Ferfucksake let us, collective snarky Americans, stop being all tenderheaded about JFK, who had his rockstar brains exeunted by a sniper forty years ago, when Yours Truly was only just over a month old, en route to becoming already a brilliant yet sinister presence on the highways, biways, electronic forums, cafés and parties that this great land has to offer.
A quote from the Cleveland Plain Dealer today:
"We're not going to solve it," he says, "and that's what makes it a great conspiracy."
The end. What more else is there to say. Listening to Jesus and Mary Chain, the dark brothers of Scotland, for their wisdom on the matter (to paraphrase: I'd like to die just like JFK, I'd like to die on a sunny day) before I head out into this Middling City sunny day to create an ultra-fab image for a cover of a mag and then return to my frenetic smarty-pants grad student work before I get picked up in the middle of the night by Lead Boy Colleague to head out of town on an NFL junket sweet and short and full of breathtaking pixels, it is hoped, of overpaid and overgrown men bashing the crap out of each other. Hello gladiators.
Sportsy Love.

My aislemate and I were having a helluva time in #8 (A - me - and B - him), en route to the Middling City evening. First, the headphones. Whose jack was whose? Whose snack was whose? Then he was in the jack for headphones of the woman in C. I said Gees, yet more confusion here in aisle 8. At least he had a sense of humour, and did not fart during his nap.
I bid adieu to Parsons pals, Parsons the building and all that is good and educational in Manhattan. And, despite my capturing challenges yesterday in the computer lab, all went swimmingly with shoots, equipment, attitude, etc.
So on the plane, where I had expected, even planned, to stay awakened and all jittered out on Diet Coke, I began to read a short essay assigned by the Instructress for this week. Who needs sleeping pills when there's Michel Foucault? I ask you. One paragraph, two, three, stifled yawn, up to seven and mind wandered far away, sat out on the left wing and watched the city lights below. When I saw the chapter 8 then that's where things got all nappy. Ate mediocre JFK sushi, believe it, and then saw Marcel Thimot of the concert promoters monopoly fame, who was also nursing the throbbings of a headache. I ask you, once again, what percentage of airportees are sober, tipsy, loaded and hungover. I venture a guess: 10%/15%/65% & 35%. Shit, that's more than 100% but you catch my drift.
Bach on the hi-fi, a stack of mail, just-fed plump stray cats, the swingin' Hispanic evangelists next door going full-throttle, odd overhead lights, unfamiliar spaces. Welcome Home to the Middling City Baby Poet.

Some things just never do change. Like Michael Jackson needing, reaching for little body parts, like be-smirked Bush pretending to have read famous thinkers and Yours Truly procrastinating the beginning of digitally editing & enhancing her work of art. Amongst others in the computer lab last night saw Martha the Brilliant, the PSD instructress, who had heard, via classmate Lori, that I am making a video. Yes, making, I'm thinking... but finishing is another distant story. She asked if I will be showing this work for the grad open house and I sort of warbled out a Yes. Even going so far as to describe how it would not be the unabridged 50 or so minutes but perhaps a much-truncated 5 minutes... or so.
Saw Christy yesterday and meandered over to a show by her pal Joyce Kozloff. Was going to link You to a JK site but, interestingly (artistically) enough, there are none.
Off to pilates, off to Parsons, off to points beyond before my Middling City return.
Love of Travel.

More shooting of the dv tomorrow aft lunch and Chelsea art meandering with Christy Rupp.
So the dust has settled a bit on the graduate student discussion board where two damsels in distress basically stoked fires raging and deep by mis-understanding the usage of candy cig -instead of real - in my brilliant Isabelle Series. Then one of the instigators today refused to spell our classmate Erik's name correctly, and more mayhem ensued when he corrected her and then she jumped on his shit for having an identity crisis when a K became a C. Can't the 15 of us blend into one fine body of intelligence, wit and creativity? Shit I hope not.
I imagine advisor-to-the-grad-stars Jim Ramer rolling his eyes in slightly bemused horror. But, as Yours Truly Perfectly said to him the other night, as casting director for this version of The Real World he knew who was oil... who was vinegar.
Today picked up some colorful contact sheets from Duggal, still images of Tommy and red rose petals from my first official dv shoot.
Sat in a dim Mexican hot sauce fiesta of a joint this afternoon reading Final Cut Express for Complete Morons and Rushed Grad Students while simultaneously drinking coffee and falling into a coma of procrastination.
So, reading only the headlines about Bush and Iraq I am most confused.
One day it's
Let's Get the Hell Outta Here!!!!
next it's
Another Foray into the Badass Heart of Darkness.
I could read more about this matter but have been instead reading about other places, more intelligent, seemingly, leader-types.
Love of news bits and bytes.