Well, You ask, what does this image have to do with the price of bananas.
Nothing.
For they don't seem to sell bananas in Sicily.
At least on the eastern edge of things.
Thought a nice sunny image was in order.

One thing Yours Truly is NOT doing today is hearing Igrid Michaelson live on the property of the Big U.
YT had an aural mishap, misunderstanding the sonic matters at hand, that the local NPR affiliate was airing a prerecorded concert of Ingrid from a gig in Philly, and that she is not to play today, here, nearly now.
An on-air personality says to Reserve space, sounded to me like one and all could, with an email, some eluck, watch the on-air show.
But nope.
Oh, velcro and onwards.
Rob Zombie comes to the Middling City oso soon and for that there are supercharged ions in the MC's wintry air.
Once YT witnessed RZ become distressed when a young fan broke his arm right in front of him, and YT, who was standing shooting in the pit - one of those live music mishaps that is sometimes part of that big situ.

Saw the new Johnny Depp vehicle last night and have this to say about it all.
He is a song and dance man, whose face ages poetically, and he still moves like the lithe Euro-living and loving artist that he is. Sigh.

Euro Love, Love.

Early this very a.m. the Middling City News had arrived in its toxic orange plastic baggie and Yours Truly was reading along while the laptop was firing up.
Sadly, read the online news (too late for ink) of Bhutto's assassination today around the other side of the Earth, the second attempt recently on her/her life.
YT followed the story of her return from exile, and was entranced by the image of her bombed-out stumping bus about one month ago.
Her haters did not like that she was a she, that she was Westernized, that she was on the hunt for the big D.
Democracy, not Death.
Read some updates on the Guardian site and was struck by the diff between the condolence vids of Bush and Britain's P.M., Gordon Brown.
There is Bush in his best suit, in front of the White House seal, speaking in turns sadly and in his usual paternalistic tone, eyes glaring at press corps and into the giant eye of the cam in front of him.
Conversely, Brown is in what appears to be a new holiday sweater, in front of a modest row of books, looking down.

∞

On a different note, going to see the new Depp vehicle this evening, Sweeney Todd.
After an appropriate meal of Indian fare, neighbor of Bhutto's homeland.

Land of Love.

Happy Boxing Day to You, from this (at moment) Perfect Prose-spewing Pugilistic moment, where the Middling City shines as bright as a newly-minted Indian penny.
Since just about Thanksgiving it's been a cavalcade of parties and holiday madness continues with a few more to lead into 2008 - which Yours Truly has deemed Year of Art.
In summation, or to create a bit of a Holiday Party Tableau, here, in no particular order, are some musings and happenstances from a hand-picked few sans all names of the cast of characters, no dates, no definite placings – for privacy & magical mystery's sake.

• A nice little electric blue fireball shot above a cast iron sauce pan on stovetop after being ignited to fabricate a lovely, festive rum punch. Manning the handle, the person who'd lit the 1000proof liquid shook the pan, further enabling the fireball. YT took matters into her right hand, reached for a nearby frying pan's lid and dropped it atop the situ. Nothing but rum and sundry other ingredients was scorched. YT was praised by a third person in room for Being good in an emergency. I was a camp counselor for ten years, YT proffered.
• Following a party in the late-night exurbs a nearly-vintage automobile was driven off-road. NB: not an SUV so off-road not so good. Especially at early morn hours of Christmas. In a frozen field. Roadside discussion ensued - to return to party about one mile away to fetch some big, burly rockstars and the like, or to use a missing AAA card to acquire some assistance. But a cop was part of this situ, and a license was also not so present, and things got so complicated but worked out alright in the end. The MC's exurbs might look very benign, but taking it low & slow (as they say in the aeronautics world) is very wise indeed.
• Figgy pudding. Figgy pudding. Figgy pudding. Served amid a lovely meal of trad and nouvelle cuisine. And, like a dream, figgy pudding. As well as Bouche Noël. Speaking of flambé, some of that action for said figgy pudding. And then the screeching of culinary brakes as most at this fete dutifully eat, or feign to eat the fruity, raisin-rich, creamy treat. OK, YT loves figgy pudding. Not one other person in this room ate more than a spoonful. YT received a nice Veuve toast, and applause.
• Amid a holiday gathering someone mutters, kind of sadly, or wistfully, Are the holidays over yet to a rather equally-mixed effect.
• Grooving on Old School MC Vibes, a few guests at a gathering decide to rearrange artwork on the walls. Hostess tipsily compliments the bold moves. It is not discussed again.

Onwards to creative high times.
Boxing, Love.

This is Extra.
Extra is My Little Angel - yearlong, not seasonal.
He is angelic in the sense of manifestation of glowing Love, not lolling Medieval cherub.
But he is a solid champeen loller.
Presently he is thirteen years old and we've known each other his entire life.

backstory: I got his mom and sister adopted; he and his brother were uncatchable and gradually became non-feral, hanging about, and becoming demi-pets.

This is a case of the shoemaker's children having no shoes: Yours Truly realized that Extra has never made an appearance on epinw and it is high time for him to have his fuzzy countenance splashed across the e-universe.
As he is usually in motion, it is appropriate to have an image of Extra motion, conjuring up his active lifestyle: snacking, hunting, meditating.

Pals have asked at what age I stopped believing in Santa Claus.
And to that YT truthfully answers Never, because of a big impartation by first cousin Stevie.
Stevie, who gave YT hair-raising joyrides up and down sidewalks in stroller, blurted out that Santa is oso not real. And I do not recall feeling very sad about this at all, it was probably feeling more like I'd avoided this child-centric ruse.
Invariably, everyone who has asked the question then asks where cousin Stevie is today.
And that answer is he's been M.I.A. for a very long time.

Just spoke with Dorota, out in the midst of some mall situ, having to share her ops about whatever wares were being held in front of her by her mom, her holiday shopping partner.
Onwards to more holiday jingles, tingles, and mingles.

Mingling, Love.

+ And Happy Birthday again to MerryMary.

Minding my own business and motoring in a southerly fashion down Elmwood Avenue in a Middling City blast of this day's late-morning sunlight, did spend a red light's amount of time gazing up at Bubble Man's efforts.
Despite the 30 or so degrees his apartment window is open wide and a fan, facing out, transports bubble making liquid from his oversized wand to the open air, the MC's Allentown landscape below and beyond.
Yesterday, speaking to a couple of architects in verysame neighborhood, discussed briefly some of the characters of the neighborhoods: Walking Man (who has been M.I.A. for a while, who has good luck charm), Wesley, The Lady in White.
We all know their appearances and just run on rumour with their backstories.
Is The Lady in White truly a nurse into keeping germs at bay, or is she afeared of the sunshine.
Is Walking Man an OCD sufferer who must walk and see every square inch of these parts, or is he overcaffeinated.
We just do not know.
Yours Truly is coming up with a sketch for Squeaky Wheel's Peep Show in February, their Artists & Modelsesque benefit event. This year to be happening in the beyond-its-prime-by-about-half-a-century B'Way Market.
I have an idea.
It will fairly rock.
It involves cardboard, and a child lit figure.
Who, like the MC's characters, we just do not know they why's, the whereabouts, the provenance, and the like.

Time to head out to meet, greet, document, and soak up sights just out there for the taking - and making.

Love's Provenance.

There is a time when one may look down at one's toenails and, after some light soul searching, realize - or admit - that the nails in question (and in gaze) have become weaponry.

