Realized that really, You need to see more more more from World's Largest Disco that transforms a niche of the Middling City into a writhing LoveFest annually.

So, to explicate: an image of one of the editors of Yours Truly doing the World's Most Enthusiastic YMCA ever; images from what YT has dubbed The Chest Hair Project and WLD is a fine place to glean these images as men employ both vrai and faux hairs to grand, disco effect; and some of the faux famous seen such as Evil, Cookie Monster, a ubiquitous boom box enthusiastic of disco era, gay cop of said YMCA penning and performing, and a disco-era Gene Simmons.

Off to the Windiest of Cities shortly for musing, music, art, art making, walk taking.

Easy, breezy Love.

HI Nancy, It was an absolute delight to see you! The kids are going around everywhere now pretending that they are Nancy The Photographer.

Now, here is Your assignment.
You are to waltz around and Be Yours Truly.
Drink some coffee, short or tall, rush about with a cam of Your choosing, make and do, strive for the big P, and just Be Nancy the Photog.

Your other assignment is to listen to the Dylan podcast narrated, ordered by Patti Smith.
josephvella@mac.com, bobdylan.com.
A nice accompaniment to a sunny, November day.

November in all time zones, by whatever name.

Whatever, Love.

For enhancement of Your day and viewing pleasure, here is the likeness of thee Erik Estrada - of CHiPS fame - with Yours Truly, an image made by Photo Pal Joey at World's Largest Disco this past samedi soir.
EE - not to be confused with poet e.e., or the Bummer Road's E.E. - threw his arms around every man and woman in a loving, disco-era gesture.
This was by far the best-ever WLD, the VIP action is hotter than ever, the dance floor seemed more electric this year, and all seemed like a fine-tuned party machine.
Never did see the screen emblazoned with the song that I sponsored in mem of Mark Freeland, hoping it was a disco tune more on the funky end of things - this would have pleased him.
∞
Still absolutely haunted by the following recipe (blithely, in quotes) that was recited to YT a few days before T-G by one who is in my Perfect sphere.

Two cans cream corn.
One can regular corn.
One egg, beaten.
One handful crushed crackers.
One quarter cup sliced scallions.
Mix together and slather into baking dish.
Crumble another handful of crushed crackers atop the whole danged thing.
Bake for a while.
This is called Scalloped Corn.
When I heard mention of Scalloped Corn, and being ever-inquisitive - as well as culinary - had to know, just know, what the h.e.double-hockey-sticks it is.
Another item that is added is pimentos. But this seems oso uncritical.
My recipe reciter stated:
It calls for pimentos, but all I had in the house was roasted red peppers. I put those in.
I did want to tell the reciter that they are one in the same, but did not.

Onwards to windy, somewhat sun-stippled Middling City points beyond.

Sipped, stippled Love.

Quel excellent, Perfect omen for this Thanksgiving day.
Yours Truly, whilst driving to deliver some snap-happy wedding images to a couple of newlyweds out in the southernmost Middling City tip, spotted a gaggle of wild turkeys, a total of nine, meandering on train tracks foraging for a snack.

In throes of feast-making.
Burners are on full blast, stuffing is being constructed, wine is being sipped. Bottles of champagne will be popped at the appropriate minute of this day to aid in celebration and expression of Gratitude for all things green, art, wondrous, lively.

Bon vivant, gracious Love.
And wild turkey gaggle Love, too.

Literal Harold just proffered up what Yours Truly considers a most genius culinary concept for the pending United States of American holiday - lobster bisque.
Rock lobsters and lobsters in general once grazed on our eastern, perhaps even western, coast.
They could be picked up out of the sea.
Things have changed.
But YT hypothesizes that the pilgrims and their culinary mentors, the native Indians, might have enjoyed these gnarled beasts.

To date YT has made lobster thermador several times, lobster rolls (paying homage to Lobster Shack in S. Portland), lobster bisque, and just plain ol' steamer lobsta.
Memory sprung: having sushi in a most excellent sushi joint in Vancouver, B.C. that served raw lobster. And, when the little, unlucky bastard was slipping away, the sushi chef squirted some fresh lemon juice onto his head to revive him momentarily.
A cruel sight to be sure.

