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This just in.
Currently blogging from the new, the uptight, the overly-staffed Museum of Modern Art. What a Vaticanlike vibe going on. You are not allowed to sit in the sculpture garden, à la Saint Peter's Place. You are chuted in and then if checking bags you are chuted again. I'm about to escalate upwards to catch some art. Profusion of security in dark jackets most noticeable thing thus far, besides the slight reminiscence of wandering through a large city airport. Communique over.


Arrived in a hurry to Carnegie Concert Spot to learn that the Kafka Fragments extravaganza was sold out, completely and 100%ly sold out thanks, in part, undoubtedly, to the fab NYT review. So called Beth to say Hey, skip this joint.
Meeting with JR art director to the stars in a little bit so there's time to wander to the French joint for a French lunch most French and Frenchalicious. Meeting later with Fitzgerald and keep reminding my Perfect self that I have not yet to date returned the call of my camp people regarding the informal camp (not campy) reunion in about a week.
Kennergy is repping me and him at the Shiney Happy Mag meeting later this fine evening at Liz's joint and I proposed that we collab on a brilliant piece about who can say. Regaled Beth last night with my April Fools prankish moments whereby I'd call editrix and pal Liz with a scheme, a dream, a fabrication. One I am still most humoured by. Involving a past gig and gallons of reserve label vino.
On agenda: digvid shooting fercrissakes. And Oban.

O, ban Love.