Friday, January 09, 2004

Look. You hardly ever get a homework assignment via this e-space. And when you do you must admit, fercrissakes, it is fuckin' good for you.
You. Buy. Lost in Translation.
Listen.
Track 5.
Girls/Death in Vegas. Breathy. Building. Flowing. Inspiring.
Dinner tonight with Christy Rupp, Liz, Cheryl and Kate at Satisfactory Cafe. Liz noted 10oz. glasses at nextdoor table. Waitress warbled out some cheeseball blather about higher end vinos meriting the big gal glasses. That's when all hell broke loose and we tipped the table over and went on a rampage, burning all the cheesey paper products that Satisfactory Cafe places out on their high-class table settings.
Listen to Track 5 of Lost in Translation s/t and get back to me. Oh, do get back to me.
Christy and I discussed this movie. I lurved it. She did not. Her man did. He lived in Japan. I lived in Japan. You live in Japan, you dig the nuances.
I never felt my heart tweak more than in that Sophia movie.
Time for me to edit a video and garner more fame.
I'd love to stay and chat but really. Now's so not the time.
Timely Love.

Wednesday, January 07, 2004

If heaven has a ghetto we know you runnin' it.
That is my favored quote in a long while, spotted on a concrete pillar in the Middling City's dying and depressing Broadway Market, alongside the t-shirt-making stall where I was purchasing iron-on letters. Where the proprietress was taking Forever to install the letters on my already-made shirts and then, when she reappeared from the back room, I knew so absolutely why.
I had asked her to space the letters along the image on the front of two shirts. Instead of taping the letters to the shirt, in a sensible and time-saving manner, she was lying them on a table and then taping them together and then removing them for a readjustment if they weren't spaced well. For nearly an hour.
When I suggested the other method, taping them to the actual shirt, she looked at me like I had just saved her from hours of needless toil. Oh, I had.

Speaking of toil, cannot get excited about Howard Dean. Or any of the Dems. O wa do dem. Dem Dem Dem, to quote some reggae tune of yore.
Dean is too rumpled, cranky, non-telegenic.
Being a lookist I want a telegenic Prez.

Onwards to art.
All my stumping, ghetto-centric sloganizing Love.

Monday, January 05, 2004

Series of surreal moments have been drifting about like bad Karma around the Bush Family dinner table - or snow molecules whirling through the Middling City.
Just did Pilates for some healthy procrastination against making miniature people out of fresh flower petals for a fab art project (this right now seems fabbish but I began thinking as I was rushing out to Mr. FedEx's joint to get the stellar DVD off to JR and it had to kerplunk to the bottom of the cold metal box as I'd missed them by 20 minutes and the plane was sitting there but oh velcro JR will see them - exported into QT - day after now, how, as a child I thought it'd be feasible to make a kite out of one sheet of rectangular paper, some string and a piece of tape and the mentally challenged older kid down the street shouted at me That's NOT a kite. But I gave it the burgeoning rock star try.) and then noted I had missed a call from Beth. So it's well into tomorrow. Doesn't everyone sip vintage coffee, working past the midnight dip of energy to blaze new trails of art and concentration. Got her voicemail... Hi, I'm doing a survey to see how many grad students I know are still awake.
Driving mid-day to Rochester, Silver Halide City, to do an interview for the shiny-happy mag and, time permitting, rush into Light Impressions and photo points beyond.
Photo Lovo.