This AM phoned Dragon Boy to wish him one fine Cinquo de B-Day and we spoke for the first time in mos. and mos. - and loffed and loffed. But we are still in the NoGoZone and that is the way it is. He is 34. He is Solvent. To that I said Ummmm, yes, you told me that already and congrats for that. We then discussed our respective hangovers as that's the way of it, of us, was of us.
And to dangle what the story was:
(from The Tell by YT)
I imagine, beyond imagining, I know it as well as I know the spaces of what I lose on a night of binging like a conventioneer as he does in cycles, that he ruminates on where our steadiness faltered, how the dysfunction worked, and what I never told.

And to that a good night, a good 5/5.

5/5 Love.

Special Memo to All Musicians, Bands and the Like:
If Yours Truly requests a special tune, namely WipeOut, a drummer's paradise so to speak, and your respective band/combo/whatevertet features a drummer of merit then please comply. To not honour such request not only displeases me but spreads minor bad karma as this is one of the world's premier party songs and drummers, the underloved band member, need to let off a little showcasing steam.
Thanks for your attention in this matter.

Onwards to the business of dreams. Next item on agenda for this blogpost.
Champagne-fueled dreams featured an upper middleclass femme first shoving me in the kitchen of Kennedy and then lunging for and threatening YT with the knife. It turns out this hulking woman was a fan of crack and her friend, accompanying her and watching the domestic chaos was apologizing for her pal's behaviour. Be understanding. Be empathetic. Fuck no. I called the cops after I told Kennedy what had transpired. Cops searched the house and found Ms. Knife hiding in the basement. All you dream enthusiasts have fun with this.

On an errand today saw Nate en route to his joint, balancing snack and keys and forgot to tell him the new Tori has grown on me. And, as rock is now on the agenda. Has anyone noted that Liam Gallagher is morphing into Ringo Starr. Just received SPIN for now and it's clear as a good digital image that's that what's happening with his facial molecules.

Molecular Love.

Art. Nature.

Words cannot begin to describe how ecstatic I am at this moment - You are witnessing exciting history as I finally, finally!, post a jpeg to epinw.
This is Yours Truly in Central Park, documented pre-artwork make by Little Laura.
The night before was supping with steaks and scotch and this is a sunny day with what she refers to as Swamp Thing emanating from Frederick Law Olmsted-placed rocks. He was working out. It was 45º.
Today in the Middling City it is much the same.
Now, lest You think I am procrastinating very badly, or very well, this uploading of images is an exercise in work-relatedness and I am thinking the site that will host my images, BuzzNet, is how I am going to post my research project for the online miasma.

Historical Love.

So, in its entirety, is the Perfect pome, about YT, sent to epinw h.q. by its maker, Robert Nesbitt. Replete with odd spacings along the page opted out of.

The Photographer (to Nancy Parisi)

What has happened?

I always wonder if that's you
or someone who looks like you
with a camera

How do you maintain
anonymity
so perfectly
unobtrusive, invisible

of course it serves you
and you have cultivated . . .

a magic garden of skills
blossoms flash
dazzling the eye of the beholder

Capture moments more concisely
than the quantum physicist
not breaking
but stabilizing
bearing new dimension
by forgiving one


Um, what the f-bomb can I say but Hell YEAH, I sure do have a magic garden of skills and what gal doesn't want to be compared to a quantum physicist.
Shot a few events yesterday, including the famed Oozefest at Middling City U in a gentle downpour and, as is always tradition, several young male co-eds opened wide their arms as if to grab me in their teasing muddy embrace to which I always disappoint by not squealing and just giving them a much diluted version of the PaintMelt Stare. Then moved on hours later to a wedding day, capturing that second when the magic words are spoken and ka-poof a couple becomes married. Read between lines here, Yours Truly feels this is nonsense. A public and already-known pledge of ongoingness is a beautiful thing but a couple doing so has already done this between them. But a swell party usually does follow.
Magic words include moment of saying This is over, I quit, I love you, Yeah sign me up, etc.
It's an Interpol day and it's time time time to go make some digvid art happen.

Happening Love.

To be filed under Like so totally stressed out and disarmingly distracted.
D, lest You are not up to par on your filing skills.
Wow, now doesn't that remind me of a tale of Yours Truly in her college/first-round salad days when I was a highly-paid non-internistic office worker at the on-campus corporation which I also worked for as Cultural and Performing Arts Chairman. So I was corporate double-dipping, if you will.
And working with a bunch of jaded grownups, all into their tasks at hand while I had to sometimes file requisition forms by Number. And then sometimes, in my daydreaming wanderlust and distraction (much like that previously mentioned) I'd be filing along and think Oh, SHIT, this one is not even close. And then I'd see there would be whole subsets of misfiled forms. And sometimes I'd go back and fix the situation or just think Really, who needs to see this crap again, and move on.
Then, years later (I am so on a filing memory roll here so go with it), this is where at the bottom of screen the words Five Years Later flash on screen, I am temping at some bigger, publicly-traded corporation and I'm sealed up in the bowels/tomb of this joint, filing for aeons. This was the trust department of a bank and I'd get lost in the tomb for hours as I had access to basically the back stories of scads of dead people and I'd look at their memorabilia, their passbooks, whatever. It was much like my stint as housekeeper/watcher/gardener at the North Buffalo home of a deceased lady and world traveler for a year.
So there I am, Wednesday night, campus of Niagara University, not too far from Toxicville.
Basically I live out of three bags - laptop, digital camera, film camera: I am a commuter in all aspects of my life.
So I grab one bag and shut car door, realizing in that nanosecond that keys to life are in bag #2.
Quick thinkathon.
Gig is starting in minutes so, in a nutshell, parents were called and they rescued me as AAA was called and the man on the phone had some confusion and had never heard of Niagara Falls ever. I imagined waiting on the campus, huddled against a closed 70's-era building for half the night. So Mr. & Mrs. Perfect, my mom and dad, rescued me. We were talking on our cell phones and they were saying We're in front of such and such. To which I replied But I'm in front of such and such. And, in the midst of a few bedraggled co-eds were they. Parents to the rescue. And, sadly, this is only the beginning. As the stress of cross-state travel, thesis thinking and writing, term paper r&d, freelance fulltimeness, basic life logistics chugs along I find myself in self-amazement at how things slip through the cracks of reason.
Many Did I just tell you thises. Lost keys, lost books, lost everything.
But then, mid-August, if all goes swimmingly, as JR thinks it might, I'll be a new Master. Of You. Of the Universe. Of all things interconnected, challenging and Olympiad in execution.
Salman Rushdie last night at Middling City U ended a lecture largely about the nature of writing and being a writer thinker with these words:
That's the job of it.

Love's Job.

JR wrote to me today to say he has all sorts of confidence in my ability not only to get my thesis done but to defend it brilliantly. Well, glad he thinks so.
There was a communique from Parsons School of Defense Mechanisms stating that the thesis and work and statement are to be completed quickfastinahurry and then defense of said thesis will happen in front of a panel of five people who each get ten minutes to rake us over the coals, so to speak.
And I have to make new digvid work, and make editing time. And write a paper for the online class. And continue to work to pay for all of the above.
Did a reading yesterday at roughly 745 PM as part of the poetry marathon Urban Epiphany. Read about five and finished with a story poem I wrote called The Tell. About using the poker notion of the tell, the giveaway signifier of aother's gestures, to know when they're bullshitting, lying, etc.
Was approached afterwards by amongst others RD Pohl who edits pomes for Middling City News who asked that I send him some words for publishing, especially one for Creeley = Believe.
Time to make the longass drive to my dentist for the pro cleaning by the woman whose name I can never remember and make small talk all the while, or most of the while, while she does her thing. She usually asks about school. Maybe I'll suggest beforehand we avoid this topic completely as I don't want to be responsible for the loss of any of her pro digits.
Driving with Kennedy tonight to see some jazz in Rochester. A road trip. Of jazz proportions.

Proportionate Love.

Had an interesting meet-up with a Mad Scientist yesterday. For a shoot for Middling City U.
The Mad Scientist (heretofore dubbed MS) revealed to me nearly immediately
(here I would like to interject that as I'm trying to blog, a brief respite from concurrently going blind and reading online articles for class, being a really good grad student, I am being distracted by a fat lezbo drumming a nearby table with her fucking chopsticks and I am listening to Interpol on iTunes yet I can still hear the clinkclinkclink and I'm about to go over and grab the chopsticks out of her chubby hands and throw them across the tea house. Then I'd like to ask her overly-mascara'd date this How in blazes can you put up with this crap.) that he had Cyber-stalked me, Googled me. He said You've done a lot of weird things. Now, as You can probably imagine, a plethora of images from the past of Yours Truly popped up, Google-style, in my mind. As we discussed what he'd seen (she's still chop-drum-sticking...) online about YT I then told him that he was going to be blogged, that a blogpost was happening as we spoke.
So the MS is being posed by YT, pressing his back against a whiteboard of a gigantic formula of numbers and icons and at some point I look at it, stopping shooting, and query So what IS that. He then goes on to explain how it's basically (basically) a formula for how the brain works, how it uses visual information in front of the eyes, processes information. The MS works with machine intelligence and this formula is how the brain works as the formula for how a computer does the processing of visual information would take, he says, a bajillion years as it would process each item, moment separately. So he's talking about Bayes, Bayes this, Bayesian that. So WHO is Bayes, my ever-queryful self wanted to know as the way things are being discussed are curiously a whole lot like the manner in which Roland Barthes describes postmodernly objects, sight, experience of same. So Bayes was a nineteenth century man of the cloth who wanted to prove if god existed or not by a happening formula. Did he. Who knows. But the fab thing is I have another little tool for my grad school toolbelt which, as a premonition I had shitloads of years ago, which I told Academie Guru/The X, was leading me into science, of all conflated things.
Regaled the mad scientist with a moment I could not blog a few weeks back, involving a photo shoot with a bevy of cops (femme, men) and the incessant sexual haranguing on the set - of each other, of me. It was quite an unforgettable experience and it was the premier time YT had e-ver been called Tootsie.
So I regale him with that and then, conspiratorially, he asks if I'd encountered any crazies at Middling City U. One person jumped to the forefront and I dumped some details on MS. We then revealed to each other that we are both somewhat (and here I hear the cackling of Beth who will immediately, as I know her well, think HA! She's 1000% crazy, and April Fools' Day proved it) crazy and therein ended the happy shoot.
Back to school, virtually.
Whereas I was in a snit earlier I am free-wheelin' Perfectly Myself, diggin' on Interpol, Learning, Reading, green tea, art ideas that are swirling around me like good, protective ghosts.

