Yesterday, conjured up the spirit of Sam Super B to blog.
Today back to the Perfect style that You know and You so enjoy.

How It Happened, According to Yours Truly.
There was a woman who met a man and they fooled around enough so that in time there was a pending baby and it was a problem but the woman was born without Original Sin and nobody understands that. Or any of this story's facts, for that matter, as they're mixed with fable and the default styles of translation and the retelling until the original is worn, less crisp.
So there's a meandering along and then labour pains. Water breaks while the woman is riding side saddle on the back of a donkey who is not pleased, who is being beaten along with a stick. The month is October and it is the Middle East.
They stop and out pops a baby and the baby, according to a prophecy, is the saviour of all people. There is a mysterious omen in the sky, a star with a tail, and word spreads, apparently, that something surreal/shattering has happened. Three kings find the couple months later - December - and they bring along camels, not the cigarettes, and gifts for the baby, like a shower of sorts. According to Kennedy the names of this trio are known and the names might have upwards of five syllables each.
Zoom ahead many years, to now, for example.
This birth is a baby is a man who is a founder of a philosophy that is interpreted for a long time and it, the philosophy, becomes a religion that becomes a far-reaching corporate interest whose h.q. is its own city within Rome, Italy.
This island of reinterpretation is within high walls and is full of breathtaking wealth and influence and its leader, the Pope, writes encyclicals that pronounce beliefs, interpreted belief, to its followers - and beyond. Missionaries, like door-to-door evangels, like Hispanic evangels who amplify their shouts of passionate belief out into a quiet neighborhood without regard, take it upon their believing shoulders to spread their reinterpretations.
According to lore the Pope knows the end of the world's date.
All the Popes have known this fact, revealed to the children of Fatima in visions, who smelled roses when the spirit of the Original Sinless woman appeared to them.
From a stable and a manger to a walled city, this is what transpired over thousands of years. What began as Buddha-like logic and love of peace has become a movement that has ripened beyond taste, use, intention of the founder.
This is Christmas, a time of rampant spending to show love for one another when, in fact, good deeds and aid and love should not only suffice but happen at all times.
And the music. Holiday music for this anniversary of the discovery of the Libran child Prince of Peace, light of lights, should be much better and possibly the only good one out there is by aforementioned Lennon.
Thus spaketh Perfect Me on this Holiday Matter.

Love Matters.

Most heart ache of ached, the season that has to be dig this experienced sans the other after all that time and now kapoof nothing not a card not a thing and what was all of that, a decade of wondering, of this and of that wasted, lost in a moment of honest reveal. A new season of wondering and waiting and new activity and not knowing the what is of the new but hoping and loving in a new light in a new way and what is the new locus. Thinking I don't trust I don't know but I do want to but what is it what is this what is this this season this place and time. This time of meaning full of things for others for other times and things that you do not have that you do not feel but that you do want and what would you do yes what would you do to have this that you want all the time all the place all the person now.

Love What.

'Tis the season to get cranky
FA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA...
'Tis the season to get tipsy
FA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA...
Don we nowsville our peppy apparel
FA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA...
Then we'll watch some blazing yule log
FA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LAAAAAAH.

Just got off phone with thee Elliott Caplan who says, and I really really don't think he's blowing smoke up my arse, that he digs my digvids that I dumped on him via a nice, tidy dvd.
Tomorrow afternoon we meet up in the Middling City suburbs to talk shop. Then call it a wrap. Not rap. This is so shop talk.
Out of towners are descending upon the Middling City in droves, all looking for high times and misdemeanours and squeezing them in right now to the miasmic schedule is mandatory. Justy et al will be looking to score some jubilance this evening and I am hoping beyond reasonable hope that he et al are not thinking It's Pink Flamingo Time. But, then again, holiday time is the only time Yours Truly darkens that rotting doorstep.
Until then, until later, Yours Truly remains Your Favored, Perfect Nancy.

Love's Sweet Remains.

post script, post haste:
Jesus H. Christ (the season's reason) forgot to freakin' mention that I sent off the paper. The PAPER. The brilliant essay on what completely rocks about the photographs of Gillian Wearing, Brit photog of my certain age. Sent it e-off to the instructress who I'm sure is shopping it around to various scholarly pubs.
As in pages full of brilliance, not ginjoints, ferfucksakes.