YT is in throes of creative ecstasy as the coffee table book project is mine all mine. Documentation of the campuses - campii - of the big U for one year. Big book, lovely pages, with photos.
Mine all mine.
Just got word mere moments ago.

Time to make more, do more.
More more and more morsels of creative abundance, and the edible like.

Edible Love.

An image of Professor Freakonomics, Steven Levitt, from last week's meet & greet events.
Do note his very excellent nose, nearing Lennonesque nasal Perfection.
He signed a hillock of books, at some point told a media type that he realized that he thought like an economist so therefore became an economist.
He wears sensible Clarks shoes.
The NYT Freakonomics blog is a fine new bookmark entry.
En route shortly to the Middling City suburbs to dispense images/smiles/handiwork.
Amongst other weekend docket was the grand hoopla at Albright-Knox Art Gallery, the $1K/place/head affair. Saw several known to me and did spot one very excellent dress on a femme who I know, by South African designer Pepa Pombo.
This may be the same designer who was being worn by former Marilyn Manson beauette/starlet Rose Mcgowan. Perhaps not, however.
Weekend also included a stop at Michelle Gigante's Shakti Yoga Studio for another primo installation of her Diaspora Drum events.
Then all we Solid Gold Bookers booked on over to see Hubcap from Ithaca hit the Sportsmen stage.
The, amongst others, did a Teenage Fanclub tune.
Yours Truly was pleased.

Onwards.

Designer Love.

Merrily engaging in Pixel Management whilst off the grid so to speak.
Yesterday's rollicking gigs included ports made of a scientist, an official, real-life entomologist.
One who relishes all things bug.
Said scientist, upon the prodding of Yours Truly, brought out the goods.
Amongst the collection on hand was a giant water bug, caught by this entomologist in Peru, as in way way down south.
Where bugs grow in an el grande fashion for muy authentico terror.
Then the entomologist waltzed YT over to a freezer, your garden variety freezer atop a frigerator, to show, amongst other items, a centipede that grows up to a foot long (down down south in Peru I am certain that this creature would be measured in a metric fashion, so let us say the centipede would be approximately one-third of a meter fercrissakes).
This centipede, dig this, lunges off a cave wall to strike a poor, unsuspecting bat and kill it in a flash.
The entomologist pulled this specimen out of ethanol and, upon my serious photographic urging, is holding it out at me - a beautiful orange and yellow circle.

Now it is time for you to sit back and let YT tell one of her small handful of water bug tales.

The Giant Water Bug Tale: Itabashi-Ku, Tokyo.
V. Express
By: Yours Truly
For six weeks Tokyo had been explored by me, wending through its streets, subways, galleries, parks, temples, markets, stores, with a camera and a smattering of money. After working for four days with a Japanese man who was marketing manager for a food import corporation, and his treat of a, as he called it, traditional twelve-course Japanese dinner, had enough dough to take me and my pal to the resort town Nikko in the mountains.
Eventually, it was time to leave Japan.
This was sad, but it was time to jet back to the United States of America and resume the art teaching post in the woods of Maine.
Good byes were said.
Tears were shed.
A camera was nearly left behind on a train seat but, being Japan, filled with Japanese people who are Buddhists, the camera was turned in to a lost and found office.
The pal went to retrieve the camera and there was suspicion. Please describe the camera, the contents of the camera bag, and on.
Rejoined with camera, Yours Truly explained to pal that the camera could have been vaporized, it was the exposed film that would have been the tragic loss. The black & white film which would be hand-processed in a few days.
The colour film had all been exposed, processed, printed. And, as is Japanese custom, all the 4x6 proof prints were placed by some worker in adorable little folders with red covers.
It should be mentioned that in all these six weeks there were no tremors of the earthly sort, no earthquakes had bumped up the land on this volcanic island of mystery and gorgeousness.
Packing the one suitcase was a feat as, as is travel custom, goods had been acquired.
Gifts had been accepted.
At some point in the packing of the bag a gigantic water bug emerged, about four inches in length. In Japan, which also favours the metric system, this is approximately twenty centimeters. Or so. Or not.
Seeing the water bug move with insectual certainty, knowing he would remain on this island as I departed, having won his place in this spot, I screamed a primal scream that not only startled and disturbed the pal deeply, but froze the bug in its tracks.
The End.

