What is now:
Perfect Yours Truly nestled into her favoured wi-fi hotspot at JFK, after a day of school and a plunge into the big-boy world of super duper mega supra pixels. And, as is his wont, heard from Spending Guru as I was trekking the final last long block towards B&H - post JR meet-up. I said to him Do you realize that since I've known you there was only one time I went to B&H without getting a call from you. It's a serendipitous tradition if ever there could be one.
Special thought:
I truly believe everyone, and I do mean every one of You, should have as the first song selection on your iTunes, should you have iTunes, be Bad Co's Good Lovin' Gone Bad for I can think of no better song to begin laptop projects, work and art.
Speaking of art, I've been accepted into two groups - a discussion group for vlogs and a group of artists who make the same. More groups and I am so not a grouper.
Glancing up at the pair of JetBlue-approved monitors I see ESPN is broadcasting footage of athletes attacking photogs of all genres - on the right a live shot of a pickup truck on a so-called rampage, driving à la OJ down some highway. I find the footage on the left disturbing, as I feel it's shown as comedic sidebar, another slap at the trade and the rights of any journalist shooting a celeb in a public place.
Time to further investigate and delve into vlog world as I'm at JFK with an extra 25 minutes of wait time.

Love Waits for No One.

Special blogpost for patchouli oil wearers who ride airplanes.
(I think You can see where this is heading.)
Airplanes are small capsules (petri dishes of sorts) with repumped air. Twist open the overhead vent device over your seat and all that is whizzing out is more of the same repumped matter. Add your patchouli oil to the mix and you have one big hippie olfactory luvv fest, unasked for by your fellow travelers. You love that shit, 99.9% of the rest of the planet does not.
Spare us, slather yourself upon arrival, share this woody scent with your familiars.
Thanks for your attention in this matter.
Sitting in a borrowed studio waiting the arrival, the studio visit, of Anthony, my former advisor here at Parsons. To show him what's what with the digvids.
Sparing You the concurrent commentary track, in a gesture of diplomacy, restraint and such.
Such love.

+ +
This just in:
Always needing a side project of sorts made an executive decision at roughly 3PM this very day to create a vlog, the video twin of epinw, if you catch my geeked-out drift.
I should link it from epinw but let us see what in hell is premierly entailed in streaming &c and then, secondly, how in hell it looks.
Middling City happy vibes amassed evaporated with each passing Parsons minute forging onwards, only six school weeks to go.

With a slightly-failed and collaborative mehendi up my right leg I blog.
The Artvoice Street Fest was fun, breezed in with Kennedy to see Medeski Martin and Wood and some pals to boot.
Added bonus was seeing The Ramrods on a much more humble stage near the liberry with Bill Scott, thee Bill Scott, up there doing his charismatic vocals thing. And, as is de rigeur with his frontmanship, there were entanglements of chords, and near spills. All in all a good time.
Hung in Kunji's booth, this is where the slightly-failed and collab mehendi comes in, and decided to give the primitive body-marking process my annual whirl. It began as sort of a floral motif with a long stem. Seeing my hesitation Allen grabbed the squeezey bottle and added my iconic bumble bee, some other items as well as the initials of Yours Truly. He felt this handiwork may have caused the loss of a few potential customers. One teen was getting some symbol, maybe sanskrit, but who the fuck can say for sure if it indeed meant peace or whatever, I showed her my leg and said Don't you want THIS instead, it's number 43. She looked pained, wanting to be polite yet visibly thinking Yikes, no, not that assemblage.
As we left the scene Government Mule was warbling out their Southern Rock into the chasm that is the Middling City's Main Street. And there was a 'subway' sighting.
Always a thrill, it eking past, empty.

Thrills of Love.

Left Cheryl's demi-sunny garden mere moments ago sufficiently caffeinated and such. She is en route with Liz to a rally for Garden Walk. Would Yours Truly invite the general public to meander through my garden, if it were in a less-industrialized neck of the woods. I think not.
May hop into Artvoice's pro bono Middling City showcase street fest a bit later as Medeski Martin and Wood are playing and Kunji and Allen just phoned to see if I'd be stopping by her mehendi boof where she imprints (usually) ladies with time-honoured henna paste leaving behind designs nouveau arte and whimsical. I usually mehendi myself at her stand, squeezing out a semi artful blob that lasts for about a week. Speaking of body markings shot a bike race yesterday and spotted a guy with a hideous photo-realist tattoo of what I assumed was his beloved and departed german shepherd, regaling most of his shoulder.
The Middling City feels more humid than the Shiney Apple and I am enjoying the space of it all until mid-week when I jet back to school for a few seminars - will be showing and telling new work on Wednesday to the shrink et al.
Seedlings replanted at Kennedy's warble out of the ground, and mine own is jam-packed with the regular perennials and Extra excitedly tells me how happy he is that the cat mint proliferates. At least twice during the summer I spot him lolling amonst its fragrant leaves, getting all wacked out and when he notes I'm watching his debauchery he stares in wide-eyed panic and splits.
Time to water the cat mint et al.

Minty fresh love.