Spoke with a (oh, here I'd like to say that today is an Easter as in Patti kind of jour) Shiney Apple pal last night who informed me that there were no degrees over there to the right. None. At least the Middling City has a few rattling about. Few. Far between, unlike the flakes that are congregating along my driveway. But did I mention I have a new and super-improved Golden Forester under my ass as of about twenty-four hours ago. Turned in the leased former Golden Forester and told William at the dealer's joint that I wanted more more and did not want to pay more more more. I said Look, Jerry Lundegaard, I don't give a phyling phlegm about klear-kote, none of those gadgetries. I want gold. I want manual trannie. I want same payments. I, in a nutshell, want a lot. And I sat there, in hat pulled over my eyebrows and down jacket pulled up to my chin and dykesville boots on my feet for hours negotiating until William whined But now we're not making ANY money on this car. Ummm, William, remind me to pencil in on my agenda to give a fuck about that some time. He had the car waiting just outside the door, seats set to 50 Kelvin and the moment my Perfect self hit that seat I knew it was it. It. We drove and we drove and we drove the backroads, chatting about all things vehicular. Taking high winding curves, stopping on a dime at a most inconvenient stop sign at the bottom of a hill, turning a U at a breathtaking clip. Best part is the cd changer and I've been driving the horrid blustery MC in a techno cloud. Just saw my pal Colleen at *BX who gave me a super-bonus shot of expresso (espresso in the MC) after our mutual sadness and musings on this ultimate Snapcase gig this fine evening at Snowplace. It is sold out. I will not be there as I am not shooting it and I could call Darryl and see if he wants any but really, shall I. Hmmm, now I am wondering. There are shiney bottles of tequila there to keep warm.

Warm ponderous love.

Amongst the many pop-cult things learnt from Mterm is the Ali G phenom, the trickster extraordinaire. And what reminds me of this snippet is that the Middling City was rused up a storm by an ersatz rap artiste who strode into town with entourage and more more more and took what could be manhandled from biz and vending folk. Allen was working on the project as sound engineer and want to get his poop on matters. What riled my own Perfect suspicions were that A told me how the artistes would have warm catered spreads at the studio all the dang time, even if they were no-shows. I thought that odd then but thought Gee willikers, these hi-rollers are saving so drastically they are catering the budget away. But now. But now things are revealed and all the minor hysteria surrounding the rap artistes come to the MC are blown sky high. Speaking of Sky High Gabriel's hair last night was so . . . that.
Wondering if perhaps I offended today as a client hired me to shoot a talent show manned by, of all freakin' things, dentists. She happened to marvel that there would be actual talent on the talent show stage, reputedly, reportedly.
I strongly suggested that perhaps it was the backstage usage of laughing gas that got all those creative and free-wheelin' juices a-flowin'.

Flowing Love.

Amongst other Virgin Mega things is the Neil Young non-rarities, the rough and tumble weeding versions of the biggest and baddest hitz. And subsequent Checker's throwbacks and beyond, involving Loomis, first drivings, poetry written in the warm haze of beer pitchers.
Stray cat Extra strutted in moments ago to warm his paws, give his claws a good wool rug workout and then sample some vanilla yogurt. Now he is outside, per his vocal request.
Sun shines in the Middling City as great rock and roll questions are pondered. What are the goals, the desires of this gig. Everyone's big question, the big Q of Yours Truly.
Planning and scheming, amongst other things on listy agenda, Red Dinner, annual feast of all things crimson and bought a new tome that has a few lusty, red dishes oso parfait.
Intense Laundry Time: about a year exactly ago X penned a lovenote to his concurrent and second-last X of his own about said Red Dinner, critiquing it so in a way that had my Perfect cheeks crimson. Not only lies about his sloppy concurrence but the lie of loving the Red Dinner. Rouge-related ruses all around and now how to extricate him finally and most expediently from all matters house. Once. For all. For best.

Rouged Love.

Somehow it got to be today, Monday, and haven't blogged since a few ago, much to the chagrin of a handful of the loyalest and toppermost of the poppermosts.
To be filed under G, as in Gee wasn't that interesting.
To balance Shiney Apple schoolhardiness with independence meandered into the ol' stomping grounds in midtown, as I previously mentioned, into MoMA. And other cinematic and art matters as well as gustatory retreats. Cue excellent summer memory, JW,Esq. - most notably a few vinos, a few heaps of heirloom tomato forms. Chelsea proved to be both provoking and passable. Excellent and reaffirming times with Dorota which, of course, involved bevvies of many genres, and smokes.
The week of schoolhardiness was truly a few days and a half with a smattering of interactions - and requisite lo-budg trips to salad bar for $4 lunch. JR informs me that the thesis I am to create is but 5K words, just longer than a typical mag ed piece and that the rest needs to be more. In comparing and contrasting notes with other grad students past and present haven't heard of a school as art directionalating as Parsons School of Delineations.
Time to unjumble that of art, school, work, change.

Jumbled Love (it's driving me mad, it's driving me crazy, crazy. Now that's mad Steve Miller props).