See this. Evidence.
Of Yours Truly being oso sporty when the occasion calls for standing up and being effusive and mugging all sportylike when one's sports shooter pal wends his way up the aisle to document above. Hockey. Sabres v. Penguins.
The former won as YT sat in seat number eighteen, one of the luckiest numbers.
YT was also recently on the front page of local section of Middling City News. There were several calls and emails telling me that my likeness appeared.
MCN is, apparently, trying out a super-secret new feature. Where's Nance, much like that Waldo or Elvis phenom past. To this date the likeness has been in this journal three times this year. Me working, me shopping for a cap, me walking. Just me, me, me. Here and there.
And, for Your absolute amusement and budding collection.


Collectible, wandering Love.

Recently Yours Truly was hobnobbing with a Middling City homicide detective.
A thug.
An intimidating man who made it his sudden m.o. to fetch YT a small slice of pizza. Hot peppers or not he inquired. Hot peppers, I warbled, imperiously. My cohort, who shall be unnamed here, caught the thug lying to his little lady near the back corner of the bar by the peestops, pretending to be at a press conference or a holding tank or somewhere else quite loud, important and workful.
The homicide thug pointed out the latest arrival, a shoe shine man, one of those sorts who looks like a dusting of cocoa powder happened and, come to think of local lore, this idiomatic twist could resemble the dustings of yore that straggled onto homes in the vicinity of Bethlehem Steel Corp., all those benzene molecules and such nestling into lungs.
So there is the shoe shine man, all obsequiousness, on the floor doing his thing.
All of his front and near-front teeth are, it seems, a distant memory, and the thug starts to shout at the shoe shine man.
When'dja get out of jail. Still smoking crack.
And more along those lines.
It was oddly uncomfortable, the thug intimidating the slavish shiner and when me and palsy-walsy left I stated that that scenario in that venue, which shall also be left unnamed, was like visiting a movie set.
We were in the roles of writerly watchers, anecdote makers.
Time to see Dorothy, who deftly shapes the auburn hairs I make.

Idiomatic, thematic Love.

There Yours Truly was and I can, perhaps, for the premier time, admit that I was not minding my own business.
I went to World's Largest Disco last night, having volunteered again to docudramaticize all the sub-happenings for Dave Pietrowski, knowing that YT wished to have a likeness captured via photons with celeb du soir, Danny Bonaduce. That kooky loose cannon filled in for snoozey Erik Estrada and Danny did not disappoint, first thing he did upon entering the VIP party was to march over to the top-40 dj in the house (Roger Christian) who earnestly slapped on "I Woke up in Love This Morning." Danny BonVivant asked Roger his name and he turned around in his faux Sabres jersey to reveal his name on the back - Roger. Well, Roger, Danny said in his spent-yet-distinctive voice, I always said that if I ever heard this song again I'd blow my brains out.
So there, song gone, Danny resumes standing alongside fans who shelt out $15 to have a Polaroid snap made of them, and him.
He wore a fire engine red suit with black shirt underneath and later, when he was upstairs doing more meet & greet & schmooze & smile I noted that his black shirt had fallen by the wayside and his hairy chest just hung there between the red lapels.
When he was on the mainstage with Dave Pietrowski he noted that many ladies in the house, probably braced by slutty polyester ensembles and scads of Grey Goose molecules and the like, had grabbed his nether regions. Not that he minded, he said.
When I had my likeness captured with him he held my shoulders oso tight as I asked if he'd liked the hockey game he had gone to with Dave P. the night before. He said he dug it, his first ever. I told him I'd just gone to my first game, too, thanks to Dave P. The man. The mover.
The usual mayhemish situs arose that one eyewitnesses at parties: polyester ass-grabs, dancefloor charisma and its yang ... the dancefloor wipeout, faux 'fro pickings, Sly Stone leanings, party train effusiveness, tentative shuffles, and Saturday Night Fever imaginings.
At some point it was time to give this annual 70s moment the slip before all the revelationized dancers became too too boogey-oogey-oogeyed.

Slippery poly-oly-ester Love.