As I'm skedaddling out of town for some artsy matters for a few moments I thought I'd leave you another post, a juicy succulent glimpse into my complex and convoluted psyche. Yesterday I photographed a hoopla-rich parade and, as usual, found myself in tears. I told some people recently that parades make me cry and someone suggested that perhaps I was a majorette in a past life. Another offered a kind, sentimental comparison - she cries at the first hint of "Silent Night." I've cried at parades in Japan honoring spring, Mardi Gras in New Orleans, NYC, wherever. I think someone (H) should do a picture story of me teary-eyed at these grand occasions.

Between shooting some excellent regional/local bands at a local joint where I occasionally do some celeb guest mixologizing I was called behind the bar as they were slammingly busy. Being a pathetically bad fast adder of integers I usually make up prices and cocktail totals: one guy unsmilingly ordered three drinks and when I delivered them with my customary big smile I told him the fabricated total which surprised him. It turned out, after consulting a real mixologist, that I had greatly overcharged him, oh well. I decided it was time to start a little arm wrestling fun and did so with one guy who sort of let me beat him. Then I challenged another guy who didn't see the comedy in this and was going to try to slam my photographic hand into the bar - so I started biting his clasped fingers until he relented. All's perfect in my world when I: a. get my way; b. win; and c. find a great pair of shoes. One parting thought: I think I greatly distressed my mentor artist friend when I told him that Timothy McVeigh is being put to sleep on his birthday.