THIS JUST IN:
I AM BACK ONLINE CHEZ MOI, AFTER ABOUT HALF AN HOUR WITH A FACELESS, NAMELESS TECHIE. CHECK UNCHECK CHECK CLOSE OUT OPEN UP CHECK UNCHECK AND VOI-FUCKIN-LA... ONLINE BRAINAL ACTIVITY UP AND RUNNING. YOU WANT MISERY. OFFLINE MY DSL. STOP.

Well cheese and crackers how the h-e-double-crisscrossed-hockey-weapons did it get to be thirsty Thursday already.
Yesterday's gig was at the home of the parents who brought one of the favoured ones of Yours Truly out into the world, Rio. Her parents, parents-in-law of Ron. So I show up and note most notably that there is a giant grill on the front Middling City lawn rivalling any of the suburbs. And, manning the grill, is Smoker Bob, in shorts, tan, cowboy hat, etc. So the food was insuredly good. John the CW Rocker was there and that was a bonus. Inside, a celebration of 50 years of marital union and guests manhandled programs and sang while Ron and I shot each other blood-curdling-oh-fuck-I-may-just-break-out-into-heathenistic-cackle looks.
You will be not too surprised to know that Yours Truly has once again painted herself into a grand corner and has oso many deadlines on her head that it might just implode like an old pumpkin.
And, speaking of pumpkins, one of my pumpkin-smashing students from last year's late-night seminar, taught from within my golden Forester, was inquiring if class will be in session this season. To which Yours Truly replied Do upraised pumpkins experience velocity and gravitas and gravity and elicit jubilation in equal measure.

Tutorials of Love.