Sure does not seem like just yesterday and there are no misty tears to swab away but holy guacamole the nephew becomes thirteen today. There is an infamous Polaroid of me holding brand new him in my leather jacket and we're studying each other, really looking. My Sharpied caption reads Jacob's first sniff of black leather.
I talked to him when he was in his mother so I believe he knew my voice right off. Helloooo, this is your Auntie speaking, I'd pronounce as if I were speaking down into the Grandest Canyon. His mother/sole sistah did not mind but my father sure did when he witnessed the pronouncing once, claiming I'd deafen his forthcoming grandchild.
The nephew was born (the night he came out my friend TMO and I showed up drunk as can be about 2AM after spendiing the evening at nearby Icon, a concert I shot, I believe it may have been Pigface... or KMFDM. But we unsuccessfully tried to convince the near-asleep security man at the side door that we should be allowed to meander up to the maternity level for a quick hello.) with a keen sense of awareness and humour and I always have loved him more than just about anyone I know or have met or am sure to meet.
Since the age of six I dragged his nephew ass off to concerts so that he could experience music (and Yours Truly) firsthand and to see the underbelly, the workings of something and understand it, have a place in it. I felt as a kid that we family members toodled off and attended things, many cultural things, but we were skimming along as spectators - there was no sense of Knowing. So the nephew knows rock shows - the bands he's met, the security guys, the promoters, the merch girlies, the other backstage stragglers.
He is not a jock but a PlayStation addict, a karate kicker, a musician who plays piano, guitar and trombone. These past few years I've been pushing the rock concept at him. What a horrible rock stage auntie I would be.
Thirteen, the precipice and very start of what is exciting, heavy, transformative about It.
To that beloved kid, to You, I say rock on - faster, stronger, with more humourous abandon.

More More Love.

Once again Parsons School of Disorg just gave us practically no notice for a fab op. Last big no notice fiasco was one day's notice that all-time fav photog, Joel Peter Witkin, was speaking at school. Now it's Hey, on Monday there's a deadline to have work about NYC submitted for consideration for purchase by a corporation - 300 dpi tiffs AND 8x10 work prints of each digital file needed. Ummmm, HELLLLLLLOOOO. It's not only Friday but the semester's end AND I happen to be cross-state over here in the Middling City. As Tony the Tiger would say Guhh-reat.

Onwards.

So, Hillary was the one resplendent in topographical black leather coat and powder blue silk scarf. Eye shadow to match. Black pointy-toed boots. No gloves. Her assistants, as usual, in same. SS men handsome as usual and in black topcoats, ever muttering into their shirt cuffs.
I was in green down jacket, green Columbia hat with whimsical frills. The important hat. No gloves. Derek of Middling City News in complicated shades. Various other news types in bulky jackets. We were a scene. A photo op in ourselves.
Time to shoot the holiday card. And think about steaming email to the school. I am so like multi-tasking right now.

Love's Tasks.

The Church of the High Decibels is rocking out for the lord or for whomever they rock for over there, to the west. And here I sit, WBLK blaring out the R&B luvvin' brother (as V always described it) beats and the earplugs crammed in to their hilts. Made an executive decision mere moments ago that next purchase will be at the Mac/Geek Clubhouse - an Airport station so that I may be online over there, far away, to the southernmost corner of the pad to avoid insanity and the like. Homework beckons and home is not cooperating. So there.
Have to post thoughts most brilliant for online class about Aztecs, Freud, Discontents, Civilization, and more.
Tomorrow have a quick gig for the Shiny Happy Mag shooting that Hillary femme, at a ribbon cutting event for the Middling City's new Artspace, a joint that will house artists for living and for working.
Hillary, assuredly, will be the one in black pant suit and tasteful silk scarf held in place with a brooch. Yours Truly will be the one in workaday gear and sensible shoes.
Met with carcrash doc, McGrath, who looked at my films of shoulder, hot off the press. I was marked a tough customer as the xray tech wanted me to take off the Me and Ro necklace. To which I refused. I cannot take this off. It was very expensive. I barked. Really barked. It will interfere with the xray. It's of my shoulder, I barked some more. Yes, I know, techie said. It was a standoff there in the xray suite, the smell of photo chems most familiar wafting through the air. And the xrays were made and the necklace did not show its golden power. I rest my bejewelled case.
Dropped off a dvd for the enrapturing of Elliott Caplan.
Now waiting to hear another Nay or Yeah-You-Rock from another man in charge.

Charged Love.

