Drawing all-American drive-thrus today was fantastic until I drew the attention of the KFC staffers who then called Buffalo's Finest on me. Was parked in the lot drawing madly for a while until I saw the cops pulling into the driveway = Time to Go.
At the end of the driveway a cop came over. What are you doing, the staff would like to know.
Making drawings for an art show. They saw you taking pictures.
I then showed her my assemblage of great drawings, explaining all the while how I was moving on from there to BK and then McD's.
Well, good luck to you, the lady copy said.
My drawing career is now sealed with Finest wishes.
No other scrapes with the Law after that... yet.
Last night ended the evening by watching the band of baby rockstar's bro = Parachute Adams. And they were amazing, even better than before their sabbatical and sans ska-style thin neckties. Baby rockstar introduced me to his mother and I said And I'm...
I know who you are, she said.
Call me surprised as a calf caught in a July storm drain.
Dorota called mid-aft to ask shopping advice: should she spend an even $300 on a great new suede bag. How perfect it is to confer with a photog who has ongoing bag and portage needs. Will you use it every day? Are there details about it that you admire greatly? Then run topspeed back to that bag joint and acquire, acquire, acquire.
Big waterproof bags of Love.

Well tie me to the spit and roast me twice.
(secret NY rez is to coin new hick sayings)
Have not been able to blog as I've been locked up in jail for my NYE badass activities.
I'm lying.
But what could I have been jailed for, in a nutshell?
Transporting a cache of pyrotechnics over state lines. Spotted an advert for Mess's Fireworks and followed signage to a VERY discreet operation where what I thought was a ferocious pitbull welcomed me.
It turned out to be an American bulldog and he was armed with a bag of potato chips in his muzzle.
And I nearly pooped my pants with glee when I saw what was inside... miles of neatly-packaged pyros. The dog's name was Pyro. And he slobbered all over me.
As the sign requested, and as I was not a PA citizen, I did not ask to fondle or buy the guns on display.
So onwards to the Middling City, to evening plans of Janet Reno Fan Club variety.
Meaning.
Dinner, drinks, bad behaviour.
I decided to resurrect the Chinese Fire Drill phenom and called for one on one of the city's busiest avenues, clapping my hands and yelling GO GO GO to everyone.
Along the way we picked up a few who needed a jolt of mischief (Jen and Jamal) and I treated them to a CFD.
We met up with them at a rooftop party at which my lungs were pruned by a fire rigged with that poison lighter fluid that should be fucking outlawed.
So at that party champagned and snarfled the buffet and, oh yes, gravitated topspeed to a provided basket of pyros like an early Easter present from a way-hip Easter bunny who knows my heart.
So Doug and I were figuring out how to blow up these 2 large bundles of joy with one wick each when one of the party elders got quite concerned and stated thusly:
You CANNOT blow those off up on this roof - you'll set fire to our neighbors' rooftops.
After a quick survey and summation of the environs (and my cursory Middling City expertise of our location) I thought And what the hell harm will that do here in Crack Heights.
So down we climbed, others in tow, to the street where we made sparks the size of cottages, smoke and danced madly in the street and then sped off to more more more.
More.
All about more, not less.
More love.
Less seriousness.
More Oban.
Less art dreaming.
More art doing.

Eureka!!!
this fancy-ass hotel and their high-powered business centre - The Pierre on 5th Avenue - has blogging capabilities.
NYC for high times and no misdemeanors and about to engage in another full evening of debauchery.
Ended the evening, as is custom, at Clay with Edward the owner excusing all the hired help and after the last customer leaves hopping behind the bar to pour forth his hospitality.
Last night had to suffer through what seemend an eternal Dylan Fest and Edward playing air organ and/or guitar along whilst singing. This transpiring as Jason asks my special journalistic and humanistic impressions of B.D. and me giving my uncensored opinion(s). His farty behaviour regarding hating photogs and even the mere thought that someone like me could or would capture his craggly likeness on stage. ie: what I call ARSS (aging rock star syndrome).
Or, as I put forth to Jason, perhaps a life of people poring over one's garbage makes one rather paranoid.
Onwards.
Finally got Edward to move on to PJ Harvey, more appropriate to the night.
Today happy wending down the streets here, now onwards to aforementioned.
Walked again through thee park and failed to intersect with Strawberry Fields, not to be.
But the loving spirit of John Lennon hanging over my life.
Tomorrow is 2003's eve and there is the driving back to the Middling City to join others in a banquet and party points beyond.
NYC love, for now.