So, minding my own business, and on a deadline, was heading towards a familiar suburban Starbucks to edit & burn.
In front of me, in the line of characterless businesses, was one of those instant nail joints that had sprung up in the Shiney Apple many years before they migrated to the Middling City. Its name. Who cares. They were open, and empty.
This short tale may be entitled Tuesday's Pedi.
So, as is custom, signing in is necessary. Probably so the evil owner somewhere else can see that the girls are not ripping them off. You write in name, circle the reason why you are there in sort of a clinical fashion. Then choose your colour.
At this particular joint you also choose your lotion - all polishes and lotions are behind some glass doors, not the usual immediate snatch from a wall display.
Also noted some faux palm trees, requisite waiting area mags & sofas, and a tiki bar in the back.
The place was screaming Welcome to Your mid-day get-away.

Yours Truly is an unrepentant laptop worker during pedicures: one of my ultra-fav nail emporiums features a hefty four-bar wi-fi signal.
I was happy to note that there was an outlet just behind my massage-o-lounger, and even a small table to rest the laptop.
The woman who did said pedicure spoke less of the U.S. lingua but no matter, we were both hard at work.
No mishaps ensued - no overzealous filing, no over-tickling of feet whilst in the smoothing process.
Zoom forward to the drying step, feet are under a UV light. For a long time.
Whilst in this phase of pedicure I've got the laptop up on a shelf and, while waiting for some files to open, look over at the holiday display of airbrush design options - tiny pine trees, snowmen, Santas, etc. And ... hmmm, what is this, leaning in ever closer. A silhouette of some tropical animal ... a couple in flagrante delicto ... on what appears to be a massage-o-lounger. I thought perhaps this had been mis-displayed, that one of the mani-pedi girls didn't realize that the tiny gettin-busiests should be in with the Bachelorette or Valentine's Day options.
So, feet drying when pedi lady comes over to check the polish.
She reaches for a maroon can of what appears to be good ol' Aqua Cement but this stuff she's spraying all over the feet of YT smells so utterly cloyingly sweet that not only am I gagging from the smell, but the fumes are making my post-standing-in-cold shriveled lungs fighting off a cold quiver.
More minutes.
More spraying of mystery canned napalm nail drying agent.
More minutes.
More touching of polish.
One more ... No, YT says, please, no more of the spray, I'm kind of sick and it's bothering my lungs.
Back to drying.
At some point, while the disc of images is burning, YT peeks around the corner to spy an older lady's feet slathered with what appeared and smelled to be Nair.
Now I touch the polish and off it swooshes in one swoosh. Another nail, same swoosh.
I point this out to pedi lady, who had come trotting over, and say I think you left oil on my nails, the polish just comes off.
She takes it all off, and repolishes.
More drying.
She comes back (not with the drying agent mushroom cloud) but to pantomime the act of driving.
You drive, she asks.
Yes, I answer, not sure why she needs to know if I drove.
She wished YT to keep the disposable slippers on and leave with my boots and socks in a plastic bag, she put them in a bag, and I explained that as I'm sick and it's cold I would like to leave wearing boots.
She looked cross, and concerned.
I left with boots on, much to her chagrin.
In all the other MC seasons a girl who has just meandered down the pedi path think nothing of shambling out the door of a nail joint in disposable flip-flops, careful to not scrape up any asphalt in the parking lot or street.
So, in summation.
YT had not the good sense to wear winter coat during outdoor shooting on Monday.
But fercrissakes I was not in hell wandering about in foamy sandals on Tuesday after Tuesday's Pedicure.
The End.

Shambling, shiney Love.

Nature. Nature. Nature.
This is an outtake from today's blossomy photo shoot, helped the proprietess and workers to select one for their holiday greetings card.
A delightful bonus was a little visit with Ben, who works there now.
Still have to post images from The Fern Room in ChIll, where Fred's sonic installation made small and unexpected and solar-powered utterances.
Taking Little Laura out for her belated birthday dinner this fine evening after the alleged storm.
Alright, there was a storm but in these Middling City parts it was nothing to even sneeze at - blustering happened but is that not what is the wont of Winter.
Thinking that that is the sort of day on order for the pending Ice Bowl, when JW,Esq. will be jetting in for some iceside hoopla, along with - what - 80K others.


Voilà, Fern Room image.
Time to Judy Jetson yet again.

Verdant, sylvan Love.

Meandered into the favoured flower emporium of Yours Truly yesterday to purchase armloads of green things - to be shot for still-pending holiday card.
As I know the proprietress, talked shop - both floral and imagistic.
Monday YT will be high atop a ladder making an overall of the proceedings in the shop for a holiday card that I will upload on the spot.
Pixels darting through camera to laptop to netherworld to printing joint and back again to the Middling City, to the femme of flowers.
Had a very Perfect gig at Salvatore's Italian Gardens last night.
Must I say that the holiday decs were resplendent, transformative, Renaissance, Victorian, Hallmark, Barnum all at once.
At the rear door, where YT had just slogged through about one hundred or so seniors about to board a touring bus to Anywheresville, USA, there was an ultra-complicated tableau of lights, reams of cottony faux snow, car-sized tree ornaments, and oso much more.
I had the urge to dive into the center of this beckoning, warm holiday womb - perhaps not unlike those who, at the precipice of The Falls, get hypnotized and just fall in with Nature.
Afterwards headed to the holiday gathering of where I once worked, where I worked for fifteen hyper-adrenalized years.
Jon and I decided to do a little aesthetic rearranging in the kitchen - to move a very stellar piece by YT (Snake in Martini) into a place of greater prominence, switching it with a wall clock.
There have been two other occasions when YT has shown up at a friend's home and installed in immediate present an artwork. Once a painting that I now wish I had back, that emigrated to the h.q. of an org that deals with children on the skids - and the children love it, I have heard. The other occasion was the installation of a very large piece as a very special gift to a very special one.
After the former workplace party, which was a lot of fun, especially after I located the sole bottle of white + ice cubes, it was onwards to Club Ukie as I've dubbed it, the Ukrainian Social Hall on Military Road, where Roma et al tend the very lost-in-70's bar.
There is a nearby wallpaper that resembles an EKG in process, in process, and in process still.
Never did meet up with Reese and his mysteriosa last night or this fine a.m.
Onwards into what apparently is a ruse, this speculative blizzard that seems to have blown past the MC at this juncture.
Just in case there is a can of chicken soup in my pocket for one just never knows, now does one.

Meteorological, speculating Love.

As they say in France Il neige.
But here in the Middling City it is like so appropriate to say au jourd'hui Il neige beaucoup.
The city is awash with snow, and it's not letting up for hours to come, according to the voice on the radio.
As is MC custom, people are driving like nincompoops, decades of snow driving experience sailing out their wintry car windows every premier snowfall as they stomp on brakes, turn too tightly into a turn, accelerate with abandon.
With every e-correspondence today have been sending out mad holiday driver advisories.
Went to see my rockstar financial adviso yesterday, who actually saw fit to whiteboard, as they say in the corporate spheres, some fun and succinct facts about The World of Finance.
I alternately - by design - looked serious, then bemused. I was trying, really Yours Truly was, to follow all the sub-genres of stocks, and then the various markets for bonds. I did walk away with the term bond fund in my mind.
Time to brace myself for the next whitened foray.
A pal yesterday texted me a phrase that I will be using in a pending pome because, as You know, good writers borrow but great poets appropriate entire excellent phrasings.

