**This just so freakin' in.
Somebody decided to toss their body in front of the A train so there we sat. First the pa'd excuse was Congestion. Then the conductress sort of slipped and said A customer... then we riders so knew. We sat and we sat, sat, sat. I found an MTA employee aboard and queried thusly. So. Jumper. How long. It was then I went non-subterranean, finangled a ride from a car service with three girlies heading to PR and then they paid the driver but I tipped him and they got dropped first as they had minutes to spare and then he, very manly, circled about not knowing, just not not knowing, how to get me to Terminus JetBlueus. Finally, after my pointing out some key demarcations, that the plane I am to board in five minutes was pulling away shortly. So now, I am off. Again. Here ends this updating, informative communiqé.


Got the sOhO groove happening and actually sad to leave now. Sitting across from equally wi-fi'd Dorota who is doing some art things. Had a fab time with Fitzgerald (and some "authentic" paella that was shamed by the paella of Yours Truly, truly) and then somehow got separated from him and meandered off through the Bank Street area, one quadrant of the Shiney Apple I am so not familiarized with. Finally decided to locate a cab which got me oso much closer to the loft. There is something magical about the loft as it induces the best dreams ever. Spoke with Academie Guru last night who put It all into perspective and for that I am once again thankful. Had lunch today with Nancy Maier of Summer Camp fame and, amongst other things, she told me of her lofty climb atop Mt. Kilimanjaro and the descent through virtually each of the Earthly climates.
Time to head to the 6 to the 4 to the A to the AirTrain to the JetBlue to the Kennedy.

Love Travel.

*
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.

Not locating Patty Hearst I went to see a doc on Henry Darger, creator of somewhat-famed Vivian Girls who I knew about from Reed and Jef. In the day sort of a Mutt and Jeff situ. The boys, I might add I was there first-ever patron as their collaborative selves, turned me on to Darger and Reed gave me a drawing of me as a Vivian Girl of sorts. This transpired at Film Forum where I am a (former) card-carrying member. As I had misplaced my card and the joint is inept and cannot find its members online, I was forced - FORCED - to pay the average joe prix.
Still searching for Patty.
Here at Parsons early helping Beth set up her sculptural photo montage-alicious pieces which will be viewed and critted in about 10 minutes and counting. As usual in the world of production and such there is much scrambling for cords, cables, podiums, tables, and the like.
Fueled by an Americano. Seeing Laura later and Fitzgerald (hard at work writing in the voice and head of one Hell's Angel Founder, Sonny) on Thursday. Going to a Kafka-based opera at Carn Hall tomorrow night for a student ticket of $10. Those Carnegie Folks sure as shootin' know how to welcome students with wide open and understanding arms.

Arms full of Love.

Recurring word du jour. Irritating.
Well Editrix Liz received the masterpiece just aok and fine.
I expect the Pulitzer will be in the mail shortly.
I was just summoned to the front steps of Parsons School of De-No-Bagels for a smoke, a Coke, and a smile.
My critique went just fine. Some words here and there. I did not show one that I wish in retro that I had.
Off to hopefully conquer my lust to see the Patty Hearst docu-drama, Guerilla. It must be here somewhere.

Somewhere Love.

Yahoo squared.
The Shiney Happy Mag piece about the odd cable home decorating shows and attendant plastic hosts is complete, a masterpiece of twists and turn, unexpected adjective placements, fun facts galore. And photos to boot. And at 2600 words, nothing to sneeze at.
Had Kennedy help me with some photo illustrations and he waltzed into the moment, held the hammer just so in front of the t.v. screen and voi-fuckin-la! fini. That and a delightful portrait of my pal Jamie Johnson at her decorating helm, swatches as far as the eyes can see.
Currently just arrived in the Shiney Apple via the Fart Wagon/JetBlue and am about to embark on a brunch of relocated Middling Cityers... and salty dogs. That delicious concoction of grapefruit juice and vodka.

Salty, stinging love.