A letter from my American cousin

Your humble narrator in in receipt of a letter from her American cousin. Her Christian name is April and she is a delightful girl of 24, living in the city of Chicago (which is certainly no Caledon, I pity her education; her French is dreadful and her embroidery less than impressive). I shall share it with you now, though warn you her language is abrasive at best.
"What up, homeslice!
So today I ditched class and went to grocery store, found myself among the breakfast club crowd which ever so luckily included my favorite, little, ol' man grocery bagger guy (Note to self: marry man who will wear paperboy hats when 70), and made an ass out myself singing the words to a song because I forgot not everyone can hear my iPod like I can. Those lubricious Piggly Wiggly floors are ideal for rockin' the James Brown footwork, and thankfully I had extra-frictionless deck shoes on my feet and "Get Up Off Of That Thang" on my iPod.
I bid the retirees at the grocery store goodbye and proceeded home so that I might completely plagiarize your friend Mr. Hassanov's American cousin's Myspace page. I've included the contraband below.

Speaking of MySpace, I'm still lame enough to update my on occassion. Feel free to stop by and criticize my bad form and terrible etiquette.
http://www.Myspace.com/kidneyschmidney
Your dear Aunt Kathie will be stopping by tonight to share our regular music salon, American Idol. I've already begun hiding dirty dishes in the oven but need to catch up on my stuffing of everything else I own into a too-small closet. She has become more political lately than I have ever been privy to see her before. The other day at luncheon, while turning over her Applebee's Chimichurri slider, she turned to me and said, "I think I just might vote for Obama. I hear he's not a Muslim."
I have hope for her yet.
Give Bediesel my love (and a wedgie).
Yours faithfully,
Peace out C-Town,
April

L'Hommage aux artistes en photo

This past week I was able to spend a bit more time in Caledon, having recovered from a nasty bout of aether fumes. In that precious time, I took a few tin-types of people and places that embody the creative nature of our plane.
Jun Kurdoda rocks our bodies at the Chessboard with Japanese punk.

....and this handsome chap rambled into Miss Begonia's 'Back to the Fuschia' party just in time for the DeWellsian to escape. Many thanks to people who put such time and effort into their avatars.

...Miss Lema reminds us with her gorgeous av that while 'Victorian' may allude to a specifically British person, it was global experience. Miss Riven Homewood and Mrs. CeAire Decosta of Steelhead cordially invite you to the grand opening of their incredibly well-research, massively in-depth, gorgeous, stunning, all manner of superlative library.
Be-di and Mark remind us that we're all just kids at heart, kids who now have the money and technology to shape the world as we please. Now get off my roof, you ruffians!

Well played, good sir, well played

Good decisions are rarely made on impulse, especially when weapons are involved. I took a quick jaunt into Caledon between tasks and made the mistake of taking Gilbert Sapwood (heretofore to be known as 'Stone-Cold Storyteller')up on his offer of a friendly bout of En Garde. Recent jaunts into En Garde have illustrated why there is little military heritage in our tree, but Sapwood seemed about as talented as his name implies, and he does look so cavalier in those red Deadwood boots.
The mistake was made and my fate sealed, but he had to earn it. Ample trash talk in local and state chat proved an even sharper repartee than that between the blades. His victory came at the sacrifice of my dignity, and being an achingly sore loser, I plan to seek my revenge outside the pitch, with vicious gossip and slander.
I hear he eats fairies and traps furries in his basement. He hates kittens.

In which le secrétaire considers her ennui

June Wozniak sits at her writing table and drums her fingers, lost not in thought, but lost in the vast emptiness of thought.
It's truly astounding how quickly one's passions can evaporate. Things once so boiling, so maddeningly moving to you at one time evoke nothing more than an ice-like blankness of thought at another. Hums and lets her eyes fall shut to think, and nothing comes but white.
My career is at a standstill in my real life, and not suprisingly, this is reflected in SL. A child full of potential has withered into a lackluster adult, and the bright shiny future is dimmer than I remember. Any thoughts of science or such nearly make my stomach roll. In the hopes that I could use my education to add to Caledon's scientific culture, I signed up to prepare a collection for the library system. It's very nearly complete, but the collecting process has unveiled feelings that I would rather keep shrouded, that maybe my childhood aspirations are gone and I've gone down the wrong road. My collection has comes to a standstill, and it's a little more than ironic to see the librarian (albeit virtual, certainly do not do that title justice in real life) suffer writer's block.
It is at these times that the skies of Caledon look a little brighter, the copper has more luster, the music rings a little lighter. Every creative endeavor is not only possible in Caledon but reaches the pinnacle of its expression. While the typist mopes in her lab, I'm discovering new parts of myself in the hopes that I can send them home to her. June shall become the artist, and she shall grow a new heart of color and music and pretty words, then she will wrap it in paper poetry and send it home to la secrétaire.
Notices the sun is particularly inviting over the bay of Wells, lays down her pen, and goes for a ramble.

