Sent words most imploring to Parsons School of Dilly-dallying this fine evening basically outlining ways I might get myself into her primo graces and glean an A or B to boot. I can be your personal chef for a while, I can shine all your shoes in your closet and out, I can walk your dog(s), I can write a book that you can sign your name to, etc.
Have no shred of guilt or shame or regret that I basically parked my ass at Kennedy's dining room table for what seemed weeks to make 20 digvids. And some, as I wrote somewhere, some time, are fucking Whitney Biennial-worthy. But we'll see what JR Art Mentor/Personal Art Designer, thinks and says about that. Talked to thee Elliott Caplan who will be watching some of my work with me this upcoming week. And then coffee and I said So what, you'll either tell me Keep up the GOOD WORK or What the fuck were you thinking. He said Oh, I never say the former, usually it's the latter. One conversation with him had my head on fire.
Speaking of fire, delivered a wedding today to one social worker type, in a building with the Middling City's elevator elder statesman. It creaked, it moaned and finally got me to floor number three. She opened the door after I buzzed (here begins Fake Plastic Trees and I'm catapulted back into my usual strong mem associated with this little, perfect tune) and there's a buzzer as the pitiful decrepit building is visited by the MC's crackheads and psychotics, to stare wondrously sans speaking at the Pentecostal-like flame arching over my forehead. I then, after said delivery, delivered myself to the doors of Jon's salon where I am always guaranteed to feel some love. Some coffee, some smokes, some laughs, some rock and roll banter and, all buoyed up, I made my way back into the chilly MC streets.

Streets Paved with Love.

Passed a taste test haranguer today as I had to return to the Mac Clubhouse to buy the correct dvd's (note to self = dashes and plus signs are of utter import when buying overpriced pieces of plastic to stuff into the overpriced pieces of plastic, i.e. PowerBook) and he either said Rock ON! - or Saigon!. Given his ethnicity I am not too sure which it was.
Last night's gig had a fateful ending. Merrily the singers onstage were a-singing and there were jazz hands in abundance and simpering and galumphing. Sudden-fuckin-ly the lights went kapoof and 32 actors, 1 photog, 1 director, 4 high school earnest ones, 1 priest (I think), 1 lighting tech, 1 mediocre band, 1 badass ghost, 5 random spectators probably related to high school earnests, et al were plunged into pure and inky darkness. Cell phones were whipped open to provide comforting light dots in the theatre/deconsecrated church. Well about 20 minutes of darkness, with the actors still onstage making the best of it and proffering up all songs they could muster forth about darkness and the like, it was time to s.p.l.i.t. It was when I rushed to my awaiting automobile that I discovered that I had pulled up at a rakish angle in my usual blustery rock star fashion and had I pulled up another centimetre I would have been over a brink. So the last time I did a gig for these singers and dancers and actors there was a fire/fire drill. Last night the entire town of Lewiston went dark. I told Brendan, the man who hires me, and the stage manager that I take full responsibility for these natural happenstances of doom. Which leads me to thinking that soon the Middling City will face another ice boom or did they pass legislation that ice booms are passé. So many Middling City facts, so little time.

Time 4 Love.

Busted out a minor version of my Perfect Paint Melt Stare today as a groupie/girlfriend of an ensemble member of the UB student variety tapped me on my rootin' tootin' shootin' shoulder to query Ummm, do you mind. Pointing to her piece of guano mini digvid recorder as she stood against a pole whilst Yours Truly documented all the jubilant holiday cheer before me and one hundred mid-day music lovers and other hangers-on. She so owned that square foot of lino, never thought perhaps of panning and wanted to warn all media hacks in the house to get the fuck outta her way.
I blog currently from the measle-down, scaled-down version of SoHo's famed MAC/geek clubhouse, in a mall. I am on errands. You do not want to get in my way when I am on errands for I:
1. do not care for errands, generally speaking.
2. loathe malls and their piped-in joviality.
3. do not care to mingle with maxed-out holiday shoppers but crapskis I have business to attend to with these nice MAC folks.
4. I am in a hurry people, not on the usual 20 mph Middling City rate of speed.
Well, that amount of mall-based surliness should suffice for now.
I leave you - breathless, feckleless, Perfectless.
I am an Americano'd streak on this horizon.

Horizontal Love.

Recently there was a blaze (word used in honour of ol' newscoot Irv Weinstein on the Middling City's Channel 7 Eyewitness News) and a building went kapoof. Was at Jon's Joint when I wandered over there and could not recall what had been there. Was it a building. A lot. Then, some steps. Then I recalled that I had not only passed this building bajillions of times but had traipsed up these steps for a job working for a former born again junkie. Former junkie, current born again. A real micro-managing, sexist, religionist ass named Dom. As in Perignon. As in Corleone. Etc.
So the steps, so the memory.
Another revelation, of a digital and less personal sort.
Working on the computer for what seems aeons lately have been sorting through not only occurent miasmas but have taken frequent sideroads whilst rendering digvid files to discover something so fab I must share it, shout it from the virtual rooftop.
Within the little package of Titanium Platinum there is a juicey bit that allows one to design one's very own cd/dvd doo-dad-rich labels. And even more... like case covers. I mean really. If You knew about this and did not tell I am like so furious.
Spoke with Justy today while he and Mattie were not hard at work at the mag. Decided that well maybe perhaps Bandmate Scott and I should make a biztrip out of NYC next week to suss out Knife Fight, Justy's band. To see if they might be suitable for our amazing double bill. Knife Call and Knife Fight: Battle of the Knives.
Saw that movie everyone raves on about. Sideways. Unexpected wacky character behaviour. Unexpected act of raging violence that had my face all sweating and hiding from an afeared mem of the X post-face-bash, with face dripping middle to bottom in fresh out of the veins blood. What a night that was. I wrapped his face, moaned in mama bear rage, put him in car and sought out the villain and believe I would have mowed down said villain and, thankfully, he was not still out on the streets and the two of us met TerryO out that night and I drank to assuage my rage and all until the newly-busted-nose X had to drive home as my head laid out the window for air and for understanding and hey let's give peace a chance.

Love's Chance.

Did a whole lot of minding my own business - ha and harumph - this weekend and am in the throes of conceptualizing how to write some ferfucksakes malarkey (as in some sort of Middling City sporting coach) for online course, get some art made, get some other items dotted and crossed and such.
If 100 magical fairies showed up at my door and they were all charged up on caffeine they might be able to lend some nec hands.
The church next door is rollicking for the lord or god or satan or saran wrap or whatever and perhaps as it's the yuletide it's turbo-charged evangelizing time. But I gleefully forget each year and so each time it's a different surprise inception at the disruptive wherewithall of these folks.
So now it's off to points beyond and then some and then some and then some and then some.
Did I mention there's some sort of malarkey abrew for Parsons School of Demarcated Anxieties?
Yours in Evangelizing Agonies.

Love's Agony and Contrapuntal Sensation.