Love of good bug tales.

Today is a tripartite holiday in the calendar/heart/mind of Yours Truly for it is the b-days of Liz and Polly, and also World Kindness Day which Lennon would have doubly-stamped his approval stamp upon.
World Kindness Day began in, of course, Tokyo.

*sidebar.
Recently learned of a Perfect Japanese word, kaizen, which seems is an appropriate one to glom onto on a day such as WKD.
Kaizen is a state of continuous improvement, always reaching for the Perfect.
Japan thought: Tokyo (one of the few cities that, upon landing, YT said - not in Japanese, not even in English - I could live here) is a masterful city, absolutely L.A. gigantic but with pockets of thematic areas, a bit like the Shiney Apple.
Ueno, Ueno des indeed.

One of yesterday's several engagements was to document another surprise fete, this one for a doc discovering that a friend of his and benefactor created an endowed chair in his honor.

Was at Heady's new digs yesterday, the nouveau vet offices, and hung most of the pet portraits in the waiting room. Big 16x20s of contemplative animals, the little love machines around us. While there saw some pals, and spoke to a phone installer who told me that I photographed him years ago for my former photo column, when he'd written a music history book of a portion of the Middling City, which I recalled Perfectly. It happened at the old Tap Room, upstairs at the former Masonic Lodge, and Gary Malaber et al performed and he not only broke, but presented YT with, a drumstick.
You just never know what tales and stumbles down into memory await.

Awaiting Love.

S U R P R I S E.
Is what we all shouted, after a spell, after we were sure that EL was in the proverbial house!
Alan had mere seconds before stated as he zoomed by Ed and me that She knew.
She does not know, we repeated, and repeated.
She came home with Polly and Cheryl, after a few art jaunts.
It seemed to take forever for them to enter.
Yours Truly was stationed in the middle of the living room, with cam.
As soon as she was well inside the door KaPoof - I flashed at her a few times to capture the second of recognition.
A fab party in honour of her fiftieth.
Made, as is trad, her b-day book stuffed with her likeness, wishes from friends and colleagues.

Readying for an evening of gig.

Surprised Love.

Trixie (a.k.a. Jodi), who celebrated a Scorpio b-day yesterday (1 mo jubilant b-day wish to yoooou, LA Woman), sent Yours Truly this truly amazing likeness of her Halloween self.
Ah, that parade of alter egos.
For those not in the Trixie Know, she does not usually have such sky-high, rockabillyesque hair.
In our recent correspondence YT asked how many wigs were employed for such effect.
I guess 2.5.
I am awaiting the answer.
She also does not feature ink of that ilk.

There was yesterday, in select parts around these parts, a hail storm.
Not of golf ball proportions but enough to render some of the biways a mushy, murky morass. (Sly ref to the Middling City's Channel 7 parlance of yore, steeped in alliteration.)
Noted that the 33 suddenly was a slow-down and, inching up, spotted the culprit situ - an SUV had gone airborne and landed halfway onto a guardrail.
Emergency road flares and rubberneckers did their post-situ things.
YT, having been in her fair share of car-related fiascoes, does not have a temper flare, contribute road flares, nor rubberneck, sending instead good wishes at the scene as I pass by.

Costume, car, careful Love.

Poor Firefox has been a-crashing all the livelong day.
But now, after being offline for most of the aft, it seems oso much better.
Imagine the Firefox lead office guy charging through office stating Heads will roll, get this fixed, and pronto.

Today is Election Day.
Yours Truly votes, and You should vote.
Sometimes YT is amazed by those who do not vote, who sniffle it off, I don't know where to vote, I don't know the issues, I don't know the candidates, it makes no difference if I vote or not.
Well, as One who Halloweened as thee Al as in Gore this past one I can assure you that Al knows that each and every vote does count.
And in local elections there are no electoral colleges - popular votes are one vote times how many actually hauled their arses into the booths.
Vote.

