Ta rah rah boom tee ay.
Sped off to Baird Point at the BigU's suburban campus to make some spectacular fireworks images last night, after Marty & Susan's exurban barbecue where, amongst others, spotted Bad Ronald, sundry musicians, a few dogs, an oenophile, a plowed field, children fascinated by firecrackers, serious fireworks exploding over a stand of trees beyond the field, and general revelry.
The BigU's spectacle, really that of the town of Amherst, draws thousands of watchers.
Annie and I saw a crescent of the various displays alongside the mighty Niagara and on various golf courses. The Indian's casino, ever cashing in on collective interests, allegedly blew off some f-works on their sovereign land alongside the cataracts, celebrating the development of the country that would go on to marginalize their entire culture, leading to the backlash of casinos and tax-free gas and cigs.
The Amherst spectacularity was wonderful and was only sullied by a curious mix of music that was booming from one point near the lake, deafening about 30% of the watchers.
Stepped over blanketeers to get various angles and this image is one of about a dozen of superkeepers.
Kennedy referred to this and a few others as being my Maxfield Parrish images.
I concurred, and here is an exemplary image for Your perusal and edification.

Compare, contrast, write a limerick or haiku in honour of both of these epinw images du jour.
Your post-holiday wrap-up homework assignment.
Oh, ate the year's first hotdog yesterday at M&S's, sans bun, of course.

Contrasting Love.

Nance's Rippin' Believe This or Not.
Outside, some ultra-locals are imbibing the day away.
Yours Truly spotted a couple of them hobbling back to their lair with a suitcase (as it's politely called up north of the Middling City) of Buds.
Now, they're way into their cups.
There is the crackling of a grill, the meager shade of a backyard vinyl umbrella.
YT just went outside to feed the cats, being the Official Old First Ward Cat Lady and all.
Now, here comes the Believe This or Not portion of this Perfect Indy-Day tale.
Loudly, the ultras are regaling each other with tales accidental, as in I was there and then suddenly a crash/boom/bang and then I was ... oneupmanship always happens in these circumspect circumstances, as We all know in this fair, Democratic and dwindling Superstar Power.
One of the ultras kept subbing the word hemorrhoid for hemorrhage, sans ironical lilt of any sort.
YT will, as Perfect luck has it, be in the Shiney Apple during Restaurant Week, that prix fixe fest for lunch or din.

Onwards to more present matters.

Jesse Helm is deceased, a hateful art hater and it's an interesting intellectual or, more precisely, metaphysical argument to bandy about just where he might be at this moment. If one believes in the afterlife. With all that negativity is he metaphysically south.
YT is about to launch a little slip of paper over to the ultras, with this hate/Helms talkpoint written upon it.

As indy-day motors on YT listens to one of her newbiefinds, Band of Horses, a delightful NWn indie band.

This image was spotted on in internet system today, paired with a story of the sale of Getty Images to a private investment group for over a bill.


Last night Jakob Dylan had his special aura, as did one of his bandmates, that roadblush upon them that makes the heart patter a bit and yearn for something ... bigger.
His gig was good, despite the people about who did not give a hoot (don't pollute) about the Dylan onstage, nor his bandmates - the ol' Gold Mountain Band, is that it.
I said to Annie that the show would have been oso much better in a small dark venue with a cool refreshing bevvie in hand.

Time to wend out to a weenie roast south of here and then f-works way north of here, for The Book. Ahh, The Book.

Bookish, Lovish Love.

