Saturday, March 04, 2006

Here I sit at the Genius Bar broken hearted
came to buy iLife
and all h-e-double-hockey-sticks started.

Blogging like right now from the Mac store, a geekly destination of drool-worthy items - always.
Old photo browsing software had it yesterday, mid-edit, so for a quick fix I traipsed off to the Middling City version of the Clubhouse, at the plastic bag-rich Walden Galleria Mall, to buy iLife for its newer v of iPhoto. In lieu of Aperture. Instead of PhotoMechanic, the real tool I am going to acquire.
Now I am a statistic, a person waiting at another genius bar, watching the deft moves of the on-duty Genius.
One of the nouveau laptops, the 15-incher, beckons.
I will not say which of the regulars, but one of epinw's regulars began online dialogue about an expression, one which was believed to be in the vernacular of the USofA:
Well slap my ass and call me Nancy.
I informed the informant that Yours Truly owns a lethal bottle of hot sauce (and coming from these titanium lips and tongue You know it as such, for real) which is entitled
Slap my ass and call me Sally.
A rebuttal (dig that pun fercrissakes) came later with all sorts of quotes, website links.
One of the more shall We say inappropriate sites was ratemyschlong.com and, being ever-inquisitive and all, I looked. Well slap my ass and call me . . . not exactly incredulous, more like the geek I am suddenly thrust (dig that other pun fercrissakes) into the overly-lit hinterlands/hotel rooms of online porn. It was an odd respite. Coming from a rather unconventional person.
Genius Bar activity, in a nutshell.
People approach, looking at their broken little machine. Sad story ensues.
Genius looks down at device, does a quick button-push, speaks in that even tone of reason, of pure genius.

Genius Love.

Thursday, March 02, 2006

The Middling City is ablow with new fluffy accumulation, this day Yours Truly is to document the announcing of government money to preserve some fine old buildings around Johnson Park. The announcement and procs happen later today at New Phoenix Theatre, teeming with history and preservation needs itself.
Last night's gig was shooting production stills for Arthur Miller's A View from the Bridge, a heavy story loaded with immigrants, incestual lustings, poverty, in no particular order. One of the male leads, before start time, was standing next to me as I was seated in the front row, waiting. He asked if his costumely coat and hat were nearby and YT noted that they were on the seat next to me - I thought he was being a wacky actor. He said I am blind without my glasses. Someone else pointed out the costume parts and then YT asked So how do you get off and on stage. Apparently, he aims for the highlights, follows the voices.
And still yet, before the drama unfolded, a voice from above instructed one from backstage to meet a woman halfway across the stage for a gray, bentwood chair. The woman and chair appeared, the two met halfway and the chair was handed over. They returned to backstage left and right, respectively. I turned and asked Brendan Is this part of the show. There was minor discussion that that had been a parfait Beckett moment. And it was.
You see, no matter the day, the location, the situation, One can always find the beautiful Beckett shinings.
On a literary note, my poem for Creeley appears this pending Sunday in the MCNews - Believe., about his words sticking in the world, and oso much more.

Believe., Love., Believe.

*This just in from poetry editor RDPohl:

Dear Nancy,
Thanks for writing. Just want to let you that I'm probably going use "Believe" on the May 7th Poetry Page, as that will coincide with the UB/Just Buffalo/Hallwalls/Talking Leaves celebration of what would have been Bob's 80th birthday on May 21. I hope this is OK with you.

