Today.
Two boy colleagues sent me, and they do not know each other, Remember When emails.
One sent a beautiful black & white image of thee John, of Toppermost of the Poppermost fame.
The other sent two images of the likeness of Yours Truly from several years ago, me swaggering and loaded down with gear, making my way into a venue and from the looks of the situ it is the Middling City's downtown baseball centre/diamond.
So that would be one of the all-day fests that transpire there.
My hair was very long, as it's aiming to become again, and I think there's a pager - a pager - clipped to my belt loop.
There was an era, like around before when digital hit the mainstream, that we journalistos had pagers and YT knew, absolutely, the locale of each and every danged payphone in this Western New York.
And, lest you forgot, one could receive pages from parties that ended or began their phone numbers to be returned with a 911 meaning Jeez, call me like PRoNTo.
The latter sender, Chris Borkowski (he's himself + the dotcom if You wish to see his site), catapulted from MC artsy venues to a gig at the Guggenheim, as in that snaily viewing venue that, in this op, worked best for the overtakage of Matthew Barney.
Onwards.
The biggest and perhaps, no, def the best, news to hit this frigid village is that Albright-Knox Art Gallery is to show the work of Francis Bacon in May.
That is correct, Bacon.
This may be the verysame show YT saw in Paris a while back - popes, dogs, twisted countenances, and ever ever those lush topographies.
Just typing those last two words made me have a micro-pang for grad school and truly this reason has escaped just as quickly as my little fingers typed that all in a flash.

Flashes of Love.

Well can You say that Your day included, perfectly, as Mine did, a special proximity to a faux, life-sized skeleton.
I think not.
Yours Truly was called to make some ports of a femme at the big U and we meandered a bit after getting a feel for how best to illustrate her craft and craftiness.
Gallery, hallway, foyer, window port, monitors and then, o then, discovered that my pal Jeff Sherven has, for some reason, this skeleton in the check-out area for media equipment.
The photo subjet du jour deals not only with epidemiology but with media so this quite handily worked most parfait.
Stand in between the monitor and the skeleton, YT directed.
And I bet this phrase will just never be repeated ever again.
Now on the rock classique station is that wondrous sonic piece of art the Stones made with Keith's ragged vocals - Happy.
Today is one freakin' Happy Day.
Last night, whilst shopping for fresh fleurs (dig french, dig) spotted #61 - Max Afinogenov - of thee Buffalo Sabres, jaw clenched tightly, circling some roses, obviously in a state of flusterment. I nearly stepped in but amused myself greatly by watching his typical boy quagmire of which to give - the reds, the pinks, the non-roses. Then back to roses. He was in a flowery pickle, to be sure.
Boys/men attach too much to flowers, well, some anyhow. My most recent X always thought, or believed, erroneously, that I preferred to receive a delicious gourmet sandwich to some nice flowers. Not that that stopped the flower gifts but his belief was like so wrong.
Just like bats, I believe everyone has a good flower story - giving or receiving.
YT has her share, to be perfectly sure.

Happy Rosey Day.