Last night went with Kennedy et al to Melt-Banana, Japanese noise quartet at the subterranean venue de musique - SoundLab, or SLab, as YT lovingly shortens it.
Had a very nice conversation with Baumann, it had been a while.
The band rollicked for about an hour and YT was so moved to buy their baseball v. of their t's with intriguing art by Fly, who signs his drawings Fly-2K7.
Before this jaunt bon-vivanted a bit of the night away with Sparky and Jana, at one of the favoured haunts which was sporting a new accessory, a young sax player stationed in a corner.
He (inevitably) renditioned up a Billy Joel tune and naturally the table talk (which did include the very jovial and oso hilarious Mary) turned to all things Piano Man.
Helped the girls slurp up some of their entree juices.
I had come in with my furry poof hat which, if all hairs are tucked up, appears to be a strange double-platinum 'fro.
I told Mary that I was not dining as I'm a supermodel and had a big shoot today.
This as we all imbibed non-oak-aged chardonnay with gutsy gusto.

Vote for Love.

Something from a last-month New York mag article caught my imagination whilst waiting for some image files to load, an article entitled Has Money Ruined Art? by Jerry Saltz.
It's about how market, prices, sizes, egos are becoming mega-dollar-signed grand.
It's well-known that collectors and curators descend upon thesis show openings (perhaps not with checkbooks but with mental checklists of what might be a possible viable art career via a few works that are the culmination of 2 or so years - one hopes - of sweat, fret, and tears) to seek out the Next Big Art Stars.
In this article Saltz writes that the M.F.A. has become the new M.B.A. - one's possible ticket to big earnings; and the spendiest collectors vie for a spot in the tomes of art history.
Thoughts naturally meander towards the past Parsons situ, beginning in '02 (after the fateful Mardi Gras notification via email from famed and favoured JR) and trailed along its scheduled path to August of '05 - a complicated decision to go and a complicated decision to stay.
Ultimately, the decision for acquiring the M.F.A. was (and perhaps should always be) a gift to self, to have time to mull in the whys of the practice, to read theory and history and just basically line the photo basket with Ideas. And to push the art/aesthetic comfort zone into something different - new people, places, tools.
Change, teaching, connections, contacts are the goals.
Committed to giving a piece to CEPA for their upcoming Biennial Auction, which YT always considers an honor to be asked and participate.
Always make something new for this event.
Speaking of new, art, event have yet to fetch the small framed drawing from the Hallwalls Members' Show.
Months ago.
Several Middling City people have said that tomorrow the first flakes may fly here.
There are still leaves on trees, not all yet yellowed, reddened, and fallen.
Kennedy and I wrapped a few gardenly items with burlap and I could not help but think of Marion Faller's (a toppermost undergrad hero/mentor/influence) documentation of wrapped flora. As I said to Kennedy, This is not an exact science. At least not in the hearsay-strewn, inexact Book of Science of Yours Truly.

Inexact, wind-strewn Love.

Early this morning Yours Truly actually overheard someone use the phrase sticky wicket in a seemingly normal conversation.
YT was flailing away at laptoply matters. The woman who uttered the phrase sticky wicket was one of those irritating mothers who speaks to their children as if everything is a delightful debate, or as if their lives in that moment are entrancing television shows with the volume just a touch too loud.
I felt the need to text Sparky to ask that she please never use the phrase sticky wicket. Ever.
And this means You, too.
Sparky sent along a message that she would never utter that phrase.
I really could not ever imagine Sparky saying those words together in one sentence but the occasional bandying about of suggestive quips in the midst of an adrenalized day is a primo way of taking a microscopic vacation.
Onto another, blazing pet peeve.
Last night had a gig and observed many people eating the catered finger foods as that is my job fercrissakes, not only the documenting of such occasions, but avoiding getting people in throes of enjoying said food.
Between frames if You will observed the pet peeve matter, saw a woman not only licking a finger but all her fingers. Con brio. In public.
Her disgusted pal, at least I hope that he was disgusted, hastily (but not soon enough) handed her a paper napkin.
But she had already licked off all the beige cheesey dip matter.
At the evening's near tail end sat with Liz and discussed several other types of matter, including YT doing a piece on Steve Kurtz and his artistic/bacterial super-woes.
YT will be attending, if allowed, hearings and the like.
One of YT's several heroes is Dominick Dunne (who I just discussed about fifteen minutes ago with Lorne and his uncle, a snowbird with a fading tan, about how DD is one of my favoured writers amid one of my guilty pleasures - VF - in midst of discussing favoured periodicals), and YT will channel his various prowesses to tell that Big Kurtz Tale.
Onwards, time to climb another tall downtown Middling City building as it is a ferocious big blue sky day.