Have the most brilliant of concepts. Look, this is not your average, run-of-the-grad-student-mill concepts - this is high concept. Going to write a paper that will bring tears to the eyes of all who read it. Well, that may be only two people (me, instructress), but damn, it'll fucking rock. Goes something like this: identity and faux identity in Mexican food items in Mex-American restaurants, and in modern photography. Brilliant. And I'm thinking it may be expanded into a book of sorts, maybe a novel. Along the process-oriented lines of Sophie Calle.
Well, that's all I can say for sure for now.

Academy of Love.

Primitivism. Us and Them. And I'm not talking the song by Pink Floyd. That's what Yours Truly read about last night whilst catching up on Parsons School of Dementia readings for the online thing. There was ref to the ethnographic writings of a few but the essay's writer never quoted them at length. A real bummer as it involved the prurient regarding of native peoples.
Beth the Great is not only great but a Genius as she has come up with a fab idea for my lodging in the Shiny Apple next month. Eureka I say to that and it'd mean, if all goes swell, a sublet of sorts from a classmate for the time being there.
So last night I read about the Aztecs. Sure, like everyone else, I knew about the rippings of hearts from living captives. But they were a friendly bunch to boot. If they killed you in battle they believed, well, belief is a nice consolation anyway, that the soul of the killt sped off to a heaven of lilies or flowers or some such flowery scenario. Those who just slipped away were, they also believed, sent to a much more boring place. Probably the usual celestial snooze-o-rama with angels with harps and clouds and do-gooders. All I know is I'd like to spend said afterlife with those of the rock or photo pantheon. Keith Richards naturally jumps into mind.
All for now and over and out, waiting word from JR, Mentor whether he thinks I should pawn my digvid camera - or not.

Knots of Love.

Sent words most imploring to Parsons School of Dilly-dallying this fine evening basically outlining ways I might get myself into her primo graces and glean an A or B to boot. I can be your personal chef for a while, I can shine all your shoes in your closet and out, I can walk your dog(s), I can write a book that you can sign your name to, etc.
Have no shred of guilt or shame or regret that I basically parked my ass at Kennedy's dining room table for what seemed weeks to make 20 digvids. And some, as I wrote somewhere, some time, are fucking Whitney Biennial-worthy. But we'll see what JR Art Mentor/Personal Art Designer, thinks and says about that. Talked to thee Elliott Caplan who will be watching some of my work with me this upcoming week. And then coffee and I said So what, you'll either tell me Keep up the GOOD WORK or What the fuck were you thinking. He said Oh, I never say the former, usually it's the latter. One conversation with him had my head on fire.
Speaking of fire, delivered a wedding today to one social worker type, in a building with the Middling City's elevator elder statesman. It creaked, it moaned and finally got me to floor number three. She opened the door after I buzzed (here begins Fake Plastic Trees and I'm catapulted back into my usual strong mem associated with this little, perfect tune) and there's a buzzer as the pitiful decrepit building is visited by the MC's crackheads and psychotics, to stare wondrously sans speaking at the Pentecostal-like flame arching over my forehead. I then, after said delivery, delivered myself to the doors of Jon's salon where I am always guaranteed to feel some love. Some coffee, some smokes, some laughs, some rock and roll banter and, all buoyed up, I made my way back into the chilly MC streets.

Streets Paved with Love.

Passed a taste test haranguer today as I had to return to the Mac Clubhouse to buy the correct dvd's (note to self = dashes and plus signs are of utter import when buying overpriced pieces of plastic to stuff into the overpriced pieces of plastic, i.e. PowerBook) and he either said Rock ON! - or Saigon!. Given his ethnicity I am not too sure which it was.
Last night's gig had a fateful ending. Merrily the singers onstage were a-singing and there were jazz hands in abundance and simpering and galumphing. Sudden-fuckin-ly the lights went kapoof and 32 actors, 1 photog, 1 director, 4 high school earnest ones, 1 priest (I think), 1 lighting tech, 1 mediocre band, 1 badass ghost, 5 random spectators probably related to high school earnests, et al were plunged into pure and inky darkness. Cell phones were whipped open to provide comforting light dots in the theatre/deconsecrated church. Well about 20 minutes of darkness, with the actors still onstage making the best of it and proffering up all songs they could muster forth about darkness and the like, it was time to s.p.l.i.t. It was when I rushed to my awaiting automobile that I discovered that I had pulled up at a rakish angle in my usual blustery rock star fashion and had I pulled up another centimetre I would have been over a brink. So the last time I did a gig for these singers and dancers and actors there was a fire/fire drill. Last night the entire town of Lewiston went dark. I told Brendan, the man who hires me, and the stage manager that I take full responsibility for these natural happenstances of doom. Which leads me to thinking that soon the Middling City will face another ice boom or did they pass legislation that ice booms are passé. So many Middling City facts, so little time.

