Worked on the novel last night into wee hours, amongst other tasks more Academy-based.
Minding my own business meandered into the midst of the launch party (after observing revelers on a fire escape, after blending in with three frenchies and a solo femme clutching an invite/directions) of a tshirt silkscreening guru, he in a light saffron robe and matching sandals, his wares or product or Work hanging from his lofty pipes - about 15 samples/works/wares in all. A woman photographed Perfect Me looking up at the ceiling/art/shirts and I thought You know, those men in Customs were SO right, I do look better with shorter hair, it suits things better, the Look... I'm here but not so here thing. And through this all, and a glass of mediocre pinot grigio, I was still clutching a whiteboard from the morning when I met Yong on the steps of The Academy to work on our collaborative web-design project.
Us: Hi, we're grad students at Parsons and we're...
Them: No.
Us: (trying another person, other strategy) Hi, would you like to be photographed holding this whiteboard with a special message of your own devising that we will digitally document and beam to the Earth's four corners.
Them: Fuck yeah.
Our yesterday victims included a french couple who I spoke with in their lingua franca, a heavy (as in large, as in serious) punker who used the whiteboard to send out major props to his very own band's gig, and an actor guy who used the whiteboard to draw a cartoon of himself.
So I'm still holding the fucking whiteboard as I'm looking up at the pipes and shirts of the launch party. The guru kept glancing at me (maybe because I was hanging off his robes to glean some guru wisdom, oracle style) and at the whiteboard perhaps thinking I was going to proffer up a score of sorts for the whole affair.
Score: 8.5

Scores of Love.

+
See today is birth anniversary of an early art prototype of Yours Truly. Wherever you are, happiness to you Greg Sader, sorry for nearly killing you with my vehicle that night and you missed your deadline.

Dark Side of the Moon of Yours Truly.

Point in the summer when the Division Bell between Empire State's left and right spheres is so great that there is an implosion into delightful, self-centered Art.
The Greatest Gig (not in the Sky, on plane) is that of meandering entropy-rich streets of Shiny Apple, unfettered. And this does not include anything mandatory, xeroxed or purposefully collaborative.

When Middling City becomes Pluto.

Went to a classical, vocal, Anglican mid-day concert at historic and under-scaffolding Grace Church to witness talents of OllieB, britboy met upon CDG-JFK flight.
Seating Plan: A/Yours Truly; B/as in Beth; and C/OllieB, 6'2" 20year old, bedimpled and chatteur par excellence.
Wandered into Grace's place about 15 late and made my way up the aisle and there was OllieB with three other britboys and two britgirls, singing like their lives depended upon it, like they were, like the wailing wall recently viewed, our transmitters, our hopes for something celestial.
Moved along to Marquet to read, etc. and it was there that I discovered that NYPost made an error grande - on their front page, for all the world to see, was their lead story about horsefaced Kerry's selection of running mate, sprayheaded Gephart. I had read about an hour earlier that, in truth, the r.m. was/is John Edwards, another man of sprayed proportions.
So this is a collector's item, which I pitched into trash as I left Marquet, which I several hours later came to regret and I sprinted out of the computer lab, out of Parsons's 5th Avenue digs, across the Ave to acquire another, and another, and another. To discover all were gone at what I've dubbed The Studio/the deli on the west side of the street. So I charged over to the lesser deli and purchased their last. This, I'm speculating, will pay my grad student debts. Or those of my heirs. Or theirs. If eBay's still around.
Back to digvid editing, walk to another french joint for coffee noir to go, to art, to lecture, to listening, to collaborative seminar, to meeting with JR, to more reading, to move through the streets, to think, to think, to move, to more.
Blooper Love.

Tortured I was mere moments ago by - count 'em - seven crash scenes so far, via Cronenberg movie CRASH, based on JG Ballard's novel. As You may recall Yours Truly was nearly exeunted by a drunk who decided to drive through the Middling City at a brisk 50 mph one night, and whizz through a light most sanguine.
If not for James Spader (aahh) the film is a complete visual fiasco, usual gray layerings that scream HiThisIsSo80s. Read the novel whilst in San Francisco and staying with an interesting assortment of people.
Movie last night, Time of the Wolf/ Temps du Loup, a Kennedy rec, was good. Visually arresting at moments and spare in terms of dialogue, the narrative moseys along at a deliberate pace. Wiping her just-kilt husband's blood from her cheek, Isabelle Huppert is still so Hot.
Gave JR his contraband, multi-packs of Marlboro Mediums. We have a meeting scheduled for tomorrow after the Collaborative Seminar, at which time I'll regale him with more travel tales, digvid shot in foreign lands, and oso much more.
All for now and over and out.
Medium Love.

