Things are not as they seem, usually. Two pieces of evidence.

1. Cult members in white with bright red sashes around their waists walked en masse down the street at 10PM the other night. They were all women, about the same height. And they were all wearing white shoes. Upon closer inspection (necessary so many times in instances of the bandying about of evidence) they were waitresses, classically dressed, leaving the old-school Italian (eye-tail-yun) restaurant called Chef's.

2. A fire burned brightly in a fireplace last night. Logs a-cracklin-, flames a-jumpin' and the scene screamed for marshmellows. But, dig this, this was a faux fire in faux fireplace in a limousine owned by CAESARS limo co. In I crawled, with two friends, into a stranger's limo. He was sitting in the limo. His girlfriend was in the bar where we had been, talking to the limo driver. I smelled trouble for this relationship. The guy was friendly, non-plussed by the sudden appearance of three strangers as his love interest was schmoozing the limo driver. There were also three crystal decanters of bright blue liquid and I said to my self Nance, that's a whole lot of blue curacao. And guess what, epinw people? It was not what it seemed - it was blue water. I know, I made jilted boy sniff it.

Micro pit stop between freelance shooting and journalistic shooting. And yippieyahooaroonies there was a message on la machine that an editor from a respected pub(lication) would like to have me do some writing for him - I'm filled with silly giddy elation, always a pleasant feeling before hitting the streets in search of perfect moments, smiles, and notes hanging in the air.
Is it me or does the fall air have the faint scent of fourteen year old single malt scotch.
A parting thought for this perfect Friday: a pal just about fell off her barstool with oddness when I self-mentioned this blog. You know that thing people do when they are not along for the ride with whatever you're espousing? She threw herself into implosion. Gasoline on epinw bonfire of fun, I say.

I'm so certain that I won tonight's $6,000,000.00 Lotto jackpot that I've been phoning realtors in Manhattan to inquire about purchasing a condo, preferably on Central Park West. And then I'm going shoe shopping. And then charities. And then sushi.
Heard from my long-time friend and fervent art curator that I'm to be part of an exciting collaborative project which funding just came in for. Just when I was forgetting that I'm an artist, too, the art poop hits the proverbial fan.
Long live art poop and the people who make it, including me.
Time to be out and about.
Fear not.

Power to the people. Power to the people. Power to the people.
Power to the people right on.
I've been listening to the John Lennon tributary night wailing away in the other room as I've been flailing away in here, for deadline peace & unity.
Heard Dave Matthews singing John Lennon, almost as perfect as Neil Diamond singing the Christmas Song on a ND collection.
Nearly missed the grant deadline today, as luck would have it I was talking to a friend who happened to utter the word deadline. Terror set in. Then high-speed slide collecting and rapid bio-amassing set in. Told Mr. Mailman about my near-deadline fiasco to his great Going Postal amusement as I handed off the hopefully lucky packet.

Long hair phenom: the smell of people sticks in hair long on length and now I'm sniffing the scent of someone's perfume and I am not so sure who...oh, got it. While at the absolute last outdoor festival of season - Snowjam - a woman of same name embraced me. Was on half-pipe and yesiree those will be gorgeous images. Goldfinger headlined, but before they arrived onstage all the x-treme athletes lined up in all their Molson-sponsored tipsiness and buff glory, many of them hurling (no, not chunks) their novelty oversized check money checks into the throng.

Good deed for the day/month/season: arriving at a backroads countrytime crossroads en route to cornball smalltown art & craft fest I spotted a sign which read: PUMKINS FOR SALE. So I sez to daytrippin' companion: I'll be right back. I grabbed an ever-handy black sharpie and jogged back to the sign, adding a helpful arrow notation and the necessary P. And I drew smiley faces into their two poster pumpkins, adding some friendly zest. Mid-P some lost people from Pennsylvania pulled up in an enormous SUV, having lost their way to the Bills/Steelers game. At the art & craft fest I had a hankering for a caramel apple and nobody in that godforsaken place had even heard of caramel apples, let alone fashioned one. So I headed to a small Masonic Temple (fueled by my lifelong fascination with secret societies). Inside I purchased a slice of apple pie and one of the universe's weakest cups of coffee. Oh, but it was so worth it: for inside, in the kitchen at the rear, were two ladies of the Star, I was told. One was extremely busied with her 120mm cigarette, swatting flies madly. The other was of the white acrylic sweater-wearing genre and she was most kind until I started pumping them both for info about passwords and such. One was a Star member since '42, the other since '73. At that point my thoughts zoomed over to Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon but I didn't think they'd understand. While I was making nice with the sweater lady, smoking lady was swatting out into the middle of the Masonic Temple. She unleashed one giant swat which sent the temple's Star clock made of various colors of plastic at each point crashing to the floor, shattering it. The people inside the temple went silent. I offered helpful advice: 1. superglue would fix everything...and 2. perhaps they might want to shut the temple's front doors to keep more flies out.
As a non-knower of secret passwords my advice was lite.
One weekend highpoint: listening to Hüsker-Dü on vinyl with pals.
Another: hearing how the FBI (as in thee FBI) forbade the Molson Snowjam from acquiring tons of farmpoo/manure to make fake snow from the woman who scented my hair. It all goes back to hugs and hair you see.
Peace for now, perfect oNe.