It is Independence Day's Eve.
And bottle rockets have been blasting off in the Middling City's Historic Old First Ward for weeks.
And then there is the occasional explosion that sounds like perhaps a car has been bombed, or a building collapsed.
Happy to hear/see that the Livery on Jersey Street will be shelled and saved by Savarino. Now there's a potential headline for the MC News. Your Truly should probably proffer up her excellently Perfect alliteration.
Hoping to gather spectacular images of the BigU-sited f-works tomorrow night for The Big Book.
Time to fly off to map out the gallery where the Paws for Charlie bennie takes place on July 13th, a Sunday.
To make sure that the foodstuffs, the YT-created craft project, that the auction item tables, and La Marimba do not collide.
Afterwards, a fine all-girlie dindin extravaganza and then TATS for Dylan's kid's band. Have seen and photographed The Wallflowers a few times. They were harmless enough.
Read: dullsville.
But, as Mish says, that Jakob is easy on the eyes.
Plus open-air musique is oso jubilant.

Open, airy Love.

A True Confession.
To be filed under B, for Baking.
Yours Truly, avid this & that, including cook, cannot bake (usually) to save her Perfect self.
Well, certain things can be mustered/baked. And have been good.
But things involving yeast, doughs, seem to be a challenge to my terminally-degreed, photog, Type A, organized self.
Last night, for example, told Kennedy I'd try a new pizza dough (keyword: dough) and used some rice flour. And followed directions, for we all know that baking is just a thesaurus toss away from chemistry - as in the confusing world of chem class.
So, there was YT last night, following the Shiney Happy Mag Best Of meet-up at Hallwalls, whipping up a little dough (yeast product) for some gourmet pizza.
Or so YT thought.
No rising took place.
YT re-read the recipe via Epicurious.
Yup, 1 t salt, 2 c four, splash of this, and dash of whatever else.
Like I said, no rising.
Finally, just spread the play-doughish matter around the official peel and topped with primo ingredients and then jerked it, true gourmet style, atop the nicely-heated pizza stone.
Several moments later.
Lovely ingredients atop a sort of baked cookie dough yeasty crust.
No, there is one pizza dough recipe that YT has seemingly mastered - with olive oil, really like a nice focaccia dough.
Now YT wishes that she'd paid more attention to Pahts all those years ago whilst he was mastering all types of bread bakings.

Live and bakingly learn.

Yeasting, feasting Love.

Nature, Nature, Nature.
Here is some Nature in the center of the Middling City, in the winding-roaded Forest Lawn Cemetery, where Yours Truly learned to drive with Margie Maloney calmly (really) on the passenger side of things.
And where Yours Truly, during her salad days, would scout out lovely fresh flowers from a dumping area hidden near a hillock.
There is a photo of YT made during an Oscar Wilde in the 80s, to which YT brought in armloads of fresh flowers gleaned from FL.

In these FL images there are geese and ducks lolling around Mirror Lake.
Images were also made of a green heron resting on a nearby limb.
Someone yesterday told me that there are more heron sightings than usual, that they have moved more inland.
There was also a report of a heron dipping down to eat a coy out of a small backyard pond.
Now that takes not only aerial cojones, but deft imagining.

Deft, daring Love, Love.

To be doubly filed under Y.
For Yuck, and Yikes.
Made happy, memorial, and rolling images at this year's Ride for Roswell, as is the wont of Yours Truly.
Beginnings and ends, and the light rains rolled in twice.
After nearly every rider had crossed the Big Finish, went to the tent of a private client, not the BigU, which hosts R4R.
Walking with riding team to our designated team portrait site felt an arm gripping my upper arm, a gesture that instantly annoys, of course.
Turning, discovered the gripper was one of the Middling City (and its attendant suburbs) lead advertorial attorneys of a certain genre.
He informed me that he is still available for s.e.x.
This character has made such other strange verbal utterances to YT in the past.
YT believes it is just a matter of time before said attorney ends up in hot water for some such harassment elsewhere.
In the case of YT, a clipping email is probably in order. On second thought, this person should not have email access, so a printed note (sans return address, bien sur) is best.

Onwards.

Arose early this fine morn to deploy out into the world to make some more images of the BigU for the Big Book that is pending. And, hopefully, teeming with images that are inspiring.
One image this fine morn was one involving a heron hanging onto a branch, discreetly centermost of the frame that also included some water, some grass, some mysterious MC clouds.

Cloudy, rainy Love.