Very nearly began today not only minding my own business, but in the floral nook at the inner-Middling City Wegmans.
What was once the photo centre is now the floral nook as no one took in enough rolls and memory sticks to sustain the inner-grocery store printing & memory preservation.
As I've done before at several of the locations, I like to hijack the floral-gathering and arranging experience, asking the lady/ladies in charge if I can trim, wrap, and beribbon the bunches myself.
They at first are usually not too happy to unman their station but seeing how eager and how my floral plans are not quite theirs, they are always more than happy to step away from the DIY lady.
Going to a brunch at the home of a couple who are arts patrons of Yours Truly, and am bringing her a bunch of white flowers which she likes.
For myself and Kennedy purchased the ever-scentful hyacinths shown.
The scent of spring, of happy post-winter soil sprouting forth the beginnings of a colorful season in the garden.
Or, in this instant, some hothouse flowers that are a nice facsimile.

Onwards to artful, floral brunch.

Scented Love.

What, pray tell, You ask, is this contraption.
Well, Yours Truly will indeed tell.
It is a Vacum Cleaner in the basement of Church of Ani, i.e. Babeville.
To be confused with Asbury Hall.
YT was in one of the green rooms with Charles Gayle, Mary Oliver (award-winning violinist, not award-winning poetess), and Han Bennink, when this turn-of-the-century central vacuum (or vacum, back in thee day) was noted lurking in a dark corner.

Saw Han and Mary perform in Rochester, last night at Hallwalls it was all Gayle/Bennink, a sold-out event.
Afterward, met a pal of several of the jazz musicians in the room, Gaskin, of TO.
Fred Lonberg-Holm told me he'd be down and so YT steered him towards accommodations nearby so he could avoid that long and boring road back up there.
Technically west, not north.

Today received my medium (sadly, not small) Obama hoodie, which I'm washing for the second time so it's not too stiff for tonight's Bruce Jackson opening at the venerable Albright-Knox Art Gallery. All wide, black & white prison images from down south, hung in the Clifton Link - relevant subterranean walls.

On the radio now: Harley-Davidson is cutting jobs and production.
Read earlier that most women the world over claim that they're buying no new clothes this year.
YT finds this to be rather extreme, and probably untrue.

The Empire State has a new senator. Who.
Paterson says decision was not based on gender, sexual orientation, and the like.

Who Love. Love who.

Nancy J. --
Thank you for being part of the most open inauguration in our nation's history.
As we begin the work of remaking America, we must draw on the common hopes that brought us together this week.
I'm counting on you to keep the spirit of unity and service alive.

The above friendly note is from our new American rockstar President Obama.
Who looks absolutely beyond elegant in white tie.
Who lovingly (melt) whispered into Michelle's ear.
What a man.

Had a lovely time yesterday snowshoeing through forest outside of Rochester at Ganondagan Historical Site with Kennergy, up and down hills for hours.
Old pines mixed in with younger-growth, some nice old trunks harboring (undoubtedly) fuzzy little animals inside.

After snowshow activity had dinner with jazz pals Han Bennick and Mary Oliver and arts patrons/cooks extraordinaire Robert & Donna before H & M's gig at The Bop Shop.

Awaiting the music meandered over to a too-crunchy sushi joint and had some of the best sake around, black and gold. To warm up after maintaining an extreme chill.
Still awaiting musical action looked at nearby shoppes and noted this above sign.

Now off to dinner with Kennergy, Han, Mary before Han's Hallwalls gig with Charles Gayle.
A double-shot of Han B, as they say over on 97 Rock.

Love of jazz, and thrilled signs.

The latest in yet another Perfect ongoing series: Semi-Unintentional Self-Portraits.
This one was made at the residence of Bruce & Diane, during the fete for an auntie who was turning 105.
By all fam accounts, she is a voracious reader who had laser eye surgery at 100 to read unfettered from eyeglasses.
Yours Truly does prefer the French word, lunettes.
So last night there was a small gathering of pals to fete the new prez, at 888, sort of an unofficial clubhouse of the Middling City's glitterati, litterati, and FBati.
Speaking of FB, YT accidentally sent out the Obama in the (White) House party last night to invitees far and wide when what I intended was to send out an invite to the gang.
YT began to receive RSVP's from far and wide.
To some minor puzzlement.

