Filth from the top to bottom of a 16-story apartment building, and surrounding awnings, washed in raindrops and down my face last night as I stopped to think amid the shine of warmer spaces and reflections of walkers.
Out again in the anonymous dark of the city that envelops in a sense of purpose.
The MOMAqns space is industrial and never lets you forget that with ugly Starbucks-type ceiling busy with pipes and ducts and an unforgiving floor that one security man said he hates.
The works on paper show worth the travels and there was a catastrophe on Line 7 so travel back to the Promised Land was hard, took a train in opposite direction several stops to get off, run topspeed across platform with the others and get back down to downtown.
Today went to look at the show of Sylvia Plachy images at Bateman and it was grand - her usual quirky ways in black & white. Her prices were surprisingly low but I bought nothing.
Came very close to buying a new Me & Ro ring but did not, and now maybe feeling a small slice of regret.
So back in Middling City and it's nearly time to hit the highway and partyway again.
My one small obsession this time around in NYC was to be jettisoned from bars so I requested a jettisoning from the bartendress at Big Bar on 7th St (a longtime fav) and she complied with a gentle push.
Last night cavorted with Jason and Dorota at Clay and asked Edward to do same so he picked up up and carried me out. When we got to the doorway I stuck out my legs to thwart him and when I landed on the sidewalk I did so dramatically, so dramatically that a cabbie stopped to see what in hell was up.
Today my cabbie out to LaGuardia was way chatty and trying to be flirty, of all things.
All for now, rainy love.

Yesterday went down to see Mr. Avedon's show at The Met and was not surprised and not titillated but still a worthy destination. The mainest of reasons to see the show, in my Sam-loving mind, was to see the Beckett portrait and I was happy to see it was a diptych, double the Sam Power.
The show was also good for framing ideas as they had Avedon's images floating many times on foamcore inside steel shadow boxes about an inch deep.
Also, how he and his techs put rolls of paper together to make one big long image area. This is what Chaz Burchfield did during one of the big wars when he couldn't get paper large enough for big paintings. A little overlap. A little glue.
Today is the day to throw myself back down into the subterranean world to get to MOMAqns to see the much-vaunted works on paper show.
And eat more sushi, and slargle more scotch and laugh a few more laughs and dream a few more dreams.
I am the dreamer of dreams, to quote Willie Wonka quoting another who might, in fact, be quoting another.
Good writers borrow but fab bloggers steal.
Outta-sight/outta-town Love.

NY NY big city of dreams but sometimes NY ain't what it seems.
And so goes that ol' wrap.
Wandered through Chelsea just moments ago looking looking looking.
The new Inka Essenhigh oils are smart and odd and leave a rather positively grotesque feeling.
Last night wandered into Portale's joint again to deliver an art piece, handed it to the front of house staffers and then sat at the longass bar to await Dorota's arrival for vino. Chef Portale came out to say Hello and we talked, he and I, about him designing furniture and about the small framed piece I gave him - an image from the Conflagration series, a silver print about 4x5 inches and in a very wonderful wood frame, painted silver.
He dug the piece completely and I hope he hangs it in Gotham.
Dorota arrived, we had vino, more vino then the maitre d/Charles asked if we'd be staying for dinner. I said possibly. Then after a while Yes.
So they sat us at a table for 2 near the bar, elevated and looking out over the dining room. We had, of course, a perfect dinner followed by perfect confections tiny and midsized.
Then they came to say Portale was - unbelievably - picking up the bill so I/we left a very generous tip.
Onwards to cocktails.
Onwards to art.
I'm in NY and it's time for more art.
More more more.
How do you like it, how do you like it?
Days and nights, nights and days.
Consuming love.

Well, as I am wont to say, at the asscrack of dawn I'll be sprinting out of bed to gather up camera gear, clothing and a few other small items (cd's of choice this trip = DJ Shadow/The Private Press, Tricky/Blowback & Daft Punk/Discovery, usually travel with Radiohead but I'm trying to be inciteful), what you others call "packing" and then driving to that hospital-aroma-ridden place full of treakly art and goofballs that they call the airport.
Lead Boy Colleague said that if I get to the USAir gate and there's a certain guy working I'm supposed to say that I know him and all that jazz. Why, I asked, so I can be graciously bumped up to first class?
I know Hillary C flies first class between the Middling City and Warshington, but does anyone else partake of the joys of inflight segregation besides politicoes on such short trips?
Hey, welcome to first class to NY Miss Parisi, here are some extry peanuts for your pleasure.
Still not sure about flying to Seattle for a gig after NYC to shoot the disco event at EMP.
If I end up doing that that'll be one primo primo tale.
Whirlwind Love.

Surprised to hear earlier one of the most perfect new Flaming Lips songs on the "new rock alternative" radio station, Wayne's voice warbling amongst the sno-globe flakes coming down as I drove down Main Street from a meatloaf engagement in renovated 50s diner to newspaper office for late late late workings.
(Nearly walked into the diner wearing my bunny ears as I had been working hard at the home orifice and needed to keep these freaking tresses out of the way lest I chop them off like a time-waster at the pass.
So I'm strolling away from car and catch the bunny ears before I hit the door and tossed them onto the front seat. Did wear them into the paper office and my publisher/pal Jamie gave me a withering look which only he can raygun.)
There's so much mundane crap in Music Land and then whoosh, there are the Lips to explode your heart in joy, nearly enough to make you cash in your chips and follow them on the road for a good long while.
Attorney Tom finally called back and there were details bandied about about how & why my car insurance company could – and did – drop me like a nuclear potato. Sometimes, when speaking to Tom, my mind is wandering and I'm realizing that as soon as I hang up the phone all he mapped out for me will evaporate.
Onwards.
Was there fine music in the Middling City this weekend? Well, gosh, not really.
But on AOL assignment I plunged into a new dance club, solo, really fashionably sticking out like a sore thumb with my photog-wothy HH way-green jacket, legal pad in hand and a haughty air of detached critique. But, ultimately, the place won me over and I'm thinking How in HELL do I get members of Janet Reno Fan Club into this joint, what with its $6 cover, lines down the block and inside ignorable yet annoying mall-clad clones. But it's two stories of flash and there's a sideroom all white and luxe.
Worth a spin, I say.
Life, a big tangle of details just waiting for writing. And sipping.