Love Protects.

Perfect word to You, the wise.
Rediscovered Rickie Lee Jones's (for real) Ghostyhead from way back when, 1997.
Scaring up all sorts of items pome-deep for Sunday, certainly not the day of rest of Yours Truly, homework day and annual Urban Epiphany, megamarathonreading.
Thinking how I am being handed all sorts of discreet respites to do all the following, in no particular order of descending or ascending import, deport or ex.
1. Write research paper for the ultimate online course - primo op to get MFA thesis move on.
2. Plant garden(s).
3. Get ready for Middling City, end-of-May exhibition at Brad's joint which will include screen captures and neato digprints of same.
4. Hammering out, whacking to bits, summertime details and logistics and time and stress management.
5. Make sure Good Vibes Team of Yours Truly is really understanding what I'm asking of them, although they assure me that they are.
6. Pet Extra.
7. Scare up the aforementioned and then some fine words stored here and there.
8. Shoot, make, do and burn new digvid pieces for me, for JR's viewing pleasure, for skewel, for fame.
9. Complete application for NJPPhD Plan.
10. Think more deep and complex grad student thoughts as time is quickly running out to do so.

Lists of Love.

Nature. Nature. Nature.
Turns the Middling City into a big reheated miasma of flora.
The started seedlings are totally sprouting, the baby nasturtia reaching like mad with their tiny, hand-shaped leaves and I worried this AM that they might get leggy before it's their time to hit the soil. So therefore I'm holding back on starting the tobacco plants, this year's big garden theme.
Have to get a new metal trellis for the second of the honeysuckle as it's pulled down the former and have to also get a new jolly roger as the one from Liz has finally been shredded to bits, only its skull remaining with bits of black fabric around it. I'm sure the Holy Eucharistic Rock Band as well as those at Bleak Bakery are thrilled to see that I've changed my ways and have removed what they viewed as a harbinger of death flag. Jack of Bleak Bakery told me so once, in his Yogi Bear voice... how much he loathed the jolly roger as, you know, in this world flags are to be either ol' glory or something really barfy suburban like a whimsy-rich drapeau showing something really really fluffy.
Editrix Sue just asked me to shoot a bunch of things, amongst them a doctor (of bodies, not of the high-falutin' mind sort) who engages in limb-risking drag racing. Neato. As well as annual Oozefest, the event where volleyball merges with a field of mud.
So it's the tenth anniversary of the OK City bombing of Murrow Building and watched part of the ceremoniousness with Kennedy today as we worked out... Clinton the highlight for me, speaking poetically of the American Oak that made it through the trauma. Thoughts meandered over to this week's school readings about murder and just shot off a post about trees, hanging trees, the remaining hanging tree at Washington Square Park in the Shiney Apple in the NW quadrant, an elm that stands still.
Tree of Life. Tree of Wisdom.
Me and Ro's golden tree about my neck.

Tree Love.

Minding my own business and about to embark on homework, headed over to Allen's for a rockstar koffee klatsch. Sat on his/Lisa's front porch for a turbo-powered cup of tardark roasted goodness. Now I'm at the tea house. Now I'm really embarking onto readings about dead bodies, le topic du semaine. Passed on all things art opening last night. There are some tonight and tomorrow Kennedy has John Butcher playing a gig at SoundLab - Allen might be recording that for the artistes.
Got a good email from JR stating that he wishes I'm ready for a free PhD ride at the next school as he wrote me a blazingly stellar letter.
I replied with a grand Merci and told him not to fret, the spring has emerged as have the muses.
Nearly wept for JW,Esq who nearly but did not meet Bono at a swishy house party out in Cali and will not (*sniff, *sniff) be going to Coachella as, he says, how could it compare with last year's lineup that surpassed understanding. I told him to go read some law tomes.
So the pope is way dead and the new one is emerging from the conclave. I imagine it's like the Miss America pageant with scads of backstage underminings and well-placed back stabs. Emergence of cliques, factions, coteries. Them all lashed together until the big pronouncement, when the black smoke warbling out of the vaticani smokestack goes from black (working still) to white (annnnnouncement!). All so medieval, all so media-covered. I am lobbying now for the sainthood of Yours Truly. But, to expedite, I'll perform miracles (three, maybe more) avant my timely passing. We will not call these favours. We will call them miracles. Dig.

Miraculous, saintly love.

My new fav person named Valerie just did my taxes as we talked about a lot of things and the office nuisance shambled about annoying the ladies of the office and then Yours Truly. You know, the kind of office person that thinks aloud, dials phone with it off the hook so the sound of dialing and tones and such fill the soundwaves, asking annoying questions. I was just there two hours and I wanted to throttle him. Valerie and I, amongst other things, discussed life, travel, development of urban and suburban places, higher ed, people getting their GED's, etc. She was delightful. She is my tax lady and she rocks.
So no shooting officially until Sunday for Middling City U so it's time to catch up and do homework at a frenetic pace.
A new cat is back on the scene and I can't tell if it's my former lapcat and now feral Bootsie, mending his ways. For this cat talks to me, rushes up to me and would come into the house if I left him. I reassured Extra that he'll always be my favorite, always the toppermost of the poppermost. All this as Faux Extra suns himself nearby as whatever is happening to his kittie head transmogrifies into something more horrifying - think cat injuries, fights - yet he still wobbles around slowly on his own four feet, still hanging on for another season. Sometimes he's sleeping so soundly that I think Oh, NO, Faux Extra is d.e.d.
Had a swingin' time last night with Cheryl and Liz at the wine joint. No major fisticuffs or dramas or fiascoes to report.
Onwards to work, less worry.

Don't Worry Love.

Hiding out at the tea house getting work for school and freelance domain done until my afternoon shooting spree - and am relieved that Mme. Death is not here, regaling another of her unfortunate lady pals with tales unending of death, death, and more death. But I never do seem to travel anymore sans earplugs and phones for iTunes = Sanity Savers, to be sure.
Just wrote to Brian Moss, the current edifier for Parsons School of De-wonderment, replying to his wondering about his own wondering, if we grad students could/would muster forth 3K papers for his class and, to sweeten the deal, he's saying Make it oso multi-media with pictures, links, go nutz.
I just informed him Perfectly that he's the premier online teaching one to say go multi-media rather than citing online sources. The class is so wide open, about a vast amount of things Aesthetic, Beautiful, Art, Artful, contemporary and relevent to YT that there's a plethora of ops, maybe too many ops.
Slowly getting to a topic that I want to live with for paper, thesis, onwards.
Got email from RonE from the Shiney Happy Mag stating my portrait of Kennedy, to appear in full-page glory, set standards of de-zine, that my forthcoming spread/overview of the Middling City rock scene was stupendous.
But You heard all about this whilst it was in process (translation for Canadian epinw readers: pro-sess) and so You know, You knew it freakin' totally rocked.
Speaking of such, Dylan warbled into the Middling City yesterday and I imagine that Jamie Johnson and Pauly were there, front and center, awaiting and basking and waiting for tiny spitballs to hit their reverent foreheads.

You rock, I rock, we all rock for rock rock.

Collective, Chanting Love.

Just to prove to You that Perfect Me can transform any event into a madcap adventure.
Minding my own business I left the Shiney Apple, hugging Beth Dearest goodbye and meandering over to Central Park West for the C to the A at 59th, thus avoiding the horrors of the Nassau/Fulton stop of stench-ridden air where the air is three parts odour, one part oxygen and the lighting is nearly epilepsy-inducing.
Platform waiting and then on the A. Yee-Ha, things are working wondrously and nowhere's near the chaos of the last dragadocious trips back to Middling City where, let's see, a jumper (if you epinw recall) rendered a train bio-spattered and unwavering from stopping whilst authorities reckoned Yup, a jumper. Then the blizzard and the 4 train just not moving. Just not and the subsequent cab search and finding the A. So last night. A gets me to Howard Beach and I am on the AirTrain getting to JetBlue terminus. Quasi-terminus. Then an unintelligible announcement: GGEU HEJ SHEHT RESLSL.
We passengers look at each other, Did You understand that.
Another announcement.
Pretty much same as before but another man's voice. We sit for about half an hour. My plane is leaving in forty minutes. I am sitting, then standing, then walking along platform searching for clues and answers. Finally a guy with an answer. And what an answer. Yeah, they're holding us because... train... before us... problem... don't know... leaving.
So I try calling JetBlue to say HIIIII, I am enfuckin route but keep getting disconnected. I call Kennedy to say I may not be arriving in Middling City after all. We then get rolling again and I run to the kiosk for checkin and am closed out because the plane is leaving imminently. I approach the staffers, explain away, a helpful woman grabs my i.d. and RUNS me through everything, depositing me at Gate 10 in a full-body sweat. Didn't catch her name as I'd be sending her mad props and a thank you note and she leaves and some tall and obviously above-average arrogant handsome jerk looks at me and says Ohh, SMI-ILE.
Now, if you are a man and are reading this you've never experienced, perhaps, this scenario of dishevelment or hyper-introspection when a complete stranger begs you to give up your bestest Mary Tyler Moore Smile. I looked at him with the patented PaintMelt Stare© and said YOU have no idea what I've just been through and continued along the gangway. Then I'm standing in my little row (18, to be precise, you know, like Danny Gare) and some other arse looks up at me like I'm standing there just to admire him.
I mean really.
Back to Middling City reality of sorts: work-imbued, clusters of moments of adrenaline-enhanced productivity, rock on the hi-fi, moments of petting Extra the Cat and dreams of gardening.

Gardens Teeming with Love.

The elevators were golden.
-from a quote from Diane Arbus's journal at The Met in the show up there of her swingin' work.
After the NYU show that disappointed slightly, glad to see this one of several never before seen pieces, her actual cameras, her notebooks, some of her ephemera.
Also looked at the Larry Clark show at ICP that wasn't so necessary but there were some great portraits hung.
Also looked at the Buden installation in the midst of the Guggenheim and glad to have seen this conceptual piece in real life as the photos don't even begin to depict its complications.
Did some primo shooting outside of The Met again, inside the Guggenheim of blank spaces rendered lifeless for the aforementioned that takes it all up, of some odd looking trees and things.
Have been writing a bit here and there.
Time to fly as Beth has arrived at the Bryant Park where I blog. Neglected to blog from Union League Club where I witnessed Laura in action. Looked through their library for something arcane, interesting and had to settle for the latest edition of New York mag.

Mag Love.

