Theme of post: nincompoopage.
1. Nincompoop of gigantic proportions at Ray Davies suddenly lost control of an Entire Pitcher of Beer which flowed like the Tears of Jesus over his table and onto my journalistic photo bag and squatting to keep low legs. Mr. N later, during the quiet moments, shouted in communion with the moment. Then I noted to a rock comrade, Robyn, that he was gone and I supposed he had hit his besotted head somehow in the bathroom and was lying, "out of it," on the pissy floor.

2. Next door neighbor nincompoop has installed one of those K-Mart parking lot-worthy lamps of questionable design and outage of light molecules. Wow! I am still amazed, as I gaze at the windows on that side of the house. Wow! It's afternoon on a cloudy day - or dawn all night. Maybe this is a CIA plot to further confuse a person wont to work into the weest hours.

3. Out of Perfect Nancy Sphere but popping into memory via an oldie on the radio was one of the music world's chief nincompoops, Morissey. Or is that Morrisey? Anyhow, onto more interesting matters involving ham sandwiches and biting rock & roll boys.
Moz once had an acquaintance of mine ejected from a venue for eating a ham sub during a techie break before his gig in this middling city. Sent home. Bye bye ham eater. And one time I saw Morrisey, post-Smiths (unfortunately) but still in his solo heyday, at Nassau Coliseum with a boy obsessed with him (musically, not physically). I recall girls with sheets spraypainted with his name, marching around the perimeter of the floor. Later this rising rock star wanted me to bite him, so, obligingly, I chomped upon his lip. Now that's a nincompoop.