Rabbit. Rabbit. Rabbit.

Am scribbling to you from an internet cafe on third floor of a brownstone on Newbury Street in Boston.

Under T's very strong and most wise advisement, I drove down last night so as to not turn a 2 hour drive into a 4 hour nightmare of commuter traffic. Landed-- where else? Chez Ta. Where we sat out on her perfectly itsy bitsy balcony, dredged ourselves in the last sultry night of August and drank a most excellent Muscadet while I scarfed down some maki rolls I'd picked up on the way.

And, did she turn me on to something so fine? How can that question even float across your cerebellum? Do you not know Ta? Do you not know it is she who keeps the body electric?

The new sound that has me totally addicted and will probably be what I'm still playing six months from now if History repeats itself-- is Herbie Hancock's Possibilities.

John Mayer had me from hello-- but it is the rendition of "When Love Comes to Town" with Joss Stone that has me putting a bit extra sauce in my saunter this morning as I walk by the white t-shirted construction crews setting up for a day of work on Boston's fancy street.

If you go here, you can actually listen to the track and see what I'm talking about.

Must fly-- off to my rendez-vous with the passport

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