The best news du jour is that YT's new and improved flashy flash site is up, running, doing its little slideshow magic - www.nancyjparisi.com - as if You did not know that already as YT is sure that she's at the top of the heap of those bookmarks.

Bookmarked Love.

This image made about 12:20 today, during our new president's speech.
Officially, he became president at noon.
Michelle Obama (watching the official transfer of power on steps) is wearing green gloves with her yellow suit.
Yours Truly is thrilled.
But not nearly as thrilled as about the main focus.

Photographed students at the BigU gathered to watch the Inauguration and when everyone was asked to rise for the oath, everyone in the room stood.
There were no dry eyes in the house.
YT among them.

And dearest Pahts gets to celebrate his birthday on this glorious day.

Love of oaths, and Glory.

++ This just in, from Big Orbit Gallery, seconds ago.
Winning this Best Of gig - and attendant solo exhibition - was truly one of the happiest days in the life of YT. Much like today. But with more fanfare centered on YT.

The exhibition's Best in Show award winner, selected each year by an outside juror, receives a solo exhibition in the following exhibition season and we have never been anything but genuinely thrilled with the resulting exhibits. Past winners of the Best in Show award include Alex Young, Geoffrey Allan Rhodes, Andrew Hershey , Michael Bosworth , Barbara Rowe, Robert Hirsch , Jena Cumbo, Laura Odell, Andrew Johnson, Joshua Marks , Nancy Parisi , Reed Anderson, Jackie Felix, Martin Kruck, Al Volo, Kurt Von Voetsch, Patrick Robideau.

For the upcoming edition of Big Orbit's Members' Exhibition we have decided to try something different. The "juror" will be a team of 3 past Best in Show award winners— Michael Bosworth , Nancy J. Parisi, and Patrick Robideau. Well known WNY artists all, they have a combined 40+ year history of artistic production and each embodies the spirit of Big Orbit Gallery. Images below link to their Big Orbit exhibitions.

Suddenly, minding my own Dem/damned business, I felt a healthy urge (diametrically opposed as opposed can be to W-esque unhealthy surge) to acquire an Obama sweatshirt.
So I wended my way over to DemocraticStuff.com
and did so.
They do not have smalls.

Yours Truly will wear it as proudly as she does her Blogger hoodie.
YT is oso proud to state once again that as one of the earliest Blogger customers (back when we had to PAY to keep adverts off our blogs), they thanked me for my devotion by mailing off some sportswear.

Tomorrow is another emotional day, the inauguration of Obama.
In honour of this historical moment, YT planned a gathering at 888, the same venue chosen for YT's Poll Results Watching Party.
If YT had not had gigs this weekend would have meandered down south to catch some of the happy hoopla.

Love of Hoopla and Happy Hype.

Yours Truly just this one will make a rare confession: I was like so NOT minding my own business this past Friday night as I wended about the Middling City in search of Zen and a demi-predetermined musical journey with dear Annie.
Secondmost on the quest for narrative and images was to see thee Jackie Jocko, stationed at his workspace piano inside EB Green's at Hyatt Hotel with their newly refurbed and freshly trendily-patterned lobby with giant blue globe that squeaks as it turns.
Above shows Annie with thee JJ - he insisted that she come up and do a little duet, a little hand-on-hand plinka-plinka.

So there we were and there was JJ.
Never before noted by YT were his little selfmade notes to himself with song titles along the front of the piano.
They are, he says, a tool for Ideas.
He regaled us with tales of the MC's brighter live music days when there were tasteful live music joints up and down the avenues.
One I most enjoy hearing about, Chez Ami, with its rotating dancefloor.
Imagine.
As the Shiney Apple's Rainbow Room with its own rotational floor, faces some more sad times with rent raising, and a struggle between landowner and tenants who made the place less elite and more welcoming to every icon-seeking Tom, Dick, and Harry.

Pianoside with JJ included some soothsaying by him once he learned our astrological signs - it was quite interesting and fairly spot-on and he admitted that decades ago he was more an astrological practitioner than now.
How listeners would not only request a tune but some sooth for themselves.

