Mark these words.
I will never - like so ever - participate or watch the Olympics, cold or hot, unless the sport of Jarts is admitted to the playbill. And once I hear this sport of danger is part of sporting matters then I will train like Charles Dickens (sipping Noni juice, practicing yoga and meditation, doing extra cardio workouts) to make the grade. Speaking of grades. Me and other members of the roster of sporting student life members of Parsons School of Disintegration have compared and contrasted our grade reports. What I lovingly refer to as our Approval Ratings. I rated fairly well, except for the obvious snag. Onwards.
Back to jarts. A memory. Jarting about one fine summer evening I nearly impaled the teacup poodle of my pal Sheryl. It was then that I duly noted, even in the midst of a wild yet geeksome youth, that this was really a fabulous and exhilerating game wrenched from the conceptualists of hell.
So many interesting things reported to me as of late. Like injuries sustained from dogs. Like dreams of sharing drugs with higher-ups in the political realm. Like fantasies of others that are far from what might be respectable. And so much more. I cannot even name a name, even though I suspect that some of these shards might be sent onwards to Yours Truly in hopes that they appear on this illustrious, ever informative page.
One last item.
Erin called to invite me to a Vinnie Gallo/Sean Lennon gig ce soir. I faltered. A gig in the Middling City. An invite in the Shiny Apple. What was a girl to do. No. The answer. But a sweet consolation is that I will watch the celluloid blowjob with Erin next week in the form of Brown Bunny. And to see if Vinnie has once again eked out quiet and swimmingly contra mainstream art as I suspect or if he has completely gone nutty bumpers.

Love bumpers in the night.