My aunt took pity on me, and as a Christmas present deposited enough money in my account so I could get my car legal again.  It's really quite amazing that I haven't gotten busted yet.  My inspection sticker expired July of 2006.  My registration has been inactive since January of 2006.  And I never got around to, um, updating my car insurance payment back in August.  My landlady and the electric and gas companies come first in my pathetic system of fiscal allocations.

For some reason my insurance company sends me their wallet-sized certificates establishing my policy to be in good standing even before I shoot them off a check.  This of course means nothing if I were to plow into some poor bastard.  But for the moment it should placate a cop.   This bogus scrap of paper also served me quite well today when I put into action part one of my three-pronged plan to become, once again, that upright citizen most people know me to be.  No longer will I assiduously avoid eye-contact with passing peace offers; nor will I have to keep a cautious eye on my rear mirror as I pass a parked cop car, breathing slowly in anticipation of my reaction if the prowl car starts to move — will I choose fight or flight?  (Though I suspect they both would result in a hosing down with some type of delousing compound rich in polychlorinates and raw kerosine.)

I'm still a moving target until all three components are addressed.  But, and hold your applause, I have a shiny new Texas State Inspection sticker, courtesy of a tire place on South Presa — the Se Habla Ingles sign was not entirely accurate, but I have no complaints.  Next week, registration and insurance.  Wow!  Those Hobbits searching for Mordar got nothing on me.  It's a rough and tumble world here on the southside.

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First Friday over at the Blue Star Arts Complex was pretty sedate tonight.  I was surprised.  The weather is warm and clear.  Beautiful.

I made a short promenade.  I caught Venus at her studio just as she was heading out.  She has to get up early tomorrow for a teaching gig.  She left her space with Erik Collins.  I didn't even know they were friends.  Seems they go way back.  Erik seems to be doing great.  He had a couple of digitally manipulated photographs on Venus' studio wall.  He told me he was on IMDB.  I had to look when I got home.  Here's a link.  I really like his photos.

Kick ass, Erik!

I hoped to see Deborah.  I tried to arrange lunch during the holidays, but one of her daughters came into town early, and she got swallowed up by all that family stuff.  I was sad to see she wasn't in her studio.  She's let some friends use it to sell jewelry this month.  I guess I'll have to track her down.

Speaking of the Blue Star Arts Complex, I expect to see everyone tomorrow night at the Jump-Start theater for their 22th anniversary Performance Party.  Five dollar donation.  It's fucking cheaper than a southside inspection sticker (and that's pretty damn cheap), so you got no excuse.

But, if for some reason you can't make it, there's As Filthy As It Gets, featuring the Methane Sisters (Annele Spector and Monessa Esquivel), beginning January 19th.  Those of you lucky enough to have seen Sam Lerma's brilliant Methane Sisters music video will have some idea of what to expect.  I know I'm looking forward to the great, filthy experience (with or without the cucumber-cam).