Wow. To be filed under W - no not for Wow - but for Whew! what a timesaver.
Most Perfect little helper Celia emailed yesterday to say Um, nope, you are not reading tomorrow (now today) but on the 24th. So put that in your futuristic pipe and smoke the shit out of it.
Urban Epiphany. Oban-soaked YT showing up at a secret time to read from the poetic oeuvre. Well, it's kind of like epinw but it's all rhymey. If you believe that you are not ever never allowed to read from this well of quippity again. Bought the new Camille (as in Paglia) that whiney-ass bitch who teaches in Philly who I shot with Ginsberg back when he was alive and roaming the planet and sputtering out language poems iterating the menace behind all of life. Camile I agree with here, that post-mod and post-structuralism has sucked all or any spirit(uality) out of writing, made poetry a thing for high school girlies, New Yorker readers who dig it in the borders, for the wor(l)d-addled, the Patti Smith lovers, oh, yeah, the Urban Epiphanites to boot.
I think I nearly flunked outta sight outta mind outta Parsons School of Design-by-Committee for suggesting that poetry/life/sexuality/energy flows around us all, is as inescapable as the scent of a lover, the scent of a night-blooming jasmine tree, the sound of a Mister Softee truck trundling down the street in summer. It is like so there. But the post-mods/the post-strucs will say Death to life. Just ask theory-burdened X who had me so convinced that I hated what Academie had to offer. Au contraire, Pierre.
And, for your edifiication, Pierre is my childhood dog, departed. Thought of him this AM, how my mother had him jetted off to the afterlife whilst I had jetted off as a teen to Manhattan. And You wonder at my separation anxieties.
Time to wrestle with, of all things, my cd drive which has decided not to cooperate.

Love's Cooperative.

Sage.
Let us ponder sage in all its incarnations for a moment. There is sage the herb, who has a leaf most velvet and scent most intoxicatingly green. Used by the Native culture to wane the bad as the smoke believable as a cleanser. This practice followed by Your Beloved Truly, when the crap is knee-deep, or when the space is new - there is sage burning. Then there is sage as in wise wisdom, words of strong conviction that chases out the bad practice.
Got some sage smoke in form of words tonight from Brucey.
I have purchased too many seeds for the garden that I will ignore - sort of - all scholastic summer but it's the promise of the seeds and, as Rio says, it is the curse of the gardener to buy too many seeds. Nigella, tobacco, nasturtium, moonflowers, lobelia, bellflowers, more sweet peas. Each flower remindful of a person, like songs.
Sunday I have a poetry reading, asked by Celia to do so, as is an annual tradition that reminds me that Oh yeah, I do that.
Putting together my Support Team for the two months of X-Treme Travel and Erudition and have informed said Team they are to be UPUPUP, with nary a twist of YouBroughtThisUponYourOwnGoddamnedSelf *BUT* Stifi-like You Can Do This, no matter how canned.

Canned Love.

Excerpt from a true exchange.

Jennifer at Righteous Tea House (where no coffee darkens its menu, but is carried in by said Jen, a coffee addict): Dragon Ball, Nancy.
Yours truly: Yes, please.
Dragon Ball, for your information, is not akin to prairie oysters but is a fine Nihoncha, Japanese green tea, dig.
Plus there are no dragons. Just humans who are, metaphorically and behaviourally speaking.
As Irony would have it had to shoot the Middling City U's Wellness Fair and I asked several people manning brochure-strewn tables under festive little tents if they could disunwell me in my hayfebrile condition.
Pissed off an RN by shooting an image of her checking someone's blood pressure. NICE, HEALTHY ATTITUDE, I wanted to say to Nurse Bitcho. I asked for her name and she sneered like I haven't seen in quite some time. She finally gave up the freakin' name. Wanted to turn to her with my most saccharine countenance and say NOW, that wasn't so bad now, was it, Nurse Crabface.
Others were not so cranked-out at the wellness extravaganza. Next to the Soy!-obsessed lady were two people from two very mediocre MC restaurants, cranking out frightening-looking pasta dishes. Soy! lady's lame-o breakfast cereal samples could not compete with that odoriferousness.
Picked up a mini highlighter, a mini flashlight. Why things so mini so beloved at maxi fests, I do wonder.

Maxi & Mini Loves.

Spring. Reminiscent of Barry White classics. Bulbs poking up their green stuff, the smell of earth again and my allergies rearing their histamine-rich heads. Hi Spring, hi itchy eyes, hi stuffed nose. So time to buy that herbal crap with the marshmallow root, etc. etc.
Finally got the scanned music image project off to the Shiney Happy Mag, a triumph with fabulosic wall notes of sorts to boot.
Strove for balance - to show the depth, the depraved world that was Middling City music in the late 80s and early 90s. What an odd assortment of memories, what a cavalcade of faces, clubs, bands, styles, cocktails, shoes, cars, flashes of light from flashes and brilliance. And on and on to now.
So I've been booted off, firewalled out of my wi-fi scenario at Kennedy's and there could not be more troubling, mood-altering news. Hoping this may be an aberration, for who would miss a scant few wi-fi molecules to check one's email from time to time. Fercrissakes.
NYC in the headlights of planning for art, scholarly activities and all attendant moments = skipping lectures to see the world, visiting with friends divorced from scholarly world, and carefully planned cocktails.

Love's cocktail.

After plying with dinner and red wine got my crack team of Archive Searchers doing just that into the long and quiet night hours. Me, Scott, Laura wending our way through the oppressive amassment of three-ring binders, looking for the rockstars of yore as well as the pre-rockstars of the Middling City. And, once in a while, the sidetrip into looking at a certain figure, a certain moment that does transfix. Found stacks of good things that I am film scanning for the Shiney Happy mag, three pages will be packed with all the hoopla past.
Just had to shoot an amazing vivacious woman at Middling City U who was listening to the Smiths (lovingly referred to as Smiffs by Yours Truly) the whole time, probably set to level uno so an undercurrent. Told her I'd never seen the Smiths but did see and shoot Moz solo, well, with faceless bands. One time at Nassau Coliseum when I was on a date with a rock star. Funnily enough, Laura came across said rockstar's likeness last night asking who is... Told her of our crazed Libran connection, how we'd see each other here and there and that was approximately three lifetimes ago, by my humble estimation. So this vivacious woman and I ended our sitting discussing the PhD quest. Most excitingly how it does involve Travel. She basically insisted that I take a vacation between schools/degrees/quests. I was sort of yeah,yeah,yeahing the whole thing and she asked when Parsons School of Dementia-Inducing-Stress is done. August 12, I reported. Well, she continued, looking at the Middling City U schedule of academic events, Fall starts August 29th, that gives you about two weeks to go somewhere warm. Somewhere warm, I thought. Where. I said Well, maybe I could see myself sitting alongside a pool in the shade with a stiff cocktail in my hand staring at the air for a few days, completely out of Type A character. Well, it's SuPPosed to be out of character.
So there you have it. I guess in August YT will be by a pool having an Oban, in theory anyway.

Anyway Love.

Bonne Chance, Bob.

Good bye to the harbinger of simple turn of word, mono syllable, noted simple, shuffled voice more of story than poesie for the duration of his readings, former rogue and always a romantic. Believing in the succession of loves following the ache of a love lost. When Creeley was still a smoker another poet wrote of his pocket-to-pocket searching for cigarettes. Then the pocket-to-pocket for the light. Then the pocket-to-pocket for another. Then the pocket-to-pocket for another. Creeley always obliged my camera and never ever can I forget the reading I gave at Central Park Grill with Creeley in attendance, his flushed Dig It following my words.
Last night, with Cheryl and Liz, drank toasts to Bob while Liz's cut flowers scented the room. Where was he, where is he and the notation that some lives lost are more of a loss, truly, than others. Some expected. Some sudden and, despite the age, the loss of that presence in the physical world is big.
Liz brought out her Creeley-signed books and in one I opened to his poem beginning Death be not proud. Goes on of loss and look in mirror.

The other deaths this week in news shadowed by the poet's.
Not to compare and contrast but that is the vrainess of Yours Truly, All Tomorrow's Parties.

Vrai Love.

Last night was sent off to Middling City U to shoot the ol' Music is Art series event featuring Terry Sullivan et al as well as Last Conservative. Breaking news is that Mike Z has completely, utterly left the band again, for good and that they're shopping for another bass player. But, as I discussed with Allen (who was there last night tucked away in a secret booth sound engineering) that it will be near-impossible to replace his stoic and somewhat sneering presence, a perfect foil to TJ's manic performing and singing. So Mike is off to all things academic, like me transorming into NJPPhD. Allen pointed out today my hypocrisy at once deriding all things academic and now like so embracing it.
So hung with members of the rock and roll famille, the knob twirlers, the video documentors, the walkie-talkie talkers, the performers and the like.
Off to make up an artist raison d'etre for the PhD plan.
The wish, plan, attack, hope for it all all all.

All Love.

Completely and utterly minding my own business, as is my ever-wont, found a PhD program not only to my liking but it is like so vice versa. They want me and will give me gold stars on my forehead and give me support and one class to teach and I get to go on field trips and it's tuition-paid and I still cannot believe what I dreamily and dream-relatedly fell upon. Yesterday.
Now to finish up the PSD and MFA paperwork and hoop jumps to the next thing.
Off to deadlines extreme and deep and so very very real.

Real Love.

Today is the sort of birthdate of Sam. Born on Good Friday, he said, but April 13th (or not as records were sketchy and he sketched a nebulous picture) is allegedly the day. But all good Samophiles think of him today.

So, then, a snippet of Sam.
From The Unnamable, which I've been thinking of a great deal as of late.

I speak of evening, someone speaks of evening, perhaps it's stil morning, perhaps it's still night, personally I have no opinion. They love each other, marry, in order to love each other better, more conveniently, he goes to the wars, he dies at the wars, she weeps, with emotion, at having loved him, at having lost him, yep, marries again, in order to love again, more conveniently again, they love each other, you love as many times as necessary, as necessary in order to be happy.

And in the back of the book, a yellowed little Grove Press thing, I wrote this in pencil:
the girandole above
our fireplace is beige.

Onwards to Asian memories and conjurations and newsbits.
Time for an annual holiday-related dig this:

CUTUD, Philippines - Filipinos marked Good Friday by retracing Jesus Christ’s last steps and reliving his crucifixion with nails, whips and blood.
The gory rituals in several parts of the heavily Roman Catholic country are not sanctioned by the Church as part of Easter but have become a magnet for the curious and devout during a week of prayer, shopping, visiting and little work.
Go here to read the whole dang thang.

