Went to the Shadow with Erin and Justy last night, after their sporty evening downtown. A non-feeble cover band replete with horn section had begun Honky Tonk Woman when there coming into the joint was thee Honky Tonk Woman, a vision in black georgette, gold lamé, and straw. Straw for the hat. She was the arm candy of a fella who, it was quite obvious, had her at the center of his libidinous sphere.
And, along the country line, the previous night was primo girlie night and, en route to our final and sushi-rich destination, we spotted what in the Middling City (in some circles) is what they call a big deal - the former mechanical bull now coated in thick brown fuzz to resemble a buffalo. Get it.
For a moment I watched the tipplers board the buffalo and hang on, first doing their best and most sexiest humping moves until the man manning the buffalo controls got this wicked look on his face, punched a few other buttons resulting in sideways fast bucks and the tippler would topple.
Geez, with consonance like this I really should be a banner engineer for New York Post.
DKNY has invited me to rent the lofty sofa for the summer.
On this wistful note I end, wending my way towards shooting the fourth wedding of a Middling City pal. I reserve snark at this moment, as is so not my wont.

Wont Love.

Ryan Adams's Demolition seemed the perfect afternoon choice, a collection of jangly rock with a political undertow.
Good news came at me about half an hour ago, I've been selected to be Eliot Spitzer's shadow for three days during the Middling City's Dem convention. I am a fan, I wanted this.
As I got The Call Dorothy was doing my nails, painting them a most femmey light pink, a good luck gesture I forged, in addition to a hair fine-tuning.
Now it's time to do a little homework.
Found frames yesterday for the show, ready-mades that will suffice at an affordable price. Now just the creating of images to be trapped underneath the glass. Have to alert Todd the Printer that images are coming his way soon, the realizations of what is in the sketchbooks and in the head of Yours Truly. The newly fine-tuned head.

Outward Appearances Love.

To be filed under A.
For Are you freakin' kidding me.
A pregnant femme was referred to me by several pals who I have made portraits of over the years. I call said pf and reassure her that not only has Yours Truly been doing this artsy-craftsy-journalistico thing for, oh, decades and more to come, but that I have photographed the mid to very pregnant before.
She tells me that her sister-in-law has had some pp's done in The Shiney Apple (cue the photog reaction of Oh, here we go. . . ).
Cutting to the good bits, the smarmiest of the bunch featured a butterfly, faux, on the belly of the femme in the photo. A faux butterfly, as if the belly were a force of nature, a giant flower to be alighted upon.
Thoughts wander to this femme is probably going to Google images and such under my name and I'll never hear from her again but this must be said
You are pregnant, the human body is usually quite alarmingly beautiful in all its dimensions, and pregnancy should strive for the primal end of the aesthetics spectrum rather than dumb down into what includes Precious Moments figurines.
And no paired wedding rings around your navel, either.
Here I end my anti-pregnant-art-smarm rant.

Love, in all shapes, in all sizes.

Like trundling through a new recipe, wearing a pair of smart & smartly-designed shoes that make you feel in touch with some very great part of your self, like a pal allowing you a turn driving a new and fast car.
What, You ask.
My first time out with my newest lens, one of the Nikkors made solely for work on digital bodies. A 17-55. A dream. Fast, sharp, lovely. Its first gig was a hoopla celebrating the ritualistic noting of manhood. A Bar Mitzvah. Fab images of children in throes of sugar mayhem, high on my list of images to make and do. And, as I have blogged before, one of my few life regrets is that I did not start amassing such images twenty years ago in lieu of a few. When they're ready I will probably post a few of the more, shall We say, chaotic ones here.
One in particular shows a near-drooling, wild-eyed six-year old girl coming at me and the 17-55 with a party favour. Another, a chocolate-smeared face of a pre-teen. There were no teen lust images to make, no slow dancing amongst the young and hormone-addled.
But there was waltzing, as the parents are both South American. And some (read between lines) Interesting ensembles. The barkeep nearby diagrammed out the ladies's attire for me thusly.
This is quite and ODD one, isn't it.
How so, Yours Truly inquired.
Well, you've got the lady over there (head nod) in the pink plastic cocktail dress, then you've got some in jeans and sandals. Then you've got Annie Hall over here (another nod).
And there, coming at us was Annie Hall, in unspringlike, dark fabrics.
The Middling City grows more verdant by the hour and the flower seeds beckon to be buried from 1/4"-1" but it is still too on the other side of warm for that.
Today is the first gathering of the girlie reading club.
We read Fahrenheit 451. Bradbury riffs well on action-adventure moments whereas his dialogue inspires thoughts of corrective red pencil tracings.
Just read the NYT article about architectural travails in China and at U of VA.
Compare & Contrast:
-China, go for it (gee, reminds me of Sen. Schumer's famed and fabled speech YT has heard to date 4 or is it 5 times... I didn't get the job and I didn't get the girl... which ends with his fist-up and resounding GOFORIT)
-U VA, we'll see.

We'll see, Love.