Nance's Rippin' Believe This or Not.
Outside, some ultra-locals are imbibing the day away.
Yours Truly spotted a couple of them hobbling back to their lair with a suitcase (as it's politely called up north of the Middling City) of Buds.
Now, they're way into their cups.
There is the crackling of a grill, the meager shade of a backyard vinyl umbrella.
YT just went outside to feed the cats, being the Official Old First Ward Cat Lady and all.
Now, here comes the Believe This or Not portion of this Perfect Indy-Day tale.
Loudly, the ultras are regaling each other with tales accidental, as in I was there and then suddenly a crash/boom/bang and then I was ... oneupmanship always happens in these circumspect circumstances, as We all know in this fair, Democratic and dwindling Superstar Power.
One of the ultras kept subbing the word hemorrhoid for hemorrhage, sans ironical lilt of any sort.
YT will, as Perfect luck has it, be in the Shiney Apple during Restaurant Week, that prix fixe fest for lunch or din.

Onwards to more present matters.

Jesse Helm is deceased, a hateful art hater and it's an interesting intellectual or, more precisely, metaphysical argument to bandy about just where he might be at this moment. If one believes in the afterlife. With all that negativity is he metaphysically south.
YT is about to launch a little slip of paper over to the ultras, with this hate/Helms talkpoint written upon it.

As indy-day motors on YT listens to one of her newbiefinds, Band of Horses, a delightful NWn indie band.

This image was spotted on in internet system today, paired with a story of the sale of Getty Images to a private investment group for over a bill.


Last night Jakob Dylan had his special aura, as did one of his bandmates, that roadblush upon them that makes the heart patter a bit and yearn for something ... bigger.
His gig was good, despite the people about who did not give a hoot (don't pollute) about the Dylan onstage, nor his bandmates - the ol' Gold Mountain Band, is that it.
I said to Annie that the show would have been oso much better in a small dark venue with a cool refreshing bevvie in hand.

Time to wend out to a weenie roast south of here and then f-works way north of here, for The Book. Ahh, The Book.

Bookish, Lovish Love.