Monday, February 27, 2006


This image is from Friday night's gig and Your Perfect Heroine is in a dance studio where students are learning to salsa. Me, I dig salsa just fine, from time to time, despite the tomato component - it's dance salsa that kicks me in the ass, harder than a couple of tomatoes. These students heard direction and off they'd salsa ... with partners. The instructress asked if I would mind participating, as they were short on femmes.
I got out of that one, happily for the feet of one of the male students.
Received some mail today from Dem National H.Q. - an appeal masking as a survey.
I like this question, under Part V: Foreign Policy.
How comfortable do you feel with the President's handling of the War in Iraq?
( ) Very Comfortable
( ) Slightly Uncomfortable
( ) Somewhat Comfortable
( ) Very Uncomfortable.
Comfort. Feelings.
My answer: Regarding the Presidential Handling on War Matters I find myself feeling very uncomfortable, way less comfortable than I am on my Aeron office chair. And no roadside threats, to boot.
Today's second gig found Yours Truly ensnared in a medical school maze that brought me alongside a very long hallway devoted to storing corpse holders/cozies for Gross Anatomy. I felt I might chance upon one with the top down, the chicken-looking skin exposed, wondered how I might feel in that Witkin moment. It did not happen, just the long line of stainless conveyors of dead for research like a used car lot - sans happy flapping flags.

Happy, flapping Love.

Sunday, February 26, 2006

To be filed under L, as in Lynch, David.
There is a rather unspoken Middling City rule that no denizen is to crit too harshly any institution - cultural or landmark - within city limits. General urban demise and corruption are fine, just not the former. You will hear whispers of some thing/place not being très wonderful but there is such an underdog undercurrent that it seems there's a meme that if any soothsaying happens complete implosion might ensue.
Lest you yearn for a tip-off, I speak in part of the dreadful Hotel Lenox where last night's Squeaky Wheel event happened. The world is dotted with gorgeous hotels that, when successful, merge the best of functionality and architectural form, with the bonus (usually) of a fine in situ restaurant and complimentary and noteworthy periodicals.
The Lenox has been an eyesore for a long time with its decrepit sign, seedy lobby with filthy furniture and just on and on. Once I saw a photograph made just after the Lenox went up and noted the façade must have been updated some time in the 40s or 50s - and, in the process, ruined. Like the equally-tragic Hotel Lafayette, the Lenox stumbles along but is not the jewel it should be. But there are attempts in the Lenox: Nina Freudenheim made a respectable gallery on the ground floor, there are rooms being refurbished. But the hallways to that newly-sanded and newly-painted room are David Lynch-worthy with curious combos of faded-out carpeting, old light fixtures, mix-and-match mirrors, and (this comes up later) faulty elevators.
Yesterday a volunteer helped me hang seamless on a window and wall and she told me she's an interior design student. I said she should make the Lenox Hotel a project and then we looked around the lobby. We agreed, where would one start.
Of special note was the staffer who, as I was setting up, came by with a spray bottle of something, squirting all over the place and into the corners. She came to my portion of the lobby and sprayed as she made a circle around me. It's Febreze, she said. I thanked her.
So last night at the end of the event, sort of, Annie and I wended our way about. I needed to get back to my photo booth and left her and Michele and Gary on 8. Having heard several times as I set up various Lenox residents inquire if the elevators were working I opted for the stairs back down.
On 6, as I walked across the hallway to the down stairwell, I saw the elevator doors open and then noted that the elevator had stopped three feet below the floor. A guy held open the doors as I reached and helped half the elevator entrappedees get the hell out. Half did not need help. I asked if any of them had panicked or freaked out or called anyone on their cell phones. They all said No.
A maintenance guy showed up, glass of red wine in his hands. He handed that off to a stranger as he looked up into the gears. I looked with him. Let's just say that when one sees the tiny combination of gears and bike chain and dusty other parts that keep an elevator up (at least in the Lenox), one may opt for stairs.
Other notable moments include getting faux tattooes from Tony Conrad and his petite French helper Maria up in one of the more seedy suites and then discovering a small metal door that would give a plumber or onsite maintenance guy, if there were ones, oh, there was one, access to plumbing for repair. But it was a parfait Being John Malkovitch portal and I pretended to go down into it, while also trying to spy some long-forgotten treasure down in the crud.
There was another odd moment. Annie and I got a tour of a fixed-up room on 4. A real estate type was in there, chirping about the wonders of living at The Lenox. The restaurant will be reopening. Free basic cable. It was not very cheap but was, by Shiney Apple standards, a lot of basic space for a good price. And a fine view. But there was that feeling in the air, the I'm not as psyched about all this hoopla as I think you think I am supposed to be feeling.
Onwards to a lot of work at hand.

Hand me Love.