Yesterday was a wedding shoot in a downtown Middling City hotel, an Orthodox Jewish wedding with lots of rituals, and traditional good photo ops.
When the vows were completed and the MazelTovMazelTov chorus of young rabble-rousing men was parading backwards behind Yours Truly, en masse we re-entered the hotel lobby.
Nearing the escalators there - there - was a tall slim man in a white suit with black lapels, a silver mask on his face. Standing. Watching. Comedy. Tragedy. Fellini. Bergman.
Much later heard that there was a Mardi Gras-themed fete in progress and so therefore this was not the MC's latest onsite loon.
During the reception infiltrated the men's quadrant of the hoopla ever so briefly to get some shots of the groom aloft and general mayhem when a large, black-clad arm came crashing onto the bridge of my nose. Officially now injured four times.
Friday was Gary's surprise party as he has become forty.
Michele wanted to have the swingin' affair in Karpeles Manuscript Museum (always shockingly fab of showcase content - at both locations) and I told her to namedrop YT to Chris Kelly, herr director. She did and he gave her a hefty discount, mental highfive to rock boys of yore.
So there We all are, setting up and ready to holler surprise.
I asked a few others just when Gary would be arriving.
Suddenly, I saw Michele's head at the front door and then I grabbed the cam, the Polaroid, charged toward Gary screaming SurpriseSurpriseSurprise.
He was like so not.
Apparently there was a cellphone mishap and he did the following calculation:
2 + 2.
It was still a fine soirée and at one point I rested my eyes upon a couple of showcases off against a wall of the former church, below one of its overdone windows showcasing some celestial event.
I asked Chris's assistant, Vanessa, if YT could wheel the thing out to the center of the room for some snaps of Gary in it, he being a Goth and obscure ambience fan.
She said Fine.
Gary was thrilled.
Time to make more, do more, just more more more and more.

Showcase teeming with Love.

*this just in*
And how many out there wherever can say that they received an email from an acquaintance, a prison clergyman of sorts, who is publicizing that he will gladly switch spots with that squinchy-eyed Paris Hilton and do the rest of her time for her. He hopes that she will instead of jail head right off to a place that will help her mend her ways. And perhaps cluelessness and horrid driving to boot.
Of course this is thee one and only Marty Angelo, former MC-based disco czar.