Every Good Friday I recall the excellent tri-fold card I designed for V showing the roasting of the dog moment in the Philippines whilst waiting for a boat for Bataan. The running, chasing, clubbing, roasting of said dog a Perfect visual for this day when the curtain mystically rended in two. Symbolistic stew and swirling of spirits to You.

Stewed Love, not prunes.

Well well well well well.
No, make that unwell unwell unwell unwell unwell.
Got a forwarded email from one pal who got one from a mutual pal who, after reading the meandering machinations, has sadly derailed. Toys in the attic. You know, nutty bumpers.
Lest you think you are secure with your toys in the toybox we are all bumping around on the bumper cars and one bad bump and kapoof = nutsoville. That is like so my theory and I rest my inquisitive case.
Speaking of cases, and to sound a bit like the aforementioned derailee, I could be in the midst of yet another cease and desist situ as I've created some neato merch based on my famed and inflamed and incensing Globe covershot showing Hill (as in Hillary, you know, former Mrs. Presidente) as Yours Truly loves to say Gripping the podium. Oh, if you really must know, or find, go searching at cafepress.com fercrissakes. It'll be our little easter egg hunt of sorts.
Speaking of the pagan-cum-christian blood ritual of Easter, tomorrow is Good Friday. This means that there will be mayhem at the bakery nearby as pastry munchers of all shapes (no, scratch that, the pastry munchers are of one shape) will be queued up for sugar, fat, raisins, shortening and such all tossed together to make treats of all shapes. Peeps, let us focus on peeps for a moment. Misshapen marshmallow birds.
Now let us focus on the green jelly beans.
Now the black.
Now the red.
God, no pun intended, I love Easter.

Love's Peeps.

NB:
Yours truly has NO VOICE. I am rendered speechless via some sort of laryngitic condition that, as a client just told me, is Going around. Not aware of this rampant voice-related pandemic, I guess I'll just go with that. Laryngitis. Me. Got a call from another client who kept asking Is this a bad time to my Who IS this in my nouvelle speaking squeak. Is this a bad time. Who is this. 3x. Finally she says who in hell she is. Finally I say I am fine, I just cannot speak. We agreed to communicate via email. Jonathan is on his way for a headshot shoot at my joint and I'm sure he'll keep a health conscious distance as did my last gig at noon.
Got a call from Beth Dearest who burst out laughing upon hearing my condition. Now you know how I felt the last time you were in the Shiney Apple she guffawed. Well, I wasn't laughing at you... I guess you are just mean-spirited. Just as well that she couldn't understand me. But she did manage to tell me that she's going on a date tonight and I'm not sure what genre of date it is but as with several other pals today we agreed to speak later. If possible.
Onwards to speechlessness, so not me.

Speech-impeded Love.

Lost entire last post as I was not officially logged in to Blogger and that like so comfreakingly sucks. Speaking of Nancyisms was talking to Beth Dearest moments ago and described the current Middling City snow as snow globe style. At first she thought that I was quoting a certified meteorologist. But no.
Told several at Middling City's Main Event last night that my new and luxe hair colour, purple haze awash over what was, is grape flavoured. Several smelled, some licked. To no avail. To my delight.
The new cut rocks as does its creator, Jon, who last night was in his vertically striped tapestry jeans, outdazzling his lady friend's ensemble by x2, a peril of dating a man who is a dresser.
Stopped by Jon's place yesterday brandishing a gift for him and after a spate of visiting to basically demand or request that he make me look better, he agreeing as he was up to his elbows in multi-layered blonde hair of a girl named Teal. Then the haze. Then the cut. Then the visiting with the interesting cast of characters, half of whom are engaged in the rock realm.
Just came from Bandmate Scott's gig as (whatwazzit, Hymen, Hytymnestra, Heteros) Hymns. Bad name. Good times. Then Aaron Miller - two short pieces via a program called Max........ somethin somethin and I asked how much and he said how high, no, but it was high, like about $700 so no go. I axed about a bootleg but he said impossible as it bonds with all things secretive on one's laptop and to that I say O, Really.
Had a gig early early today for a fam celebrating their mom's 90th bday and she was beyond confused and I wondered why in hell they were doing this, to prove their love, their tenacity, to weaken hers, who really does know.
Oh, the day is over and I've lost my voice and my homework is not done and I would like a cold remedy and a respite and a re re re ... joinder, fresher, membrance.
All for now and over and out.

Out Loved.

Well thank the gods and saints (like Patrick) for All Wheel Drive - that's AWD in common and motorhead parlance - as it was like so needed today whilst parking in one sub190 parking lot this morn. Left the car teetering at a 45 or so degree angle as I left it to go shoot Match Day, the day that 100+ med students find out their fate, where they'll be residencing their next five years. Much hugging, gripping of envelopes, cell phones whipped out to tell news to folks off in afar. And, as is Match Day tradition, not one single person ventured forth to cut or taste the dual sheetcakes emblazoned with Middling City U Med School medallions and such. Not one fork hit those plasticky and pastiched cakes.
Beth Dearest emailed me today from her temp gig to inquire just what in hell this Saint Patrick Day is about and who he was. To that I gleefully replied He rid the Emerald Isle of SNAKES. He lifted up his walking stick/shelalaigh/rod/staff/weapon, dressed head to toe in green satin, wearing a hat in the style that the popes would later pilfer like oso many things, and, with a mighty heave of the stick into the air uttered these words, in an ancient Gaelic dialect:
OUT OUT DAMNED SNAKES, LET MY PEOPLE BE FREE.
The snakes, it should be noted, were in actuality those who had not one tiny shred of Christianity, for they were heathens, hooligans and heretics.
And Saint Patrick, after his ridding, headed over to an ancient saloon and ordered up some fine mead and then some shots of scotch from a nearby isle.
And, centuries later, Irish-Americans took up the wearing of the green satin and the slurping of the mead and such and the brandishing of weapons and the wearing of stupid headgear.
Any more questions.

Questionable Love.

File under Gee, How Shocking. Now is that technically under G, or S.
UPS has my indestructible new portfolio hostage somewhere on a truck, in transit and the burning question is When. And how.
Reese is traipsing all over New Zealand, undoubtedly drinking the local vinted products and have not received any e-correspondence as of yet.
A few days ago had a gig photographing a hardened, wizened lady cop who counsels her peers about work stress disorders and abuse of substances, prevalent as can be, as one might imagine.
During my shoot there were a gaggle of thick guy cops sitting in a boardroom and she pantomimed counsel as I shot away, conversation taking surprising revelatory and confidential turns. Fellow cops not in attendance spoken of by name. Lady cop describes cuffing some of her colleagues over the years and dropping them off, kicking and screaming, at Middling City Drunk Tank, the Hoozgow for Hyper-revelers. And all the while Yours Truly thinking Should I really be hearing this, apparently they do not know that I'll be blogging this momentarily.
And yesterday, whilst getting ingredients at Ye Olde Foode Shoppe literally ran into the attorney who wanted to haul me off to the Hoozgow for Bad Journalists regarding the famed Gripping the Podium Shot, and her hubby. I was looking at him and saw her over his shoulder and, when she spotted YT, she turned on her righteous heel and fled the scene. I proceeded onwards with my shoppeing.
So it's officially Kittie Season and the cats are roamiing and moaning and my dear little eunich, Extra, has nothing to do with all this melodrama. Sanguinely waiting for his next doling of wet food, Pounce brand treats, loving pats on his regal and near-feral head.

Feral Love.

The Middling City is covered with a thin layer of white hot spotlit snow, a sunny day for the saintly and self-imported Irish parade down one of the triad of main and parallel roadways. As I have homework and lost a full day to freelance maneuverings yesterday I passed up my bi-annual and favoured chance to capture likeness molecules of girls with guns for my ongoing series. And the new Woca, Holga's more ritzy cousin, is bereft. For you non-photogs the Woca is a Holga with a - get this - glass lens.
Talked to Beth Dearest moments ago and said that Yours Truly needs to get art into mainstream and not think of the "Program" where we are all art-directed, making the most and such.
Found out moments ago that there's a check from a mag in the Shiney Apple floating about in same. Can't recall which Shiney Apple address I may have given them so that's another Perfect mystery and the editor is remaking my check and remailing to boot.
Have been missing both Midtown East and SoHo sites and attendant and daily routines of where to eat, where to imbibe the caffeine, where to sit a spell, and more. And add to the list Portland, ME, which unexpectedly crept towards me today as a place to be missed. Thought of making a dramatic and somewhat faux narrative digvid piece about missing places, places that haunt, and why.
I am really supposed to be doing readings and homework and there is big emphasis on supposed.
So here I go, off to suppose and suppose some more.

Love suppose.

ps: thirty days until Sam's birthday.

Veritas rockus.
Hearing NYC live last night in the 30s-ish theatre in Crackville at Interpol gig was waking dream.
And for the first time ever in my unshockable rock demeanour, near-lifetime of hanging at gigs, backstage tales beyond belief of rockstar hijinx, fraternizing with boys of all rock genres, I shut my eyes during a show to let every molecule of this one song hit me like light therapy (and, speaking of capturing light, shot a few phonal images of the stage and one of them, I pointed out to Laura, resembled images of the WhiteSnake rock inferno a few years back = computerized lights ablaze like so many foam cushions sparked by pyros) and felt emotion well up. Momentary bon voyage to Perfect unshockable rock demeanour.
Proud to report that fellow Interpol people and I drained all scotch out of the Dome. Laura went to refresh and came back with the bad news so it was onto other items.
Had a hell of a time finding the right crack-addled boulevard and wended through the numbered streets and at one point we were approached by a youngish man with wild eyes holding onto a piece of paper like it was real important. Which way to the border, he queried. Like I knew. But I had a guess U-turn, make a left and look for Rainbrow Bridge signs like a pro. And onwards we drifted. Mid-gig I looked at ticket and fuckinlo, behold there was a clue - address.
After the gig Laura and I learned some fun facts about the practice of crack from a humourist manning the front podium of a sketchy gas station. First he pretended to know no english. Then he informs us he lives in Rocheter. Then he points out the copper scrubbing pads avail in shoppe are in high demand in the neighborhood as they're used for stuffing crack pipes. Then he pulls out some small glass "pens" from behind counter. "Pens"? Um, hell no. Crack pipes.
Poetic, life-enhancing, perfect set and encore from Interpol.

Love's Encore.

