Well, You ask, what does this image have to do with the price of bananas.
Nothing.
For they don't seem to sell bananas in Sicily.
At least on the eastern edge of things.
Thought a nice sunny image was in order.

One thing Yours Truly is NOT doing today is hearing Igrid Michaelson live on the property of the Big U.
YT had an aural mishap, misunderstanding the sonic matters at hand, that the local NPR affiliate was airing a prerecorded concert of Ingrid from a gig in Philly, and that she is not to play today, here, nearly now.
An on-air personality says to Reserve space, sounded to me like one and all could, with an email, some eluck, watch the on-air show.
But nope.
Oh, velcro and onwards.
Rob Zombie comes to the Middling City oso soon and for that there are supercharged ions in the MC's wintry air.
Once YT witnessed RZ become distressed when a young fan broke his arm right in front of him, and YT, who was standing shooting in the pit - one of those live music mishaps that is sometimes part of that big situ.

Saw the new Johnny Depp vehicle last night and have this to say about it all.
He is a song and dance man, whose face ages poetically, and he still moves like the lithe Euro-living and loving artist that he is. Sigh.

Euro Love, Love.

Early this very a.m. the Middling City News had arrived in its toxic orange plastic baggie and Yours Truly was reading along while the laptop was firing up.
Sadly, read the online news (too late for ink) of Bhutto's assassination today around the other side of the Earth, the second attempt recently on her/her life.
YT followed the story of her return from exile, and was entranced by the image of her bombed-out stumping bus about one month ago.
Her haters did not like that she was a she, that she was Westernized, that she was on the hunt for the big D.
Democracy, not Death.
Read some updates on the Guardian site and was struck by the diff between the condolence vids of Bush and Britain's P.M., Gordon Brown.
There is Bush in his best suit, in front of the White House seal, speaking in turns sadly and in his usual paternalistic tone, eyes glaring at press corps and into the giant eye of the cam in front of him.
Conversely, Brown is in what appears to be a new holiday sweater, in front of a modest row of books, looking down.

∞

On a different note, going to see the new Depp vehicle this evening, Sweeney Todd.
After an appropriate meal of Indian fare, neighbor of Bhutto's homeland.

Land of Love.

Happy Boxing Day to You, from this (at moment) Perfect Prose-spewing Pugilistic moment, where the Middling City shines as bright as a newly-minted Indian penny.
Since just about Thanksgiving it's been a cavalcade of parties and holiday madness continues with a few more to lead into 2008 - which Yours Truly has deemed Year of Art.
In summation, or to create a bit of a Holiday Party Tableau, here, in no particular order, are some musings and happenstances from a hand-picked few sans all names of the cast of characters, no dates, no definite placings – for privacy & magical mystery's sake.

• A nice little electric blue fireball shot above a cast iron sauce pan on stovetop after being ignited to fabricate a lovely, festive rum punch. Manning the handle, the person who'd lit the 1000proof liquid shook the pan, further enabling the fireball. YT took matters into her right hand, reached for a nearby frying pan's lid and dropped it atop the situ. Nothing but rum and sundry other ingredients was scorched. YT was praised by a third person in room for Being good in an emergency. I was a camp counselor for ten years, YT proffered.
• Following a party in the late-night exurbs a nearly-vintage automobile was driven off-road. NB: not an SUV so off-road not so good. Especially at early morn hours of Christmas. In a frozen field. Roadside discussion ensued - to return to party about one mile away to fetch some big, burly rockstars and the like, or to use a missing AAA card to acquire some assistance. But a cop was part of this situ, and a license was also not so present, and things got so complicated but worked out alright in the end. The MC's exurbs might look very benign, but taking it low & slow (as they say in the aeronautics world) is very wise indeed.
• Figgy pudding. Figgy pudding. Figgy pudding. Served amid a lovely meal of trad and nouvelle cuisine. And, like a dream, figgy pudding. As well as Bouche Noël. Speaking of flambé, some of that action for said figgy pudding. And then the screeching of culinary brakes as most at this fete dutifully eat, or feign to eat the fruity, raisin-rich, creamy treat. OK, YT loves figgy pudding. Not one other person in this room ate more than a spoonful. YT received a nice Veuve toast, and applause.
• Amid a holiday gathering someone mutters, kind of sadly, or wistfully, Are the holidays over yet to a rather equally-mixed effect.
• Grooving on Old School MC Vibes, a few guests at a gathering decide to rearrange artwork on the walls. Hostess tipsily compliments the bold moves. It is not discussed again.

Onwards to creative high times.
Boxing, Love.

This is Extra.
Extra is My Little Angel - yearlong, not seasonal.
He is angelic in the sense of manifestation of glowing Love, not lolling Medieval cherub.
But he is a solid champeen loller.
Presently he is thirteen years old and we've known each other his entire life.

backstory: I got his mom and sister adopted; he and his brother were uncatchable and gradually became non-feral, hanging about, and becoming demi-pets.

This is a case of the shoemaker's children having no shoes: Yours Truly realized that Extra has never made an appearance on epinw and it is high time for him to have his fuzzy countenance splashed across the e-universe.
As he is usually in motion, it is appropriate to have an image of Extra motion, conjuring up his active lifestyle: snacking, hunting, meditating.

Pals have asked at what age I stopped believing in Santa Claus.
And to that YT truthfully answers Never, because of a big impartation by first cousin Stevie.
Stevie, who gave YT hair-raising joyrides up and down sidewalks in stroller, blurted out that Santa is oso not real. And I do not recall feeling very sad about this at all, it was probably feeling more like I'd avoided this child-centric ruse.
Invariably, everyone who has asked the question then asks where cousin Stevie is today.
And that answer is he's been M.I.A. for a very long time.

Just spoke with Dorota, out in the midst of some mall situ, having to share her ops about whatever wares were being held in front of her by her mom, her holiday shopping partner.
Onwards to more holiday jingles, tingles, and mingles.

Mingling, Love.

+ And Happy Birthday again to MerryMary.