Minding my own business, as per usual, ran into a Parsons School of Debonairity grad of second class (as opposed to the premier class, the class just spewed back into the harsh reality of the world, i.e. Mine) at the Sugimoto show at Japan Society.
Two wows: 1. Serendiptity. 2. Show.
His seascapes and waxwork viewing boxes are there as well as a hardcore fossil collection, his thoughts on fossils and photography (Photographs are fossils of the present.), and some Japanese antiquities shown as they are right now and some with his photographs fused into what they are. It's shadowy, poetic, surprising and the only factor that is a minus are the overly-vigilant guards who must have taken a lead from the obsessive watchers of The Whitney. They don't serve sake or tea in the joint which has always made me want to find the director and ask Why. Ate dinner at a new joint off an alley off Rivington off Bowery. Freeman's. It like so totally rocks and there was consumption, amongst others, of those little UK morsels Devils on Horseback. I mean, really, what is there not to like about a morsel with such a name. Another bonus thing is the smiling head of a wild boar looming over diners. Other taxidermied former fauna include a geese with feet out, appearing to be about to crash land upon a table for a feast. Not him.
Speaking of morsels, Yours Truly has been making visual morsels. And like Devils on Horseback they rock. Perhaps my next show will be called same.
Faithfully sticking to the fun facts, the high times, the misdemeanours, I end.

Love morsels.

OK, this is truly truly horrifiying.
Somehow, and I reiterate Some... how... some radio station was on and I was minding my own stinkin' business and then they were playing BILLY JOEL AND IT WAS REALLY BAD, AS USUAL, BUT I MEAN I REALLY DO LOVE TO HATE THAT LOSER BUT REALLY . . . DID YOURS TRULY NEED - EVER - TO HEAR youmustberightImustbecrazy ON MY HI-FI. No, the answer is no, no, never, no.
Onwards to more Smog. Oh yeah and all is good in Perfect Nancy's World once more.
An I Really Hate Billy Joel Story:
(god there are so many, where to glean)
He is about to go onstage in a Middling City arena. As is his custom he has his handlers basically shake all us photogs down. No this, no that. As if.
He comes astage and is promptly teleprompted, the screen facing him atop his piano, his chubby little fingers working away on his tunes.
That's enough for now.
Shudder.
Jetting tomorrow to the right side of the state and have sent out appropriate warnings and such. Jubilantly, I discovered a credit with the company that became for years my school bus, my networking tool, my saving planular grace.
Off I go to make art. I am so very happy to be on the brink of tossing myself into my ideas.
And the rest of it.

Rest, no, never love.

Well, well well, well well well.
Firstly,
minding my own business at one of last evening's photographically opportunistic gigs, a private all-femme high school reunification, I was smiled at by a woman proudly wearing her clipped-out portrait from thirty years hence, not sure if she knew me or not as the room was only full of this class as well as a few waitresses filling chafing dishes with chafing waters. I was there to wrangle all of the amassed into a portrait = a pending summer Olympic sport, and more fun to watch than ribbon dancing to boot.
I though OK, she knows me so I says my name and she says in an odd voice OhMyGodYouLookGreat whilst hugging me.
I then realized she had no idea who I was and thought of telling her I was merely the hired hand photog but let her swim in her case of mistaken identity as, You know, sometimes it is just so not worth the price of admission to get into details.
This fine morn gig was a race and the road crew included a group of Middling City U students all decked out in the decade of their births - the 80s - all grooving on the tackier edge of those mauve and teal-infused, teased, bisexualized times. The group of them, about half a dozen, came to shepherd runners dressed as an 80s band and they were outfitted well and accompanied by a vintage boombox blaring Journey. A few of them gleefully asked if I was down with Journey and I assured them I was. Then they also gleefully showed me their vintage cassette tape, a holy rock relic of sorts. Who can forget the new mode, compact disc, when some of us owned but a few and we thought it could be a passing fancy, reading audiophile articles that they would be a flash, a lower-rez version that would be outpaced soon(er than later) - but no.
Haunted by a Chaos song heard on the radio, finally something new to get auditorially hepped for. Bought the last Smog. A gem.

Smoggy Love.