The sun is out and so is the Holga, to capture what appears to be sun out in the world. Yesterday had the most Medieval experience, as I was leaving the house I saw the blue sky reflected and sun reflected in a puddle on the driveway and was startled. Last night with each shot of Cuervo as I did some celebrity guest bartending the night became more dreamlike. Someone handed me a letter from a guy I met ten years ago at a memorial service for a poet artist who hanged himself. The letter was c/o a gallery where some of my artwork hangs like the poet was.
Hawksley Workman was doing showman things onstage and I shot his pinstriped self and after he was way done I saw him walking through the bar, trailed by a catgirl who had been perched, lips wet, above the stage on a balcony, leaning into his aura. Catgirl followed him through the bar and was collecting the posters and flyers with his likeness because, from the looks of it, she wasn't going home with the real thing.
Last night someone told me that they looked at my artwork hanging like the poet and that it ripped into his soul. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating. But he did say it made him feel... I gathered it was horny.

Lest you think I've been blog-slacking, Blogger was unable to publish for seemingly aeons as their server was overloaded.
As every minute passes I'm closer to photographing Barry Manilow who, fittingly, started his mega-tour as a 4-night stay in Vegas/Land of Overwhelming Plastics.
LOOP.
Barry, although an obvious patron of elective/enhancing surgery, is forcing press photographers to shoot from miles away (check linked evidentiary image).
Like those suffering from what I call Aging Rock Star Syndrome (or ARSS) Barry will have us photogs at a distance so every creased nuance will be difficult to capture.

This perfect week began yesterday standing atop a hill in the middling city's noteworthy place of bones and remains, Forest Lawn, at the 202nd birthday bash for Prez13 , Mill Fill. As I told my assignment editrix it's an annual challenge, to achieve something new visually before frostbite sets in.
The crazed car people apparently don't realize that my leased vehicle is in the process of being beaten into the roadways, highways and biways and sent me a letter stating that I'm a 'Pre-Approved Renewal Customer.' I think this letter plus $30 grand or so will get me another Outback. Don't they realize that I'm putting about 3x the normal person's miles on this tired sedan?
$70 later I walked out of the bookstore laden with books about Italy and a tape of the Italian tongue, which I keep trying to speak with a french accent. I'll be, along with Dorota, throwing charms to full-throttle to achieve my social and mercantile ends in that country.
Got into heated argument with musician pal about c.w., me going on an intensive anti-nü-countree rant which blanched his ruddy winter cheeks.
Onwards to music: bought the new Pink cd which features the ifyou'renot dancing tothisyou'refuckingdead hit 'Get the Party Started' which I heard again this weekend and which I obsessed about until it was in my changer. I met her and her boy dancers about a year ago and developed a crush on one of them (a Depp-el-ganger) until he and I spoke and I noted that he had the i.q. of a digested pea.
Onwards to art: met with collaboratorative teammates last night and we received our budget (small) and deadline (imminent). We bandied about ideas which got some brush fires started, I think.