Latest brilliant thought in a lifetime of chain of them. Newly-sprung, shawl-toting Martha Stewart has her mag Everyday Food and just thought Fercrissakes I too can have a fine shiney oso informative mag = Everyday Chaos.
v1 n1.
Yours truly, offuckincourse, on cover, looking adorable yet mildly tortured.
This entire concept might be reminiscent of Reader's Digest's famed feature Drama in Real Life - a childhood fav, just another factor that made me so who I am.
There is an uncomfortable silence in an office building's elevator, lights blaringly and screamingly awake-driven as four (YT included) grownups stand around a large handcart packed with new reams of paper. There are two men and two women and the woman who is not YT comments Gee, look at all that newww paper. Inane elevator words. A few more seconds of silence and then I look over at the man not operating or about to resume operating the handcart and say You know, if I had lost my foot in that door I would have seen you again in court. A few seconds of silence. Then good old-fashioned laughter. For what happened? Well, I will tell you what. In a gesture of insane kindness I had thrust my right foot over the new reams of paper on the cart towards the shutting stainless steel doors so Skippy could join us. I did not think he appreciated my selfless, near-body-part-losing geture so I mentioned the litigational possibilites that hung in the air like all those fluorescent molecules making our brains sputter with all their miliseconds of bursts of light wave explosions.

Explosive Love.

After a week(end) of reading about transgressive art, or, in common parlance, what might be deemed !shocking, have come to some interesting and deep conclusion.
Nothing, I repeat nothing, is shocking.
Still battling right now (on phone with a rep) with a clerical error on my mortgage payments and escrow overage.
One envelope + two tickets + one address = massive corporate chaos.
OK, now that's cleared up. Hip hip.
Back to the transgressive.
Thinking about the Chelsea art couple, dealers of all things artful, who said that they thought our MFA class's work is safe, not taking chances, is not messy. Harumph.
Transgressive is cliché right about now.
Thanks for your attention in this matter.
Had coffee yesterday with Laura who suggested wisely a trip of sorts to be inspired to make and do. Think this is a suggestion most sanguine and, as luck might have had it, super discount trips to gai Paris were noted in today's online digiworld.
Paris. Art. Dreams of photographing people walking through beams of sun (oops, first typed sin) at Grand Central.

Love Central.

Listening to classique roque radio where Fat Bottomed Girls via Queen still reigns supreme. So Interpol comes to Toxicville north of the Middling City this pending week and called Laura to see if she'd like to go as this is an Event.
About to embark on a gig capturing the high times and hijinx of the Theodore Roosevelt Inaugural Site's gala hoopla, replete with Mark Russell hamboning the night away and a TR impersonator in attendance. ! Can you shout out photo ops galore.
Thinking - I repeat thinking - of homework. Doing is another thing, another delicate facet yet to be wrangled with. Look, these deep grad student thoughts take time. Looking to dreams for divine art inspiration for the art-directed Parsons School of Desires career and so far I've produced one sorry dream whereby I was excited about going to see Sarah McLaughlan in concert in TO. Why.
Was having a conversation today and was informed that word on the street is the Hillary Clinton Pre-Faint org ladies are pondering suing Yours Truly. Puh-Leez. For fucksakes let's recap: no contract signing over rights, photog always owns rights sans contract, ethics decree I was in right to dispense with them as I wished. The End.
Shiney Happy Mag appeared yesterday with my Pulitzer-ready piece on those t.v. design shows - a triumph. Editrix changed one thing in first paragraph I don't really get but hey, it's HER domain/gig/trip.
Off to work, would love to regale You with more more more but someone has to pay the bills around here.

Here's Love.

Limbo. And I don't mean the archetypal party dance. I would explain but I'd rather not. Had a poem simmering for a long time and today it poured out onto my laptop in a fairly tight formation of ten syllables per line and fourteen lines and 104 words and that's all very important, significant even.
Just had to shoot the gig at Middling City U and amongst the players was one kum-bay-yah singer I know very well and she always turns up at kum-bay-yah moments far and wide.
Re-read the obit of Samuel Beckett, sparked by a Kennergy comment yesterday. Rolled around in a few good SBB quotations about his working process. One, when asked by a producer who Godot was. His answer: If I knew I would have said so.
Onwards to retrieving numerous articles from electronic bowels of hell.

Love is Hell.

Inquired to Middling City news editrix of Yours Truly if cannon balls were on agenda for tomorrow afternoon's photo op as I envision such sailing through the air, passing the trio of flags flapping in the breeze, maybe even still at half-mast for some reason but I argue, as only grad students can, that it should be always at half-state as there's always something to be aggrieving in the world, landing with soft kaflops in the loop in a snowbank alongside the curbs in the loop in suburbs just beyond national chain stores sinking silently into a former wetlands.
Tonight Justy et al in the band sort of named by Yours Truly hits the infamed stage of CBGBs and I am sad to miss it. As in the Shiney Apple just last week it seemed a bit of a stretch to be back mere hours later but it is where I would really dig being later later.
It was a week ago I got the last of the last airbuses out of JFK before the closing of that wi-fi and travel and mag-reading venue.
Today it's freelance org day and later meeting up with Brucey who had to make plans later as he's driving out to an exurb. A rather uncommon exurb but one which houses a Big House. Why there, I queried. After some hezzing it was revealed to meet up with a pal of his who's in the BH for a rather Coen Bros. reason: he told me and I burst out laughing. Brucey did not match my guffawed outburst or cinematic wonderment, wrapped instead in concern for Big Housee.
It's onward to working on freelance matters, thinking deep art and grad thoughts.
Happiest b-day to Ron who always asks that each of his pals do something self-loving rather than walloping him with cards, congrats, cellophane-wrapped treats. And he likes to know what we've all done.
3/3 Ron B-day Plan was this: drive to Starbucks drive-thru, order venti Americano in honour of the man who turned me on to my premier cuppa Starbucks coffee about - wow - 15 years ago.

Historical Love.

Beth Dearest and I are to be prepping Lecture Notes, that's right, fucking Lecture Notes, for our online class.
Raison d'etre anywhere but inside Land of Homework:
#1: It's online, there is no lecture.
#2: We are grad students, not instructors. By preparing Lecture Notes we are lightening his edificiary role in the name of pedagogical lessoning.
#3: I really have other things to do.
Like procrastinate.
I rest my case.
Kennedy handed me a snippet of Middling City News - letters page - from the 23rd when Yours Truly was on the right side of the state. When, in a rush of pique and defensiveness and such, two letter writers had their thoughts about Gripping the Podium Hillary and Yours Truly aired. One is pro, other con for a fair and balanced (just like Fox) purview. Said to Kennedy I should thank them as it keeps it all alive. But the anti HC Grip shot letter states wrongly that the org that asked me to pro bono owns the rights which is not the case. She meanders along in her letter stating what her club does. The pro letter sidles along my view that of course the public has a right to know and that includes seeing.
Soon my Globe cover shot will be available on cafepress.com and I know that each and every epinw reader will want, must have, will lust.
My former product line - CLeft Design models - are still up and can be found on the site and then via a search for cLeft Design.
If You simply type the word cleft I believe You will still yield beneficiary t's and such for an org that benefits those with dreaded cleft palate.
Onwards to homework.
Onwards to further pitstops, pratfalls, petulance.

Petulant Loves.

Quelle hazing ritual moderne.
Have freelance hackish writers regale screening committee with super details of none other than Empire State Building, post-marathon waiting, cattle prodding, souvenir lashes. All this to be 350 words for a company, Charlie'sAngels-like like the Digital City gig of infamy, that creates cell phone tours for wanderers who pay to have scripted Look Here's and Do This's beamed into their ears.
The first hour is spent in a DMV-like basement, painted French's Mustard Yellow, screaming colour, lined up and as a corner is rounded one might realize that for twix the prix one might circumnavigate this experience and head right on up to floor 2 if one pretends one is interested in seeing a movie about floating over the skyline or some such dirigible thing. Couldn't find the movie/observation deck ticket booth and then with the help of a nice young man I fina-fuckin-ly did. At the window I said Movie ticket please. Then I asked So this is for observationalizing deck, too, right. She said No. She called for her manager who came over and, when she heard the scenario, narrowed her eyes at me and said this ultra-friendly thing: You SAID you wanted the movie ticket ONLY, I was standing right there (gesturing), I HEARD you. (note to self: be afraid of workers who work in landmarks for they are manhandling 35K visitors a day and do not have fucking time for aberrations of any type. period) I start sobbing. No, I am kidding. I said Well I want both. After much huffing, puffing, glares of hatred I had my two tickets and completely took a right towards the observation elevator to 80 then to 86 for the sights. On line in the basement, pre-hate, I met a photog who was cluelessly heading up up and away to, she thought, get some fab shots of Christo's Curtains. I made some internal photog calculations of my own and deduced that this woman not only should not be called a photog of any sort but did not understand angles, the curve of the earth, etc. I suggested she might get into a high room of The Pierre, a swishy hotel on 5thAve I've crashed in before as it's on the southern tip of the park. She looked baffled and atop the landmark/hazing focus/ESB I could see but five tiny orange blips on the horizon = The Curtains! A snippet of. I am glad I did not bump into Esmerelda up there for my look of derision would have been undisguisable.
Began the plan, the trip, this literary foray by sitting in a middle seat, not my usual window/hublot and was in a snit until I began speaking to Rose, the newly-retired former Viet Nam nurse who lives in Cali. I asked her about nursely and otherly things about VN. We discussed our vitriol pertaining to the U.S. president.
About to meet Justy for our traditional night of binge revelry and he's got a head start. Gadzooks.
Tomorrow's agenda: collect self, see The Curtains, see some art, write about the Empire State Building and all its attendant charms. Wow, including the wall of art glass depicting the Eight Wonders of the World which include, bien sur, ESB as well as Hanging Gardens of Babylon, Rhodes's Giant and oso much more.
In the Shiney Apple I learn learn learn.

Learning Love.

To be filed under Holy Crap What Great Timing.
Arrived at Middling City U mere moments ago to shoot students getting special special special $20 tix to see (wretch) Rent. There was to be a Frenzy. I arrived at the designated time, 6PM,to discover a box office type (B.O.T.) announcing to a mild throng that all student tix were sold out. Most people would have spun on any ol' heel and left. But oh no, this is not journalism, turning on heels. I walked up to front of line and basically accosted two undergrads, insistent upon them being all happy and at the ticket window and then showing me their happy tix. And, as luck would have it in this Perfect world, they had purchased the last two tix for students E-Ver. Like, that is so lucky. I wanted them to be a bit more expressive, to be kicking up their heels like those of Yours Truly that were not spun upon but they had been waiting in line since three hours ago and were heading somewhere before the 8PM curtain. Frankly, I don't get it. Cornball songs about pretend life in NYC. All issued with issues and once I was somewhere and was horrified at several people singing along to the Rent soundtrack, one song more bombastic than the next.
File Me under Really Does Not Buy the Whole B'Way Frenzy Thing.

