Bumper cars of logic and change cavort about at this moment as Patti, thee Patti, thee only Patti, thee only wall-eyed Patti, sings Because the Night as I crave and yearn and post and am about to head back out for ding-ding round 4 rest of the night.
Had dinner with three lovelies (Kate, Liz, Cheryl) this evening and at one point snatched the comical/seriousical Middling City weekly out of Liz's hands. She tried to stop me, suspecting the brakes would be thrown on my good times. Wrong. I leafed through in smirky silence. Cheryl: We're awaiting your colour commentary, Nancy. Then it was unloosed from my honest, journalistic-raised and diplomatic pair of lips.
I was très inspired to evacuate the premises and squat in front of my very illegally sidewalk-parked car to change the sidewalk sandwich board. ARTVOICE became Fartvice.
Immature.
Sated.
I have simple goals, simple pleasures.
You should all be so lucky.
Yours in Immaturity.

Despite my somewhat dishevelled and over-caffeinated grad student condition (in case you do not know this means hair unbrushed, eyes glazed, shirt not really thinking of being tucked, curvature of the spine and wait... oh, matched socks) you do really want to be my pal as today I finally received my official and really great (despite the 50/50 blend) BLOGGER hoodie. Now I can wear my colours with pride, with urban abandon.
So that depressive singer/songwriter Elliott Smith self-dropped out of the life race, no surprise, having heard his oeuvre.
All and now it's time to race out to the suburbs once again to deliver my handiwork that makes people not only smile but pay me.
Love.

One of Yours Truly's dabblings (dalliances) is saintly historical fact or lack thereof, the miraculous administrative process of beatification and the life and high times of soon-to-be-saint-to-you Father Nelson Baker of Lackawanna-based Baker Hall/Orphanage fame.
So imagine my piqued curiosity and Catholic-induced intrigue when Mother Teresa of India is in the Express Lane to sainthood. The Pope, as I've always said, is No Dope. About to leave this un-astral plane he's shoved his bud to the front of the line. And yesterday elevated several cardinals to boot.
Imagine my glee upon reading VF contributor Christopher Hitchens's piece in one of today's Slate posts. If you have a desire link
here maintenant.
This story digs deep and reveals her unmatronly duplicity.
Amongst the piece is an excerpt from her 1979 (hooray at the Memory of Jim Carter, decidedly un-hip, cause-ridden U.S. prez) Nobel Prize acceptance speech in which she states I feel the greatest destroyer of peace today is abortion, because it is a direct war, a direct killing - direct murder by the mother herself.
As I listen to John Lennon, amongst others, on cd shuffle, and among the music Imagine popped up moments ago I find Teresa to be (one of my favored words of late) just so wrongheaded.
I rest my rightheaded, really not righteous, case.
Libra Love.

Since seeing his holy rockstar likeness on VH1 (with an odd new logo, I might toss in to the fray), I am wondering how it is possible that Michael Stipe of REM stellar humanhood has begun to resemble Woody Allen of all men. Stipe was never a handsome man, even with his early 80s tossled hair (yikes, and then that frightening longer hair pulled back into a braid - the hairdo I witnessed in that thrift shoppe in Athens GA when I spoke with him that empty early morn), and his eyeliner underscored his gauntness - but Woody Allen?
It's disconcerting.
Another cd, another tour are coming from down there where vines grow visibly and the voices of men rattle basso profundo with mystery.

There's a night of Beckett/Albee near PSD/Union Square and that's on the big to-do list, experience one of the muses firsthand.

Muse Love.

Yours Truly, a Geek, a Gear Head. Evidence.
Was at the NPPA conference, Northern Short Course, yesterday in Cleveland. As in O-Hi-Oh!
Touched a Nikon D2 yesterday (eta: 2 weeks on the international photo scene), slithered around its newer, larger back-end controls and its other bodily functions, like a hungry non-poisonous garden snake.
Power: wireless transmission from camera to laptop.
Power: improved snazzadelic magnifying of captured image.
The nice Nikon repair man onsite, Michael, fixed my f5's.
Not just the loose/missing screws but the flappy grips' rubber.
Hovered back twice in an hour due to separation anxiety.
Spent much time at the Olympus table querying about the in's & out's of my 5050. Things like super secret metering items, and much much more.
Three photog speakers waxing big on the craft, the Zen of ops, rush of priviledged view, more.
Wondered how the Parsons others would find the other realm of image, of non-art doc work.