Back in the Shiny Apple where, unlike anywhere else on ze planet, one can eat to one's heart's content around the stinkin' clock.
Have been reading The Rules of Engagement by Anita Brookner since procuring it from CDG yesterday, after le metro ride to airport, when I had to arouse Beth from her above-ground and bumpy slumber to say Beth, dearest, we are on the wrong track, we must go back two stops to catch B3. And on. I had noted there were too many butterfly bushes (which grow wildly in France) and not enough gypsy encampments.

Sojourn Fun Facts about Yours Truly:

* Number of multi-coloured shots imbibed by Yours Truly at the wedding of Inbal & Gideon in Tiberias, rolled out or carried out onto disco-ball-adorned (4 total) dance floor by the Tippler Sisters, twin shotgirls in fun fur cowgal hats.
= Indeterminate.

* Number of American Splendours puffed out over Sea of Galilea during aforementioned wedding.
= 4.

* Total number of feet of Yours Truly soaked in Sea of Galilea night of wedding.
= 2.

* Percentage of times Yours Truly successfully infiltrated AirFrance First Class lounge for coffee and wi-fi.
= 50%.

* Number of officious French bitches who gave Yours Truly one of her very own paintmelt stares over counter when attempting to infiltrate AirFrance VIP lounge.
= 1.

* Number of times Yours Truly misheard (due to 20 years of attending/shooting rock & roll extravaganzas) French waiter and believed he'd said I've ordered you gizzard for after your lunch (while lunching at Musée d'Orsay) instead of what questioning me as to what I'd like for dessert.
= 1.

* Number of times Beth thought I was joking about the gizzard/dessert mix-up.
= 1.

* Believing me to be Française, due to blatant savoir-faire, total number of Parisians asking Yours Truly for directions.
= 3.

* Total number of Francis Bacon paintings that blew head off of Perfect me, so to speak.
= 5, including favored one, ironically from Middling City's Albright-Knox Art Gallery (a piece that, to my Perfect memory, has never graced their walls).

* Number of kir royals slargled by Yours Truly.
= Not enough.

Into the cab jumps Mohammed (armed with handy Glock) with a half-drunk bottle of red wine, from the lights-a-blinkin' squadcar to our trundling vehicle. He passes off his handcuffs to Rafi, the cabbie, who I'm sitting next to.
Oh, note to self: Next time in Israel, specifically Jerusalem, when wanting to acquire the front seat next to driver do not holler S-H-O-T-G-U-N into the winding and shadowy street.
So Rafi, Mohammed, Yours Truly, Beth and Sandra go to see DisneyHolyLand - the place where myth and martyrs collide. Every spot pointed out I'd inquire, being the star journalistically-minded femme you know me and love me to be, Oh yeah, really, is that true... Shrine to the BlahBlahBlah... Is THAT true, is THAT the spot.
Did some digvid shooting at the wailing wall and of some adjoining wall with weeds gently blowing against a shocking array of disarray.
So Jerusalem was left behind as we made our way back to Tel Aviv, via Peugot 505 manned by the hairiest, smelliest human known to ourkind, Asher. Having a propensity to drive in other countries (illegally, non-illegally, public transportationally like the jeepney in Philippines, etc.), and beginning to suggest to Asher the Stank that I do some driving I began to think how I'd be sitting on the same seat that he'd been sweating and farting into for who the hell knows, so I declined, realizing I'd have to fumigate my self and dispose of my outfit soon after arrival.
Speaking of arrivals, my departure out of Tel Aviv airport was an utter fiasco as security could not comprehend the very quick pitstop of a travel to their land of DisneyHolyLands. I showed them travel itinerary, explaining planular fiasco at JFK. I showed wedding favour. I showed them email from the bride. After 1.5 hours it was decided that I was not, am not, a terrorist. Bags were x-rayed, many times, shoes and camera equipment were examined for explosive residues (and it was at that moment I was so relieved I'd not shot off the Glock the previous night), this very same laptop was examined and manhandled and re-examined. Thanks to my dear little canine pal Ollie, who, once upon a time, leapt off Kennedy's sofa so vehemently that she pulled wire and laptop and nearly the lap of Yours Truly, too, several feet away, resulting in an unsightly bulge near the MacLatch. This created much consternation for Tel Aviv security. I re-enacted, with graceful and over-baked hand gestures, the moment when Ollie leapt and the man fondling this laptop (which I will be having disinfected shortly) was not moved. At all. I was, near the end of my security infringement, led off by a femme to a partitioned room and I thought This is not the metal detector test, this is the biological detector test. But nope, no derobing happened.
Upstairs, searching for Marlboro Mediums for JR and for lunch medium, spotted one of my security pals. Her unsmiling misery made me oso glad I'm not in the security racket, and glad I was leaving Israel for gai Paris.
Where I am now.
Where I must go drink more café noir.
Where I must go see a show of Francis Bacon paintings.
And shoot more digvid.
And blow smoke, it's mandatory, into the ancient streets.
And then, when that list is accompli, jet off to the Shiny Apple for more more more.

Particular Love.