Ferocious Big Love.

Happy Beggars' Night to You.
Sometimes I recall meandering the streets as a child on Beggars' Night, not a very candy-lucrative night as the following, I recall.
This image was sent to Yours Truly this fine morning by Paul and Mark and YT informed them that they are now my MexiCali Heroes.
Today and tomorrow I may just wear my dental (under)world badge to allow me a presence on the concrete floor of the Middling City Convention Center - for a conventioneer costume, of course.
Tonight going to the big screen screening at Shea's of Nosferatu, the horror classique of '22, with Annie, Sparky, and meeting up with Deb et al in the Spotlight Lounge for vino, and cheese cubes.
Been listening to ChemBro's latest in the car and have to go on record as saying that I am not sure I share the wonderment of Justice's latest. But perhaps JW,Esq. can fill me in on the special inter-molecular raison d'diggin' it.

Time to wend up north to dispense happiness and pixels captured on plastique.

Northern Love.

Interior shot made at Vive on the Middling City's east side yesterday during a gig there. Was there once before and it's on Wyoming Avenue off of East Ferry.
Observed that thee charismatic Reverend Darius Pridgen now has a Subway in a corner of his huge space of worship.
At Vive the vibe is subdued, adults in sort of living room areas watching television as kids scramble through the hallways. It's a far cry from the very funded, colorful lobbies and common rooms at places like Ronald McDonald House, Gilda's Club, and the like.
Observed the unpacking of clothing donations, most surprised to see that a donor saw fit to include a tea length beaded black dress. Just what your average refuge lady needs as part of her survival wardrobe.

Astonishing is, Yours Truly thinks, how most would have described the excellent Al Gore Halloween costume worn by YT on Friday night for Heather and Jeremy's hopping fete.
Wore the usual out stumping khakis, woolen blue blazer, striped shirt, and rep tie. Latter compliments of Kennedy and his late father.
Wore a name badge which read Hello My Name is Al.
Sparky looked fab as Global Warming with blacked-out front tooth and black eye. When asked we would reply Because Al beats up on Global Warming.
Last night rushed over to a Halloween disco at StillWater after another work day marathon. Met Sparky there and whilst meandering to find our dance spot saw Jana, Dean, and later Siobhan. Also spotted requisite Elvis, a few Britneys (though one claimed that she was so not, and no, the other was not my pedi girl), a Little Bo Peep, a raquetball player, and, amongst others, an ill-behaved Dorothy.
Dorothy was beyond impaired and YT had a word with one of her handlers, suggesting that they get Dorothy home in a jiff as she was about to be unconscious - or barfing.
Despite all this apparent activity the disco vibe was not optimum.
The dance floor was faux cobblestone and carpeting in StillWater's narrow faux courtyard. Still a nice moment, a nice weekend distraction, a valiant effort.
As we were uncostumed, Sparky and I decided to tell people that we were robots and moved as such.
You see, costumes may be conceptual, far from the madding world of celebutante and porn-inspired duds.
Time to further make and due as my pixel-rich world is a full and lush one indeed.

Pixelated, robotic Love.