Phrases of Love, Love.

As we Solid Gold Bookers read Ariel Dorfman's Death and the Maiden for our latest reading, we en massed at just buffalo lit center's presentation of same at Babeville. The Church. Ani's Church. Asbury Hall. Home of Hallwalls and RBR, where several friends of Yours Truly work.
Zoom ahead in this past weekend's planned itinerary that included one party in Middling City's University Heights District in a beautiful arts and crafts home.
This District is the melting pot island district of owner-occupied homes, student-rented duplexes, and locally-owned shoppes bordered by Bailey Avenue and Main Street.
At this party I noted that from that moment on I would prefer that my property be referred to in perpetuity as Nanceville.
It was fortunate that I was even at this party and had not been abducted, having shown up at the wrong house with a bottle of nice white wine in my arms. I had been given the wrong house address - two of the numbers were correct, though, I must report.
This weekend also included the grand opening hoopla for Heady's new vet office digs in the MC, replete with treats for animals and people. A man grabbed a dog biscuit that did look very human cookie and shoved it into his mouth. You are not supposed to be eating that, I stated. He probably thought I meant it in a dietary, holiday-watch-your-weight way. I did not. He was shoving a biscuit into his hungry party mouth.
I did Polaroids of pets and Santa. The man designated to be Santa was not there yet so I asked the other owner's son to be Santa and he obliged. At one point I saw that he was napping under his Santa suit and, when he awoke, he said I don't want to be Santa any more and marched down the hallway to ditch the costume.
The next Santa was a man who relished the role, as well as posing with the ferrets in attendance. All the dogs were well-behaved. A rat came, too. No cats, no snakes.
Hung a few more animal portraits and rearranged a few others. Replaced one snake image with another of Samantha, the port I made of her at Harvey Her Dad Siegal's office.
After that ran over to Deb & Jamie's for an expedient visit.
'Tis the season for visits large and small, gifts large and small, joys large and small, shiny plants large and small.
Time for more making, doing, large and small.

Petite and grandiose Love.

Al emailed me last night to stand with him in Bali.
Hmmm, I thought, a rather odd request to travel with him - where was Tipper?
Opening the email from Al I learned that he's speaking to U.N. delegates in the aforementioned about global warming, and could I please sign this petition.
I did, bien sur.
Off shortly to the holiday fete thrown by the Shiney Happy Mag, at Empire on Hertel. You know, Hertel, the desolate wasteland of the youth of Yours Truly which now sports several places to sup, sip, shop for do-dads.
The last-running Republican candidate, that oddball Mitt Romney, was heard moments ago on NPR blathering about his religious beliefs. Stating also that this country is ever-espousing a religion of secularism.
YT imagines the ghosts of all our fore-Americans quivering with not only mild rage but an awe at how a concept - a humble attempt at explication of the spiritual/unembodied - had become a political tool.
As it soon is the birth anniversary of The Nephew, meandered into Hollister to glean a gift of some sort. He's selected a fine restaurant for the fam to sup in celebration of his emergence. And, like his crediting YT for his rock & roll tendencies, for this I am quite pleased and proud.

888-995-hope, not 800-995-hope, as our president stated earlier, is the number for Americans getting bounced out of their homes to call for squeezing into FHA loans.
Apparently the wrong people were barraged with calls from their freaked-out countrymen.

Far-reaching, Love.

I heard the unmistakable clang-clang-cluh-clang of a handbell in the midst of a rollicking rock & roll exhibition at MCA in ChIll.
That'd be Museum of Contemporary Arts in Chicago, Illinois to those in the absolute Know.
There cluh-cluh-clanging as he did a little jig was Tony Conrad in usual ensemble of simple t & shiny pants, as part of a video installation by artstar Tony Oursler.
A really fabulous moment of unexpected delight when one rounds a corner and is in the midst of a living art dream.
Oursler made separate vids of five musicians, filming them and then adding a color atop their segment, projecting them onto various plastic screens all about a gallery.
All together the looped vids of varying lengths became an improv piece of music. Suddenly there was Kim Gordon down on her knees doing her guitar thing. Then she'd fade out and there was Tony again. And Lee Renaldo, and others.
assume vivid astro focus had some - bien sur - complex decals roaming up various walls in MCA. Definitely not as powerful as a full-on avaf installation with music and lights as experienced at Dia or Whitney Biennial in recent past.
MCA in ChIll was also venue for Chicago Tentet gig that was sublime, really the best heard by Yours Truly to date.
To steal an apropos adj from a reviewer for the Tribune, the leathery phrasing of Peter + the international superstar players.
Added this time, newbies to YT, were Jeb, and Johannes. Who've been Tentet members before but not whilst being listened to by me.
Me, Kennedy, and MaryD crashed a party (after more five-star ChIll sushi at Kamehachi) that PB invited us to in honour of the nuptials of Jeb and his wife Jaki.
We climbed several flights of stairs to discover a warm buffet of conversation with the newfreejazz people - and additions.
Saw the sound installation made by Fred L-H at the conservatory of Chicago, in their Fern Room, which, actual signs posted suggest, would make a small dinosaur feel at home.
The installation is solar-powered and is discreet cello feedback.
Also saw PB's exhibition at Corbett v. Dempsey, and acquired a signed copy of the catalog featuring a repro of the PB piece that is owned by YT.
I was slightly shocked to learn, after its pub, a few months ago, that underneath the repro is stated Collection of Nancy Parisi. Sans big green light from me.
Plane to be stuffed with those heading back to the Middling City shortly for an hour or so of cannery before landing in what promises to be a dusting of MC wintry goodness.

Winter Love, for goodness sake.

Realized that really, You need to see more more more from World's Largest Disco that transforms a niche of the Middling City into a writhing LoveFest annually.

So, to explicate: an image of one of the editors of Yours Truly doing the World's Most Enthusiastic YMCA ever; images from what YT has dubbed The Chest Hair Project and WLD is a fine place to glean these images as men employ both vrai and faux hairs to grand, disco effect; and some of the faux famous seen such as Evil, Cookie Monster, a ubiquitous boom box enthusiastic of disco era, gay cop of said YMCA penning and performing, and a disco-era Gene Simmons.

Off to the Windiest of Cities shortly for musing, music, art, art making, walk taking.

Easy, breezy Love.

HI Nancy, It was an absolute delight to see you! The kids are going around everywhere now pretending that they are Nancy The Photographer.

Now, here is Your assignment.
You are to waltz around and Be Yours Truly.
Drink some coffee, short or tall, rush about with a cam of Your choosing, make and do, strive for the big P, and just Be Nancy the Photog.

Your other assignment is to listen to the Dylan podcast narrated, ordered by Patti Smith.
josephvella@mac.com, bobdylan.com.
A nice accompaniment to a sunny, November day.

November in all time zones, by whatever name.

Whatever, Love.

For enhancement of Your day and viewing pleasure, here is the likeness of thee Erik Estrada - of CHiPS fame - with Yours Truly, an image made by Photo Pal Joey at World's Largest Disco this past samedi soir.
EE - not to be confused with poet e.e., or the Bummer Road's E.E. - threw his arms around every man and woman in a loving, disco-era gesture.
This was by far the best-ever WLD, the VIP action is hotter than ever, the dance floor seemed more electric this year, and all seemed like a fine-tuned party machine.
Never did see the screen emblazoned with the song that I sponsored in mem of Mark Freeland, hoping it was a disco tune more on the funky end of things - this would have pleased him.
∞
Still absolutely haunted by the following recipe (blithely, in quotes) that was recited to YT a few days before T-G by one who is in my Perfect sphere.

