Roughed up an artist, Tom Holt, last night. Actually, to my recollection, it was a friendly conversation about me buying his wondrous painting of a "creature" who ingests stars and other geometric shapes and has a stream of them shooting out of his posterior region. Suddenly, to be ridiculous, I had him by the lapels and was shaking him, in Mark and Polly's kitchen. Now, I wonder, does Holt, in his fury and humiliated condition, want the stinkin' painting back. He willn't. It hangs, most perfectly, alongside Dorota's landscape I received post (Doug Lavere's suggestion) concussion after I wakt the shit out of my head on a metal eye-beam in her studio offa the Bowery.
One man's horizon is another creatures poo stream.
Streams of Love.

And this, just in.
Wi-o-wi does a high-powered corporate attorney, dear JW,Esq., get to traipse off to Coachella and witness the complete magic of the reformed Pixies (my heart races with envy) et al et al et al while Perfect Me, an artist, a grad student, (!), has to suffer through legal mumbo-jumbo when I should be the one jetting to infamed rock shows and he, with mind chock full of caselaw, should be sequestered in a room with tomes and mold and dust and words and flourescent lights. He finds role reversal "sexy." I find it objectionable, Yer Honour.

Photographed a few juicey items yesterday, Middling City U's new provost, a man who was feted for having a great sense of humour. Funny, I didn't witness any. But perhaps imbued in the administrative life one begins to find great joy in the most offhand joviality. I told my editor at MCU that if I was an FBI employee I'd have noted, I think astutely, that he seemed most nerve-wracked, maybe something only I could see through a long lens trained on his wavering face. Next was the premier Commencement of one of the long arms of the med school, a two plus hour affair of the general and usual pomps & circumstances. Giving the keynote was a Nobel Laureate of the Middling City, Hauptman, who rambled on and on and on and on about crystals and x-rays. How New Age, I though. Crystals, I thought this was science. But seriously, folks, there was much scientific in-joking and how then I yearned for the presence of another artist, anyone creative, someone who does not know the interior of a lab inside out.
Transfixed by the research paper deadline, as well as sundry others.
And, You ask, what else is new, Oh Perfect One.
Loaded up the PowerBook with a plethora of favoured music to listen to on headphones whilst across state editing DV, to avoid the sonic assaults of random strangers in public places.
Onwards to research, onwards to yet more creative time management and thinking.
Managerial Love.
ps: Kristin Hersh's 50Foot Wave hits the scene on Sunday night, oh jubiliation and joys.

Flurry of bizemails to and fro, fro and to, this time when I should be subsumed more more more in this "research" "paper" for "art" "class" in "NYC."
As one orchestration of Radiohead is looped and loops and loops and, as is my wont, I am occasioned to meander over to here, to there, for distraction's sake. It is suddenly very important to hang that excellent image I made of Jonny Lang, for example, right NOW.
I am falling in to a circle of jazz journalists, or so it seems. I'm going to shoot some portraits for them of the "legendary." I am shooting, also, the annual Jazzy Awardshow at ol' BB King's. I remember back when BB King played standing. Standing. And one time, while he still played standing, there was a beautiful woman in the front row so coiffed and so intent with that backstage know-how look you only see on the faces of women who are thusly intented to squeeze some fun out of the onstage idol. I've never seen that look on the faces of men or boy fanatics. At the BB King standing gig a handler told me that that frontrow woman is his Middling City woman.
A port in every storm, or so the saying goes.
A cool, welcoming cave in every desert.
Updates:
Ron is apparently missing and I am afeared he's been eaten (or gummed by) a band of roving toothless backwater hillbillies in KY, Lead Boy Colleague is way broken and am awaiting a call-back after a snappy send-off yesterday, Jules and Jim (a Frenchie movie, to You non-cinés) featured the elegant and gorgeous sculptural nose of one Wutzizname Serres... YUM, haunted (in a good way) by pending video images and am wondering who will be cast in a few roles - one being the boy hands rolling and unrolling/wending/unwending in white sheet, Mr. Hung celebrates a big OJ Simpson b-day tomorrow/the tender age of 32 on the most tequilest day of the year, Faux Extra (in the process of expiring) has disappeared and amn't sure if this is IT or not, scheming how to Manic Panic the nephew's hair into a nice blooo sans a parental freak-out as he's distanced from the strictures of middle school, and, lastly, wondering how many cuppsa joe I can have before my brain explodes (that ol' occasional science project).

Projected Love.

Forcrapsakes. Could this Parsons School of Law research paper please be fucking over already. Cheese & Crax, it was really swell getting turned on to Larry Lessig and all (and now I hear the deafening chortles of JW,Esq. coming from the west) but I mean really. So I decide to write about the music industry and P2P stuff and music © and such. It is interesting. It is info I'll spout out at cocktail parties, whenever the occasion rises. And, after these measly 3 credits for $6K you can bet your Intellectual Properties I'll find a shitload of occasions to bust out fun facts of fair use, the four factors to determine such, odd assortments of caselaw and the Copy Left treatises.
Suddenly, oh, about half an hour ago, it became URGENT to listen to Dark Side of the Moon, the disc that changed the life of Yours Truly at the tender-headed age of ten, the year of its appearance on the sonic landscape with the band's electronic fiddlings and poetic ramblings that still, in my non-humble estimation, carries forth in ageless beauty. Now there's some post-AOL/digitalcity.com well-honed verbage for You.
Last night wished a Bon Voyage to Paul Deck who is departing the Middling City for points beyond, at the wise/clueless age of twenty-two.
Drive Fast, Take Chances = Travelers' Perfect Send-Off.
Decided that the Parsons School of Art/Law thesis must include some rock lyrics, including "Ooh Child." And it make no never mind whose version.
Someday we'll get it together and we'll get it undone.
Someday when the world is much brighter.
Someday we'll walk in the rays of a beautiful sun.
Someday when the world is much lighter.

Someday Love.