Inspired quite a skid mark today, a good seven feet of burnt rubber along the Avenue, as Joe Rozler concurrently shouted my name as I was walking in the Middling City sun across said Avenue and laid hard onto his bike's brakes. I had just said byebye to Mary, Kunji, Allen and was wending back to the historical Old First Ward allegedly being bought up like beautiful wampum (according to Gilian Brown, Esq. and old college pal who I also saw at the coffee joint). Joe Rozler said he was just recalling my gracious thank you note for some vino he bought me for my last b-day and thinking about buying same bottle for some person who has a b-day today and all when *ka-poof* there was Yours Truly. And then the skid mark.
Two things of yesterday.
1. Gig was jam-packed with hundreds in a poorly-designed new build in the exurbs and as I elbowed (OH! what training not only being a camp's art lady for a decade was, but shooting rock shows for two decades was too in this madcap world. . . patience, resilience, respectively) others away for a set-up moment featuring five VeryImportantPhotographees a man's voice slithered into my ear. Do you EVER photograph yourSELF, it asked. Not taking eye away or turning head I summoned the paint melt stare© in audio out of the edge of my mouth:
Absolutely not.
Marky Mulville showed up amongst the throng and I shouted Marky, surprising him greatly and he looked up from his, he said, malfunctioning D2X, which had made several black frames = really, really bad news. I suggested he pose the honoree with her sheet cake. It was festooned with flowers of an odd brick red.
2. Approaching the bar to approach a social gathering I then approached the actual serving station manned by Scott leaving for a rock gig. I asked what position do you play to which he exploded DRUMMER. I asked are you a power drummer. He said I am THE drummer. Apparently, he's in the Poptops and he was grabbing champagne splits for his Mohawk Place gig. So Lovelorn Jeremy was left and so as I waited for the others I asked Jeremy, you hear a lot of things, you offer up lots of answers as a bartender. What do you think I should do with my hair, let it grow, cut it. He spent some time looking at what it is doing and then said Keep it like that. Noncommital perhaps. But I agreed.
Hair, like dreams, is not only subjective but ephemeral.

Love ephemeral tales.

A few nights ago had a gig to shoot a pop starlet emulating DMB - Josh Kelley - who was performing at Hilbert. The spare crowd was a girls gone wild scene. Overall, Kelley was harmless. Moved on to SoundLab to see Tony Conrad and the cowbell lady, Steve B, and a few others in the dankness, avoiding their liver-non-enhancing Yellow Tail poison.
Trying to upload a Josh Kelley moment and Blogger is not giving me a helpful link so here is an apt description in lieu of actuality. His fist is raised, his face is beet red. He looks angry. He is singing a pop song about love and such so, we might ask, why such rancor.
On the other hand, a study in comparing & contrasting, Tony Conrad was all beatific wall of sound noodling, no fist in the air. Only studied composure, although he did raise an eyebrow, I think the right, when he noted Yours Truly at the stage edge capturing.
Yesterday included getting into the car of a stranger for the sake of journalism. The subject: man who commutes from Buffalo to Rochester. Posed him alongside his car in a lot of Middling City U and made an executive decision - this said more used car salesman than commuter. So I says to commuter How's about we take a ride. He obliged and we sped up and down downtrodden Bailey Avenue until I had what I needed. Until I pried my editorial sense out of him, who, all the while, expounded upon the racist happenings down in the Gulf region.
For the sake of experimentation I had my camera for some moments on his dash, shooting from the hip as They say.
What are we aiming for, we journalists.
A Pulitzer in every frame, every take.
Time to compile orders and dispense them to the awaiting.
Art calls and plans are being formulated as I blog about a few upcoming projects, including the foursome show YT planned recently for an unsuspecting arts venue. We have even discussed site-specific works. Oh, this venue will be most surprised. They will comply.

Complied Love.

Arrived at the gig last night under the blaring lights of Middling City U's football stadium (too bad it does not rhyme with tedium but for the sake of poesie let us say that it sure fuckin' does) to hear the screeching intro by a local radio personality for American Idol John Stevens - or is that John Stephens. Let us say, again, for sake of poesie and argument, that Yours Truly does in fact not only know the correct spelling but might be able to recognize this fledgling celeb visually. So he, the American Idol of Middling Cityesque heritage, begins the theme song for the United States of America and the preamble to every sporting event in this fair land. Upon singing the phrase Rockets red glare four fizzylicious pyros shot up from the ground behind the singer. A great visual to be sure. But auditorially not such a good idea. There were more pyros, drowning out completely the song until its very end.
Yours Truly, intrepid and ever-quipping journalista, was up in the boxes, prowling. Found President John Simpson, entourage, three Tulane evacuees, a crock pot full of burbling orange something, salty snacks, and oso much more. Shot prez and the trio of students in a set-up GettingToKnowYou moment. Noted aloud that one of the students was outfitted with some academic reading should the sporty going get boring. Kennedy and I read the sport section in part aloud and lo, behold, the Middling City U Bulls still kind of suck a lot. They remain #115 out of 115 teams and, as I discussed with Laura this AM over brunch at her joint, if there were a way they could perform themselves off of that list we are fairly certain they could - or would.
On a less sporty note.
I was approached by a femme I know to join a group of artsy types who want to start an outdoorsy kind of club of sorts. I said sure, as long as it included sharpshooting as I freakin' rock at that, and maybe some snowshoeing. So there's a listserv sort of to and fro of messages and this list encircles some associated with the Greg Sterlace show, upon which I was married by ever-tanned attorney Ross Runfola to Bad Ronald - amongst other adventures. So I send out a reply to the query if RR would participate in this group that I imagined he is not much of an outdoorsman despite his George Hamilton tone. To this I got a très zanyrific reply allegedly penned by YT, basically professing some sort of undying love for RR. I would cut and paste but You get the idea. I group-replied that I will be pressing charges for sure unless there is a full retraction.
Oh, aren't these litigational times.
Just got another gig in Roch, perhaps one in Boston next mo.

Moving and grooving love.