At last, an image of Beah from the event on the 24th.
This is a pre-event, a media meet & greet and book signing that happened in Center for the Arts.
Beah was running late and he came into the green room very quietly, then he spoke in a quiet voice about his story.
He emphasized at this pre-event and at the event itself that he chooses to always focus on the positive. So, for example, when he cannot sleep, which is most of the time, he uses that time to write. And when he was a student at Hunter, he studied.
His eyes are incredible, when you look into them they are reading the situ like a writer does, and emanate gentleness.
He signs his signature in grand, flowing letters and, when asked why he doesn't shorten it so that his signings could go more quickly, he stated Well, I began doing my signature like this and I want everyone's to be the same. What would they think if theirs was different from the earlier ones.
There was a quiet around the reception for him following this first event, and then at his talk in Alumni Arena.
He gravitates toward people of his own age and I thought that must be because he spends a lot of time around people who help manage things for him who are older.
He read from his book a lot and Yours Truly was most impressed by his focus, and his total recall memory.
Onwards.
Yesterday had an exchange, in one of the favoured nail joints whilst practicing good toe management between gigs, that could best be filed under Odd Name Selection.
Snippet of conversation most arresting.
(over whir of massage chair, bad 80s movie playing on a distant wall, swishing of water)
I remember you, you were here last time also working on your computer.
Yes, that's right, the morning that your boss (looking around) had car trouble, where is he.
We were slow so he went to the doctor.
What is your name, you didn't tell me last time.
Renée.
Renée, YT queried thusly.
No, Britney, the young lady's face settling into a most pleased expression.
Britney, YT repeated.
Thinking for a good thirty seconds what in hell would inspire a Viet Namese femme roughly Brit's age to appropriate her name, given all the chaos and all.
Onwards again.
One of the gigs of yesterThursday was making images at a dental convention.
One thing that YT found most curious is that a majority of the vendor booths featured prominently displayed bowls of candy. One even had a cotton candy machine.
Sure, there's the entire Drumming Up Business logic, but this is being carried out on their own.
Dentists, a ruthless bunch.

Whirling, ruthless, Love.

Happy United Nations Day to You,
Happy United Nations Day to You,
Happy United Nations Day to You-ooo,
Happy United Nations Day to You.

Appropriately, today former child soldier Ishmael Beah, of A Long Way Gone memoir/fame, comes to the Middling City, to speak at the Big U.
Yours Truly will be documenting his visit, making snap-happy images of Beah solo and with listeners.
Very much looking forward to this, and hearing his story live.
The NYT excerpted his book in their mag before the book's pub date, and it really is tear-inducing sad surrealism in real life.
Will be becoming beloved Al Gore for Halloween costume for the Friday night soirée of Heather, Jeremy et al. Sparky and I are creating a dual costume as she will be Global Warming. We conceptualized some excellent ways to personify this.
Al, on the other hand, is tough. YT needs a blue blazer, a Tennessee accent with deep resonant tones and inflection at the ends of most sentences.
And, to be truly in character, I will have to eat all bowls of dip on site.
So, cozy up with a good periodical about the state of the world, or a laptop, a nice free trade cuppa joe, and celebrate this fine fine day.

Cuppa Love.

Yours Truly is naming today Interpol Day, & a Happy V-Day to Vincenzo.
As in Shiney Apple rock band, and not as in that international space and time agency.
When One loops One's interests to the html world One must remember to include the SA's triad of initials after the I-word to not land into a site most non-lyrical.
Today broke fast with Sparky in a joint in the shadow of Father Baker's Place, where we meandered afterwards to look at souvenirs, and light some candles.
I thought it'd also be a grand idea to look at some artful marble.
In FBP there was a throng of casually-dressed people facing the action as men began to pass baskets. I and Sparky tossed in some money before heading to the candle station where we paid more for the unscented white pillars of the community of well-wishers.
Down in the souvenir shop we saw some very curious items, besides the usual magnets, charms, and handcrafted objects.
Sparky and I parted ways down divergent aisles of goods and promised services and when we rejoined she queried thusly: Do you know what Jesus's favorite sport is.
To which I rattled off what I thought were some appropriate, athletic answers, assuming that the pacifistic Jesus indulged in sweating activities.
She led me to a far-off corner of the shoppe and pointed to a shelf where there - there - was a print of a presumed original watercolor depicting Jesus engaged in ... horseshoes.
There was Jesus, looking really tan and happy, very movie star, next to two older senior citizens, who looked to be American/German/French/Irish (they were white, not Mediterranean), engaged in the sport.
All three hold their horseshoes aloft, ready to throw.
∞

Catherine Parker has a new show up at InSite Gallery and zoomed over there on Friday night. Met her daughter Chris for the premier time. There saw several, including lovely Geri who asked me to stop over at her and Jimmie's place as well as stop over at TruTeas to meet a friend of hers from Rwanda, here on a grant, a femme who created an agency for orphans.
Catherine's work, as always, illuminates.
Already own three but thought of how to shoehorn another lovely one into the salon-style-hung mix.