Love Thing.

What a diff a year makes.


Hung with Allen yesterday in studio and met Ian, vocalist for Deep Purple (SMOKE ON THE WAHH-UHH-TERR, FIE-ERR IN THE SKAHHHH), who was about to jet off with our pal Michael Jackson, Esq. (not perved, gloved one) to Russia, land of cabbage soup, fur hats, giant onion domes.
Then met a famed producer. All were hung over and had engaged in collegiate soda can bowling the night before. Perfectly, I was not, had not.
Ironically just delved into an article about the photojournalism racket and the likes of late Susan Sontag by a pal, Steve Wolgast, who works at NYT. Just used snippet of that and other choice thoughts to dispel the online queasiness a few classmates have experienced from being subjected to the work of Joel-Peter Witkin. Puh-leez, this is fucking art school. Where are the open minds, where is the think tank/stand around the cooler vibe, more scholarship money, the studio spaces, and more open minded behaviour.
And got a sweet call from Dorota moments ago and heard from Marky Norris and a few others about what happened one year ago. Good and bad, sweet and sour. And poor Beth Dearest witnessed it all.
Will be in the Shiney Apple mid-week to write a script for a poss gig and to eat good food and walk good walks and head to Film Forum and see select ones and think Shiney Apple Thoughts.

Thoughtful, Retrospective, Happier Love.

Sideline of Yours Truly. Putting together girls and attendants on their nupday. That would be yet another Perfect word to add to the epinw lexicon - nupday, n., wedding day. Dig.
So I'm tying sashes, sashaying from room to room solving minor crises like double-sided-taping Mom into her dress, clasping on necklaces, pinning on flowers, etc. when I do note at some point two jewelry boxes, white, somewhere. Remember this fact.
Depart and go to find the boys, who I don't usually have to help construct, at church demarcated as the place, the venue for The Magic, the Transfiguration. Boys are not in the room where boys hang when they're about to be transmogrified and I ask the woman whatever she is - deacon/beacon/harbinger/priest/priestess - Where. Oh, to find the rings, she says. They are missing and they have scattered to look at the apartment where I was just helping with gusseying and at boutique hotel. The rings, platinum, were stolen out of the groom's bag at the boutique hotel and this was a first in all these couple of decades of shooting nupdays. They had a radio-advertising jeweler drive frenetically to deliver some stand-ins in 20 minutes.
Will be pleased to report to Jon that his creation atop my head was met with rave reviews, as in reviews or revues that happen at all-night dance parties.
At the wedding there was much discussion of the Gripping the Podium shot and the groom had me recreate the shot with him standing in for Hill, a surprise for his nouvelle bride.
Perfect Enthusiasm, so beloved.

Beloved Love.

Apparently one of Hillary Clinton's Middling City interns quit her gig due to my "gripping the podium" image of the senator. One Laura of longness and leanness, who was once a friendly to Yours Truly, was calling for my head, wanted to sue the Buffalo News. I mean really. So Nicole, the aforementioned indentured servant/intern, quit, screaming of the first amendment all the way down the stairs. I sent her a jpeg of her, the other MC interns and Hill last night and today she sent me this small tale. She advises me to Let it all in one ear and out the other. Like so right on, Nicole.
Off to speak to suburban teens about the highlights, lowlights, shenanigans and pratfalls of being a journalist and artist.
Think I'll skip the part about grad school.
As Beth Dearest pointed out last night I do have a new skill - a more keen x-acto blade to slice through the requisite/hazinglike readings's flotsams, jetsoms to get to the juicey bits, to analyze them in a compelling manner and not in a wind-baggy one such as one X (one duplicitous prof) who tirelessly traipses on and on and on with the facts, wringing every ref, every possible allusion past and present - theoretical and novelistic - to a satsfying ending.
On that note I end, gather up my important docs and such scattered about the home of Kenergy and forge on to the suburbs, edification and elucidation on each shoulder.

Shouldering Love.

As is my wont, my annual quest to know, just simply know, who in hell Saint Valentine is, I did a little research for Your edification and can add some new Fun Facts to the puzzle that is Valentine on this puzzling holiday.
If you want to "see your future mate (tonight) in your dreams" go running now to your spice rack as, according to lore, pinning bay leaves to your pillow today will yield such results. The scent of bay leaves, according to aromatherapy, is said to have calming effects so if one is calm in dreaming and sees one's mate and it's not the one expected then perhaps this scented leaf on pillow helps.
Also.
As we know from past Valentine-related posts on epinw, Valentine the Man is a hodge-podge, a collage of perhaps a triad of men - all martyrs, all perhaps beheaded and here I propose that's where the expression to lose one's head in love comes from.
Also.
Valentine's Day, a patron saint day, is really honouring the Feast of Lupercalia, pagan love fest full of wine and more wine and champagne and fancy schmancy dinners and little nosegays and smooching and a chocolate truffle or two.
So, let us forget the gruesome end of the Valentines and stick to the pagan focus.
Happy Lupercal, kisses.
Everyone is loved and love is in the air, always, like wi-fi molecules, like air itself, like vibes of life.

Air Full of Love.

Helpful advice and note to Self:
when cutting atomic red chilis do not forget to wear gloves or you will for rest of evening feel a burning yearning earning deep inside them, as that bitch Diana Ross once sang.
So my Red Dinner happened and the food, clothes, desserts, beverages were all that. Happy to report that nothing spontaneously combusted, there are but a smattering of leftovers, nothing was broken and there were no punchouts. Just smiley heart-shaped high times with a crush of available favoured ones.
Turned many on to kir royales, what I lovingly refer to as the French version of a shot and a beer = a splash of cassis and a whole lot of champagne. Suddenly I realized that Brucey was addicting to them.
It is now with a procrastinating heart and heavy hands that signing off is imminent in order for me to turn all of my wavering attentions to readings, homework, deep grad student thought and posting. Exactly in that order.
Happy Eve of the Saint Day, the Saint who nobody really remembers, a possible amalgamation of several.

Eve Love.

Modernism's fascination with marginality.
Now you know you're in deep (mmm, just mis-typed deep as depp, You read between the subconscious lines) to the whole grad school miasmic mix of words when you read such a phrase and keep a straight and jargon-enhanced face.
Listen. Listen but good.
Run and do not walk to your grocery store or pharmacy or, if You are lucky and in the Shiney Apple, a freakin' true newstand, and pick up The Globe to see the next printish incarnation of Pre-Faint Hill, in a state of Gripping the Podium.
All aflutter with wonder if they've attached my image with a tale most sordid, I have my own conspiracy theory I cannot put on the web as I'm sure They will make my life more complicated.
Off to go practice out some more graduistic phrases aloud, maybe with some politico hand gestures to stun and such.

Such Love.

Much to my complete and utter astonish-freakin-ment the would-be musicians at the Church of the Evangelical Mindfuck next door are becoming - sit down - competent. Sundays can still mean a moaning vocalist and a drummer that needs some solid trepanning but some other nights competence sings through the church's cinder blocks.
Completely and utterly minding my own business, de rigeur in this Perfect landscape painting, I went to Jon's Joint, Salon for the Changes of Hair this week. Always an educational experience (allright, here I really must interject that Tolerance Hour is like so over and now my thoughts are going to lead me to anger management sessions and/or community service as an aftermath so on go the noise-reducing headphones), there I met a bona fide Middling City SWAT Team (do not confuse with Target Team, though their names are oso confusingly sim) Member, a man who I made tell me every tiny detail of using his battering ram. How much does it weigh? How long? Filled with? Two handles? One person device? etc. Answers: 80 lbs., 5 feet, concrete, yes, yes.
Enjoyed his stories of using said device. And then had to regale him with one of this lifetime's highlights, the FBI shooting range and such Perfect accuracy that the FBI men asked if Yours Truly had ever ever considered a career with the org. So the battering ram man is out of commission as his neck is all battering rammed.
Jon made my hair very different, very different indeed. Some say it's beautiful, some say it is shocking. Anyhoo, it is complex and I did say as he was painting my head You know, Jon, I do have a few more conservative clients. I think he heard You know, Jon, I do have a real love for the colour red, paint away.
Yesterday I encountered a shopping cart engineer whilst exiting a store. A tall gangly, glasses-wearing man with a beard and glasses, wearing a hat. From his colouring I could tell he is a natural redhead and he spotted me, whipped off his hat and said Some people are wanna-be's - I'm the real thing. I surprised him by asking What do you think, too radical. He thought not. I've been polling strangers who express an interest in my head. It is not only heart-warming, I think, but interesting to boot and I suddenly realize as Beth Dearest reads this she is, undoubtedly, slowly shaking her head and now I think how JW,Esq. is doing quite the opposite, a more vertical movement.
It's now time for me to sing along with Nico before I make my way out the door once mo.

Mo Love.

Very ensconced in music and libraries and now shouting !basta! to the bridged-over heavens of Pittsburgh, Reese, who I met and instantly bonded with over my gift to him of a1917 class tie from Cornell duringst my famed Estate Sale as I moved from my rented Victorian to my short stint as Ghetto Ghirl (and he had a busted jaw, wired tight), is heading to NZ. New Zealand to you non-vino heads. Joined his newsgroup and the correspondences I expect to roll in shortly, probably tapering off as it so often happens once one is ensconced then there. Drove like mad to various Middling City emporiums and ginmills to insert my Perfect initials onto football pools far and wide and will be waiting waiting to hear the glad tidings. Pools are all random so in choosing willingly I did so based on my fav colour - green. That equals that one team. From PA, which brings Me back to musings on Reese, broke free from PA for NZ. Class is like so underway and got the post posted and realized once I cut through the various hazes and such and flowerations that the readings were actually not so bad. But please, do not quote me on that. Or else. The song that one of my favoured humans was married to in Vegas is now playing on my iTunes and forever this song will make me think of that scenario, a chapel in Vegas, the non-screech of a needle dragged across vinyl, for shame, the onion-rich breath of a preacher, the click of a few bursted frames of film by the resident photographer, the ghost of journalistic me working on my story a few years ago, witnessing several marriages, still emotional despite the plastic, the dust, the absentia, the desert calling beyond the Strip, but a click and whirr and purr of the voice of Kristin Hersh singing Beestung and You know who You are there is no need to name. To flame. To shame. To lame. To aim.
Godammit, words are so fucking fun and satisfying.

Satisfying, fun, fucking Love.

