As Holly Golightly would say Quel day.
Up and running at crack of the dawning hour to see the smattering of snow.
I do not complain about snow, never - notez bien.
Skipped out to Park School to document a great keynote talk by brain and learning researcher (and pal of Tom Wolfe's, a point that perked up my small ears) Dr. Mel Levine who, apparently, has been on some of those self-help or book-help television shows.
Then onwards to park in the Hallwalls lot and catch the above-ground subway where it's gratis at West Tupper. I heard the helpful ringing bells that are rung maniacally to warn potentially off-kilter drivers, I presume, who are on verge of driving/diving down into the tunnel. This does happen periodically and Yours Truly follows these tales with intent, much like the stories of the bodies that turn up in the East River.
So on the above-ground subway I was.
Standing. Eavesdropping.
I heard a man at the back of the stench-ridden car telling a rapt femme about Lackawanna, how Lackawanna is a District of the Middling City.
And then his thoughts drifted to Converse Chuck Taylors the colour of pollution, deep black. And then he rambled about Bethlehem Steel and inter-racial strife.
I was on this stinkbomb, lest You wonder, as I was forewarned by those at the big U that, due to the NCAA proceedings, parking was nil.
I arrived and shot the heck out of the annual Match Day, an annual fav, whereby med students discover (via envelopes and computer print-outs) where they'll be jettisoning off to for the following year (definitely) and beyond.
There are squeals of delight, some grimaces, many draft pints of beer.
I was at the podium awaiting the onslaught and helped thee Dr. Nancy Nielsen shuffle all the envelopes so that they were no longer alphabetical as all the matchees are asked to drop a dollar in a basket and then the final matchee collects all the dough.
It is serious business. Maybe not as serious as the matching at hand. But really.
Traditions exist on all planes of import.

I am merrily chained to the laptop, editing like there is no tomorrow.
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, happy Ides of March.

Watch your back, Love.

Sloan last night was a rollicking throwdown.
My ticket was a holiday gift from Michele and the show was rescheduled due to some sort of border or licensing meltdown.
Me, Annie, Michele, Gary, the nephew, et about 7K other al, grooved to these Canadian boys this past summer at the Middling City's pro bono outdoor concert series, Thursday at the Square.
At one point during last night's concert I misheard Michele.
Another band, I queried.
No, she replied, The Other Man, seconds before they launched into her fav Sloan number.
Last night, pre-concert, supped with the fam at the downtown restaurant/boozehall Laughlin's and had to send back my few saladtop grilled shrimp as someone in the kitchen had forgotten the grilled part and I realized this halfway into one raw creature.
At some point between din and gig spoke with Sparky about her upcoming appearance as a slave in the Neglia production Spartacus.
We discussed at length earlier this week the controversial poster that featured the prominent ass of the company founder, Sergio Neglia. It appeared naked, completely devoid of dancerly tight.
In sooth the tights were so tight and flesh-coloured that they appeared invisible.
A protest of sorts ensued, the image was removed from a billboard and perhaps more.
Then it was someone's PhotoShop job to PhotoShop out the asscrack, to create a uni-cheek for Sergio.
Ahh, all is ass well in the Middling City, where the deaccession appears to be imminent despite protests, raucous meetings, threat of lawsuits, etc.
As You may recall, YT posted via Buffalo Rising online, a concise freakout about this tragic event.
What has been most shocking is the shortsightedness of those who wish these deftly-crafted items, 200 in all, to be scattered to the four winds, no longer a visual excitation for anyone traipsing through Albright-Knox Art Gallery.
The older should merge with the new and YT's thoughts immediately visits some of the finest galleries and musees in this human, hubris-filled world.
Where old and young pieces of all media mingle.
The gallery of RISD is a primo example of this style of curating and presentation.
My beloved Whitney always features the shows that visit as well as their wondrous collection which is there sans surprises. As I have written and stated many times.
You love that Kiki Smith/Jasper Johns/Whatever.
It is where you saw it last visit, same wall, waiting for you.
There is an article in today's NYT about the Albright-Knox sale.
The piece begins in a manner that makes the MC look most sad.

For a city that has lost so much unwillingly over the last several decades — industries, prestige, jobs and more than half its population — perhaps it was inevitable that a decision to allow anything of great value to leave here willingly would be met with howls of protest.

The AKAG ditches priceless objets for speculative newbies on the scene.
This prospecting amid an art market that has gone mad in favour of artists, yes, but prices soar and the curators at this mid-sized gallery clamor for pieces on the top-40 lists - so the collection resembles more and more a greatest hits compilation.

Toss in the unexpected priceless links between ideas and cultures.
To see examples of what's to be auctioned off viewers will have to daytrip or fewdaytrip to Cleveland, TO, Rochester.

Sad sad art day, Love.

As Kennedy so astutely noted, no one ever claims to have been purposely landing on the Middling City's ranging cable access station.
They were just noodling about.
So at this moment there is a handful of people who have reported that they saw the televisional likeness of Yours Truly on same electronic outpost.
Back story.
A few years back You may recall that YT blogged about the surreal circumstances of that breakup of about four years ago.
And Richard Wicka asked about three or so years ago if I'd participate in his five minute series whereby individuals sit in front of his vid cam and, with camera rollin' rollin', talk and tell.
My narrative was about the above. Following that humourous retelling Richard peppered me with about fifty questions ranging from serious to utterly ridiculous, fashioned to eke out responses galore.
One of these questions was What was the worst gift you have ever received.
Sans hesitation I replied that it was a Valentine's gift from the young man inferred to above. His odd forays into the realm of humour were usually painful, sometimes just plain annoying.
For Valentine's Day one year he thought it'd be fun and funny to purchase me a vibrator.
I found it to be an odd sentiment, choice, gift, message.
I was going to run a classified ad in the newspaper where I was working.
Unused vibrator for sale. $5.00 or best offer.
Then I did not.
Instead, YT left it on the bar at Nietzsche's one fine evening after a full night of roaming and shooting.
I left it running.
I moved away from it and enjoyed the reactions of men and women confronted with an odd bartop embellishment.

The End.

Not the end of Love, Love, ever.