I had something I wanted to write about, but now I forget.  So here is some minor contents of my mind, as of yesterday.

I am listening to “This Year’s Model” while I drive.  Lipstick Vogue, Lip Service, the thoroughly creepy (I Don’t Want To Go To) Chelsea – arch lyrics, festooned with Steve Neive’s electric organ (that sounds funny), riding the focussed mania of Pete Thomas’s drums – occupy territory I need to visit, whether anyone else knows or remembers or sees how deep a part of me it is.  “Pete Thomas is the best rock drummer alive.”  That’s what Tom Waits said, so who can argue.

The back forty of the Urgent Care near my house abuts an embankment.  I can drive right up and park my car, and watch the gold finches tear thistle seeds apart while I get out the camera and wonder, yet again, what the hell I am doing.  It’s kind of a dream come true.