Two cans cream corn.
One can regular corn.
One egg, beaten.
One handful crushed crackers.
One quarter cup sliced scallions.
Mix together and slather into baking dish.
Crumble another handful of crushed crackers atop the whole danged thing.
Bake for a while.
This is called Scalloped Corn.
When I heard mention of Scalloped Corn, and being ever-inquisitive - as well as culinary - had to know, just know, what the h.e.double-hockey-sticks it is.
Another item that is added is pimentos. But this seems oso uncritical.
My recipe reciter stated:
It calls for pimentos, but all I had in the house was roasted red peppers. I put those in.
I did want to tell the reciter that they are one in the same, but did not.

Onwards to windy, somewhat sun-stippled Middling City points beyond.

Sipped, stippled Love.

Quel excellent, Perfect omen for this Thanksgiving day.
Yours Truly, whilst driving to deliver some snap-happy wedding images to a couple of newlyweds out in the southernmost Middling City tip, spotted a gaggle of wild turkeys, a total of nine, meandering on train tracks foraging for a snack.

In throes of feast-making.
Burners are on full blast, stuffing is being constructed, wine is being sipped. Bottles of champagne will be popped at the appropriate minute of this day to aid in celebration and expression of Gratitude for all things green, art, wondrous, lively.

Bon vivant, gracious Love.
And wild turkey gaggle Love, too.

Literal Harold just proffered up what Yours Truly considers a most genius culinary concept for the pending United States of American holiday - lobster bisque.
Rock lobsters and lobsters in general once grazed on our eastern, perhaps even western, coast.
They could be picked up out of the sea.
Things have changed.
But YT hypothesizes that the pilgrims and their culinary mentors, the native Indians, might have enjoyed these gnarled beasts.

To date YT has made lobster thermador several times, lobster rolls (paying homage to Lobster Shack in S. Portland), lobster bisque, and just plain ol' steamer lobsta.
Memory sprung: having sushi in a most excellent sushi joint in Vancouver, B.C. that served raw lobster. And, when the little, unlucky bastard was slipping away, the sushi chef squirted some fresh lemon juice onto his head to revive him momentarily.
A cruel sight to be sure.

YT is in throes of creative ecstasy as the coffee table book project is mine all mine. Documentation of the campuses - campii - of the big U for one year. Big book, lovely pages, with photos.
Mine all mine.
Just got word mere moments ago.

Time to make more, do more.
More more and more morsels of creative abundance, and the edible like.

Edible Love.

An image of Professor Freakonomics, Steven Levitt, from last week's meet & greet events.
Do note his very excellent nose, nearing Lennonesque nasal Perfection.
He signed a hillock of books, at some point told a media type that he realized that he thought like an economist so therefore became an economist.
He wears sensible Clarks shoes.
The NYT Freakonomics blog is a fine new bookmark entry.
En route shortly to the Middling City suburbs to dispense images/smiles/handiwork.
Amongst other weekend docket was the grand hoopla at Albright-Knox Art Gallery, the $1K/place/head affair. Saw several known to me and did spot one very excellent dress on a femme who I know, by South African designer Pepa Pombo.
This may be the same designer who was being worn by former Marilyn Manson beauette/starlet Rose Mcgowan. Perhaps not, however.
Weekend also included a stop at Michelle Gigante's Shakti Yoga Studio for another primo installation of her Diaspora Drum events.
Then all we Solid Gold Bookers booked on over to see Hubcap from Ithaca hit the Sportsmen stage.
The, amongst others, did a Teenage Fanclub tune.
Yours Truly was pleased.

Onwards.

Designer Love.

Merrily engaging in Pixel Management whilst off the grid so to speak.
Yesterday's rollicking gigs included ports made of a scientist, an official, real-life entomologist.
One who relishes all things bug.
Said scientist, upon the prodding of Yours Truly, brought out the goods.
Amongst the collection on hand was a giant water bug, caught by this entomologist in Peru, as in way way down south.
Where bugs grow in an el grande fashion for muy authentico terror.
Then the entomologist waltzed YT over to a freezer, your garden variety freezer atop a frigerator, to show, amongst other items, a centipede that grows up to a foot long (down down south in Peru I am certain that this creature would be measured in a metric fashion, so let us say the centipede would be approximately one-third of a meter fercrissakes).
This centipede, dig this, lunges off a cave wall to strike a poor, unsuspecting bat and kill it in a flash.
The entomologist pulled this specimen out of ethanol and, upon my serious photographic urging, is holding it out at me - a beautiful orange and yellow circle.

Now it is time for you to sit back and let YT tell one of her small handful of water bug tales.

The Giant Water Bug Tale: Itabashi-Ku, Tokyo.
V. Express
By: Yours Truly
For six weeks Tokyo had been explored by me, wending through its streets, subways, galleries, parks, temples, markets, stores, with a camera and a smattering of money. After working for four days with a Japanese man who was marketing manager for a food import corporation, and his treat of a, as he called it, traditional twelve-course Japanese dinner, had enough dough to take me and my pal to the resort town Nikko in the mountains.
Eventually, it was time to leave Japan.
This was sad, but it was time to jet back to the United States of America and resume the art teaching post in the woods of Maine.
Good byes were said.
Tears were shed.
A camera was nearly left behind on a train seat but, being Japan, filled with Japanese people who are Buddhists, the camera was turned in to a lost and found office.
The pal went to retrieve the camera and there was suspicion. Please describe the camera, the contents of the camera bag, and on.
Rejoined with camera, Yours Truly explained to pal that the camera could have been vaporized, it was the exposed film that would have been the tragic loss. The black & white film which would be hand-processed in a few days.
The colour film had all been exposed, processed, printed. And, as is Japanese custom, all the 4x6 proof prints were placed by some worker in adorable little folders with red covers.
It should be mentioned that in all these six weeks there were no tremors of the earthly sort, no earthquakes had bumped up the land on this volcanic island of mystery and gorgeousness.
Packing the one suitcase was a feat as, as is travel custom, goods had been acquired.
Gifts had been accepted.
At some point in the packing of the bag a gigantic water bug emerged, about four inches in length. In Japan, which also favours the metric system, this is approximately twenty centimeters. Or so. Or not.
Seeing the water bug move with insectual certainty, knowing he would remain on this island as I departed, having won his place in this spot, I screamed a primal scream that not only startled and disturbed the pal deeply, but froze the bug in its tracks.
The End.

Love of good bug tales.

Today is a tripartite holiday in the calendar/heart/mind of Yours Truly for it is the b-days of Liz and Polly, and also World Kindness Day which Lennon would have doubly-stamped his approval stamp upon.
World Kindness Day began in, of course, Tokyo.

*sidebar.
Recently learned of a Perfect Japanese word, kaizen, which seems is an appropriate one to glom onto on a day such as WKD.
Kaizen is a state of continuous improvement, always reaching for the Perfect.
Japan thought: Tokyo (one of the few cities that, upon landing, YT said - not in Japanese, not even in English - I could live here) is a masterful city, absolutely L.A. gigantic but with pockets of thematic areas, a bit like the Shiney Apple.
Ueno, Ueno des indeed.

