Some great S. Philly pics, taken over the past few weeks with the phone camera--a much-needed recess from that purple high school stuff I'd been writing. Sometimes I do have trouble helping myself. Anyhow, I picked up a few rolls of film for the Holga, and will be putting up the pics I take as they're developed. The writing will go back to beige, I'll spin some Corelli with commentary, doubtless one of those rich Borodin concertos that conjure visions of dried blood on Italian marble stairs, and all things evoking the pristine and sublime. Hope all is well in Philadelphia, all is well in Pittsburgh!
Speaking of which, you'll see, newly restored to my blogroll, is the left-for-dead Pittsburgh fave, 7 Inch Slam. I have my vigilant pal Max Milgram of the recently debuted Watery Love to thank for keeping an eye out; I was sure 7 was done for good. He doesn't write as often as he once did, though he's always a terrific read. I plan to meet him at high noon in a show down of gustatory and auditory paraphernelia. His fried chicken and punk rock 7's vs my bucatini nicoise and doo wop. Smart money's on him.