Time 4 Love.

Busted out a minor version of my Perfect Paint Melt Stare today as a groupie/girlfriend of an ensemble member of the UB student variety tapped me on my rootin' tootin' shootin' shoulder to query Ummm, do you mind. Pointing to her piece of guano mini digvid recorder as she stood against a pole whilst Yours Truly documented all the jubilant holiday cheer before me and one hundred mid-day music lovers and other hangers-on. She so owned that square foot of lino, never thought perhaps of panning and wanted to warn all media hacks in the house to get the fuck outta her way.
I blog currently from the measle-down, scaled-down version of SoHo's famed MAC/geek clubhouse, in a mall. I am on errands. You do not want to get in my way when I am on errands for I:
1. do not care for errands, generally speaking.
2. loathe malls and their piped-in joviality.
3. do not care to mingle with maxed-out holiday shoppers but crapskis I have business to attend to with these nice MAC folks.
4. I am in a hurry people, not on the usual 20 mph Middling City rate of speed.
Well, that amount of mall-based surliness should suffice for now.
I leave you - breathless, feckleless, Perfectless.
I am an Americano'd streak on this horizon.

Horizontal Love.

Recently there was a blaze (word used in honour of ol' newscoot Irv Weinstein on the Middling City's Channel 7 Eyewitness News) and a building went kapoof. Was at Jon's Joint when I wandered over there and could not recall what had been there. Was it a building. A lot. Then, some steps. Then I recalled that I had not only passed this building bajillions of times but had traipsed up these steps for a job working for a former born again junkie. Former junkie, current born again. A real micro-managing, sexist, religionist ass named Dom. As in Perignon. As in Corleone. Etc.
So the steps, so the memory.
Another revelation, of a digital and less personal sort.
Working on the computer for what seems aeons lately have been sorting through not only occurent miasmas but have taken frequent sideroads whilst rendering digvid files to discover something so fab I must share it, shout it from the virtual rooftop.
Within the little package of Titanium Platinum there is a juicey bit that allows one to design one's very own cd/dvd doo-dad-rich labels. And even more... like case covers. I mean really. If You knew about this and did not tell I am like so furious.
Spoke with Justy today while he and Mattie were not hard at work at the mag. Decided that well maybe perhaps Bandmate Scott and I should make a biztrip out of NYC next week to suss out Knife Fight, Justy's band. To see if they might be suitable for our amazing double bill. Knife Call and Knife Fight: Battle of the Knives.
Saw that movie everyone raves on about. Sideways. Unexpected wacky character behaviour. Unexpected act of raging violence that had my face all sweating and hiding from an afeared mem of the X post-face-bash, with face dripping middle to bottom in fresh out of the veins blood. What a night that was. I wrapped his face, moaned in mama bear rage, put him in car and sought out the villain and believe I would have mowed down said villain and, thankfully, he was not still out on the streets and the two of us met TerryO out that night and I drank to assuage my rage and all until the newly-busted-nose X had to drive home as my head laid out the window for air and for understanding and hey let's give peace a chance.

Love's Chance.

Did a whole lot of minding my own business - ha and harumph - this weekend and am in the throes of conceptualizing how to write some ferfucksakes malarkey (as in some sort of Middling City sporting coach) for online course, get some art made, get some other items dotted and crossed and such.
If 100 magical fairies showed up at my door and they were all charged up on caffeine they might be able to lend some nec hands.
The church next door is rollicking for the lord or god or satan or saran wrap or whatever and perhaps as it's the yuletide it's turbo-charged evangelizing time. But I gleefully forget each year and so each time it's a different surprise inception at the disruptive wherewithall of these folks.
So now it's off to points beyond and then some and then some and then some and then some.
Did I mention there's some sort of malarkey abrew for Parsons School of Demarcated Anxieties?
Yours in Evangelizing Agonies.

Love's Agony and Contrapuntal Sensation.

(sung to tune of Love Machine, 70s Motown dance mega-hit)

I I I am a digital video editing ma-chine
And I don't work for nobody but Parsons
Oh oooh cha
A digital video editing machine...

