Ahhh, it's that time of year when the word prognostication gets dragged out of the lexicon into the light of day for it is Groundhog Day. At least in the northeastern portion of the USofA.
This is thee day when rodents, viable and stuffed, get to do just that regarding the duration of the season at hand. Prognostication of snaps, fronts, bands, accumulation.
Today at the university, between buildings, Ridge Lee Larry worked his deader-than-doorknob magic.
He, stuffed and adorned, and mounted onto a sliver of a log, is placed on a mound of snow in front of a faux groundhog hole and stares glassily out, in a twenty-yard stare, to tell the assembled if there will be more weeks of winter.
Or not.
There was no shadow (surprise) and so it is more winter.
While waiting for the festivities attached to the mounting of the dead and mounted Larry spoke to a few safety officers who showed up. They had nice, embroidered jackets and were there, they said, to check up on things. They had just run a fire alarm check but thought they'd check to see if the crockpots in a vestibule were not in danger of shortcircuiting. They said. I asked if perhaps they might also be concerned that Ridge Lee Larry was in harm's way - Larry's handler left him rather precariously next to the gas grill where dogs and burgers were roasting away. He is stuffed, old. I'm sure his pelt is quite crisp. I have never touched Larry. There was, in a scrapbook, an image of a student kissing Larry's face.
In conclusion:
Happy Ridge Lee Larry Day, Middling City.

Rodential Love.

Jubilant Immature Moment (a JIM, if You will) #87,433.
If You are like really incensed by generalizations, breeze along.
backstory: Middling City cabs are frightening and if viewed on any MC roadway steer clear for they are, generally speaking, un-maintained cabins of death. Their drivers are, generally speaking once again, people who are unaware, or perhaps on the lam. They are smoking. The cars have missing hubcaps. They are rust buckets, as we say in this grand Rust Belt. The cabbies resemble the little rectangles of photographic images of those who have done something grave in mags of distinction amid a harrowing piece of non-fiction.
In a more edgy sector of the MC I was being waved down by a cabbie. Immediate thought was of carjacking or something until the next thought was Of course, they have no GPS in the vehicle, nor maps, I presume, so he is lost and in need of coordinates. But I really was not into stopping where I was and rolling down passenger window and shouting directions across a thoroughfare so I did the natural thing. I pretended to not notice the large flailing arm rising out of the cab window. I motored along at law-abiding speed and the cabbie was driving alongside my vehicle flailing wildly. I pretended to be not only not noticing but singing along to a phantom loud tune on the radio. He began beeping madly. Still I stared emphatically ahead, singing along to … rien.
I was priding myself on not laughing and continued the ruse through a red light and a left turn.
The cabbie flagged down a poor, defenseless pedestrian.

Met Liz last night for vino. She does not get the whole Perfect Nancy Gun Moll Thing.
I tried to explain. It did not work. You either groove on the adrenaline of shooting targets well – or not.

Jubilant, immature Love.

Shoot for New Era went photographically, swimmingly.
Spike Lee of 40 Acres and a Mule fame directed this commercial featuring about eight or so national league baseball players - most surprisingly huge. One of average height, the rest sky high.
The shoot took place in front of the New Era joint (in honour of Spike and his Joints that select word) on e4. The baseballers were queued up, as were other fans, outside of the store meant to look as if they're waiting for ... caps.
A player arrives, a Twin. Number 33.
He stands in front of a lifesized cut-out of himself. There is a ruckus. A hotdog is thrown, a metal spatula is brandished. But this intrepid player will not go to the end of the line. He barges into the store as, as luck would have it, an actor playing a New Era employee shows up to unlock the stylish cap co.
Number 33 (have not yet given him a Google) enters and the others mutter GGGRRR, MVP, GRRR.
Justin Morneau.
Yayyyyyyyyyyyyy Twins, Yayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy Google.
So there Yours Truly is all brushed up against these players and I'm trying to overhear who in hell they might be. There were Mets, Yankees, uhhh, Devils. Nope, no Devils.
There was a prevalent Detroit brunette.
Spike is, as I had witnessed live and in person before, hesitant to show any type of joie de vivre, the man is all biz. Show biz.
It was only here and there when he'd pat a player on the back or praise one of their takes that he'd smile. Some t.v. newscrews asked him about the commercial but mostly about football. He gushed about going to the You-know-what.
At the lunch break I made some images of him demi-reposed in the front window of the New Era shoppe on some stylish chairs, Blackberrying away.
Notez bien: Mr. Lee is wearing a model of New Era cap that takes a special head and demeanour. I tried on said cap at the New Era grand op in the Middling City. It was so not me and I opted for the greenest of choices, sans earflaps.
I asked one of the New Era execs if they'd like an image with Mr. Lee.
Made some happy snaps of Spike with John of New Era and then of him and another New Era other.
Back to the Middling City shortly.
Happy in my vagabond state.

Spiked Love.

Realized that to date there was no epinw-based images of Yours Truly foisting firearm for Your beseeching eyes.

Spent yesterday in Perfect zone of looking, drifted from Kiki Smith show to a meander through the Whitney. I learned to absolutely love the Whitney several years ago after a strange belief that the venue was too department storelike - 4th floor Lingerie! 3rd floor Comestibles! But the stairwell is so warrenlike and soothing to YT now between the glowing exhibitions. The Kiki show was a swim in her many many objects and trials of different materials, all body/myth/Nature/wondrousness.

Hopped onto a bus a few blocks and debussed for the Met to see the Tiffany Laurelton Hall installation as I saw his magnolia windows in print and had to see these in the flesh/glass/lead/wood casements. And then found myself spending much time looking at metalworks from the Middle Ages, reliquaries mainly, metal arms outstretched with spots for the bone fragments of whomever, and silver birds, and Byzantine wonders. A treat, this whole journey, like a crispy Cortland with perfect white flesh on an equally crisp and perfect October day.

Also of note: opening in TriBeCa with Jason and Dorota up up up a rickety stairwell in a building on Walker that seemed near-demo quality to be met with a room of seated watchers watching a triad of digvids projected. Next room an atomic burst of flourescent tubes lashed together and forming a very large kind of non-functional shelter and the ineffectual volunteer was having a helluva time keeping tipplers and patrons from walking amid the glowing white that seered the eyes in a most KMart way. Much after had dinner with a bunch of Brooklyn creatives at Pink Pony and finangled the rock star circular booth in the back. Then onwards to the Knife Fight gig which was excellent, a complete 180, if You will, from the venue itself. Top floor jungled and smokey hanging. Second level people walking from back to front, club employees handling colored laser pointers randomly pointing them at people as if they were cattle to be controlled, moved, cajoled. Basement, where the music happened, was the most Middling Citylike of the levels, very Continental. Knife Fight was on. Their drummer, Foxy, is moving from the Shiney Apple back to KY. I thought that Geez, this kid will wake up one fine morn down there and rush right back on the next Greyhound to recapture the magic of being a rockstar and noticed and imbued with Shiney Apple purpose.

Speaking of such, time for out again into the Shiney Apple for more more and more.

Crisp fragment of Love.