One of yesterday's several engagements was to document another surprise fete, this one for a doc discovering that a friend of his and benefactor created an endowed chair in his honor.

Was at Heady's new digs yesterday, the nouveau vet offices, and hung most of the pet portraits in the waiting room. Big 16x20s of contemplative animals, the little love machines around us. While there saw some pals, and spoke to a phone installer who told me that I photographed him years ago for my former photo column, when he'd written a music history book of a portion of the Middling City, which I recalled Perfectly. It happened at the old Tap Room, upstairs at the former Masonic Lodge, and Gary Malaber et al performed and he not only broke, but presented YT with, a drumstick.
You just never know what tales and stumbles down into memory await.

Awaiting Love.

S U R P R I S E.
Is what we all shouted, after a spell, after we were sure that EL was in the proverbial house!
Alan had mere seconds before stated as he zoomed by Ed and me that She knew.
She does not know, we repeated, and repeated.
She came home with Polly and Cheryl, after a few art jaunts.
It seemed to take forever for them to enter.
Yours Truly was stationed in the middle of the living room, with cam.
As soon as she was well inside the door KaPoof - I flashed at her a few times to capture the second of recognition.
A fab party in honour of her fiftieth.
Made, as is trad, her b-day book stuffed with her likeness, wishes from friends and colleagues.

Readying for an evening of gig.

Surprised Love.

Trixie (a.k.a. Jodi), who celebrated a Scorpio b-day yesterday (1 mo jubilant b-day wish to yoooou, LA Woman), sent Yours Truly this truly amazing likeness of her Halloween self.
Ah, that parade of alter egos.
For those not in the Trixie Know, she does not usually have such sky-high, rockabillyesque hair.
In our recent correspondence YT asked how many wigs were employed for such effect.
I guess 2.5.
I am awaiting the answer.
She also does not feature ink of that ilk.

There was yesterday, in select parts around these parts, a hail storm.
Not of golf ball proportions but enough to render some of the biways a mushy, murky morass. (Sly ref to the Middling City's Channel 7 parlance of yore, steeped in alliteration.)
Noted that the 33 suddenly was a slow-down and, inching up, spotted the culprit situ - an SUV had gone airborne and landed halfway onto a guardrail.
Emergency road flares and rubberneckers did their post-situ things.
YT, having been in her fair share of car-related fiascoes, does not have a temper flare, contribute road flares, nor rubberneck, sending instead good wishes at the scene as I pass by.

Costume, car, careful Love.

Poor Firefox has been a-crashing all the livelong day.
But now, after being offline for most of the aft, it seems oso much better.
Imagine the Firefox lead office guy charging through office stating Heads will roll, get this fixed, and pronto.

Today is Election Day.
Yours Truly votes, and You should vote.
Sometimes YT is amazed by those who do not vote, who sniffle it off, I don't know where to vote, I don't know the issues, I don't know the candidates, it makes no difference if I vote or not.
Well, as One who Halloweened as thee Al as in Gore this past one I can assure you that Al knows that each and every vote does count.
And in local elections there are no electoral colleges - popular votes are one vote times how many actually hauled their arses into the booths.
Vote.

Last night went with Kennedy et al to Melt-Banana, Japanese noise quartet at the subterranean venue de musique - SoundLab, or SLab, as YT lovingly shortens it.
Had a very nice conversation with Baumann, it had been a while.
The band rollicked for about an hour and YT was so moved to buy their baseball v. of their t's with intriguing art by Fly, who signs his drawings Fly-2K7.
Before this jaunt bon-vivanted a bit of the night away with Sparky and Jana, at one of the favoured haunts which was sporting a new accessory, a young sax player stationed in a corner.
He (inevitably) renditioned up a Billy Joel tune and naturally the table talk (which did include the very jovial and oso hilarious Mary) turned to all things Piano Man.
Helped the girls slurp up some of their entree juices.
I had come in with my furry poof hat which, if all hairs are tucked up, appears to be a strange double-platinum 'fro.
I told Mary that I was not dining as I'm a supermodel and had a big shoot today.
This as we all imbibed non-oak-aged chardonnay with gutsy gusto.

Vote for Love.

Something from a last-month New York mag article caught my imagination whilst waiting for some image files to load, an article entitled Has Money Ruined Art? by Jerry Saltz.
It's about how market, prices, sizes, egos are becoming mega-dollar-signed grand.
It's well-known that collectors and curators descend upon thesis show openings (perhaps not with checkbooks but with mental checklists of what might be a possible viable art career via a few works that are the culmination of 2 or so years - one hopes - of sweat, fret, and tears) to seek out the Next Big Art Stars.
In this article Saltz writes that the M.F.A. has become the new M.B.A. - one's possible ticket to big earnings; and the spendiest collectors vie for a spot in the tomes of art history.
Thoughts naturally meander towards the past Parsons situ, beginning in '02 (after the fateful Mardi Gras notification via email from famed and favoured JR) and trailed along its scheduled path to August of '05 - a complicated decision to go and a complicated decision to stay.
Ultimately, the decision for acquiring the M.F.A. was (and perhaps should always be) a gift to self, to have time to mull in the whys of the practice, to read theory and history and just basically line the photo basket with Ideas. And to push the art/aesthetic comfort zone into something different - new people, places, tools.
Change, teaching, connections, contacts are the goals.
Committed to giving a piece to CEPA for their upcoming Biennial Auction, which YT always considers an honor to be asked and participate.
Always make something new for this event.
Speaking of new, art, event have yet to fetch the small framed drawing from the Hallwalls Members' Show.
Months ago.
Several Middling City people have said that tomorrow the first flakes may fly here.
There are still leaves on trees, not all yet yellowed, reddened, and fallen.
Kennedy and I wrapped a few gardenly items with burlap and I could not help but think of Marion Faller's (a toppermost undergrad hero/mentor/influence) documentation of wrapped flora. As I said to Kennedy, This is not an exact science. At least not in the hearsay-strewn, inexact Book of Science of Yours Truly.

Inexact, wind-strewn Love.

Early this morning Yours Truly actually overheard someone use the phrase sticky wicket in a seemingly normal conversation.
YT was flailing away at laptoply matters. The woman who uttered the phrase sticky wicket was one of those irritating mothers who speaks to their children as if everything is a delightful debate, or as if their lives in that moment are entrancing television shows with the volume just a touch too loud.
I felt the need to text Sparky to ask that she please never use the phrase sticky wicket. Ever.
And this means You, too.
Sparky sent along a message that she would never utter that phrase.
I really could not ever imagine Sparky saying those words together in one sentence but the occasional bandying about of suggestive quips in the midst of an adrenalized day is a primo way of taking a microscopic vacation.
Onto another, blazing pet peeve.
Last night had a gig and observed many people eating the catered finger foods as that is my job fercrissakes, not only the documenting of such occasions, but avoiding getting people in throes of enjoying said food.
Between frames if You will observed the pet peeve matter, saw a woman not only licking a finger but all her fingers. Con brio. In public.
Her disgusted pal, at least I hope that he was disgusted, hastily (but not soon enough) handed her a paper napkin.
But she had already licked off all the beige cheesey dip matter.
At the evening's near tail end sat with Liz and discussed several other types of matter, including YT doing a piece on Steve Kurtz and his artistic/bacterial super-woes.
YT will be attending, if allowed, hearings and the like.
One of YT's several heroes is Dominick Dunne (who I just discussed about fifteen minutes ago with Lorne and his uncle, a snowbird with a fading tan, about how DD is one of my favoured writers amid one of my guilty pleasures - VF - in midst of discussing favoured periodicals), and YT will channel his various prowesses to tell that Big Kurtz Tale.
Onwards, time to climb another tall downtown Middling City building as it is a ferocious big blue sky day.

