-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.

Yesterday photographed an area college's Homecoming, replete with game action, and a popcorn popper, and balloon-wielding boosters, before documenting all the Michael Moore activity at the big U.
Upon walking onto the stage he was visibly moved by the roar of the crowd and his ovation and for the first few moments seemed lost in his thoughts.
Then he rolled, and did his own roaring. For two and a half hours.
Moore signed every DVD, poster, book thrust in front of him, dispensed a lot of hugs, thanked everyone for their kind words.
As a photog many times you are expected to be there doing the gig but hanging back when needed - the best of us get this balance.
In the green room, not really green at all, asked thee Bruce Jackson to make an image of me and Moore and he gave me one of his big squeezes.
One obvious thing emanating from him is his love of women, he's a primo feminist.
At some point I thanked him, as millions of others have, for doing what he does.
I also added what I consider to be the highest compliment - Thanks for being born.
So at midnight, the last item signed, the last embrace ended, he posed with some of the big U staffers, including the public safety officers on duty, and left the big brick building, jetting back to the Shiney Apple, his other, sensible home.

Time to head to the next gig.
Shot the Yalem Memorial Race this fine a.m., momentous more than usual as the perp is locked up and getting the shit beaten out of him by his fellows.
Record turn-out, bag-piping, tearful moment of silence, and a big sun-hazed sky made for some fine fine making & doing.

Onwards.

Moore Love.