Champagne bomb went off in my head this AM.
Slargled champagne at Marty and Susan's Mexican fiesta last evening starring Yours Truly, them and Janine, who skips to and Empire State fro.
Marty, bien sur, hard at work at table to stove to table to sink to stove to oven making and doing. And then the champagne. And then an excellent Frenchie red I brung to said fiesta.
So today back to Law School, dragging the brain to the four fair use factors, kicking and screaming. Spotted a boy colleague at Nova Photo and he provided a necessary and helpful CamelLight to the bomb scare as I picked up some excellent would-be starlet-heading-to-Hollywood work I shot yesterday.
Yesterday, as well, was treated to the entire side4, as in Frampton Comes Alive, the album of my nearly Perfect formative years when I wore the shit out of that vinyl. 97 Rock didn't play the lame cropped version but let Frampton and Pals wail away, voicebox away, and I thought about the song being a mantra (Do Youuuu FEEEEEL Like I Do) for the Good Times, Good Times, Good Times, Good Times. Hell, it was the late 70s. I had just had my head blown by Dark Side of the Moon, as I've regaled You, harangued You about for years now, and FCA was a furthering of the ponderous teenaged condition of things getting better, of crazed adult super-freaky concert and disco times just out of my transformative reach. But I ever thank the vinyl and babysitting goddesses for sending me JoJo and her daughter and the weekend-long sitting gigs where I discovered the aforementioned rock and roll joys of yore.
Yore Love.

first things first to You:
I am the mistress of April Fool's Day, practically inventing it, so do not attempt to swindle, hornschwaggle or misle me today. Thanks for your attention in this matter.

Minding my own business was en route back to the home office hovel for school workings when suddenly, sonically a grand ol' VH song - via radio waves - appeared, so to hear/speak. So I had to keep driving. It so perfectly antidoted the weather that it was necessary to meander along, calculating arrival after the song's last notes hung in the car air. Stopped off at SPoT for an Americano and gave a giant hug to giant Geoffrey, who no longer works at Cybele's and who works the counter of SPoT as well as Goldman's new wine joint, whatever the fuck it's called. We strategized about eating healthily in the Middling City. I pondered that I may have to move across the way way east in order to do so. Signing off with a VH song in my heart and Larry Lessig (link along here to his très informatif blog), Intellectual Property guru, in my mind. And tarlike coffee coursing madly through Perfect Me.
Course of Love.

Yet another Perfect chestnut emanating forth from Yours Truly.
Way to keep smile/smirk on face in midst of formal freelance gig =
find mischief, critique matters in behind-the-scenes fashion with fellow freelancers suited up as chefs/waiters/barkeeps/musicians, and snack when possible.
Told some chefkid that I hate coconut. Loathe coconut. Queried, in a secret room behind a secret door that the revelers would never discover, what's in these pink cookies. He said They're cherry, or raspberry.
Well, let me tell you. They were nothing other than dyed-in-the-can coconut and I later told another freelancer that this guy (who, at another gig, I chatted with as I hid behind a potted plant behind him to get some surreptitious party photos) had nearly poisoned me.
One more scenario. Bloated from booze and self-importance, one male lens victim said I'll strike a captain of industry pose. uh huh. So I made him and his mate put down their plates and cocktails and turned to her and said So he's striking a captain of industry pose, what do you want to be. To which Mrs. Him Whomever burst out laughing.
What was sorely missing tonight was the archetypal, booze-breathy question -
So, are you the OFFICIAL photographer.
No Captain, I'm actually a p.i. hired by your mistress to document your other life.
Snark Love.

Called upon by more Middling City culturals to make and do, including WomenStories for whom I'll fabricate another art bra. Yup, you read that oso correctement - ARTBRA.
Last year I grabbed (oops, no pun intended, intentionally... or internationally) images of boobs of three gal pals and let me tell You it was a really beautiful creation. Black & white photos, grommetted together with approximately 150 tiny silver grommets then with the separate bra pieces (nearly 20) lashed together with thin red ribbon. This year? Grain elevator boobs/bra. Who can really freakin' say at this juncture.
True Confession:
Now that I have your attention let me tell You how Kerry reminds me of Abraham Lincoln, the president who drew on a shovel with coal alongside his family fars and embers. No, really, this is the confession...
I own two copies of PJ Harvey's Rid of Me. As far as I know this is the only disc whose initial purchase I replicated. Because I love it so much.
If you love someone, do not set them free.
Go out and replicate them.

Replicant Love.

Thought I was in for a teen gang shakedown mere moments ago, as neighbor pal Andrew wheeled into the backyard with a silent teen girl and another boy. They rushed back as I arrived, I made no great welcome to them and then we spoke. I'm thinking Cheesh, what's this, these kids going to case my recent purchases in the car, going to ask for some money or beer-buying favours in exchange from protection from the band of roving teen thieves who are First Ward-bred.
Nope.
Andrew, who, with his twin would be excellent models for my work however their crack-addled pops keeps that sentiment from becoming realer, had hands that looked like they had recently been dragged from the back of a moving vehicle for a moment or working on a highway teen chain-gang. What the HELL happened to your hands, I queried, being the hand aesthete that I am.
Bikes.
His teen answer. Short, sweet, succinct.
Ah yes, bikes.
Fucking bikes with spokes and things that are all gunky and sharp and such.
Onwards to Sunday meanderings.
Teen Gang Love.