veni vidi rolli.
Went to Queen City Roller Girls benefit Saturday night to roll and not derby.
In vehicle was also Annie and Jana and up north met up with Cheryl, Liz, Erin and saw The Jens as well as rockabilly and art types.
As well as one Middling City politico whose hippie wedding I shot a number of years ago. They wore sandals. It did not last.
There is a moral there.
So what did last in his closet were some 80s acid-wash jeans that had some streaks of bedazzlement, worn as the night was themed 80s-era prom.
On the wooden floor was a panoply of hideous bridesmaid dresses, corsages.
The QCRG team, numbering at about thirty, is half bruisers and half lithe types who, if they were your grocery checkout girl, you'd feel the need, perhaps, depending upon mood, to help her foist a grocery bag into the cart.
Witnessed were, de rigeur, some stupendous wipeouts (not to be confused of the top ten selection of Yours Truly) with limbs akimbo, people holding onto wall, people holding the wobbly up, some scoping, and lipgloss.
I made sure that, while blading along, lipgloss was firmly applied.
And one of my dearest, Liz, gets my ribbon for roller gumption, lacing up and, in grand Liz style, hitting the activity con brio. I whizzed past her at one point as she was falling and had to go around before I could find her again. I was helping her with some technique issues and she said the greatest quote of all, to be included on the calendar of YT if ever there is to be one, accompanied with image of Liz on skates,
I don't mind falling.
Now those are words to muster up and forge ahead with on a diurnal basis.
Also of special note was the boy in drag who wore a rather unflattering maxi dress that happened to match the odd ochre of the rental skates.
Onwards after the rink headed more north to find a dismal hotel bar so that Jana could review it for some reason, assumedly to assuage those in Niagara County who feel that if ever there is news about their limping burg it is about what transpires (entertainmently speaking) over at the former convention center, The Jackpot Centre.
The bar is not worth discussing (special mention deserved for the bar owner's dyed eyebrows ... no man should dye his eyebrows, and the unchilled white box wine, so Niagara Falls, so OUcH) but the activities of YT and pals are - dancing to a dj who busted out all the party tunes, a stranger (a woman) doing the forbidden dance with YT and I thought it was Jana until she meandered by and then I discovered this elfish drunkish lady behind me all juicey-goosey, and the earnest cover band onhand (A-List, such a grabby name) who not only proffered up one primo homonym typo on their set list (If You Don't No Me By Now), but did a rather overly-syncopatic but welcomed rendition of Neil's Sweet Caroline. To which I did an interpretive solo dance to express my deepest love for Neil, not the A-Team.
You see, the love of Neil is spread far and wide.
To the south, to the north.
In homes, in cars, in cheezey hotel bars the world over.
Wherever It may be, there is Neil Love.

Neil Love, Love.