Merrily stealing wi-fi molecules from the stratoscopic atmosphere about the home of Kennergy (Theory: emanating from across the street, a far and sad cry from the immediate wi-fi steal in Soho - missed in general like a lover gone untrustworthily bad) and having a vrai Cinderella moment as I am not at the Red Ball (You, do not confuse this with my savoury Red Dinner not yet happened) as the guest of the Shiney Happy Mag but am in grad student throes. Rather than in the strapless, complicated Nicole Miller dress I am in gradstudentwear suitable for studies, imbibing, procrastination, nimble walks amongst Nature. On that note we Parsons School of Détente enthusiasts are reading about what I am going to heretofore refer to only as The Sublime. You know - beauty, aesthetics. Usual hackneyed to smither kingdom come words. Last night watched neo-gypsy music at the Dungeon/SoundLab (The Feathers, from MA) and it was surprisingly not delving down into the Frost Zone in the joint. Saw Bandmate Scott there and I chastised him for falling down on the job of calling me nightly to remind Perfect Me to eat din-din and then we discussed not only our pending stagewear but our practice schedule.
This is a joke, a little epinw humour.
And I am afeared You do not recognize this as such as I feel our band totally rocks and does not need practice. I have designed the logo, the merch. We know what we're wearing on stage, our m.o. is in place. No matter that we have not practiced once. Rock & roll is so not about practice, it is attitude and forthright confidence. And good merch. So the neo-gypsies treacled away and you could definitely tell the wealthy/parent-fund-injected neo-gypsies from the typical struggling and leaving-wardrobe-to-chance neo-gypsies.

Neo-Love.

Minding my own business met up with girlies Liz and Cheryl at Hardware, Goldman's joint. There saw, firstly, the girlies and Mark and Kittie - ringside. Kittie was one of those at The Fainting of Hillary and we recapped. I'm shooting their daughter's wedding and said that I'm coining a new phrase "gripping the podium," sort of like driving the porcelain bus. You don't want to be seen doing either, if you catch my Perfect drift.
So, again minding my own business, Mark says (and he's the boss, the proprietor, the founder if you will) he wishes to buy me a cocktail and ever-obliging Scott the Bartender meanders over to listen to my wish/plan/order. I warble out Chardonnay, puh-leez. To that he says What . . . no scotch. Coming to my senses I said Of course. He says I have something new - Dewar's Green. I say What the hell. He then pours me a tumbler full of it in front of Mr. Goldman. Thanks for the $28 glassa scotcha, Mr. Goldman, I think to myself and join the girls.
Moments later Mark, Amy and Jeff saunter in from a dinner at Sinatra's. Amy is carrying a Kangol purse and to that I say Amy, when you die can I have that. She says she's buying me one and what colour. I marvel at her generosity then.
Back at Home Office Hovel and it's time to brainstorm as to how I'm going to squeeze many hours of grad school reading amongst a day of freelance gigs and the like and other social engagements. Who really has the time for this grad school thing, I wonder.

Wonderment of Love.

Saw The Death Grip Hillary image on Inside Edition and to ratchet up the drama they referred to it as "this scarey picture." This gets my grad student brain to thinking of what a picture v. image is and is that Beth Dearest I hear groaning in the background over there in the corner. Note to self: school's in session so get out the highlighter and start reading fercrissakes. Got a call from Thee Elliott Caplan today and will have to inform him that, according to JR, there is no Mechanism in place for EC to be my informal, Middling City advisor of sorts. We can still meet and discuss drawings and the like but to no grand offical end.
It should be noted here that I am listening at this moment, to construct a picture/a pixel-based image in Your mind of Me, to a 70s comp of Soul Train classics and am digging ever second of the grooving, falling backwards into a first-run beanbag chair that hasn't yet lost its tiny white internal beads of toxic plastique, when the Middling City still had its dramatic smoke-filled industry choking up the waterfront to the south, hope, post-60s style and tri-coloured bicentennial public offerings like garage doors, lampposts, bunting and Neil Diamond was still considered hip (although in My mind he still remains so). Next note to self: suggest to Marky Norris that he cover our fav ND song - Cherry Cherry.
Declined an on-cam interview last night for MC NBC affiliate, after requesting my pal Marc to do the shooting. Consulted with two wizened souls who helped me confirm my gut sensation that this was so not necessary. They wanted an eye-witness account of Hillary's faint and to that I said There were 120 others in the room, get one of them. They wanted to talk about the drama of surge of interest in The Scarey Picture and to that I said Nope. Which calls to mind when MTV showed up here and interviewed me and followed me about for a night, even mid-shoot, for the Goo Goo Dolls Behind the Music gig which ended up in a later edit of the show but not in its final, eliminated and not command z'd back in. But that moment did yield onscreen images made by Yours Truly and a little wrangle with ViaCom's Rights and Clearances team. Read between lines if you will.

Love's Lines.

Mere and meager moments ago finished watching one Coen Bros. movie with George Clooney and Catherine Bodacious-Jones. What in hell was that called. Indecent Proposal Law and Order Sense and Sensibility Love is a Battlefield. A study of brown eyes - the dark bottomless pools v. the dark brown with the ember glow, ie. his v. hers. I found this movie to be as affrontive as that piece of shit Pretty Woman starring a younger and pre-Buddhistic Richard Gere and that big toothy woman, Julia Roberts. Despite the fact that I've met Richard and received some unwanted media attention after one of my tv cam buddies captured us walking nearly arm in arm at a fundraiser for one Louise Slaughter, I find this movie, Pretty Woman, as well as the former, to be abso-freakin-lutely the ultimate portrayals of women as opportunistic capitalist at the expense, literally, of men. Intolerable Cruelty, thar she blows.
Found two words on a private, post-haste wordquest this fine evening that I must share, that I am trying to resucitate and drag (kicking, screaming) into today's parlance. They are: nymphology (one who shoots for stars whilst pipe-dreamed) and staumrel (dim-witted one). As they said in grammar school, use them 3x and they are yours, yours, yours. I have given You something and do not say Perfect me never has as uttering this will render you a staumrel.

Love's Staumrel.

Where in the name of all the teeming and adrenalized photogods did the days go and, fercrissakes, I know You have missed Perfect me. But where the fuck to begin.
Firstly, premierment to my fellow Francophiles, this and thusly.
Marky Norris, former officemate and one of the favoured Middling City rockstars and the second person eVER to know I was toodling off to Parsons, opened for the pinstriped and skunky-haired Tommy Stinson, formerly of the Replacements.
And jeez didn't Mr. Stinson learn a thing, maybe three, from Paul Westerberg about The Crabbies. He bounds up onto the stage, but not before Michele noted that his handshake was limp, drab. Oh no, that was another. She pointed out that amongst the cognoscenti she had no idea who in blazes this Stinson was. There he was, in his cornball TO-ish bumper car shoes (he did compare and contrast the MC with TO, needlessly, foolishly) of patent leather. And, I will argue to my death, you can ALWAYS judge a man by what is on his feet. No exceptions. Not even You.
Stinson. Sucked. I told Marky that he truly stole the show in my non-humble opinion. And that says it all. Marky was out for the first time solo, no band (GirlPoop/Pope) in tow. Stinson. Crab. Gets up on stage and complains nearly immediately about the club's temp. About its chilliness. Renee twists some knobs. Then he's too warm. Then he's too chilly. And on. Suddenly he's annoyed that in the barroom there're a few conversations and he leaps off the stage and performs for a handful of people at the bar, stopping mid-strum to do a shot. Now that is so rock and roll. Made some images of that moment, real real keepers with the bar rimmed with suddenly-awake-and-thriving-in-rock's-gentle-glow fans and tipplers.
I that night bathed in said glow of My People, my rock and roll famille.
Then.
More more more and then I find myself with Kennergy looking at the lame-arsed Georgia O'Keefe show at MC's Albright-Knox Art Gallery. I mean really, my pal of yore Georgia Davidson (who turned Perfect me onto all things scotch) could have made better art. Adding insult to visual imagery were the mediocre digital prints hanging alongside said paintings.
Then.
Today, while minding my own business was at a thing, a bennie, for a pro-choice group featuring in the hotseat Hillary Clinton, former First Lady, former brunette, former maxi-dress wearer. I am a huge fan. I was shooting this for the pro-choice org and did the requisite meet & (no, not potatoes) greet moments and then the Talk. HC says OOOh, I am not 100%, I need to sit. She sits. Then she needs to remove her sweater under her suit. She leaves and comes back one layer less. She sits. Her voice is fading and drifting and you can see that her usual steely resolve is waning. Finally she says I cannot go on like this. Rain check. She has food poisoning or a flu, she says. She stands. She clings podium. I make an image of The Death Grip, her eyes all zonky. Then. SHE'S FALLING. CATCH HER. Down goes HC. I made no more images, believing in dignity but waiting to see if there was some such thing that would need to be doc'd - like when I (amongst the plethora) got the shot of the teen catapulted into the crowd at the outdoor gig which resulted in one very sad broken neck for real.
So HC is on the ground. Show's over. But not for Perfect me. Suddenly I am barraged with calls from media far, further and furthest. Conversations and consultations happened. The Death Grip image appears in various media now. By me. No images that are ruinatious and nothing making her look worse than at her next gig, at Canisius College about an hour later and howinhell did she make that anyhoo, after her collapse. So, she is not dead, not dying just yet and no animals were harmed in the making of those images as they were made and e-shipped off into the good night.

Good Night Love.

Reported to online school to discover that - lo, behold - It really starts, the course on Beauty, in a few. And the premier week is all Hi, I am Perfect Nancy and these are my pet peeves.
Due to Hillary's Middling City visit Monday am unable to partake in Kristin Hersh's visit to Joe's Pub in Shiney Apple Sunday. Oh, velcro, sent along sad turn of events to Justy who is making it his birthday celebration of sorts. Missed her Middling City gig as 50 Foot Wave due to the odd sense that I had to get school work done and forwent that op. Then she was in the SA and that was sold out. I am destined to never witness her quipalicious skills in the flesh thus far.
It snows and it snows and I shovel and I shovel the drive so that Mr. Mailman does not turn into Mr. Mailman the Snark and stop delivering my mags, my bills, my written correspondences. And keeping at bay, doubly, the Middling City Narcs who report unshovelled walkways to the authorities and decreed by law it is that one must shovel a path of at least twenty inches and to that I say You pedestrians get a shovel's width. My own Perfect and individualized Rule of Thumb so to speak. Off now to visit with Deb and Sarah and then to points beyond.

Point of Love.

