That very yumbalicious Jonny Lang performs at The Native American Money Sucking Pavilion tomorrow night.
First photographed that lanky blues man when he was about seventeen and glad to see his cheekbones have only improved with age.
Dined with Literal Harold last night at Republic on the square, as in Union.
Dorota breezed in for a quick Hello and marveled at how the joint was hiding some work being done on the ceiling above the kitchen and bar areas with red construction paper affixed with duct tape. It seemed so Middling City.
After goodbyes meandered into the Barnes and Noble over there to pick up Tiffany's pick for the book club, Fear of Flying, apparently most famed for coining phrase zipless fuck. I am like so not impressed with this book, which reads like a screeching proto-feminist tract that rails on about analysis and being liberated.
This book was published during the most seminal of years, '73, when Dark Side of the Moon emerged on the rock scene.
Always glad to be reading a tome for moiself and scanning ahead it seems it becomes a bit more of a narrative but as I was reading it in LaGuardia whilst waiting and then spotting someone who shall not be named who I know I did tuck it away, realizing it's just not the sort of book you want just everyone to know that you're reading.
Would Erica Jong state, back in the 70s or in these wartimes, that that makes me oso unliberated.
Geez, I really do not give a jot.
So, away the book is tucked, the flight was miraculously on time and Yours Truly is lightly humming the praises of both Delta and USAir, kind of leaving jetBlue alone for a while.

Lang Love.