I now have a plethora to send off to JR. And one, I swear, will be like so suitable for the next Whitney Biennial. No lie.
They are each little snippets of digital video editing mastery and the more I'm using this Final Cut extravaganza the more I'm meandering off the trail into black diamond territory, playing with scale, and other secret things.
About to jet off to Liz's girlie jewelry party for charity and find my sister some swingy earrings. Note to You: I do not have faux earholes. I do not wear earrings.
The last time I believe I attempted earrings was at the wedding of my beloved sister whose marriage (cue sit-com applause machine) went down in flames a few years back and whose d-word is now nearly final. (cue giant ovation)

After the jewelry purchasing power party Kennergy's free-jazz gig at Soundlab, renowned for serving the region's worst wine. At $3 per glass. O mighty God, if there is one, please prevent the temple squeezers from finding me if I so drink three of those glasses of rotgut that will rival the near-grain-alcohol vino of Thanksgiving Day when I served Stan and all the accoutrements. A-freakin-MEN.

Musing Love.

Well, file last night's charity event under Well, That Was Interesting.
First interesting fact is that I have the same, very-same, crimson chunks in my hair as does Robbie Goo and Carla, Mark Freeland's girlie companion.
Very same crimson, very same hair stylist.
Attended the VIP moment and ate about 6 Swedish meatballs and a rock sound guy queried if in Sweden the Swedes eat these. I thought not. The wine poured, the people schmoozed, the food disappeared.
Alison Pipitone played with her rollicking band and that was a highlight on the music end of matters.
Lead Boy Colleage and I spoke ever so briefly, told him about my beloved beau Kennergy who was not with me, he avoiding the rock scenario. O, velcro, I say.
I watched the video playing non-stop overhead and was delighted to hear that Yours Truly makes a cameo. It was described to me as TJ Zindle of Last Conservative fame and moi exchanging an Eskimo greeting, rubbing noses. And then, I saw it, this digitally-captured moment.
Have to FedEx off a dvd to JR for the grad student open house, sure to wow the masses my videos will be/are. Spoke with JR for a good long while yesterday, describing in full detail the work coming his way - a triumph. Triumph of use of adjectives, triumph of editing, triumph of shooting.

Triumpant, defiant Love.

A Johnny Depp look-alike meandered by in a gray poly-oly-um-cum-free suit. We danced a mean hustle. Afterwards, after twirling in a fashion that could best be described as near-arm-amputational (arms of Yours Truly), he growled in my ear Nice following, baby. The little vid made by Beth Dearest of the dancefloor encounter proves it to be not a good example of following, or leading.
Sky-high minis, sky-high 'fros, sky-drunk guys towards the evening's end, sky-high Leif Garrett of former idolatry (photographed by YT after collaring him and after his junkie eyes sort of focused upon where my voice emanated from), sky-high drink lines, sky-high bartenders in bowties, was the disco vibe.
Today I suffer from Convention Center Foot, the phenomenon that follows hours of fancy footwork upon a concrete floor.
Beth Dearest dared me (dared! me! what!) to dance with a cop guarding the point where those with all-access passes (me) could separate from the masses (them) and of course - suddenly - there I was gyrating in front of him. When the song was over he kissed me (kissed! me!) on the side of the neck and whispered into my nearby ear Thank you. It was such a touching disco moment.
Highlights Include:
Eric C not knowing who in hell Yours Truly was with my new colour-rich tresses and all, until I was practically on top of him.
Cell calls from Cheryl and Liz, somewhere in the morass.
Charlene Tilton, of Dallas fame, working up a sweat by the autograph stand where revelers were charged $10/Polaroid.
Finding a discarded Polaroid on the concrete floor of a chemical disaster that had beheaded the Polaroid's subjects = an artful triumph.
Discovering a cache of crap canned beers backstage and delivering them to the dancing girlies, and Myself.
Leaving and having to jump a curb to get out of the parking spot that I created.
Now to deadline day.

Concrete Love.

