I am filled today with such utter regret.
And regret is the pale flat-chested first cousin of lust.
I bumped up against, was hired to photograph and interacted with the large Irishman they call(ed) Bush's DRUG CZAR and didn't get a portrait made of me alongside him.
Whatever was I thinking?
One super thing he revealed during speech: he calls his wife CZARLING.
So intent on my gig I forgot me, ME.
No ME and William Bennett on this studio wall and I'm now going to kick myself in the arse all about the city block upon which I live.
Live and learn.
Live and shoot.
Live and plunge.
Live and exploit.
Live and ironicize.
Live and let live.
Live and let go.

Other special thoughts from this past weekend:
1. Derek Trucks, blues guitar prodigy speeding towards adulthood, doesn't sing and I think that's great. There can only be one Jonny Lang.
2. Last time I mentioned Johnny Depp in epinw I spelt his name as Lang does.
3. Does anyone but me see that Bob Dylan is morphing into a bat? The new RS cover is still giving me nightmares and I resent it.
4. Las Vegas will enjoy my presence soon so I can make up a story about people who do it (get married) there. Me + Las Vegas + notebook + tape recorder + a little scotch = who the hell knows!!!
5. Radiohead has now surpassed REM on my list of perfects.