Sunday evenings in the Middling City have redolence, they feel like something.
But since Yours Truly works every day I don't think it's that pre-Monday feeling.
It feels unlike Sundays in other cities – anywhere.
Kind of celebratory, sleepy, relaxed, depending, perhaps, on the season.
Onwards.
This Sunday evening is bright but an autumnal chill hangs over everything and for this reason dinner tonight is asking to be baked.
Speaking of baked, the Sabres are like so over.
Shot an event yesterday and did manage to hear in the automobile snippets of the game inconsistently so sometimes it alternated hopeless and hopeful.
Ultimately the former.
YT was on cusp of deciding to document all the homemade Sabres paraphernalia about town: the homemade Stanley Cups on front lawns, wishful spraypainted words, shoepolished car windows and the like.
During photo gig someone had the game on and as I breezed through a room I stopped on someone's nickel and on a proverbial dime to watch as much as possible and just at that moment Drury took the friendly fire puck to the face, resulting in biohazard blood droplets dropped off to the locker room.
Fires raging in this Perfect world include excitation at the pending Richard Serra show at the Modern, the Matthew Marks show of (holy shit, right, like happening now) Andreas Gursky, and, despite the fact that I'm booked for gigs and cannot wend my way to not Wembley but Giants Stadium for the 7.7.07 Al-created Live Earth show of rock legends, wannabes, has-beens, must-sees. For the halibut checked to see how much tix were in the algore.com section as well as another inner sanctum.
Naysayers naysay that rock cannot change the world and to that I say Are you freakin' kidding me. Money raised goes right to Alliance for Climate Protection fercrissakes and even more and more pedestrians will be inundated with Inconvenient Truths.
Rock saves the day, rock may save the planet.

Love of rock, rocks, planets.