Our questful night included some drunken squaws dancing in front of their boyfriends' band and Annie nearly getting decked (pun not intended but now enjoying said pun so it will stick), a darkened room of excellent techno dj'ing and a sub-quest for Scott, the event's beneficiary. Are you Scott, Are you Scott, we asked and repeated throughout the club until we found the right man. One man offered, helpfully, that he could be Scott if YT really wanted him to be.

The MC is full of beautiful new fluffiness, a new pristine layer on what was hard and browned and worn.

Listening to John so I paraphrase, in happy light of what is in the works:
We all said we wanted Revolution and we all wanted to change the world.

Changed World Love.

Misunderestimate.
The first jarring moment of the current - O mighty God merci beaucoup from the bottom of my wishful photog heart - but not for long (1.20!) presidential press conference.
His ultimate.

As I just commented on FB, I'm testing my strength to see if I might be able to endure this press conference without reaching for the remote/powerswitch/fusebox.

As EdC just commented on my FB status/comment

I have tuned out every one for the past 8 years; too painful to bear. But I'm actually leaving it on this time, savoring the fact that it's the last one we'll have to endure! I can't wait to have a President with a 3-digit IQ!

Sustainable cease fire.
To have a vision of what peace might look like.
Still listening. The ultimate.
Ooh, he finally got a femme journo's name right after six years he states.
She corrects him. Eight years.
He must have done something visually interesting as the photogs in the room just went trigger thrilled.

I couldn't do it. Why torture yourself? Only a week left!

So commented Jen Pinkowski.

I'm doing it, I'm a tough woman of the new millennium.

His words follow.
I'm concerned that in the wake of the Defeat (yeeha) the temptation would be to look inward and here's a litmus test we must adhere to. This party will come back.
...
Take for example the immigration debate, that's a highly contentious debate.
...
Republicans don't like immigrants, that's the message that came out.
...
They probably don't like me as well.
Our party has to be compassionate and broad-minded.

Late last message.

'Obamamania' gone wild!;)

says Victor Colonna.

Bush is seemingly really grooving on the members of the media, just verbally back-slapped a young male journo in the room.
Titter.
Hard things don't happen overnight, Jake. Says Bush.

That is like so right.
It took quite a while for you and your ilk to really alienate, and for the right person for the era to come along with intelligence, grace, and charisma to not only inspire but to get elected.

This just in.
Last night my best dream was that I was doing an interview with Our President Elect.
He was so gracious, and effused such loveliness and an aura of tranquility that it was, even after waking, inspiring.

Harsh discord.
Alright, now he's claiming he's read a lot about President Lincoln.
Now he's paralleling harsh discord that was uttered about Pres v.16 as for him, v.43.
Onwards to 44.

Elected Love.

To be filed under C for creepy is this mural merging the animal and mercantile worlds.
This can be viewed in the Middling City along Bailey Avenue, a fine avenue with incredible window displays and general displays of juxtapositions approaching surrealism.
My fav to date: the Bruce Lee poster, now faded to sepia, at 1313 Bailey Avenue.
A Triumph.
What is oso creepy in this fine illustration is that the lion is smoking a blunt.
In this hyper-green and aware zone of hope it seems a rad concept to have a lion be creating second-hand (and new on the awareness tip - third-hand) smoke.

Next image to be filed under A for asinine.

Ethan Allen, in a hipster landgrab, hopes to appeal to people like Yours Truly who believe them to be stuffy, and overpriced.
YT received a very expensive pub from EA this week, a catalogue showcasing hipster rock & rollas holding guitars (and, undoubtedly grungy attitudes towards Life, and Furniture) and espousing the Cool qualities of these lamps, and sofas, and such.
On an early page is this oso silly image of a hipster duo in throes of a Photo Shoot.
YT dearly enjoys, as do her colleagues, this sort of image for it grabs the iconography of the craft and field without, obviously, consulting a real photog - or perhaps the photog documenting the image crafted by a stylist.
Why does hipster photog guy need to have this cam and lens on a tripod.
And why is he so close to the femme.
This is like when YT walked recently through Union Square and a photog grabbed my likeness with a long lens from not so very far away.
I commented to Annie that he was probably doing a study of women's pores in the winter sunlight.
Onwards.

