of HSBC Arena, where Neil Diamond has performed. Where that sports team plays.
Where the hotdogs are way overpriced.
Meredith was face-to-face with a wall.
The police and such arrived.
I missed the stop sign, she said.
The Holiday End.

Love of Telling Tales.

This Just In.
Yoko is being extorted by her former, wily driver who says he has bad photos of her.
There are several bad photos of YT out in the world. Extort away.
Does one really care about such things in this reality, share-all world.
I think not.

The Middling City is awash in temperance of the weathery kind.
Bulbs are confused. People are confused. Scarves or not. Sunscreen or not.
Really or not.
Yesterday I had to make environmental ports of a newbie to the big U, a nouveau PhD in the communications department who postulates/theorizes/writes about this very type of online fascination.
I told him some fun facts about epinw, that I'm a long-time blogger via Blogger, and a few other (m)usings, including how there have been moments when a reader feels they must disguise the fact that they have done some epinw reading.
According to the blog theorist, Stefanone, this is all about Equity Theory.
A fun mathematic equation. You. You say. Me. YT says.
And if there is no parity there and then then the awkwards set in.
He's asked me to write a narrative about this experience, about the years. He asked the big Why. Because once I discovered blogging I knew that it would be a way to record the ongoing, sometimes odd, narratives around me. And gathering narratives becomes a hobby, when you become forensic with the world it is another place and keeps your hands in creation. We moved onwards to discuss MySpace & Facebook, and he demo'd Facebook, a Blade Runneresque way of discovery in a flash - the pet peeves and the like of others out in the world who've tossed together a summation of their personas. Stefanone mentioned the Machiavellian possibs of all this scanning, forecasting, e-learning of others.
It's just layering of narratives to be used in wise moderation.
Dig.
Was shooting gig numero threeo yesterday when I was spotted by a teen I have known, who I have enjoyed talking to. NANCY she shouted. So I sat with her whilst she took a break from her history homework. My parents are taking me to a therapist she blurted out. And then I missed suddenly the blurts of young girls, like those I taught at the summer camp that Maine-rich decade.
I asked her if she is crazy. She said no. And I think I know this girl enough to know that she might recognize if she were crazy. She does not feel it to be so. We discussed the differences between crazy and creative, and the feeling of not being with one's people. I talked to another child, request of the mom, about being a creative in a sometimes kookily straight world. That those people are out there and you have to keep on truckin' and writing or whatever that impulse is until those people are found. So I kept on talking about crazy v. not crazy with this teen child. One man's crazy is another man's creative.

Creative, crazed Love.