Ferocious Big Love.

Happy Beggars' Night to You.
Sometimes I recall meandering the streets as a child on Beggars' Night, not a very candy-lucrative night as the following, I recall.
This image was sent to Yours Truly this fine morning by Paul and Mark and YT informed them that they are now my MexiCali Heroes.
Today and tomorrow I may just wear my dental (under)world badge to allow me a presence on the concrete floor of the Middling City Convention Center - for a conventioneer costume, of course.
Tonight going to the big screen screening at Shea's of Nosferatu, the horror classique of '22, with Annie, Sparky, and meeting up with Deb et al in the Spotlight Lounge for vino, and cheese cubes.
Been listening to ChemBro's latest in the car and have to go on record as saying that I am not sure I share the wonderment of Justice's latest. But perhaps JW,Esq. can fill me in on the special inter-molecular raison d'diggin' it.

Time to wend up north to dispense happiness and pixels captured on plastique.

Northern Love.

Interior shot made at Vive on the Middling City's east side yesterday during a gig there. Was there once before and it's on Wyoming Avenue off of East Ferry.
Observed that thee charismatic Reverend Darius Pridgen now has a Subway in a corner of his huge space of worship.
At Vive the vibe is subdued, adults in sort of living room areas watching television as kids scramble through the hallways. It's a far cry from the very funded, colorful lobbies and common rooms at places like Ronald McDonald House, Gilda's Club, and the like.
Observed the unpacking of clothing donations, most surprised to see that a donor saw fit to include a tea length beaded black dress. Just what your average refuge lady needs as part of her survival wardrobe.

Astonishing is, Yours Truly thinks, how most would have described the excellent Al Gore Halloween costume worn by YT on Friday night for Heather and Jeremy's hopping fete.
Wore the usual out stumping khakis, woolen blue blazer, striped shirt, and rep tie. Latter compliments of Kennedy and his late father.
Wore a name badge which read Hello My Name is Al.
Sparky looked fab as Global Warming with blacked-out front tooth and black eye. When asked we would reply Because Al beats up on Global Warming.
Last night rushed over to a Halloween disco at StillWater after another work day marathon. Met Sparky there and whilst meandering to find our dance spot saw Jana, Dean, and later Siobhan. Also spotted requisite Elvis, a few Britneys (though one claimed that she was so not, and no, the other was not my pedi girl), a Little Bo Peep, a raquetball player, and, amongst others, an ill-behaved Dorothy.
Dorothy was beyond impaired and YT had a word with one of her handlers, suggesting that they get Dorothy home in a jiff as she was about to be unconscious - or barfing.
Despite all this apparent activity the disco vibe was not optimum.
The dance floor was faux cobblestone and carpeting in StillWater's narrow faux courtyard. Still a nice moment, a nice weekend distraction, a valiant effort.
As we were uncostumed, Sparky and I decided to tell people that we were robots and moved as such.
You see, costumes may be conceptual, far from the madding world of celebutante and porn-inspired duds.
Time to further make and due as my pixel-rich world is a full and lush one indeed.

Pixelated, robotic Love.

At last, an image of Beah from the event on the 24th.
This is a pre-event, a media meet & greet and book signing that happened in Center for the Arts.
Beah was running late and he came into the green room very quietly, then he spoke in a quiet voice about his story.
He emphasized at this pre-event and at the event itself that he chooses to always focus on the positive. So, for example, when he cannot sleep, which is most of the time, he uses that time to write. And when he was a student at Hunter, he studied.
His eyes are incredible, when you look into them they are reading the situ like a writer does, and emanate gentleness.
He signs his signature in grand, flowing letters and, when asked why he doesn't shorten it so that his signings could go more quickly, he stated Well, I began doing my signature like this and I want everyone's to be the same. What would they think if theirs was different from the earlier ones.
There was a quiet around the reception for him following this first event, and then at his talk in Alumni Arena.
He gravitates toward people of his own age and I thought that must be because he spends a lot of time around people who help manage things for him who are older.
He read from his book a lot and Yours Truly was most impressed by his focus, and his total recall memory.
Onwards.
Yesterday had an exchange, in one of the favoured nail joints whilst practicing good toe management between gigs, that could best be filed under Odd Name Selection.
Snippet of conversation most arresting.
(over whir of massage chair, bad 80s movie playing on a distant wall, swishing of water)
I remember you, you were here last time also working on your computer.
Yes, that's right, the morning that your boss (looking around) had car trouble, where is he.
We were slow so he went to the doctor.
What is your name, you didn't tell me last time.
Renée.
Renée, YT queried thusly.
No, Britney, the young lady's face settling into a most pleased expression.
Britney, YT repeated.
Thinking for a good thirty seconds what in hell would inspire a Viet Namese femme roughly Brit's age to appropriate her name, given all the chaos and all.
Onwards again.
One of the gigs of yesterThursday was making images at a dental convention.
One thing that YT found most curious is that a majority of the vendor booths featured prominently displayed bowls of candy. One even had a cotton candy machine.
Sure, there's the entire Drumming Up Business logic, but this is being carried out on their own.
Dentists, a ruthless bunch.

Whirling, ruthless, Love.

Happy United Nations Day to You,
Happy United Nations Day to You,
Happy United Nations Day to You-ooo,
Happy United Nations Day to You.

Appropriately, today former child soldier Ishmael Beah, of A Long Way Gone memoir/fame, comes to the Middling City, to speak at the Big U.
Yours Truly will be documenting his visit, making snap-happy images of Beah solo and with listeners.
Very much looking forward to this, and hearing his story live.
The NYT excerpted his book in their mag before the book's pub date, and it really is tear-inducing sad surrealism in real life.
Will be becoming beloved Al Gore for Halloween costume for the Friday night soirée of Heather, Jeremy et al. Sparky and I are creating a dual costume as she will be Global Warming. We conceptualized some excellent ways to personify this.
Al, on the other hand, is tough. YT needs a blue blazer, a Tennessee accent with deep resonant tones and inflection at the ends of most sentences.
And, to be truly in character, I will have to eat all bowls of dip on site.
So, cozy up with a good periodical about the state of the world, or a laptop, a nice free trade cuppa joe, and celebrate this fine fine day.

Cuppa Love.

