Maintenant.
Thank god for iTunes, headphones, volume controls and earplugs as Yours Truly is once again loitering at JFK and my perfect self is hopelessly and helplessly surrounded by pizza gulping, child indulging gum-chomping young families. M'Aidez.

Yesterday.
Had a disconnected lunch with Dorota who is not abreast of any situations in the life of Yours Truly yet remains highly judgmental: not a joy.
Moved along to protest(s) at Union Square and filmed several moments of that special tension that is created when the morass of media, armed militia and protesters circle one another. One false move and the morass is chaos.
Bought a few fab tshirts as well as a set of dress-up Bushie magnets, like paper dolls, only way better.
Had to move along to B&H and that's when things got really interesting.
(The Mess We're In hit iTunes as I am telling You this story, most appropriate as it references helicopters in New York, sung by Thom Yorke on this Polly Jean song. Keep this in mind. Dig.)
Took L to 8th Avenue after being chuted into the Union Square stop, under watchful copful gazes.
At 8th Ave caught the C up to Penn Station.
Tried to get out to street but noted that all was taped and barricaded and guarded and then had to walk two blocks, including down another platform, to get O.U.T.
Once up on the street I saw how the world here had changed. Streets shut off, orange safety cones all about, cops and dopey-looking delegates in spangles and vests and hats and more barricades. Crossing the street I noted I was entering a zone where all were subject to search. A cop with baton was crossing one and all and right up behind him I asked into his left ear if he was our crossing guard. I was followed then for a block by three cops, until I got to B&H.
Escaping B&H I opted for a cab in lieu of the subject to search choice.
Later later later I digvid'd helicopters in the sky as there were many. I noted that the Fuji blimp featured prominently the letters N Y P D.
A real bummer to a fan of the Fuji.
Time to board, read, snooze, deplane.

Deplaned and Delovely Love.

A fellow fan of the wi-fi molecule came to my e-motional rescue moments ago as I was supping in Rialto on wine wine and chop salad. The chef was on his wi-fi'd laptop at the bar as I meandered in. Spying wi-fi molecules hovering in the air like a pack of earnest hornets I said There's wi-fi here. To which he replied affirmatively. Then no luck on this very laptop. So he sat alongside me and together we figured the secret of getting me into the super-secret rialto network. Mind you, I am trying - trying - to write as a woman teeters at the edge of the bannister just outside the open door with her pal/date, drunk to a highly-decibeled degree and now she's doing a pantomime that has him in embarassed stitches.
I saw The Brown Bunny.
Review: eight thick inches of raw talent.
And searing Vinnie eyes, chin, nose, yum.
There are some trying moments but mainly not. It reminded me a bit of my grad student art, surprisingly in static contrast to a personality rich in non-static practice. Another love story. This one more psychological, deliberate, gestural. Ending is yeah chock full of the big... moment but it's a sad end, really, to a broken man's pathos path across the USofA.

+

Yesterday was truly a What the Fuck kind of day.
Began the day, nearly, by attending a funeral with Kennedy. And who the hell puts fun into a funeral like born agains. We arrived early. We sat in the back row. We looked damned fine.
The priest began to speak. That cookie cutter evangelical hands all aflutter evangelical banter. Hands a blend of rockstar, self-help guru and televised chef. Maybe a dash of qi gong practitioner. And the hair, a slick wave signifying the coast of the sea of galilea. I sang, probably much to the chagrin of the lady of a certain age in front of me with the fall rivalling any of the deep south. Kennedy would not sing, despite my raised eyebrows and voce.
So finally the high priest gets around to feting the dead man. And it ends. I am teetering on hysterics because of the lilt of the voice and hands.
And then.
And then.
He takes a turn.
(NB: man who is my waiter sees me writing up a storm merrily and brought bottle over to give me a glass on the ol' house - there is a god, apparently)
He says This is not usually done at funerals but oh what the HELL. or something to that effect.
Folks (I paraphrase) bow your heads. Well, now that your eyes are shut (they are, I quickly look about the new build church that has a slight reek of mildew) please raise your hand if you'd like to find the Lord - no one is looking but me and the Lord so raise your hand.
It is at this point I have both hands over my mouth and am trying to suppress probably the largest guffaw of my fucking laugh, rushing for the door, eyes streaming tears, thinking thank the fucking peeking Lord that laughter sounds like sobbing to the ears of the aggrieved. I charged 100' out into the parking lot and lowered my hands and the laugh filled the countryside where the new build church rests, down into the valley, down into the gorge, alarming not only fishermen but the trout.
Last night, following a gig supplemented by the lights and bear hug of Lead Boy Colleague, I saw a sight most gorgeous.
A laundromat was alight and encircled by firetrucks. The flourescent lights and giant picture windows left a giant lime green cube on the suburban landscape. Unforgettable.
I am out in moments into the Shiney Apple where I am bumping into Art and Ideas.
I am alive in ideas and Vinnie Gallo makes movies and I make videos.
Some head for the wilderness,
some for the shores,
some for the comfort of familiar arms.
I head towards Serendipity.

Towards Love.

Oh this is such a day for the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
And here they are at 60dB and suddenly I am more at peace with the Middling City where the urban chief (ie mayorissimo) reports to patronage duty at the asscrack of dawn, offering condolences to the owners of the blazen pizza joint on the MC's west side. I can report on the pizza joint thusly. It was a disco kind of joint, chock full of mirrors so that when your drunken face was at the chest-high counter ordering up a slice or so there you were, all Picassoed out, sliced out yourself. And, oh, the disco balls. And pinball machines. A saucey isle in the midst of what was once working class, now crack cultured. All about the fades, the petit larceny, the pockets of attempts at cuh-lean living rather than leaving. So, the mayor reports in to say gee whiz and sorry. Off again to the Shiney Apple tomorrow and the making and doing of art and fine french coffee and the like. Into the eye of the hurricaine as this week happens to be the one in which most of my SA pals have been inspired to avoid: the target-rich RNC. Thought JetBlue would be offering up Hey Dem, Come Fly With Us discounts but nogo. Hope to digvid in peace, far from the madding crowds never to see eye to eye. But, then again, one does never know what forces forces one into the midst of protest and dissent. Some arresting news: JW,Esq. reports he's off to Burning Man in a customized orange fuzzy hoodie. In lieu of glo-stix, should I ever find myself there, I'd probably lean more towards masked rogue and mischief - less fluffy hoodie, more flakey hood.
Contrasted Love.