Among last night's journalistic forays was a stop at a lighthouse, newly constructed by a family with enough money to fill a lighthouse with custom heart-shaped tub, parquet floors, library with winding stairway, etc. The progeny of the family is a photographer and, fittingly enough, had an art opening for his cross-processed work documenting geewhizz lighthouses. yawn. I explained cross-processing to a handful of his guests. It: shooting slide (positive) film and processing in negative film chemistry - or the inverse, processing negative film in slide chems. It's all about positive + negative vibes. Onwards to cohosting the cable accesss show which nobody sees and later still a party where there was enough booze to fill a lighthouse and, suddenly, a pal decided it was high time for crossdressing and the hostess helped him into her sad and lonely bridesmaid's frock. One of those expensive dresses which a bridesmaid promises to herself that she can wear again, but never does.
Until a man decides it's high time for crossdressing.

(Thoughts on last evening's festivities)
A girl, maybe aged 13, was sobbing at the sight of her favorite O-Town bandmember. Her two friends, one on either side, were hugging and consoling her. Backstage were more teens in packs holding homemade signs and being shuffled about by teen handlers so they could participate in meet & greet and be moved along, tearfully.
Photographers were penned in to the security area between photo ops and after about 2 hours of that crap I left. Three "acts," two people pictures and I had enough. Had enough of the non-hospitality, not the documentation. It was half an hour of sitting in security area entrance, a guy with a headset shouting the act name, trotting backstage and into the pit, shooting one or two songs depending on what the artist requested and then returning to security area. That makes for one drab evening.

Tonight is the annual po(o)p music festival downtown when "musicians" and "singers" take the stage for truncated, lip-synchful "sets." There is always a parade of bands that I've never heard of, not listening ever to the station which produces this event. Why, you might ask, do I cover this fiesta?
Because there are going to be 13,000 or so shrieking fans of the station there and more who could not make it and who the fuck am I to say their coolwhip-topped, spandex-sporting stars aren't worth documentation in the middling city's alternative weekly?
Plus I get to see several of my boy colleagues backstage and that's always pleasant.
Last night I had a few cocktails with a bevy of musicians and one of them, a bass player no less, asked what I ever did with that goat head.
I told him it's in my freezer and only now am I remembering how he knew about the goat head: I was leaving the Arabian Food Mart with a double-bagged goat head around my arm and saw him on the street. I must have excitedly told him about my gift from the store, after I was brought into their Witkin-esque walkin cooler full of animal carnage and wreckage (a much earlier blogpost from when I was writing a story on international food joints).
Like the cow heart before it, it rests in the freezer, awaiting a thaw and visit into the photo studio.

Thanks to yoga I did not have my own personal meltdown after the harddrive on my computer was wiped out. What a way to begin the day. I could have been more upset but really, why? Dealing with technical computer crap reminds me of chemistry class - which sadly brought down my fine average in h.s./hell-hole. If I believed the answer in chemistry class was decrease, it was increase. And so forth.
Firmware, software, updates, extensions, files - my head is reeling.
Or was.
The Vegas piece is behind me... hey, there it is, and is fine. And a mere 1,300 words over what they wanted. It's a world unto itself, the way I like them to be.
2002, I have realized, is going to be my Year of Art Making and Ass Kicking.
There are so many art projects and exhibitions coming down the pike I'm very excited. All.

Today I was not a solid rock girl team player.
I completely forgot to meditate at 430PM EST as directed by Olivia, George's widow. Exactly at that moment I was trotting into an office building at the university with my bundle of joy - images made of the mediocre (yet way serious) dance troupe.
George's ashes are to be scattered, it is reported, atop a sacred river in India. The Ganges. I pondered what I will direct others to do with my ashes after I depart for the big photo assignment in the skies.
Idea 1: (nature theme) toss them into the wind at the upper rapids of Niagara Strait (technically not a river) which is the most gorgeous green, my favored color. Then they will swoosh over the Falls into oblivion until they float under the bellies of trout down a few miles in Lewiston.
Idea 2: (rock theme) flush them down one of the hard-working toilets at The Continental, site of many fine memories, where I had my nose broken one time, where I have seen many fine rock shows and where I fell on a bottle and acquired a really impressive leg scar. And where, many times, whilst dancing on the dark and encompassing dance floor, I received fine ideas for art projects. And still do.