Salon & Café Society Love.

Wrote to Literal Harold moments ago to state that Bien sur Yours Truly would like to head deep down south on a Wrestlemania junket to shoot images of faux tans/teeth/tits/bods, wrapped in satiny and baby-oiled goodness, for the sake of goodness and VH1 veracity.
Last night experienced an all-girl extravaganza for the birthday of YT, a blend of old and new pals, chez Cheryl and Ed and Flora.
Platters of dreamy cheeses, sushi, Liz's Greentinis (in honour of the favoured and life-infused green palette of choice), Veuve Cliquot, and white wines.
The girls outdid themselves with generous gifts, and bon vivantness.

The parents have officially relocated to Amherst, that Middling City suburb of surly cops in silver cars, strip malls, and a few neighborhoods sinking into wetlands asserting their wetness.
There was a little mix-up of information and so arrived at the home of yore a day after they'd moved, sitting in car in driveway of childhood, phoning the old number to hear the troubling, three-note tone that something is amiss and changed.
My parents have a new phone number, house, quadrant to call home.
Not one that features reclaiming wetlands.
Called the new number from memory and got a recorded message of a Steve (+ Polish last name) so left the following message: Mom, Dad, this is Nancy, is this your new number.
You see, the new house in Amherst was owned by a Polish fam and the man who did live in the house died. So, YT posits, this is the number of that man, the parents have not changed message on machine or on answering service. Who knows, perhaps that fancy-schmancy M.C. suburb offers its residents free answering service all the livelong day.
YT's father called minutes later.
Said Hey, did you just get my message.
He did not.
You did NOT just receive a message on answering machine from me.
Nope.
My sister also did not know that the parents had a new phone number already.
Or what that number is.
And now Steve the Polish man knows that my parents, in their Big Move, forgot a few details.
Add Yourself to that list.

Always trying to remember all the details, Love.

Completely, utterly minding the business of Yours Truly for really Yours is too much extra-super-bonus business to mind, saw black smoke.
Thick, uh-oh-this-spells-disaster black smoke, pluming over Hamburg Street.
Slowing, nearly stopping, at the 190 overpass saw FLAMES.
So, did what any good photog worth their sweet pixels would do, cranked a left turn and headed toward the danger-center.
Ditched the car on S.Park Ave. @ Sidway and walked to the fire, cam on neck.
Met up with a wizened neighborhood granny who accompanied YT to the fire hoses.
Spotting the cam she asked You a reporter.
Yeah, I'm a reporter, YT replied.
You with t.v. granny asked.
No.
After a puff of her all-white cig she told me some big fam news:
My daughter is going to New York to meet Harry Potter, she won that contest.
On the radio, YT queried.
Yes, the radio, and that R.K. Rollins is going to sign her book.
That's exciting, YT gushed with zeal, happy for granny's daughter's big op.
Onwards.
Fire hoses already on the side street and a little boy's companions stated to me and all the adults in proximity that he was upset because his yard was on fire.
No, another girl corrected her, part of his house is on fire.
He had on a smudged white undershirt and did look anxious.
Others were anxious as well, all their stuff going up in flames as the neighborhood watched silently, all grieving for what was normal a few moments ago.
The air was wretched with the fumes of vinyl siding melting away, assuredly more toxic than whatever molecules float away from asbestos siding when that is scraped.
YT had an exterior painting gig aeons ago that involved scraping and painting siding which much into the job was discovered to be the a-word.
During the flameshoot noted the NASCAR Zubaz, pictured above, and was compelled to document this neighborly fashion.


Up in flames, Love.