Today Yours Truly is photographing foster kids who are pre-teenish and looking for a permanent living gig. The two I'm photographing today are siblings and are in a temp situ. I was just talking to teahouse Jen telling her of my next stop and we discussed how foster girls at this age sometimes land in less-than-stellar places - sometimes to be the live-in babysitter, sometimes worse. I told her of my decade of working with the Summer Camp, how half the 8-12 year olds there were fosterized, how some of them had horrific tales. My assignment is to make these kids look so adorable that they get scooped up by good people. There is a slew more of occasions to bust out holiday tights and the like. Jamie and Paul are having their ultimate gathering at their supersonic house that they redid from shingles to front steps, before the relocate to a rowhouse somewhere nearby. Then there's another soirée in Loomis's honour in a week, at her parents's Canadian shorehouse. Jen, rushing YT, just slapped my check on the table stating Time's a-wastin'. So off I go there and points be-be-beyond.

Foster Love.

Dubithy:

Somewhere under the radar, way down low.
There's a land that I heard of once, where the oil still flows.
Somewhere under the radar, folks are screwed.
And the schemes that you dare to scheme really do come through.
One day I wrecked the family car, and daddy and my mummy Bar remind me,
Of my troubles taking acid drops, the night they had to call the cops,
And then they fined me.
Somewhere under the radar, I'll get high. Drink Rye under the radar,
Try, oh yes I'll still try
Why, why must I be dry?
(The above was forwarded to me by Paul Morgan of Avalon Scarves fame and the entire, brilliant adaptation can be seen here.)

This notion that El Presidente is in fact dry and ryeless seems rather at odds with his behaviour as of late, most notably his press conf yesterday about spying and wiretapping any available and questionable American up and out the wazoo as Papa/El P/Bush deems necessary. I did catch one quick visual soundbite with him answering a press corps question. To paraphrase: It's about your safety . . . it's about your civil liberties.
Hmmm, last I heard this genre of practice was completely opposite what good ol' civil liberties are about.
Onwards.
As there is a transit strike in the Shiney Apple, something threatened for about a week, I opted out of pre-miasmic - nay, make that Double Miasmic - conditions and am hanging in the Middling City until post-strike, post-holiday-travel-meltdown.
Over the weekend Yours Truly met up with a college pal, writer Harold Goldberg, firmly entrenched in the Shiney Apple and writing each and every day.
Besides the Perfection that is epinw, YT does a smattering of writing.
I have been back to drawing, not the drawing board, but grooving on my pencils and such and do still feel slightly bemused when others find great joy, etc. in this scrawling.
I now embark into the MC WW (white wasteland) to pick up Dorota and Jason at the MC "International" Airport and then points beyond.

Well-balanced Love.