One: Blondie tour canceled, so no show on Sunday. MK/Morgen and I are two both sad girls.
Two: Deborah Harry is still a rock-freaking-legend and I'll line up for tickets if they reschedule (especially if they come without "The New Cars," even though I wouldn't wish a broken clavicle on anyone, even Elliot Easton).
Three: Deb (because I know if we'd met you'd be all like, "call me Deb"), I realize the ticket sales weren't stellar even though the show should have sold out on Blondie's rock cred alone, and that's mostly because Charleston wouldn't know good music if it slapped it on the ass and called it Daddy, but if you ever want to get out of the NYC, my guest room is yours. I’ll stock the fridge with Amstel Light and good cheese, you’ll tell me stories about the good old days at CBGBs and I’ll admire your latest Marc Jacobs ensemble. You’ll tell me about the time you punched Sid Vicious in the neck and how Andy Warhol begged you to be in all of his art films. I’ll pluck out “Dreaming” on my guitar (beng, bleng, bleng, dreamin', dreamin' is free...) and show you pictures of when I was platinum blonde. Happy almost 61st birthday, Goddess of the Punk Rock. You’re my she-ro.