Did me and the gang of girls learn a danged thang about vino last night at the tasting of Empire State vinewares at the Butler Mansion.
I think not.
And there was not much in the way of sustenance by the time Yours Truly meandered in with Michele and Siobhan, having just snacked at Europa which gets two enthusiastic hai-karate kicks.
The wino people had their usual tables set up at strategic corners and apparently were in their respective cups by the time we did arrive to meet up with Sparky and Annie.
Liane Hansen was speaking from nearly inside the fireplace and all I could make out through the several bodies was that she liked puzzles. Or The Puzzler. I could spy her in between people and didn't get a chance to say Hi or whatever.
But the vineyard cupsers were amusing.
One cherubically-faced girl talked smack about a man I had zero respect for at a nearby table as he'd used metal s-hooks to hang a heavy vinyl vineyard banner across an original nineteenth-century painting. Sparky, Siobhan and I went over to tell him how disturbing this was to us and he looked at us with psychotically glazed-over eyes to state that it was not bothering him and that the event was nearly over.
Realizing that this would be like attempting to rationally discuss a matter with a Grant Street crackhead, I wandered away.
So there was that guy.
Then there was another, who, the cherub told us, burnt a patch of his own chest hair off with a device he used (past tense, apparently) to purify the air around him of the stank of those around him.
We listened all rapt and shit and then wheeled around to have a look.
Siobhan noted that he had a wealth of hair left to burn.
We moved along then to the newish Stillwater to hear Heather and Fellas perform and she sang all songs in a foreign tongue. YT first thought it was a scatting episode but, no, it was Portuguese.
Some pesky men insisted we follow them along to another joint and we soundly rebuffed their feeble attempts at disarming our Perfect, maleless Fun.
My beloved mother, Fats, just called to inform that she has just received the lush bouquet I ordered for her so she would have it before the Day of Moms.

Love of Holidays.

Like so totally rockingout tomorrow night at Silversun Pickups gig at Town Casino with Sparky.
Today, after conducting some non-e-biz at the Mac store meandered over to this side of the state's v. of Sephora, much-anticipated.
It's not the hugest ever but will suffice.
Yours Truly had to keep reminding herself that upon leaving the joint I would not: be swept into the stream of B'Way, be looking into Union Square and sucked next into Diesel, wheedling to a random airport security person that they really should not/need not confiscate the nouvelle cuticle snippers.
The latter happened once. It was real sad.
Buh-buh-buh-but I just bought those.
To no avail.
In case You don't understand the why's or whichever's the reason that this store rocks is that they are a skincare/perfume/gadget/makeup Centre.
Onwards.
Time once again to rush to eat premiertimewise at Europa and then onwards to the BFO vino tasting with members of the bookgroup gang.
Talked to Liz today about the pending soirée extraordinaire we are plannng for our beloved Cheryl next week.
Flowers, Veuve Cliquot, Cameras, Action.

Rushing, Love.

Driving back into the Middling City last night, after an exurban gig, hit the endangered but awe-inspiring Skyway and, as happens up there, had eyes wandering to and fro.
Fro included a most puzzling sight.
Someone at HSBC, the city's tallest edifice, created by architect Yamasaki, who also drew and made happen the late (not great) World Trade Center in the Shiney Apple (and why-o-why is more not ever made of this fact), had arranged some lights on its southern-facing side that featured three colours and an incomprehensible shape or script.
It was not Sabres colours, also those of the MC (blue and gold, lest You have forgotten), like the nearby Rath Building display.
Red, green, blue lights shone out into the still-chilled air and Yours Truly decided it must be a few symbols of the I Ching.
These days in the MC it is not all that unusual to see a vehicle with Sabres sentiments used car lot shoe polished onto the windows.
Nor crews sawing away at trees.
Or women with pedicures wearing sandals, their toes frigid lavendar.
Read today via FlavorPill (link it over there, there, on the right) that another Andreas Gursky show hits the SA walls over at Matthew Marks Gallery: the next reason for a foray there. Last time YT was at a show by him +crew was at MoMA.
Pieces for the Artists & Models installation coming together.
Have to locate an opaque projector, like now.

Projected, opaque Love.