'Tis nearly the wearin' o the green so therefore in the Middling City this means 'tis the runnin' o the tipplers. In essence Yours Truly means the annual Shamrock Run of course, the pesky race that wends its way throughout the historic Old First Ward, in plain view of the majestic grain elevators, the train tracks, the swill halls that remain.
This means that YT was dodging barricades and warmer-uppers en route to meeting in the suburb of Hamburg and am now in hiding with Blogger and NYT to amuse me until I am certain the coast will be clear, as military planners are wont to say.
Last night was a girlie meet-up with Jana at Ikea-ful Brodo which is never half full before adding Liz to the cast of characters, meeting her over at the nouvelle Scarlet on Virginia Alley.
This joint is confused, not confusing.
It is in the former Crash Club where crazed events and things transpired in the 90s and they have taken out all the mirrors, carpeting, brass railings and general architectural disguises to reveal a place with antique character - exposed bricks and beams.
The ol' b&b.
The owners or management were, apparently, not so sure if they wanted to make this a sports bar or an upscale dining venue so they aimed for a 50/50 aesthetical split.
There are sets prominent on the two-story wall with tastefully-arranged bottles of spirits placed just so, as well as some botanical embellishments.
Then there was the overwhelming scent of fish, obviously the exhausting of vapours was not thought out enough. It was strong enough that it made YT consider making an about-face and leaving as who wishes to subsume oneself in the wafting scent of fried foods and fishticuffs. We stayed. Liz came. We cocktailed. We left.
Will I return.
That is a question.
If it's on someone's to-do list and I am into seeing the to-doer yes.
Time to see if the runners, walkers, barricades, cops have left the scene.

Scenic, hideout Love.

Was informed today by one whose op I rather treasure in parts that today We are to wear pink as a sign of solidarnosc for Anna Nicole.
Her fav colour was pink, You see.
I was not wearing pink earlier, nor now, although I looked at a pink sweater (subconsciously) and chose to wear purple instead.
I found her curious.
Did I think she was like Marilyn, as she blathered.
Only in the faux blondeness, the exuberant sexuality, the selling themselves to men in a rather gross manner, becoming a caricature.
Marilyn was more of a talent, in my non-humble op.
Heard from JW,Esq. who has informed me that for a Cali pal's b-day soirée where one and all were asked to come as a rock star or behave as one, he chose to dress an none other than Ozzy.
As not in and Harriet but thee Ozzy, one of the most kind-hearted rockers of all.
When JW,Esq. sends along a jpeg of himself in his costume (which was described in great detail and it had all the Ozzy bells & whistles) it will be appearing on epinw.
I did warn him of this.
Perhaps it will not arrive.
Off to points beyond and that is how all weekends should begin after a day of slogging and editing and the like.

Like editing, Love.

That very yumbalicious Jonny Lang performs at The Native American Money Sucking Pavilion tomorrow night.
First photographed that lanky blues man when he was about seventeen and glad to see his cheekbones have only improved with age.
Dined with Literal Harold last night at Republic on the square, as in Union.
Dorota breezed in for a quick Hello and marveled at how the joint was hiding some work being done on the ceiling above the kitchen and bar areas with red construction paper affixed with duct tape. It seemed so Middling City.
After goodbyes meandered into the Barnes and Noble over there to pick up Tiffany's pick for the book club, Fear of Flying, apparently most famed for coining phrase zipless fuck. I am like so not impressed with this book, which reads like a screeching proto-feminist tract that rails on about analysis and being liberated.
This book was published during the most seminal of years, '73, when Dark Side of the Moon emerged on the rock scene.
Always glad to be reading a tome for moiself and scanning ahead it seems it becomes a bit more of a narrative but as I was reading it in LaGuardia whilst waiting and then spotting someone who shall not be named who I know I did tuck it away, realizing it's just not the sort of book you want just everyone to know that you're reading.
Would Erica Jong state, back in the 70s or in these wartimes, that that makes me oso unliberated.
Geez, I really do not give a jot.
So, away the book is tucked, the flight was miraculously on time and Yours Truly is lightly humming the praises of both Delta and USAir, kind of leaving jetBlue alone for a while.

Lang Love.

