So the distillation of Secret Window, the Johnny Depp wonder, is this:
Cheating = BAD.
He's nearly in every scene and for that it gets six stars in my Perfect book.
There, too, is Timothy Hutton with an unsightly zit resting on the side of his nose. Where was the makeup artist to squeeze that shit.
This morning I regaled my breakfast pals with the tossled look of Johnny's hair as he arose from his many movie naps. Short, blonde disaster.
After Depp Time Laura and I revisited The Rendezvous and it was pleasurable, back to its old self with the dinge-riddled booths and smattering of vintage artwork and signage.
At one point, after several tall scotches and sodas, did an extemperaneous dance to the hell that was the jukebox run of songs from the oeuvre of Frank Sinatra. With a paper napkin stuffed into each cuff I twirled and plieed and whirled through the barroom.
Today I shot a Bar Mitzvah to fund my high life and there was one fourteen year old boy who kept giving me the eye and at first I thought Jeez, kid, what's up with you, what'm I blocking your way to the ice cream station. It, the glance, rehappened three more times and I realized Oh, this kid has crossed the boundary from the innocence to the practiced. At that age kids now, and any parent reading this stuff your ears, are doing It. And It hangs over some of the teened heads like the smoke from a cherry bomb.
Bought four new ones: Matthew Sweet's Japanese release, new Beth Orton, and two clerk recs - TV On the Radio and Zero7. So far, so good, so acceptable, so interestingly swingin'.
Onwards.
Sonic Love.

Recently distracted by oso many things. To begin.
Firstly the idea of a blogger convention of sorts at this year's SXSW, Monday. Has Marty Boratin departed? Is it feasible to travel to TX mere days before departing for the BigA? As I'm an official grad student, and an art one to boot (and did I mention that I've resurrected the dusty Frye cowgirl boots and that they could harm you), I believe it's in the bylaws that returning to one's roadtrip days is advisable.
Secondly it's opening night of the new Johnny Celluloid Explosion. Story line, schmory line. It's all in the orgasmic casting of the lead, baby. I mean, who even remembers whatinhell Donnie Brasco was about, to Perfect me it was all about the scene when he does pushups.
Thirdly is the return to basics on this fresh-snow day. Meaning The Bends and all its sonic and poetic merits.
Fourthly is the piracy that I've been engaged in for my Intellectual Properties class, and I cannot divulge any secrets but I'm in the process of setting up an online business of copyright-infringed works. (my head rolls back, chin up to ceiling, raucous laughter).
Parting thought is that that little sneak, Beth, took all my epinw closures, the love-full gestures, and created icons for about two months of them. They are beautiful, in the spirit of the Starbucks Do-This! campaign of drawn-upon cups meets Jim Dine and were produced on the nickel of some Manhattan corporate giant that believed the sneak should be paid quite handsomely to do... something. Only she wasn't doing that... something. She was surreptitiously sending me my mad props.
Cowgirl Love.

Spalding Gray, floater found.
Now for some Perfect name-drops.
Commissioned I jetted in to JFK and was picked up by Justy and Erin in the trusty and trusted Honda to haul our collective arses out to the Hamptons breathtaking home of Richard Ekstract to shoot in my special minglous way. I was dressed. I was laden with equipment and notebook and set out. Searching for Hamptons celebs, for bigger, more expansive celebs and in a corner I discovered Spalding Gray, hunkered down and talking to a younger woman. Actually she was talking, he was sort of ingesting impassively.
I hovered and dove in asking to steal their souls and they agreed and I made three frames of the two of them. Later, when editing the images for Hamptons Cottages and Gardens shiny happy mag I looked then closer at the reconstructed face of Gray. How he looked like himself, sort of. It was understood that he had had a major life-changing accident, like I had in April 2002. When you're surrounded by the vacuum of disaster you never forget that sound and you never live another minute, nearly, forgetting that fate missed swooping you away by a fraction.
I was down by the East River a few weeks ago making art with the DV camera as Gray was still, submerged. Body floats as fish and people and other forces do their usual. Seizing the day.
Floating Love.