To be filed under C for creepy is this mural merging the animal and mercantile worlds.
This can be viewed in the Middling City along Bailey Avenue, a fine avenue with incredible window displays and general displays of juxtapositions approaching surrealism.
My fav to date: the Bruce Lee poster, now faded to sepia, at 1313 Bailey Avenue.
A Triumph.
What is oso creepy in this fine illustration is that the lion is smoking a blunt.
In this hyper-green and aware zone of hope it seems a rad concept to have a lion be creating second-hand (and new on the awareness tip - third-hand) smoke.

Next image to be filed under A for asinine.

Ethan Allen, in a hipster landgrab, hopes to appeal to people like Yours Truly who believe them to be stuffy, and overpriced.
YT received a very expensive pub from EA this week, a catalogue showcasing hipster rock & rollas holding guitars (and, undoubtedly grungy attitudes towards Life, and Furniture) and espousing the Cool qualities of these lamps, and sofas, and such.
On an early page is this oso silly image of a hipster duo in throes of a Photo Shoot.
YT dearly enjoys, as do her colleagues, this sort of image for it grabs the iconography of the craft and field without, obviously, consulting a real photog - or perhaps the photog documenting the image crafted by a stylist.
Why does hipster photog guy need to have this cam and lens on a tripod.
And why is he so close to the femme.
This is like when YT walked recently through Union Square and a photog grabbed my likeness with a long lens from not so very far away.
I commented to Annie that he was probably doing a study of women's pores in the winter sunlight.
Onwards.

Ah, 'twas the 209th birth anniversary of MC darling Millard Fillmore, who YT lovingly refers to as Mill Fill.
This is West playing Taps.
His real name is West, not short for something like Weston.
As is MC custom, it was a weather-treacherous morn when we media types et al made our icy ways to the gravesite.
I truly love this - and all - trads.
Each and every one of them makes me all reflexive and pome-infused.
Onwards still.
It is a night of art, Bruce Bitmead's art op at a gallery in A-Town, amongst others.
Tonight is also Little Laura's Bon Voyage fete at Sportsmen's.
Not sure why that venue but c'est la vie.
Et c'est le bon voyage fete and it's her choice fercrissakes.

Bon Voyage, Love.

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.