Yours Truly is naming today Interpol Day, & a Happy V-Day to Vincenzo.
As in Shiney Apple rock band, and not as in that international space and time agency.
When One loops One's interests to the html world One must remember to include the SA's triad of initials after the I-word to not land into a site most non-lyrical.
Today broke fast with Sparky in a joint in the shadow of Father Baker's Place, where we meandered afterwards to look at souvenirs, and light some candles.
I thought it'd also be a grand idea to look at some artful marble.
In FBP there was a throng of casually-dressed people facing the action as men began to pass baskets. I and Sparky tossed in some money before heading to the candle station where we paid more for the unscented white pillars of the community of well-wishers.
Down in the souvenir shop we saw some very curious items, besides the usual magnets, charms, and handcrafted objects.
Sparky and I parted ways down divergent aisles of goods and promised services and when we rejoined she queried thusly: Do you know what Jesus's favorite sport is.
To which I rattled off what I thought were some appropriate, athletic answers, assuming that the pacifistic Jesus indulged in sweating activities.
She led me to a far-off corner of the shoppe and pointed to a shelf where there - there - was a print of a presumed original watercolor depicting Jesus engaged in ... horseshoes.
There was Jesus, looking really tan and happy, very movie star, next to two older senior citizens, who looked to be American/German/French/Irish (they were white, not Mediterranean), engaged in the sport.
All three hold their horseshoes aloft, ready to throw.
∞

Catherine Parker has a new show up at InSite Gallery and zoomed over there on Friday night. Met her daughter Chris for the premier time. There saw several, including lovely Geri who asked me to stop over at her and Jimmie's place as well as stop over at TruTeas to meet a friend of hers from Rwanda, here on a grant, a femme who created an agency for orphans.
Catherine's work, as always, illuminates.
Already own three but thought of how to shoehorn another lovely one into the salon-style-hung mix.

Salon & Café Society Love.

Wrote to Literal Harold moments ago to state that Bien sur Yours Truly would like to head deep down south on a Wrestlemania junket to shoot images of faux tans/teeth/tits/bods, wrapped in satiny and baby-oiled goodness, for the sake of goodness and VH1 veracity.
Last night experienced an all-girl extravaganza for the birthday of YT, a blend of old and new pals, chez Cheryl and Ed and Flora.
Platters of dreamy cheeses, sushi, Liz's Greentinis (in honour of the favoured and life-infused green palette of choice), Veuve Cliquot, and white wines.
The girls outdid themselves with generous gifts, and bon vivantness.

The parents have officially relocated to Amherst, that Middling City suburb of surly cops in silver cars, strip malls, and a few neighborhoods sinking into wetlands asserting their wetness.
There was a little mix-up of information and so arrived at the home of yore a day after they'd moved, sitting in car in driveway of childhood, phoning the old number to hear the troubling, three-note tone that something is amiss and changed.
My parents have a new phone number, house, quadrant to call home.
Not one that features reclaiming wetlands.
Called the new number from memory and got a recorded message of a Steve (+ Polish last name) so left the following message: Mom, Dad, this is Nancy, is this your new number.
You see, the new house in Amherst was owned by a Polish fam and the man who did live in the house died. So, YT posits, this is the number of that man, the parents have not changed message on machine or on answering service. Who knows, perhaps that fancy-schmancy M.C. suburb offers its residents free answering service all the livelong day.
YT's father called minutes later.
Said Hey, did you just get my message.
He did not.
You did NOT just receive a message on answering machine from me.
Nope.
My sister also did not know that the parents had a new phone number already.
Or what that number is.
And now Steve the Polish man knows that my parents, in their Big Move, forgot a few details.
Add Yourself to that list.

Always trying to remember all the details, Love.

Completely, utterly minding the business of Yours Truly for really Yours is too much extra-super-bonus business to mind, saw black smoke.
Thick, uh-oh-this-spells-disaster black smoke, pluming over Hamburg Street.
Slowing, nearly stopping, at the 190 overpass saw FLAMES.
So, did what any good photog worth their sweet pixels would do, cranked a left turn and headed toward the danger-center.
Ditched the car on S.Park Ave. @ Sidway and walked to the fire, cam on neck.
Met up with a wizened neighborhood granny who accompanied YT to the fire hoses.
Spotting the cam she asked You a reporter.
Yeah, I'm a reporter, YT replied.
You with t.v. granny asked.
No.
After a puff of her all-white cig she told me some big fam news:
My daughter is going to New York to meet Harry Potter, she won that contest.
On the radio, YT queried.
Yes, the radio, and that R.K. Rollins is going to sign her book.
That's exciting, YT gushed with zeal, happy for granny's daughter's big op.
Onwards.
Fire hoses already on the side street and a little boy's companions stated to me and all the adults in proximity that he was upset because his yard was on fire.
No, another girl corrected her, part of his house is on fire.
He had on a smudged white undershirt and did look anxious.
Others were anxious as well, all their stuff going up in flames as the neighborhood watched silently, all grieving for what was normal a few moments ago.
The air was wretched with the fumes of vinyl siding melting away, assuredly more toxic than whatever molecules float away from asbestos siding when that is scraped.
YT had an exterior painting gig aeons ago that involved scraping and painting siding which much into the job was discovered to be the a-word.
During the flameshoot noted the NASCAR Zubaz, pictured above, and was compelled to document this neighborly fashion.


Up in flames, Love.

Here we Solid Gold Bookers are - the posse - post-pole lecture.
Our inundation of spin, grab, and circumnavigation techniques via Chelsea, who Star lovingly called Teacher all night.
Destiny, me, et al (Cherry, Candy, Bubbles, Ginger, Roxie, and Lexus) still have some pole-given bruises, and a concurrent and newfound respect for the dancers of the world who employ a pole in their shows.
It all looks so easy, but let me tell You that a fireman spin out of a pirouette and into back slide to kitten crawl is oso challenging.
*sidenote: thanks to Chan Marshall for poesie this fine autumn day, a much-needed burst of words and summoning.
It should be noted that Teacher/Chelsea, a woman in the pole know, says we all now know more than several Middling City strippers, in terms of pole savvy.
It was a stupendous birthday fete, my SGB girls completely and utterly rock.
And for our next trick.

Just came from the ballet with Brucey, over at Rockwell, a Neglia affair.
I opted for this choice instead of my art event of sorts, a bennie up at Carnegie Art Center in North Tonawanda, where Jen Bullard and I shoved two coffin gurneys that we garbage picked into one of my earlier Subarus.
CAC is also where Yours Truly and Josh Marks and Theodore Pelton exhibited our fab Conflagration, a collaborative project.
The benefit features artist-made bookmarks and mine is entitled Spine Flowers as I photographed some gorgeous leather volumes with gold-leafed floral motifs. The photo is surrounded by Italian paper. Other side is another voluminous image, more abstracted, and also surrounded by Italian paper. And some great ribbon, two different patterns, coming out of the hole-punched toppermost.
Back to the ballet.
I saw Baba Yaga before and that previous set design seemed a bit better: I didn't quite get the hydraulic chicken feet below the large, Ozlike head.
Bruce's next door neighbor kid, Rory, was a goblin and a skeleton. Sparky was also a skeleton and evil stepmother. Bruce Fisher and Eric Clauss both had daughters in the show. Hard to tell who was who with the spooky costumes and all.
Reminded Bruce of the time we went with fam to see my niece, fellow b-day girl Katharine, in a school musical called Rats and the entire time I rooted for and beamed with pride at the wrong rat.
At ballet intermission the two moms in front of us were talking and Happy Jack's came up (like a bad helping of over-fried fried menu items).
I leaned forward (something that transpires daily in the MC - the friendly, mid-western conversation interruption) and said Did you say Happy Jack's, I was just there last Monday.
The mom said I couldn't believe how bad it was.
I concurred.
We compared some other notes.
What we ordered, what showed up at table, what was ingested, what was avoided.
After the ballet meandered into Burchfield-Penney Art Centre where there was some fab live percussing. And looked once again at Jack Drummer's excellent abstract works on rubber.
Time to late make and do.

