Yup so I'm a communist so why not report me to HUAC. Living communally in SoHo means that outside the shower you are aware that maybe someone wants in but you are not so sure. And when you round the corner to fetch your Post Toasties there is a lanky boy in a towel. Shaving no less. Just drags me, kicking and not really screaming, to the Richmond Avenue days when I was den mom and lease holder and one of seven one summer. And one bath and it never felt like trouble to anyone.
After school (oh, and my stellar screenings of the short & sweet digvids) headed over to the Mac Clubhouse (where, once again, Final Cut workshop was usurped by one for... Motion) and then onwards to Angelica to see some Italian movie, I'm not scared, which featured Courtney Love (represented by a bedraggled Italian kidnapping victim in a pit near an abandoned house). And, as usual, nearly expired due to hypothermia in the theatre as they like to, despite seasons, keep the theatres at a nice, bracing 40º. Afterwards I spied an Italian wine bar and we proceeded to meet two new people, Megan and Dino (2 of the 3 co-owners). At some point, after some white sangria(s) I decided that I had to, just had to, danceresquely gambol down the long hardwood floor of the adjoining clothing store (a good 200') towards a giant, 3-way mirror. And then back towards my stool, the concrete bar, Beth, my sangria.
The manager of the store, a humourless gay guy who came in to order a ginger ale (barf) was not warmed by my self-introduction as fashion model. Nor my suggestion that he phone me if ever he needs a fashion model.

Amongst David's books, around the bend from my sleeping corner, I discovered a copy of Bukowski's Shakespeare Never Did This.
A snippet from it, which warmed the cockles of my tarpit heart:

3.
We were driven to a Paris hotel which was right across
the street from the French editor's office. There were
2 French editors: Rodin and Jardin. I sent down for 5
bottles of wine and Linda Lee and I went to bed and
started drinking. These 2 French editors were
publishing 4 of my books. After a bottle or 2 I picked
up the phone and called them. One of them answered.
"Listen, you son of a bitch, are you Jardin or are you
Rodin?" Whoever it was, I cussed him good for 5 or ten
minutes. Then I hung up and Linda Lee and I drank some
more. Then I phoned again: "Listen, you son of a
bitch, are you Jardin or are you Rodin? I demand to
know who I am talking to! Are you Jardin or are you
Rodin? Are you Rodin or are you Jardin? I demand to
know!" After a while we all went to sleep.

Time to tug on my kneesocks and part my hair, grab my protractor and head back to school.
Protracted Love.

I suppose there could be far worse things than having Queen's Bohemian Rhapsodywhirling through one's head first thing in the morning. Is this real life. Or is it just fen-tess-ee. Oh, I am so caught in a landslide.
Asked Dorota yesterday So is that MCCR (Mysterious Cat Carrier on the Roof) still out there, while turning towards the windows. Well yes, it is still there, down two floors. I imagine a cat skeleton in there, or that the wily cat, spotting the carrier, shimmied down the side of the building to escape the plastic cluthces its owner had in mind for it.
Last night, following a trek to Sweet Rhythm to shoot pianist Pete Malinverni, saw the most gorgeous thing which was digitally captured by Yours Truly: a hybrid and overly-manicured tree that resembled an overly-manicured poodle was lying on its expensive side in SoHo so I shot it. From the trunk out and through the expiring foliage are city lights, passing and changing. And then a few more shots of reflected and changing light on a somewhat static object. In hours is the first group critique since winter, all of us remaining in the MFA class of 2005 huddled together for 2 days to look and talk.
Time to capture and render and burn.
Captured, rendered and burnt love.

Some little geezer walked in front of my shot and internally I was sniping Hey, down in front, yoo-freakin-hoo.
And that sniping would have been directed towards the very legendary Les Paul: O'Doul's guzzlin', double hearing aid-wearin', guitar and audio device devisin' guy who had to table hop throughout the Jazz Journalists Association awardshow that I shot for All About Jazz last night at the BBKing joint in the midst of Manhattan's version of Disney Land.
So AAJ wins best jazz website in the country and they have a plethora of shots by Yours Truly and they are as of yet not uploaded. So here is something I didn't comprehend until this moment's gleaning - jazz guys can be oso slacker guylike.
After awardshow went to see doc Bukowski. Bulbous and battered and belligerent Mr. B. Made some parallels between him and Creeley. Dukers with hearts of gold. Who believe in the old-fashioned institutions of the heart. Who wrangle words in seemingly simple trips and turns.
And Bukowski, it is revealed, hated Mickey Mouse more than any thing on this earth. And to that fact I chortled loud and clear in the theatre full of hanger-ons and hipsters. He hated that Mickey stood for nothing. That he had only three fingers. Bukowski's goal, it is said in the doc, was to kick the Disney out of our collective heads.

Disney-kickin' Love.

Eve, the woman who recently went postal on her roomie and whacked her in the head with a telephone, whose dog, Jazzy, who stinks to high heavens and who rubbed his face all over my khakis this morn, whose eyes look a little dark and such after the thorazine helpers that she was administered after her little visit to Bellevue's Psych Ward, asked if I knew of ANYone looking for a roomie. I stated that I knew of no one but would keep an eye out. An eye out. Like what does that mean.
In mere moments heading over to the BBKing Hall of Blues and Whatnot to shoot the Jazz Journalists Association jazz award show, a real early 4-7. JR and I decided that this, instead of being a din-din (as stated on all promo materials), is in fact a jazz brunch.
Shooting then burning a cd on the spot for the mag who has me sitting at their table before the shoot shoot shooting.
Note to self: hold off on the Oban, these are not Your People. Yet.
Holding Off on Love.

Back in the schoolgirl saddle and I forgot to purchase all brand new #2 pencils and such.
Six minutes to the next *ding-ding* thing so this must be snappy.
Arrived in the Shiny Apple yesterday with several bags and artwork in tow - the artwork has the dinstinction of having ridden on the lap of Captain JetBlue from Middling City to here. Well, nearly on his lap as it was behind his seat.
Immediately picked up by Justy who drove alongside the espressoway onwards to a primo brunch joint in Cobble Hill where we were met by Steve Bartoo and Jen and then I proceeded to turn the whole crew on to the concept of the Salty Dog = tequila and grapefruit juice and even our waitlady started knockin' them back on the job.
Suddenly I noted that the busser girl had an enormous hickey alongside her neck, upon which I commented immediately, of course. She turned on her teenaged heel and literally ran away and hid. I told the drunkard waitlady Hey, tell that busser kid I'm a blogger and I stated maybe over a month ago that the hickey is my pick for hot new spring accessory...
On this note I traipse back to Student Land.
Land o' Love.