Some scrappy images from today's Old First Ward Saint Patrick's Day parade: a rather made up Saint (with an attendant who suggested prayers for one councilman) in traditional flowing robes, and some peaceniks protesting the Iraq War (a fine contrast to the marching veterans and police. Sadly, there were no Girls with Guns.
Other items of note were the traditional walking with a carton of beer under the arm, the tossing of the candies to onlooker children, the rowdy rugby players, the p.a. blasting Van Morrison.
Parade of Love.

The virtual epinw anniversary fete is being masterminded as this is being blogged and You are invited, fercrissakes. Five years. That is a semi-narrative feat if You ask Yours Truly.
Gleaned some slammin' new pharmaceutical rep pens at last night's gig, one is that Euro sort of pen that You just cannot find in this USofA sans help of over-eager men all giddy about some new pill.
Shot this year's Match Day, the day that all the med students learn their fate, where they will be residents for the next X amount of years. Only had one bummer, a guy who got his third choice. Lots of screams, fists in the air, good, solid reaction shots. Oh, the other bummer was when pre-event-start I saw the Middling City's former parks der commissar, Dan Durawa, and his wife and they offered me up a snack off their snack platter and, to not be rude, I grabbed the least of the worries. I had no idea what any of the brown ovals were... I bit into it. It was one of those cheese-stuffed jalapeño pepper poppers. I warbled out a Merci and moved along.
After the matching I headed back to the car that I had hidden around the corner in another of my special, invented parking spots. Suddenly I was stricken with a grand idea: Get this horrid haircut fixed up. And so I did. And it is. Now it is on its auburn way to being long and longer and in solid, non-annoying shape. The woman who cut it marveled at the work of the former stylist, wondering where he found sense in all the non-layered layers.
She actually knew the incompetent who cut my hair. She said Yeah, he likes to say that he studied at Bumble and Bumble but he studied at Continental School of Beauty on Kenmore Avenue.
Onwards to more fine moments now now now.

Love now, Love later.

Furuncle.
That is today's new and astonishing vocab word, gleaned from gig number two this fine AM. A scientific word, a furuncle (think carbuncle but more, shall We say, insectual), or so the nice man from the NYS Department of Health explained, is that pesky bump that one acquires after a pesky thing like a maggot or other flesh-residing creature lives under the skin. You know, subcutaneously. The diagrams, the stories, the super details all horrifying, yet another prime way that Nature crashes up against us.
Heard from the officiants who have contacted me about rating the performance of my pal Laura. Everyone and everything gets rated, so to speak (oh, maybe that is why bandmateScott will not return my call), on epinw, but this is like way more ponderous.

No Love for crashes, loads of natural Love.

Today's special image is of one of the best extant artists, Sam Taylor-Wood. And she is so hot to boot.


Along the toxicmost stretch of the 190, post-gig, spotted one of those pickup trucks so like the great tattooed wave - You know, emblazoned with a belief system, a (here's a primo grad student word for You, toss it around sans gigantic expenses associated with the former) real tautology. The pickup was telling Yours Truly the occupant was Addicted to Antlers and frequented a taxidermist in what is called the South Towns in and around the Middling City. Half-expected to see blood dripping down the bed, like one of those horrid, adolescent Krims images.
This year Passover falls on the perhaps b-day of Beckett, who always alleged he was born on Good Friday and that does always mark the anniversary of epinw.
As I was organizing some sketching materials in the studio saw my email address of yore, back when only pals at the U had them: aw600@freenet.buffalo.edu - I had a handful of people I corresponded with, including Liz, Chaz, and Andy.
Beginning a new journal, hard-copy-style, for the upcoming exhibition and reading so when the small flotsam and jetsom meander by YT will have the wherewithall, the goods, to react, grab, make, do.

Flotsam, jetsom are like so loved.

Did not burn the kitchen, and, subsequently, the house down whilst shooting the brand new piece for the CEPA Auction, an image I had sketched and then constructed to the best of my (and some spikey tulips's) abilities. Emailed the image off earlier this AM to the gallery for the catalogue and just penned one of those eery, third-person short bios. She did this, and then that. Eschewed the title I had been obsessing over for another, leaner one - Still Life with Fire. Nice and to the freakin' point.
Making a fab-sounding corned beef dish later today, in part once again to prove that a dish can be better than one has had before. This recipe features an in-part Irish orange marmalade glaze which sounds pan-lick worthy.
Ran into a whole lot of Perfect girlies this past weekend and two tea dates are pending as Yours Truly is suddenly slammed again with requests for the eye-hand coordination that is photojournalism.

Eye-Hand Love.