She just wants to be somewhere.
She just wants to be.
She just wants to be somewhere.
She just wants to be.

I tried to find The Kid tonight, to ask him to be my muse. He must be the muse of me. I got a response (an artful rsvp) from the prof who so shattered my ideal world. He had no ideal. I did. But then I did not.
I have embraced Oban again. Hello Oban, give me bigger, give me bigger ideas.
I pet Extra until I wore a path into his fur and he screamed for Mercy.
I have no idea. I have no ideas. I have no ideal. I have no ideals.
I am a grad student?
I am a student of life?
I am a liver?
I am alive?
I am a lie?

Buddha Love.

As my grad student luck would have it I was phoned yesterday, nearly 24 hours ago, by my Middling City editor in NYC, as I was working on my DreamWeaver creation. Yikes, I thought... what tragedy has befallen the paper that he's phoning me, what photo needs have crossed his mental desk, I wondered.
Hi, he said, where are you?
Fucking around with DreamWeaver was my curt response. Why?
Oh, because we are in a cab heading to Balthazar and I wondered if you'd like to join us.
Us was Jamie/publisher/pal, his pal Seward and two associates of the paper.
I joined them. Much joviality. Much great French vin.
Then the two associates split.
Then I discovered that Seward had attended some very historic rock&roll gigs - like Hendrix at Fillmore East, Led Zeppelin's first American show...
and Pink Floyd shows - with Syd Barrett.
Poor Seward (no, not really), I really pumped him for SB info. How was he on stage? What did he wear? Did he seem in control?
Seward said that at Pink Floyd shows he felt like he was Underwater.
This has captured my rockstar-luvvin imaginings.
So Jamie, Seward and I wandered the Village, finally landing at The Bitter End to watch some mundane local bands, hepped-up on their respective and collective fans.
Just before that ultimate stop Jamie (after I gushed about the womblike qualities and Canarino Voltaire at Caffé Reggio) mandated a stop for some eggy-rummy-boozey treat. Called? Something starting with V that the 'boys in the back' have to make. That complicated.
Finished week numero three-o of PSD (interesting sidebar: whereas my pal/publisher Jamie was once unsupportive of my MFA decision, requesting - though I did not oblige - a leave of absence, unpaid, last night he was damn-near beaming with paternal pride at my studenthood) and am now contemplating wandering over three blocks to see Johnny Depp in that pirate charade.
Johnny.
Depp.
melt

"USA Today's lead, in an exclusive, suggests why you've never seen a clear photo of that piece of falling foam that likely doomed the shuttle Columbia: Budget cuts. According to the paper, the photo department's 'staff was reduced, cameras were eliminated, and the repair shop that helped keep the cameras and telescopes operating was severely cut back.' The photo program had 150 workers in the early 1990s and 35 by last February. 'It now appears in retrospect that there were not enough cameras in place to support the Columbia mission,' said the president of company contracted to take the photos."
This quote is fetched via MSN, I subscribe to their compilation of lead stories in the world's leading journals. I mis-read their header and thought I was going to read a story about the legendary Chuck Taylor sneaks and their rumoured demise when I began reading about the prez of Liberia stepping down. His name? Charles Taylor. Chuck, Charles, big diff.
So I begin blogging with this quote self-satisfactorially as when that Columbia debacle happened I instantly questioned why there were nothing but amateur snaps and videos of it, wondered aloud (a lot) why NASA had no tracking documentary means. Many (usually egg-heady boys) scoffed that saying that NASA tracks things via satellites and blah blah blahditty-blah.
I rest my case, but not on my laurels.
Back to Parsons work and then to hit the streets a-shootin'.
All my Big Appled Love.

Made freelance moola to pay, in my humble estimation, for the next few weeks of school where the meter ticks along heartily.
Have been making layered street images and been having incredible visual dreams.
Sat last night, as I awaited Jackdaw's set, upstairs at the venerable and stinky Continental to get some art ideas. Told Jesse at the door that I get some of my best art ideas while in the loudness and darkness (and anonymity) of upstairs. It's loud enough that your thoughts must fight the decibels. On the dance floor were The Goths, represented last night by a scrawny dyke with bandanna, her girlfriend with some sort of long red head wrap and fishnets, and a thick man with piercings doing what's best known as the coffin shuffle. When anything, of course, was not Goth enough they'd vacate the premises. The non-responsive dj went on an all-80s bender and played When Doves Cry which I just had to end art thoughts for to dance in the corner, head down. This is what it sounds like when doves cry, indeed.
Jackdaw's set was truly great and that tall Irish boy was wearing his usual kilt. Such a big sexy and athletic man that he pulls off a kilt better than most.
Bought one of their girlie t's with an upside down crown. They were $15 but I managed only to scrape together $9 and they let me have it, being Perfect Journalistic and Jackdaw-boosting Nancy.
Went on to the final destination, Mohawk, where I saw Two Cow Garage and Slobberbone. I've seen the latter numerous times but preferred the former better, especially their screaming Beatles cover. Whose title escapes me at this moment.
Had meaningful conversation with The Kid of Girlpope and he was completely irradiated and for a while we discussed fairness and spf's and harmful UV rays. I told him that I go from pale to third degree burns in a flash and that's no lie.
He is a beautiful boy, of the dark red-headed variety and we spoke so long that his girlie pal came over to throw her territorial arms about him.
(sidebar: it's been a Barry White tribute weekend and he's been crooning and rocking my world all weekend when I've popped into the home office hovel to work)
Love.