Note to self:
whenEVER you see vans driving about in the Middling City scream, call 911 and get license plate number. They are all wretched drivers. No exceptions.
As of Friday at 315PM more or less am driving new and hyper-improved Golden Forester. A big toy, a big safe toy, a big safe toy with hi-fi that plays at unsafe levels.
Heard from Thee Elliott Caplan who last corresponded from a car wash. It was cinematic, horrifying. Oh, other note to self:
no more shovelling. It sucks.
Off to points beyond.
Beth Dearest, if you're reading this, stay where you are =
Caribbean better than Nor'Easters.
Dig.

Dug Love.

Spoke with a (oh, here I'd like to say that today is an Easter as in Patti kind of jour) Shiney Apple pal last night who informed me that there were no degrees over there to the right. None. At least the Middling City has a few rattling about. Few. Far between, unlike the flakes that are congregating along my driveway. But did I mention I have a new and super-improved Golden Forester under my ass as of about twenty-four hours ago. Turned in the leased former Golden Forester and told William at the dealer's joint that I wanted more more and did not want to pay more more more. I said Look, Jerry Lundegaard, I don't give a phyling phlegm about klear-kote, none of those gadgetries. I want gold. I want manual trannie. I want same payments. I, in a nutshell, want a lot. And I sat there, in hat pulled over my eyebrows and down jacket pulled up to my chin and dykesville boots on my feet for hours negotiating until William whined But now we're not making ANY money on this car. Ummm, William, remind me to pencil in on my agenda to give a fuck about that some time. He had the car waiting just outside the door, seats set to 50 Kelvin and the moment my Perfect self hit that seat I knew it was it. It. We drove and we drove and we drove the backroads, chatting about all things vehicular. Taking high winding curves, stopping on a dime at a most inconvenient stop sign at the bottom of a hill, turning a U at a breathtaking clip. Best part is the cd changer and I've been driving the horrid blustery MC in a techno cloud. Just saw my pal Colleen at *BX who gave me a super-bonus shot of expresso (espresso in the MC) after our mutual sadness and musings on this ultimate Snapcase gig this fine evening at Snowplace. It is sold out. I will not be there as I am not shooting it and I could call Darryl and see if he wants any but really, shall I. Hmmm, now I am wondering. There are shiney bottles of tequila there to keep warm.

Warm ponderous love.

Amongst the many pop-cult things learnt from Mterm is the Ali G phenom, the trickster extraordinaire. And what reminds me of this snippet is that the Middling City was rused up a storm by an ersatz rap artiste who strode into town with entourage and more more more and took what could be manhandled from biz and vending folk. Allen was working on the project as sound engineer and want to get his poop on matters. What riled my own Perfect suspicions were that A told me how the artistes would have warm catered spreads at the studio all the dang time, even if they were no-shows. I thought that odd then but thought Gee willikers, these hi-rollers are saving so drastically they are catering the budget away. But now. But now things are revealed and all the minor hysteria surrounding the rap artistes come to the MC are blown sky high. Speaking of Sky High Gabriel's hair last night was so . . . that.
Wondering if perhaps I offended today as a client hired me to shoot a talent show manned by, of all freakin' things, dentists. She happened to marvel that there would be actual talent on the talent show stage, reputedly, reportedly.
I strongly suggested that perhaps it was the backstage usage of laughing gas that got all those creative and free-wheelin' juices a-flowin'.

Flowing Love.

Amongst other Virgin Mega things is the Neil Young non-rarities, the rough and tumble weeding versions of the biggest and baddest hitz. And subsequent Checker's throwbacks and beyond, involving Loomis, first drivings, poetry written in the warm haze of beer pitchers.
Stray cat Extra strutted in moments ago to warm his paws, give his claws a good wool rug workout and then sample some vanilla yogurt. Now he is outside, per his vocal request.
Sun shines in the Middling City as great rock and roll questions are pondered. What are the goals, the desires of this gig. Everyone's big question, the big Q of Yours Truly.
Planning and scheming, amongst other things on listy agenda, Red Dinner, annual feast of all things crimson and bought a new tome that has a few lusty, red dishes oso parfait.
Intense Laundry Time: about a year exactly ago X penned a lovenote to his concurrent and second-last X of his own about said Red Dinner, critiquing it so in a way that had my Perfect cheeks crimson. Not only lies about his sloppy concurrence but the lie of loving the Red Dinner. Rouge-related ruses all around and now how to extricate him finally and most expediently from all matters house. Once. For all. For best.

Rouged Love.

Somehow it got to be today, Monday, and haven't blogged since a few ago, much to the chagrin of a handful of the loyalest and toppermost of the poppermosts.
To be filed under G, as in Gee wasn't that interesting.
To balance Shiney Apple schoolhardiness with independence meandered into the ol' stomping grounds in midtown, as I previously mentioned, into MoMA. And other cinematic and art matters as well as gustatory retreats. Cue excellent summer memory, JW,Esq. - most notably a few vinos, a few heaps of heirloom tomato forms. Chelsea proved to be both provoking and passable. Excellent and reaffirming times with Dorota which, of course, involved bevvies of many genres, and smokes.
The week of schoolhardiness was truly a few days and a half with a smattering of interactions - and requisite lo-budg trips to salad bar for $4 lunch. JR informs me that the thesis I am to create is but 5K words, just longer than a typical mag ed piece and that the rest needs to be more. In comparing and contrasting notes with other grad students past and present haven't heard of a school as art directionalating as Parsons School of Delineations.
Time to unjumble that of art, school, work, change.

Jumbled Love (it's driving me mad, it's driving me crazy, crazy. Now that's mad Steve Miller props).

**This just so freakin' in.
Somebody decided to toss their body in front of the A train so there we sat. First the pa'd excuse was Congestion. Then the conductress sort of slipped and said A customer... then we riders so knew. We sat and we sat, sat, sat. I found an MTA employee aboard and queried thusly. So. Jumper. How long. It was then I went non-subterranean, finangled a ride from a car service with three girlies heading to PR and then they paid the driver but I tipped him and they got dropped first as they had minutes to spare and then he, very manly, circled about not knowing, just not not knowing, how to get me to Terminus JetBlueus. Finally, after my pointing out some key demarcations, that the plane I am to board in five minutes was pulling away shortly. So now, I am off. Again. Here ends this updating, informative communiqé.


Got the sOhO groove happening and actually sad to leave now. Sitting across from equally wi-fi'd Dorota who is doing some art things. Had a fab time with Fitzgerald (and some "authentic" paella that was shamed by the paella of Yours Truly, truly) and then somehow got separated from him and meandered off through the Bank Street area, one quadrant of the Shiney Apple I am so not familiarized with. Finally decided to locate a cab which got me oso much closer to the loft. There is something magical about the loft as it induces the best dreams ever. Spoke with Academie Guru last night who put It all into perspective and for that I am once again thankful. Had lunch today with Nancy Maier of Summer Camp fame and, amongst other things, she told me of her lofty climb atop Mt. Kilimanjaro and the descent through virtually each of the Earthly climates.
Time to head to the 6 to the 4 to the A to the AirTrain to the JetBlue to the Kennedy.

Love Travel.

*
This just in.
Currently blogging from the new, the uptight, the overly-staffed Museum of Modern Art. What a Vaticanlike vibe going on. You are not allowed to sit in the sculpture garden, à la Saint Peter's Place. You are chuted in and then if checking bags you are chuted again. I'm about to escalate upwards to catch some art. Profusion of security in dark jackets most noticeable thing thus far, besides the slight reminiscence of wandering through a large city airport. Communique over.


Arrived in a hurry to Carnegie Concert Spot to learn that the Kafka Fragments extravaganza was sold out, completely and 100%ly sold out thanks, in part, undoubtedly, to the fab NYT review. So called Beth to say Hey, skip this joint.
Meeting with JR art director to the stars in a little bit so there's time to wander to the French joint for a French lunch most French and Frenchalicious. Meeting later with Fitzgerald and keep reminding my Perfect self that I have not yet to date returned the call of my camp people regarding the informal camp (not campy) reunion in about a week.
Kennergy is repping me and him at the Shiney Happy Mag meeting later this fine evening at Liz's joint and I proposed that we collab on a brilliant piece about who can say. Regaled Beth last night with my April Fools prankish moments whereby I'd call editrix and pal Liz with a scheme, a dream, a fabrication. One I am still most humoured by. Involving a past gig and gallons of reserve label vino.
On agenda: digvid shooting fercrissakes. And Oban.

O, ban Love.

Not locating Patty Hearst I went to see a doc on Henry Darger, creator of somewhat-famed Vivian Girls who I knew about from Reed and Jef. In the day sort of a Mutt and Jeff situ. The boys, I might add I was there first-ever patron as their collaborative selves, turned me on to Darger and Reed gave me a drawing of me as a Vivian Girl of sorts. This transpired at Film Forum where I am a (former) card-carrying member. As I had misplaced my card and the joint is inept and cannot find its members online, I was forced - FORCED - to pay the average joe prix.
Still searching for Patty.
Here at Parsons early helping Beth set up her sculptural photo montage-alicious pieces which will be viewed and critted in about 10 minutes and counting. As usual in the world of production and such there is much scrambling for cords, cables, podiums, tables, and the like.
Fueled by an Americano. Seeing Laura later and Fitzgerald (hard at work writing in the voice and head of one Hell's Angel Founder, Sonny) on Thursday. Going to a Kafka-based opera at Carn Hall tomorrow night for a student ticket of $10. Those Carnegie Folks sure as shootin' know how to welcome students with wide open and understanding arms.

Arms full of Love.

Recurring word du jour. Irritating.
Well Editrix Liz received the masterpiece just aok and fine.
I expect the Pulitzer will be in the mail shortly.
I was just summoned to the front steps of Parsons School of De-No-Bagels for a smoke, a Coke, and a smile.
My critique went just fine. Some words here and there. I did not show one that I wish in retro that I had.
Off to hopefully conquer my lust to see the Patty Hearst docu-drama, Guerilla. It must be here somewhere.

Somewhere Love.

Yahoo squared.
The Shiney Happy Mag piece about the odd cable home decorating shows and attendant plastic hosts is complete, a masterpiece of twists and turn, unexpected adjective placements, fun facts galore. And photos to boot. And at 2600 words, nothing to sneeze at.
Had Kennedy help me with some photo illustrations and he waltzed into the moment, held the hammer just so in front of the t.v. screen and voi-fuckin-la! fini. That and a delightful portrait of my pal Jamie Johnson at her decorating helm, swatches as far as the eyes can see.
Currently just arrived in the Shiney Apple via the Fart Wagon/JetBlue and am about to embark on a brunch of relocated Middling Cityers... and salty dogs. That delicious concoction of grapefruit juice and vodka.

Salty, stinging love.