So currently there are several concurrent technical challenges.
Numero uno is the midst of upgrading website and forging ahead with a flash site, and figuring out the navigation - navbars as we say in the former DreamWeaver-ridden sphere.
I like to recall for the glee of others the torture of the DreamWeaver classes at Parsons when the instructress of very highly-pitched voice would struggle to be heard over the whirr of the AC as we sat in podlike formation paired off, me looking over at my neighbor's machine until I feigned a break of some sort to rush out to Fifth Avenue to stare down reality, or an alternate one, for the time being.
I never did figure out that fucking DreamWeaver.
As I told my Parsons mentor there are other options such as the modus internetus whereby one pays for a template and sticks things into their appropriate slots: let someone else figure out the html nits and grits.

And then there is another matter at hand regarding a faulty memcard for the newest fam addition, the baby Leica dLux4. Not the card reader. check. Not the cam. check.
For this very micro-mini reason there are not, to date, any Fems images on epinw or elsewhere.

O what a night that was, strong still in mem.
Looking back and around and toward the stage was in throes of a glut of memory of Freeland, yes, of course, but time spent at The Continental stageside.
Dougie had a funny tale to tell this past week, of meeting a new pal who filmed a Fems show several years ago - perhaps seven - and this woman panned the crowd to reveal Yours Truly shooting the onstage action, and to also reveal the posse of YT nearby, including Dougie himself.
Suggested that he get this up on FB pronto.

Today FB'd a former prof, and a poet who YT asked a few times to be a featured reader for the fantastico Writers Cramp Series that YT ran from '81-'87 with Paul Hogan.
YT would procure the funding (conflict of interest as one of my on-campus jobs at UUAB as a chair underwrote a goodly portion of the series), design the posters, designed and printed the t-shirts, and co-emceed with PTH.
So this prof contacted YT and had several greetings.
He also recollected that I was disappointed that, upon snatching his headphones off his head once that he was listening to classical music and not good ol' rock & roll, as he always swore that he did.
He asked me to whip off a poem as an exercise and, ever-dutiful, I did so.
It was a two-min pome pennyeach for sure.
It was, as I wrote to him, something wallowing and waiting to be rid of me.
Happy Return, His Ghost
is its title and I also sent it off to Heady as a big nudge as we agreed that we are to nudge each other into creation.

This gray Middling City day began, nearly began, with the exchange of a shit-eating grin, as the cowboys say, with a femme stranger.
Then a thought that mine was, or was it. And hers was, or was it.

Onwards.
Upwards.
Artwards.
And wordwards.

Wordward Ho, Love.