Prime examples of how to make someone happy whilst speaking their particular foreign tongue and how annoying insurance salesmen can be:
1. Amid a two-part freelance gig this AM/PM had 1.5 hours and 2 events to cover for newspaper gig. Motoring by a coffee joint my car, unaided by myself, came to a screeching halt, knowing what I like. And need. Standing in line at coffee place I saw a couple and thought Now don't they look French and adorable. They spoke to cashier and lo & behold, Frenchies. The woman was having some trouble with our boring-ass bills and had handed the guy over too much money. Thought she's French, what are her shoes like and looked down to see her one shoe was way untied. So, in French, I said Excuse me, your shoe is untied. She was so happy to hear French, her face shot out a glow and she thanked me in French. It's little language things, Party People.
2. So at the panel discussion (item 1 of 2 for coverage in 1.5 hours' time) venue I am wandering through the building looking for aforementioned when I come upon a table of propaganda and six or so young hooligans. They are insurance salesman. In the space of a good fifteen seconds, involving me asking them if they knew where the panel discussion was, I was inundated with pamphlets, a business card, advice of where to call for quotes (as in premiums, not media-type) and notified that one of these people at table could help me to prepare my will. Turned the corner en route once again and ditched the paperwork with the help of a strategically-placed garbage can.
Lesson of sorts #2: the riff-raff can find you no matter where you are - how safe from it you believe you are.
And on that note, it's time to careen out the door and begin documenting more more more - with French on my tongue, a spring in my step and no will in my back pocket.
Love.

New art deadline. New stress.
Ran top-speed into the slide-making emporium with my little roll of Kodak EPY 64-T with the archetypal wash of panic over face and the reassuring Buddha behind the counter said 'Let me guess...'
Of course he was right, 5PM my little bundle of joy must be dropped off at world-renowned Albright-Knox Art Gallery: 6 slides, rez, sase, brief artist statement. Check, check, check and check.
He is a compendium of sad and engaging tales of slide rushing.
His favorite story of week:
guy rushes in... can I have this in one hour? He, famed for his withering yet Buddha-like gazes, said Well, let me just toss aside the thirty or so rush orders that people are paying rush charges for...
Middling City, capital of surly business owners.

A favored team of area rockstars, Last Conservative has released their new one.They reworked their song Out of Nowhere that appeared on an ep and I've said to them that, in my most non-humble opinion, this is their hit, à la Don King or something.
Best part of story: I get thanked on the cd - after God and before the girlfriends. That is where journalists stand, you follow the big guy (who possibly for them reps their muse) but rockstars know deep down inside that you're more important to their careers than o-so disposable lovers.
Rock on guys.

On most current ride back to the orifice I had a karaoke moment in the car. On the classic rock station was Eddie Money's Baby Hold On (to Me... the future is ours to see, etc.) and I simultaneously pictured this past summer when I photographed him at a free downtown concert and he sweated through his shirt... and then his tie. So I'm thinking of the song on the radio and realized it's a perfect karoke song = not too long, no overdone guitar parts, no spoken word moments, not built for sopranos. And it's made for some choice hand gesturing which would go nicely with its drum beat.
If I'm ever allowed to sing karaoke in the Middling City again this might be my choice.

And following is why Dorota is my favored person today and forever.
So I'm minding my own business checking the mail and I see an ominous package standing on end underneath the mailbox, the snow from the roof soaking it nicely.
Of course I didn't think of anthrax, that is so over.
Waiting package is from Dorota, priority mailed over from Broome Street to my street. And she wrote fragile on the wrapping.
And guess what the hell it is?
One of those precious bottle cap people I collect from the 50's. And she must have ordered it from eBay via Canada as the package was covered with clues in the form of Canadian stamps from when this person sent it to her in NYC.
This bottlecap man has maniacal painted blue eyes, a swooping painted smile and he's wearing a floral bow tie over tiny painted buttons.
Oh, and his maker painted I heart N Y on the base.
You know you have a supersonic pal when they send you an ominous package and upon opening it all you can say is Oh My God, Oh My God.
And then your second thought is I must blog this.

Just returned to home office hovel (aka Photo Explosion or Celluloid Cave) after disseminating smiles and prints far & wide. Was sent on a wild exurban goosechase to shoot a restaurant not listed in any phonebook and out in the next county, miles from rows of chains which seemingly soothe spirits of suburbanites. Finally found the freaking place and it was closed - a nice shot of their signage will do. They also had a wreath on their door discreetly covering the name of what the restaurant had previously been called.
Nutshell: chasing down silly restaurants for pithy moola I need like I need a bottle of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum.
While driving I heard news items via an AM NPR station:
1. Our country has a shadow government and it's staffed, loaded and ready in the event of what the announcer called "the worst." And their super-secret front door is allegedly published on the internet.
2. Scientists have discovered that acetone + electrified bubbles = a neato new way of making nuclear power.
Imagine the fun at slumber parties throughout the land when teenaged girls, bored with nail painting, rig up curling irons and the like to bottles of nail polish remover.
Listening to the brand new song - "Here is Gone"- by the Goo Goo Dolls coming out of the conspiracy theory-free rock station and it's so not great. " Pollution in me ," wow. When I logged on to AOL they claimed, erroneously, that they had the exclusive priviledge of offering a sneak listen.
Stick to blogs for news today.
Wow, the radio station is playing the Goos' song again.
Today = strange day.

Just arose from my Indigo Girls-induced coma. Experienced after shooting them for the paper, following a political event documented for the college hosting both politicians and then the set by the Boring Duo. Felt bad for a weeping lezbo who needed a ticket and, having one comp to spare, handed her one - sans thanks. In venue met up with a boy colleague whose wife was sitting in the way-back. Told him he could take my one remaining good ticket and then as I was crossing, pre-Indigo Snoozes, to other side of the room I see aforementioned lezbo squatting down between a woman's legs in the front row. Do you still need that comp I gave you? I glared. She then proceeded to pull four tix scammed from other kindhearteds so I asked for the comp back and gave it to the boy colleague.
Lesson: before handing over a good comp ticket to a weeping woman, flip her upside down and shake vigorously to see if other tickets flutter from her various pockets.
Last night, post glorious and wine-drenched art opening event featuring Yours Truly et al, popped into Gene Loves Jezebel and they were actually good. Stage was rimmed with boys and girls singing the words, one a girlie pal who has enjoyed the physical comforts of the lead singer, Michael. He caught us front row chatting about him and gave us the raised eyebrow. He might be onstage, he might be wearing leather pants, he might be in the spotlight basking in adulation, but he wants to know what's being said about him in row #1 - his women-dependent lifeforce pinpoint accurate.