Percussion, Love, percussion.

Perusing and musing upon the images above You wonder.
Monk, Lennon, Toshi, Yours Truly.

It is here duly notated and noted that Literal Harold made the image of YT, up in Ontario after we dined at Happy Jack's. A childhood memory for both of us. A place where it's difficult to order anything green, non-fried. We each ordered fancy cocktails, with promising names. In lieu of these promised bevvies with exotic ingredient, we received pineapple juice with probably whatever bottle was closest. Literal Harold's arrived in a hurricane glass, mine in ceramic pineapple. This image of YT was made down the road a piece alongside May Wah (or was it Mah Johng), where YT asked Do you feel in competition with next door. To which they politely answered No, we focus more on fresh foods here. We discovered this sign closer to a biker kind of bbq joint whose name escapes me, where they proffer up Feeb on Meck for a really good price, despite the loonie-to-dollar relationship.

What do we all have in common.
Well, let me tell You.
Lennon and Toshi celebrated the anniversary of their births on 10/9.
Monk and Yours Truly yesterday, 10/10.
Most fanciful fun, a cavalcade of messages and wishes via all genres of media for b-day wishes. A celebratory dinner with Kennedy, with the fam, and tonight with the Solid Gold Bookers posse to be followed by pole dancing class.
YT assigned to one and all pole dancing nomenclatures.
Tonight, at the privée 9 p.m. class, YT becomes Destiny.
Depending on the action there may be photos posted tomorrow post haste.
Post pole interplay.
Time for more pixel management and more.

Polling about Love.

Today is a day most somber, most fete-ful, football-rich, seeped in confusion for it is once again Columbus Day.
The day of our fair Republic's nascence - in the hearts and minds of opportunists, spice enthusiasts, revelers, the business-minded, and those embracing Big Change.
On this very day in 1492 (Columbus sailed the ocean blue on this day in '92, rah-rah) an Italian (but he actually might not be Italian) chanced upon what he believed to be an island, searching for India.
Or the West Indies.
Hence, when Christopher Columbus and crew saw those who were freaking out upon the rocky shores, he dubbed them Indians. And then became renowned for this big error/discovery.
Henceforth, this non-island was notated and on the proverbial map.
Which leads us to today, and today's newsy-bits.
There are several protests on this day by Native Americans for what ensued after the discovery of the non-India non-island.
Despite all this, and our heart-breaking involvement in an economy-razing, morale-sapping, evil and misguided war, the country is still Home, a Democracy.
Reading the Manchester Guardian last night (it is worth Your while to take a peek at the Europress musings on our fair land) read opining about one of the Republican candidates, Mitt Romney.
I believe that one big blotch hanging over this land, a complaint, is that in our Republic nobody but millionaires these days dare run for presidential thumbs-ups/nomination.
In this piece about Romney it is remarked upon that a large percentage of Republicans are those who consider themselves evangelical Christians.
It was also remarked upon that our beloved President John Kennedy had to defend himself and his catholicism in the 60s and vowed to keep church and state separate.
That was four decades ago.
Now religious beliefs seep into political contexts and this seems, in my most Perfectly humble op, a tragic mistake.
Let Us collectively regroup.
Onwards.
This past Friday Yours Truly engaged in one of those completely LOST situs that only YT can muster. En route to Marty and Susan's for a lovely evening gathering in honour of a pal who decided not to arrive from the Shiney Apple after all - Janine - became so lost (in part thanks to MapQuest who gave me a bum steer ... love those agri-refs that persist in our Republic's lingua) that I nearly abandoned the big plan for a little vino, a little from-back-porch-gazing and camaraderie with old pals.
Called Susan to see if she could help me figure out the miasma. Hamburg, town of, is in midst of ripping up their Main Street to create rotaries and now the Main Street is one-way. So, realizing I had mucked up a missed right turn could not employ a Perfect U. So made a very large circle.
Susan did not answer this call so tried Liz.
Whilst speaking to Liz somehow came upon one of the necessary streets.
One thing YT does possess is an astonishing memory for place, if I've been somewhere once I can recall how to get somewhere almost my scent/vibe.
So once I found this missing link I was able to connect to the next two pitch-black twists and turns to find ... Marty/Susan, Liz/Alan, Mark/Polly, Broady, Cheryl/Ed.
YaY.
Rest of weekend was work marathon, a cavalcade of conversation with people known and unknown, a stew of words if You will of topics farflung and farwide.

Circled around, Love.

-my image made this past weekend at a sunny, suburban event.

Yours Truly is hard at work (not just in throes of pixel management and, as Literal Harold suggested oso wisely, this makes YT a pixie) coining a new phrase.
It goes something like this:

Remember the Bounce House.

Why, You query.
Well, in these troubling economic, and political times We should recall moments of great levity, bon vivantness, and healthy flusterments of fun.

And, if this is a distant memory, We might gaze upon the images of young people bouncing in a bounce house and, even if We ourselves, in our self-directedness, have never actually bounced in a bounce house, might imagine the hilarity of doing so.

A recap of this moment.
One crawls up an inflated ramp of sorts.
It is slippery.
The smell of the bounce house is related to the aroma of the mirror house at the Middling City's famed/feted/pilloried (depending on who is speaking) Albright-Knox Art Gallery with decades of footfall.
The bounce house reflects the world's primary colors and it is rather difficult to get up to speed, up to grand heights in mid-jump.
Even Philippe Halsman would have been challenged.
Everyone has fun, and is rather handicapped in the bounce house.
One cannot take the experience, or oneself, that seriously. For that wobbly moment.
So,
Remember the bounce house.

Primary, feted Love.

Just what in H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks were you just gazing at, You ask Yours Truly.
A detail shot from Liberty Building, one of the last remaining Lady Liberty Knobs, and YT is not talking body part(s).
The other image is looking down the side of Main Place Tower, where spiders have made their merry nests at what is for them Himalayan heights.

And the Middling City classic white sky image shows my thwartation, when the foisting of the digcam on the heaviest of Italian tripods could not yield a fine image of one of the Liberty statutes. Many attempts were made.
Now switching to Plan B on that one.
Had a guide of sorts for the rooftops and he would not join me out on the ledge for the latter image. I asked him to man a push-out window for YT, so I could finger grip something as I bent over to attempt the statuesque shot.
I said Now just hold the window like this so I can hang onto something.
Reached fingers around the metal frame as the guide began to close it on my fingers.
NO, I half-shouted, keep it open, like this.
Oh, was the suddenly getting-it reply and then I demi-arched over the side of the toppermost of the Libertine Building to not make the image I had previsualized.
In throes of writing a restaurant review of sorts for the Shiney Happy Mag and apparently I was causing some interest underneath my headphones, in the warm glow of my machine as a man hobbled up on crutches for the staff informed him that I am doing a piece on where he was to lunch.
He wanted to put in a plug for his fav menu item, the fish taco.
Now, in all the years that YT has dined out, and all over the world to boot, even patting myself on the back for eating crickets, balut (10-day old steamed ducklings in egg, whole), and snake, and horse, and whatever else is not springing to mind at this second, YT has never been able to wrap her mind around the concept of eating fish - in a taco shell. Never.
Tongue, alright.
Offal, maybe.
Fish. Maybe not.

Time to further wend and do.

Wending Love.