What deserves a re-post this Saturday, this day three of month one of millenial quirk number four.
Well, slap my ass and call me Sally, I came back to the abode after a good old fashioned Fuck I can't look at this computer screen any more respite, and erased a message about a prospect, a freelance gig in my attempt to turn up the decibels.
It is gone and I called two phoneco folks with an imploration. The first person suggested that I get the police involved.
Hmm, I said to myself, so I called in the fuzz. The fuzz's response? What are you fucking nuts, you want us to do what? Find out who called you two messages ago? Ever heard of a caller ID box.
Caller ID box, $20 of plastic and wires. Would have been just salvation item.
Moving along to relevant current music desire. Fleetwood Mac, Rumours. Silver Spring. I feel worse for Stevie than I do for myself. I lost one fucking phone message. The woman might call back, maybe not. But Stevie nearly lost her nose, lost her man, and I imagine her alone in her canyon home with some pals and her puffy ass resting on her laurels she's got strewn about her home, festooned with witchy organza and stinky-stanky candles.
Love of Relevance.

Re-working/re-rendering of the ol' chestnut
Been down so long it's beginning to look like up.
=
Been editing so long it's beginning to look like life.
Meaning I can FF over whatever I choose, Command8 and capture moments and then render all into a snazzedelic primo amassment of clips.
In case you are reading this, JR, I am working. You may not have evidence but on my grad student honour it's veracity.
En route to meet Lead Boy Colleague today for coffee, although he has proudly never had a cuppa joe, I dispatched him needlessly towards a cooling wreck caused by the soupy fog that blanketed the Middling City earlier.
He made it in time for the cleanup crew.
Catching a whiff of my sister's adrenaline joined her and ended last night at, believe it or not, Evil Native American Den of Sleaze & Bankrupty - the casino in toxicmost Niagara Falls. NF, CA, not NY, is where a developer is to build not a 5-er but a 4-star hotel (for high rollers, of course) on the other side of the brink - in the belly of the Canadian gambling beast, to accomodate the bimbos, hardasses, galaxians, MIT students and the like.
quickcut edit
I was up up up, then down lower, then upper as I rendered this reality:
I had not had enough free weak cocktails (Esmerelda, I bellowed) and the man two doors down on slots had won the super jackpot (casino worker stuck a special colorful wedge of paper into his slot to pronounce that this contraption had exuded so much luck, fortune) so whatinhell were my chances.
Time to roll.
And not in the craps fashion.
Love Crap.

Welcomed this year with arms outstretched screaming ya-hoo from the rooftop on East Huron where both Matt K and Lars Brose reside, in different lofty lofts. Fire marshals across the way, atop the NiMo building, with flashlights in hands were yelling at us, beaming at us, telling us to vacate the premises. We did not. We hid around the corner out of their view guarded by the elevator shaft structure, about 30 of us, hiding until 1 minute to midnight (2004) and then stormed around the corner for a celestial view of the pyros blown off the roof across the street. Fireballs, streams of sparkles, whoops of delight, poppings of corks. Lars had handed me at 10 to 2004 a magnum of champagne and as I exploded it I wondered where in Hell he was - I think he stayed in his loft fearing that the marshals would storm the roof and haul our collective asses off to the paddy wagon. They did not. Towards the end of the city-sponsored pyros I set off a shower Romanesque on the rooftop which caused small amounts of consternation amongst the 30. But the men with flashlights were too busy making sure that the fireballs didn't incinerate the venerable NiMo h.q.
Onwards we stormed to a few other parties, ending the night at Left Bank, where Laura sometimes works, a cascade of beer lolling across the floor at our feet as one tipsy barback had dropped a case of Sam Adams, tragically.
Now it's back to the video project. And points beyond.
New Year Love.

One day, two posts. But urgency hung in the air as I read:

"how come ME and all my Genious GLORIOUSNESS is absent
from your blog. Should I be relieved or concerned?" from dearest Beth, fellow Parsons School of Art Magnitude and Design graduate experiment subject.

My response:
Relieved that you are not the object of my snarkiness.
And concerned at the heightened level of my snarkiness.

I am at Code Burnt Siena (kind of like Code Amber, JW, for your benefit) with art angst as all is not being disseminating in a stick-to-deadline manner.
But don't fret, I'm still as Perfect as ever, wise epinw soldiers.
Today is snark and stress but tomorrow is a backpack fullah booze and pyros.
Danger Love.

Mercenary is the word that has been rolling along slowly, picking up speed, watching for cops whilst chatting on the cell to see if consensus (internal and otherwise) has it that this word is bound too tightly to a French Foreign Legion-like military coupness.
Too bad if it be.
Mercenary is the word wrapped around my 2004 resolution.
More self-centered, more self-regarding for art's sake, reading when I should be looking over the reading material or coffee cup to engage at whomever is sitting over there on the other side of the table, thinking of Numero Uno primo.
Does this mean I will no longer be nice, a vrai people pleaser, stop & sniff daisies without crushing them.
One word, one resolution, does not a personality un-make and what is resolution if not an experiment in semantics, in practices, gesture.
Mercenary Love.
And pass the Brut.

So believing in his newfound, Fab Five empowerment, the maxed-out Queen wedding planner was a-flippin' as I was fucking up the pending wedding reception's country club regal vibe by having the dining room's lights blazing for formal portraits. I disguised my paint-melt stare and, feeling holiday empathy/pity, reassured him that all would be absolutely fine by Show Time.
The bride wore a white cape.
And odd fingerless gloves.
I understood neither.
The groom wore his heart on his sleeve.
Their vibes, homemade, were truly touching and had my jaded ass all teary. Truly.
I left the gig and, in the fog, could not find my way out of the property. Half an hour later, with the Forester fog lights on, I had encircled the property twice, had gone down some false starts and had nearly driven off the road - twice.
I revisited fellow Libra pal into the wee hours and would not give him the roadmap to this blog. He threatened Google search. I said, most jauntily, and don't forget the J. You forget the J and you are shit outta finesse.
So, Your homework assignment follows:
Link to here and get busy with your summation.
Yours Truly's Nutshell (not bombshell):

Simultaneous Americano and grad school addictions. Slight derailment of career. Love and art experiments. Less booze, more workouts, thinner moi.

All My.