Whilst dining last night in the Shiney Apple spotted Savion Glover, that tapdancing sensation. And, really, if he wanted to not be spotted he'd have a hell of a time with all those enchanting dreads and all.
Had a spectacular day of wending and wending and looking and watching. And, of course, thinking.
Found myself amongst the clothing of dead Nan Kempner, the socialite who wrote a book about entertaining, a sort of gossipy cookbook. The Met now owns her clothes. Laura and I marvelled at some items, chortled at others, mainly the 80s-era brandishments.
Why were we all so excited about such brandishments - the complicated collars, wrapping coats. I told Laura that I had a gray coat I was especially proud of back Then - a wrap coat that required scads of patience to get all affixed into place with its Japonaise, kimono-inspired wrapping on the inside.
The tour guide gave her quippicisms to the gaggle of ladies following her, marvelling at the cuts and fabrics (Yours Truly was truly aghast at the jacket lined with ... squirrel) and such and concluded with a controlled Q&A. She did proffer up the fact that Nan Kempner (who was about seven feet tall and from the looks of her clothing weighed about eighty pounds) has three children and her daughter, an artist, lives in the Village and is overweight. I said aloud, somewhat loud enough for the tour guide all dressed in orange and short of stature and also peculiar of stature so that she did resemble an Oompa-Loompa could hear - Geez, that isn't very kind.
Onwards now to more more more.
Before planing and deplaning once again.

Art starry Love.

Back in the Shiney Apple, spice snots streaming down my merry face.
For Yours Truly is happily seated in the front window (perhaps the nice girls behind counter will tap me on shoulder and say You know, every time you come here you eat a half bottle of our nuclear El Yucateco green hot sauce and scare pedestrians with your snot face, could you be so kind as to relocate to this more distant, less public table.) of Cubano Cafe Habana which has unfortunately painted over their colourful murals and have gone very minimalist.
Jumped off the J/Z on the Bowery and rushed over to Prince @ Elizabeth.

A funny, short tale, a YT highlight.
So there I am, post-asscrack of dawn, fumbling with the self-checker for USAir, having booked online via grand expedia.com for same.
Nothing. No getting of me on docket, no recognition of flight number.
I stand in line. A man calls to me I'll help you with the machine. I'm warbling I tried that already. Grimace, grimace. Man shouts Come down here and I'll help you and if it doesn't work HE (gesturing to man behind counter) will help you.
I shuffle down there. I say Well, maybe it's because it was booked online.
Swipe credit card. Nothing. Grumble.
I pull out my print-out of itinerary.
He takes a quick look.
Well, he says, the trouble is you're on Delta.
Oh.
Problem Solved.
So, for Your Enlightening, Delta is a good Choice B, C, or A for jetting from the Middling City to Shiney Apple.

Over and out.

Elizabeth@Prince Love.

So today is like the Super Bowl.
But it's about movies, not football thugs.
And, really, not wanting to be a giant party pooper, but I'm not into the Oscars.
My pal Karen cringes as she reads this.
And my mind zooms back to some Oscar Night parties I attended that were fun, to a point.
Now, mind you, I am an ultra-proud card-carrying member of Film Forum and watch more movies classique than the average public popcorn muncher (pet peeve numero uno), but this whole commercialized, let's gossip about rich folk thing really doesn't inspire.
I suppose I might like to see who is tripping along the red carpet.
And I will read which movie captured the hearts and souls of the Academy voters.
Only saw two of the movies, The Queen and Departed.
And as Yours Truly wrote the word Departed I queried internally thusly Is it really Departure.
I rest my Oscar-ambivalent case.

Last night met up with Brucey and parked in Allentown and trekked to the Saarinen-made Kleinhans Music Hall to be supportive of our wine and beer-pouring pal, Paul Safy, young crooner on the rise.
He sang with the Middling City Orchestra, three showy tunes, and did an amazing job.
I both beamed like a proud relative and worried that he'd fall on the cord, or fall of the stage. I was, let Us say, a proud wreck.
Saw him afterwards and we exchanged shouted greetings as he signed copies of his cd for those who just discovered his rich barritone.
And when he's all famous and shit YT can state He sang Happy Birthday to YT way back when.

Way back, cinematic Love.