Dozens and oodles of days and years ago Yours Truly had a few spans of time that are referred to as Ghetto Girl Days, amidst the Salad Days of two decades ago.
There was DavidC's apartment on Leroy near Fillmore (YT on a few occasions - when not bombing around town with him in his aunt's old station wagon with bales of hay in the back for ballast - actually took Middling City public transpo over there, met by him on the corner, very 50s), and then there was the Perfectly manicured home of JoeyD and Pat on Wakefield. Where YT rented an upper bedroom for a while after leaving the manse on Richmond (where YT acted as Den Mom for several years, holding the lease and down the fort, so to speak), and whipped the house of guys into domestically goddessed ship shape.
So today, after dropping a pal off at E.C.M.C. for some intra-body testing, somehow (as is my non internally-GPS'd wont) lost Grider Street and found myself on good ol' Leroy, passing amazingly ceramically-laden Blessed Trinity, and then DavidC's old pad.
The house still has its same mint green siding, still looks the same, and YT imagined that Russell S. was still up in the attic, drumming madly for hours. But, alas, he's out in Cali somewhere making alternative music with some lifelong pals, as men/guys are famous for doing – migrating in groups, and continuing what to women resembles flimsy (but are oso deep) relationships.
While wending my way towards a favoured diner for some sustenance (and where the eyelinered waitress warmed the cockles of my heart by calling me Sweetheart), was suddenly followed by what I thought was a police cruiser, undercover.
Now, here is a little backstory.
Back in the GGirl Salad Days, whilst living on Wakefield, occasionally me and the guys, when driving in the 'hood, were stopped by police officers.
Because we were young, and white. And on Wakefield, or neighboring streets. A rarity.
Why would nice white and young folks be in this sector of the M.C. if not to purchase illicit substances.
So, pulled over, we would be made to empty all our pockets (illegal search), and they would take a look inside the car, and question all of us, who would politely reply that we (or some of us) resided on Wakefield Street.
Then we would proceed.
So, when YT was suddenly, she thinks, being followed by an undercover cruiser, there is a small palpitation.
But then the realization Hey, I was not speeding - for I am wending down Memory Lane.
And I did not roll through a stop sign, being a survivor of a drunk driver's lapse of driving reason.
Suddenly YT realized that the undercover police cruiser is a Cadillac sedan. Perhaps a newer Seville. YT should really brush up on her car models, but that is for another time.
And then YT notes - in a flash - that this cruiser has PURPLE flashing lights.
And that the driver, a femme, has elegantly coiffed hair.
It was a hybrid - Mary Kay reward car meets RoboCop.
Onwards I rolled.

* this just in *

Saved by a laptop and your site for distraction and amusement from getting into altercation with a confederate flag toting biker here at BIKE WEEK
THANK YOU!!!!
You have no idea how invaluable the escape of this laptop and your talented clever and SANE WORDS ARE in this moment....
reading your site is saving me from escaping by writing things I just might regret later.... perhaps....
(from Maureen, a former MC rez, now in Daytona down in the FLA)

* this also just in *
Here for Your viewing happiness is my image of Tina Brown made last night.


Love of Fan Thought and Word.

Envision this, if You will.
Intrepid Yours Truly, ever minding her own business, was wending toward the blinking answering machine attached to the landline.
Twenty-three messages awaited.
Messages one through twenty-two, to be quite Perfectly full of exactitude, chronicled a large breech of communication between a man and a woman.
The man, who we shall call Jim, is dialing the woman, who, apparently is snubbing or ignoring his telephonic advances.
Messages one through three say, emphatically, This is Jim, Terry.
Message four, in a quieter and contrite fashion, says I am so sorry JUDY, I did not realize that you had changed your name.
Messages five through twenty-two are attempts at reaching newly-named Judy with declarations of I am right here, Judy.
These calls clocked in at an impressive call per two minutes - or less.
Terry/Judy, from the sounds of it, was on occasion egging on the exasperated and obsessed Jim.
Yours Truly truly enjoys caller i.d. on her cellie.
However, the landline is old school, sans caller i.d.
As call number twenty-three was an actual call to YT there was no way to *69 the desperate Jim to ensure him that he was dialing YT and not Terry/Judy.
There was a momentary mental image of a distraught Jim doing something operatic in his miscommunication quagmire.

Onwards to points beyond to further dispel and deliver good pixel vibes.

Good old school pixel Love.

Firstly, let me grandly state Holy Guacamole, there's a National Museum of Roller Skating (NMRS for short).
Secondly, let me jubilantly scream that Yours Truly has mere seconds ago received an email from the director of Albright-Knox Art Gallery, Louis Grachos, thee Louis Grachos, who would like to lunch to discuss the comment card that YT sent in, requesting a night of rollerskating fun at the venerable museum in honour of the birth of YT.

Nancy,
Great comment card for us - I get many, but not as interesting as this one! I would like to invite you for lunch and yes lets find a way create a roller skating experience for you 50th or your 45 here at the gallery !
Best,
Louis

Needless to say, YT is pouncing ahead into the future. Laces, bumpers, balloons, Champagne, wrist guards.
This is an October event, seven months away.
No time like the present to daydream rolling, artful thoughts.
Today is Sparky's birth anniversary.
Happy Birthday Dear Sparky.

Rolling, Artful, Thundering Thoughts.

Lest You needed evidence that Spring is in the Middling City air, here is an image of Nature getting ready to burgeon forth.
It is, despite a day of evidence, a day of deadline.
And reminiscing, in a way.
Moments ago e-heard from a grad school pal and bandied about some recollections and thoughts about the entire matter.
One, for example, is how Yours Truly was making digvids during that Parsons School of Design timeline, but how that fell away.
Not sure what to do, exactly, with the digvids.
How to show them, where to show them.
Prints are still my showing and sharing genre of choice.
Still.

Still Love.