Mama always said, "Watch out for those well-dressed men."

The Duke of Greystoke has a knack for showin' up with a surprise. I was puttin' together a few things for the library when I get a mysterious knock at the door. The Duke requests my presence for a quick but potentially fatal adventure in his domain. He shows me to his newest archaeological dig, a longbarrow typical of Northern European cultures, for which he's commissioned the expertise of a professional. The archaeologist hasn't been seen in days, and he's begun to worry. I take up a torch and venture in to take a peek, nearly ending up a virgin-sacrifice to this enigmatic shrine!
After such a shake up, the Duke was dear enough to show me a good time back in 'Louse. A quick bout of "show you mine and show me yours" led to a trading of beads, but thank goodness for incredibly modest Victorian layers as I was lucky enough to get away with a chemise. Dont' worry, I remember what my marraine always told me, "Watch out for the those well-dressed men," and I'll be keepin' my eyes all over this one.

Shakin' up a content cocktail

Bonsoir, cherie! The hallmark of SL will always be the bottom-up content creation of its citizens, cher. Now that the blurry haze of the new resident daze has passed, and now that my home in Wellsian is truly settled, I'm beginning to feel the duties required of good citizens press on my mind. How will I add to this mosaic of personal expression? And most pressing, what will I do with the rickety space in this gorgeous new ville that has become such a welcoming nest for my bad French and trashy-waitress pet names (Suga', cher, hon, babe, doll...) It was a white-knuckle wait while Mama Cre finished up the last details of the New Toulouse sim this week, so I found myself taking the time to explore the bastions of content in an attempt to refine the rough drafts of my own new projects.
Almost immediately after I started brainstorming, frantic group chat IMs were dispatched to announce AM Radio's Far North sim was about to go out in a blaze of glory. With one hour to spare, Kaye Robbiani and sister Scotti Lyle (the newest grande dames of Morgaine), and the rosebud-cheeked Eleanor Anderton made our way to the sim to gawk. Monsier Radio's name is spoken with a sacred cadence, having become the Patron Saint of All That is Visually Possible, and this exposition was a miracle of SL-Earth. Although the sim now remains only in memory and photo, he did provide several souvenirs, including a photobooth recreation of David's "The Death of Marat".
Mr. Hassanov then sent a cryptic message that I should join him in Kittiwickshire. Once I dropped in, I found him staring slack-jawed at this amazing monument to Clockwork. The back end of the statue reveals the military aspirations of bird-kind.

Iason and I have become twin brainchildren over the past few months, and he's proven to be invaluable as a sounding board for every crazy new idea that wiggles it's way into my brain. After touring 'Louse with him again, the brainstorm collected into discrete puddles. That promising little shanty, La Baraque Bleue, is going to be a fine musee. First the Josephine Baker Revue, then the Art of Voodoo, Degas in New Orleans, and maybe a showing of John Droisneau. It's amazing how once you commit, cher, the ideas just don't stop comin'.
PS-Caledon has become so admired for it's content that anthropology student Researcher Tigerpaw has committed her thesis to us! Keep an eye out for this face and lend her a helping hand.

Where y'at!

Bonjour, mes amis! How's ya mamma and dem?
This past weekend we all dropped anchor at New Toulouse, the gin-soaked sim created by the that cold-blooded charmer Carricre Wind, or Mama Cre to locals. I'm stayin' in a little shotgun shanty on what mon-zer EllisDee so lovingly calls "Poverty Row". It was a regular welcome wagon all weekend, and smilin' (probably tipsy) faces peeked 'round every corner to say "hi" and make introductions.
The little ray of sunshine in the shack next door is Bedlamie Thunders. Jesus done rolled the good neighbor dice for me, cher, and I landed on snake eyes, 'cause she is just a gem and a half. She remind me of a good pecan pie: all sugar and a sweet, and a little nutty. We turned into a regular buncho of stalkers together, sitting on our stoops, waitin' for the go ahead to unpack. So if you eva' find yo'self in 'louse Nouveau late one night, suga', then listen for the chatter of two lil' betties sittin' out on the porch tellin' crazy stories about they torrid affairs, and swing on by.
Everyone got themselves big plans in 'louse already. Mon-zer Messmer got himself a swanky booze hall for all ya' dancin' needs, and so many fine ladies' shops have already settled for you to find a new pair of tail feathers. Mon-zer Montgolfier already found himself in a mess of trouble with his new case. Seems there's someone chalking up veve on his family plot in the cemetery and on the foundation of his detective agency. Been gettin' strange letters in the mail, too. Don't worry, child, I 'll keep an eye on him. Poor thing don't know what he gettin' himself into.
Our most esteemed funerary directoire, Mizz Yifu, been gettin' antsy over dere in the the cemetery. But somehow, but then end of this week, she had filled up half the plots. Hmm...