A Johnny Depp look-alike meandered by in a gray poly-oly-um-cum-free suit. We danced a mean hustle. Afterwards, after twirling in a fashion that could best be described as near-arm-amputational (arms of Yours Truly), he growled in my ear Nice following, baby. The little vid made by Beth Dearest of the dancefloor encounter proves it to be not a good example of following, or leading.
Sky-high minis, sky-high 'fros, sky-drunk guys towards the evening's end, sky-high Leif Garrett of former idolatry (photographed by YT after collaring him and after his junkie eyes sort of focused upon where my voice emanated from), sky-high drink lines, sky-high bartenders in bowties, was the disco vibe.
Today I suffer from Convention Center Foot, the phenomenon that follows hours of fancy footwork upon a concrete floor.
Beth Dearest dared me (dared! me! what!) to dance with a cop guarding the point where those with all-access passes (me) could separate from the masses (them) and of course - suddenly - there I was gyrating in front of him. When the song was over he kissed me (kissed! me!) on the side of the neck and whispered into my nearby ear Thank you. It was such a touching disco moment.
Highlights Include:
Eric C not knowing who in hell Yours Truly was with my new colour-rich tresses and all, until I was practically on top of him.
Cell calls from Cheryl and Liz, somewhere in the morass.
Charlene Tilton, of Dallas fame, working up a sweat by the autograph stand where revelers were charged $10/Polaroid.
Finding a discarded Polaroid on the concrete floor of a chemical disaster that had beheaded the Polaroid's subjects = an artful triumph.
Discovering a cache of crap canned beers backstage and delivering them to the dancing girlies, and Myself.
Leaving and having to jump a curb to get out of the parking spot that I created.
Now to deadline day.

Concrete Love.

So, minding my own business and shopping for toppings for my famed paella I actually had a family of four staring at my hair. They were making no attempt to hide the fact that they were staring and I returned their stares with my most Perfect, beatific smile. Nearing the paint-melt stare but not quite.
Shot a bar mitzvah today and this was overheard as a woman fumbled with a very decorative and overly-designed doorknob: Weeelll, that was easy after those bloooody marrrys.
To that I thought Well, yee ha to you, mid-afternoon tippler with abandon.
Tonight is the World's Largest Disco, or, rather, the Middling City's Largest Disco Scene. You know, the one where 10K people or so in flammable clothing and faux 'fros do their best hustle. Despite the fact that for most the hustle etc. was aeons before their time and if not for VH1's series loving all things retro they would just not know.
Bringing Inbal and Beth Dearest to the WLD/MCLDS vip portion of the evening for high times and no misdemeanours. Turned them on to sponge candy and now they are addicted.

Spongey Love.

*neato! this post was just completed as the previous was allegedly lost as I blogged on another internetal set-up with woeful and antedeluvian dial-up. So double post Love for You, lucky sunnuvagunn epinw reader/Lover.

The colours of crushed cranberries and sumptous, foolhardy and light-coloured pumpkin pie are running through my tresses, thanks to Jon. As of a few days ago and the visit to the salon and the espresso and - oh - it's all a blur. But I left with multi-colours. And they rock. As I told Kennedy Jon wants us all to look like we're out on tour. Speaking of tours, Robbie Goo and Jon are having a slammin' party on Monday night as part of the whole Music is Art genre of rock activities.
It's 3PM and I have not started cooking dinner for T-Day. Am I worried. Are real cranberries growing from my cranium. I rest my Martha Stewartlike case.
So I'm making duck with 40 cloves of garlique. 40. I went to B'Way Market yesterday for a special special duck from a poultry stand. I asked if the feet were extra to no noticeable mirth. Jon kept asking produce vendors if the various items in his hands were 2 for $1.19 a pound. To no noticeable mirth.
Now back to the Kennedy Kitchen for some good old-fashioned slicing, dicing, stuffing, and, most importantly, imbibing of wine all the while.

On NPR at this moment a man with one of those authoritative accents is describing the tradition of wild boar hunting on a holiday. You must make the kill... Oh, he's discussing ancient Greece and the historical figure, prince of Macedonia, Alexander, in honour, assuredly of the Oliver Stone movie starring the lips of Angelina Jolie and others. But really. No hunting of wild boars, please. Pigs are people, too. Ducks are not. Ducks are a dime a dozen as they are plentiful on ponds and in zoos feeding off the land. Alexander, a very present threat, the man accents on.

Stuffing. Love.

Cranberry and pumpkin pie colours now swirl merrily through my hair after a visit to Jon who touched up the red chunks and added anew. He and I visited B'Way Market to buy a fat pig .. home again .. home again .. jiggity-jig. Astute lovers of epinw and all things Yours Truly know, just know, I do not ever eat pig. But I did buy a duck, a solid bag of duck, no feet and no head. I asked the nice man behind the counter if I might pay more for the pair to be attached. Answer: no. Jon suggested buying a gag chicken and attaching those feet. I never swung by a shop of magick so no feet it is. Beth Dearest arrives in about an hour, onto this frost-strew gray Middling City terrain. Inbal comes on Saturday, just in time for me to drag their unsuspecting asses to the World's Largest Disco on S-a-t-u-r-d-a-y NIGHT for the beerish mayhem that it is. Now it's off to video land, cooking land, landing land, and more.

Love stuffed.