Happy freelance day to you, too.
Just returned from one and am about to embark on another until god only can say for sure. The season of mai flurries to bring juin checks.
A bunch of white men in suits with a PET camera, had two of them looking at Yours Truly through the scanning bed hole. What people will do for a camera, how they will bend.
Listening to a mix made for another and, quite truly, it rocks, what with all my favs and all. And somehow PJ Harvey made it on not once, not twice, but thrice.
Showed newest of digvids to JR yesterday, as we talked art and other technie matters for what seemed two hours. Safely, I can state he dug the new ones, all looped and short and beautiful. The work made in the Middling City definitely has a different palette, flavor. Thinking I prefer those made over there, 400 miles to my immediate left.
Ron sent me a late-nite email telling me of his complicated, recent journey and, at one point, he mentions wild boars that root for truffles. Only a snippet of epinw readers will know my fondness for Rooting for Truffles, the game.
Restless, after jetting back to the Middling City, headed out to a tried and true music joint (where the doorman gave me the icy shoulder for not being a regular as of late but this meant I didn't reek of his cheapassed cologne the rest of the night. Brute. Hai Karate. Stetson. Jean Nate for men) for some talk, laugh, smoke, drink.
Vice Love.

Geeked out with Justy and his pal Mattie last night in some dark hellhole not too far from Union Square about noo music and talked about our favoured wrecked voices when - suddenly - I looked under the world's most uncomfortable boof to discover hell lookie here someone had forgotten, left behind, their iBook and other sundry accessories. Justin suggested leaving it with the barkeep. I thought better of that and opened said iBook and traipsed about the info, the saved emails on mac.com as Justin slipped off to acquire more booze for us and I horrified Mattie that I was familiarizing myself with this woman's life. He started off familiarizing himself, too, but became horrified only when I began getting engrossed in a rather long email about a certain Nate who was a real shit, who wanted only to fuck her but I couldn't decipher (because A numero uno I do not really know her and her sense of propriety) if she dug this - or not.
So Mattie and I spontaneously spot an Asian woman who fit the name on the emails. A Columbia stoodent, no less. Dumbass. Justin and Mattie are New School alums and I will be one in 1.4 years. So we spy the Asian woman. I approached her at the bar.
Are you Helen. Yes. What's your last name. She tells me. Oh, how do you spell it and where's your iBook. Over there (pointing to beat-to-krapp sofa) with my friends. (apparently not thinking it odd that I'm asking about her Mac) Well, no, it isn't, I have it over there (gesturing).
Did cheapass, ingrate Helen buy us some booze. Nope. I proffered that next time I find an iBook I'll hit the street fast & hard and make a cool $100 or $200 before handing it over to a dumbass Columbia person.
&
Today had a gig for All About Jazz mag, shooting bass player Bob Cunningham in his amazingly New England stylee pad with the writer there, too. At the end of all the hobnobbing and such BC gave Terrell and me glossies. I fished for a Sharpie. He signed mine: To Nancy, Lots of Love, Bob Cunningham. And for Terrell: To Terrell, Best Wishes, Bob Cunningham.
No love for Terrell.
After that headed straightaway off the L to Chelsea to see the new Cindy Sherman clown self-ports and Gursky's new gigantic heroic surveilling works.
All good and the rain came down and as I made a digvid short in Matthew Marks Gallery a surveillee began shooting images of Yours Truly.
Double surveyed Love.

THIS JUST IN. to be read in the voice, in the spirit of the woman who is atop the diner table in the Quentin movie, screaming, in a Brit accent, that she'll blow the heads off of every last muthafukkin one of themmms...
I AM DONE. I AM DONE WITH THE PAPER. I AM DONE WITH THE RESEARCH PAPER. I AM DONE WITH THE RESEARCH PAPER THAT HAS PLAGUED ME (AND ALL MY SPECIAL FRIENDS) FOR TOO LONG. AND, THANKS TO THE FOLLOWING WHO WERE ABSO-FUCKIN-LOOTLY INVALUABLE MINDS: Beth, CentricS, JW,Esq., Kennedy, Laura (for that special urgent push today) and JR. You all rock. And now I must drag my sorry grad student carcass out of this library and out into the warm night to meet Justy for a nice jeroboam of white wine. Addended Love.
As I cannot possibly, though try I might, steal wi-fi molecules all the day long I was, sadly, offline, missing an email from Mentor JR instructing - or advising - me to head north rather than south. And it was too late, for I had gone south and proceeded to, as I only just recently replied to him, waste some time and then write - as opposed to reorient myself in the north at the Whitney for another biennial look. Assume Vivid Astro Focus bellows me to sit again in the corner, on the floor, and mesmerize away some time. So instead I whiled away time by working, yup, you got it, a bit on the (fucking) research paper which is now an appendage shooting off my left shoulder and sticking out a good two feet, whapping people in the back of the head as I squeeze past them on the Fat Apple sidewalks. The only Alfred I know was not in the proverbial house last night, although he had instructed the staff of Gotham to keep me in (no, not stitches) booze of various colours. As I ripped into my duck's flesh the sommeliere sent over a bulbous glass of an oaky red and I just realized it may have been polite to inquire whatinhell it was. Not that I'd remember. Really, no, really, it's time to finish off the misery. No more wasted ops to look at art while I stare - no offense - at this PowerBook and formulate some brilliant or near-brilliant or non-brilliant phrases and passages about who really cares what. Oh, and suddenly I discover Interpol to discover that they've already been discovered by Laura and JW,Esq. et al. Thanks for the sonic suggestions, pals.
This is spring fever.
Feverish Love.

Landed in Land of Big Apples this AM, suddenly transported into my Perfect Conventioneer status. Immediately detrained and retrained and retrained again to meander into Virgin Megastore where I acquired new Patti Smiff and Interpol, listened to over diesel-fueled French lunch at Marquet, where I sat and read and read more about copyright world and Time Out New York. Now entrenched in Parsons School of Law and Ideas Design Library, overly-flourescent and beat to crap, where I'm attempting to construct The Paper. To my immediate left a large-scale oil of an important-looking woman in yellow jacket, taupe gown, hands folded studiously in her lap. She keeps watch over these several PC's waiting for genius.
Faded beauty Love.