Midst of suburbs, midst of wedding gig and the woman who runs this country club's wedding portion of things just came to tell Yours Truly (editing another gig in the joint's sole room with smattering of a/c - despite all doors and windows wide open, the other rooms have none as it would halt the march of venerability in the ballroom and such) that the couple du moment was about to slice & dice their special cake.
It should be noted that the bride was absolutely not into having a wedding cake at all and this point had been mentioned by several in the cast of characters.
A bartender, an obvious lifer, tipped YT off about this coolest room and, after being out in the sun in a suit, this is a welcomed respite.
Down with sun. Down with heat.
Up with shade. Up with autumn.
Up with removed and discreet boardrooms in the middle of the suburbs with swagged-out windows, hand-painted walls, functional furniture in burgundy, and a view of a tetherball field of green.
There are some great dresses at this affair, one pair of fab sandals, a guy in very solid Steve Madden shoes (impressively he knew the designer), a feisty flower girl, no butt bow, and a priest with an actual good sense of humour who drinks scotch YT duly noted.
Time to make, do, observe, document with blazing finesse.
Would You be so kind as to fetch me another pint-sized suburban tap water with extra lemon squeezes.
YT thanks You.

Love in the Midst.

There I was, minding my own Perfect business, as usual, and a succession of events unfolded.
Headed to the favoured diner to see Betty the Waitress et al, read the Middling City News, catch up on neighborlike vibes, and oso much more.
John and his co-owner are opening a dinner-only place two doors down in what always looked to me to be a former strip club, those frosty up-high windows that obscure looks in and out.
I walked in the diner door - wide open for a theoretical breeze - to Hey, where've you been stranger.
I pronounced it was a morn that if I did not have their signature skillet I would just not be right all day.
Midtime there Betty and I looked out the bank of windows marveling at all the policemen and policewomen across the street, at Father Baker's joint. And then a bagpiper showed up, skirted out but bagless. I believe it was in his nearby SUV for safekeeping. We skimmed over the obits to discover who was going to be held aloft by the white-gloved officers of the law and could not find the name.
Left there and headed in a southernly fashion to points sort of known.
Destination was Lockwood's Nursery to peruse, as Liz had mentioned in recently and it sounded good. It was beyond good and bought some additions to Kennedy's garden, tall perennials of wondrous colours, especially the delphiniums.
Had another stop to make, at a national underwear chain for some summer upgrades.
As the salesgal stuffed the 5-4-$25 items into the trad pink bag she asked if Yours Truly would like some tissue paper, To offset everything.
I had to pursue this.
Offset.
Yes, she said, offset the items so they don't clang around.
Now, I ask You, have You ever had skivvies that clang.
More points beyond and beyond.

Clanging, aloft Love.

Let us be honest, decent taxis in the Middling City are a rarity.
Taxis in these parts pump out blue smoke, are missing hubcaps, are dented and rusted, feature smoking drivers who look like former (or current) felons. Usually.

sidebar: Once, after detraining at Exchange Street and hailing a quote-unquote cab-for-hire (the only one on horizon) was told by driver that he would have to wait for another fare - or two - before he could afford to leave. Needing a ride, and also riding along this curious and spontaneous narrative, waited for the others to express need. And they did. And we drove off.
another sidebar: For a short stretch YT lived with a roomie pal across from a now-defunct taxi company on a stretch of Grant Street that I referred to lovingly as Little Warsaw. The taxi drivers, a slatternly bunch, were usually, when not speeding off to parts far and wide, leering up at us when we sat on our dismal, sun-drenched rented front porch.

Recently YT was in a drive-thru ATM situ and there was a shambles of a taxi letting off a passenger about a yard from the ATM machine, just close enough to block my own transacting.
I was so entranced by the sight of the taxi, the lack of courtesy, the lack of understanding of car lengths and such, the grease on the back window, the lengthy transaction between driver and passenger that there was no laying on of the horn to rile those ahead out of their otherworldly condition.
After this moment YT thought of an MC-based Conceptual Arts and Crafts Project Series.
The premier involves taxis in the aforementioned condition (and their handlers) switching spots and automobiles with instructors from the MC's venerable driving institutes.
Youngsters, and those who never cared to drive until later in life, would hop into these decrepit cars with loose steering columns to learn driving ropes, to really handle a mechanical tiger. They'd be inching towards curbs, lurching around corners in cars that could handle the abuse.
And MC cabbies could suddenly drive fares around in safe vehicles.
Wondering if there could be grant money for this conceptual foray, replete with a digvid doc of the fun, of course.
Onwards.
This weekend past involved a panoply of moments both memory-worthy, and photo-friendly.
Pre-Garden Walk party in Liz's garden was divine amid the lilies and tinkling pond and old friends, visit to the Hallwalls members's show opening was its usual crowded incarnation with a most inspiring exchange with thee Pulitzer-winning Tom Toles who liked my drawing and suggested I carry on with the pencils, after-dancing at eponymous Miss Kitty's (as the joint where we wanted to karaoke had some head-banger dudes filing in with basses and such, and where I Hula-Hooped for the first time in decades without injury to myself or anyone on the large patio, and where the CDjockey could not find her copy of C-Sharp's Set it Off, sadly), a brunch with the girls at Roycroft and trek to Vidler's to gaze at curios and candy. After Vidler's we went into that used clothing place and I made the disco-related purchase (for the pending Sunday night disco on the site of the old Mulligan's where OJ and Danny Gare and countless others sniffed in heaps of disco high times) of a very odd pink shirt that involves leatherette-looking stitched nylon, pink rhinestones, and lots of pleating.
It's, as they say about relationships, complicated.

Complicated, Conceptual Love.