Ah, 'twas the 209th birth anniversary of MC darling Millard Fillmore, who YT lovingly refers to as Mill Fill.
This is West playing Taps.
His real name is West, not short for something like Weston.
As is MC custom, it was a weather-treacherous morn when we media types et al made our icy ways to the gravesite.
I truly love this - and all - trads.
Each and every one of them makes me all reflexive and pome-infused.
Onwards still.
It is a night of art, Bruce Bitmead's art op at a gallery in A-Town, amongst others.
Tonight is also Little Laura's Bon Voyage fete at Sportsmen's.
Not sure why that venue but c'est la vie.
Et c'est le bon voyage fete and it's her choice fercrissakes.

Bon Voyage, Love.

So currently there are several concurrent technical challenges.
Numero uno is the midst of upgrading website and forging ahead with a flash site, and figuring out the navigation - navbars as we say in the former DreamWeaver-ridden sphere.
I like to recall for the glee of others the torture of the DreamWeaver classes at Parsons when the instructress of very highly-pitched voice would struggle to be heard over the whirr of the AC as we sat in podlike formation paired off, me looking over at my neighbor's machine until I feigned a break of some sort to rush out to Fifth Avenue to stare down reality, or an alternate one, for the time being.
I never did figure out that fucking DreamWeaver.
As I told my Parsons mentor there are other options such as the modus internetus whereby one pays for a template and sticks things into their appropriate slots: let someone else figure out the html nits and grits.

And then there is another matter at hand regarding a faulty memcard for the newest fam addition, the baby Leica dLux4. Not the card reader. check. Not the cam. check.
For this very micro-mini reason there are not, to date, any Fems images on epinw or elsewhere.

O what a night that was, strong still in mem.
Looking back and around and toward the stage was in throes of a glut of memory of Freeland, yes, of course, but time spent at The Continental stageside.
Dougie had a funny tale to tell this past week, of meeting a new pal who filmed a Fems show several years ago - perhaps seven - and this woman panned the crowd to reveal Yours Truly shooting the onstage action, and to also reveal the posse of YT nearby, including Dougie himself.
Suggested that he get this up on FB pronto.

Today FB'd a former prof, and a poet who YT asked a few times to be a featured reader for the fantastico Writers Cramp Series that YT ran from '81-'87 with Paul Hogan.
YT would procure the funding (conflict of interest as one of my on-campus jobs at UUAB as a chair underwrote a goodly portion of the series), design the posters, designed and printed the t-shirts, and co-emceed with PTH.
So this prof contacted YT and had several greetings.
He also recollected that I was disappointed that, upon snatching his headphones off his head once that he was listening to classical music and not good ol' rock & roll, as he always swore that he did.
He asked me to whip off a poem as an exercise and, ever-dutiful, I did so.
It was a two-min pome pennyeach for sure.
It was, as I wrote to him, something wallowing and waiting to be rid of me.
Happy Return, His Ghost
is its title and I also sent it off to Heady as a big nudge as we agreed that we are to nudge each other into creation.

This gray Middling City day began, nearly began, with the exchange of a shit-eating grin, as the cowboys say, with a femme stranger.
Then a thought that mine was, or was it. And hers was, or was it.

Onwards.
Upwards.
Artwards.
And wordwards.

Wordward Ho, Love.

Utterly and festively minding my own business yesterday after Mrs. Rutstein's funeral and lunch with Fats&Pops, was in throes of errands and one stop on the agenda was India Bazaar.
India Bazaar is a somewhat frequent stop for all things Indian. And yesterday golub jaman was on the NYE menu which also included my soon-to-be-world-famous Lobster Thermidor, a combination of two recipes that I like and have made before.
So there I am in IB, analyzing the produce, the coriander chutney options, and then the mehendi section in the cooler.
For a mere $2.99 Yours Truly purchased a pre-mixed tube of the henna goopings (really, that does sound like a muy authentico Indian word - goopings) for some NYE body painting and tagging.
After what I've dubbed my Ethereal Salad (details upon request), Lobster Thermidor with buttered peas on the side, and then dessert of golub jaman with Kennergy sped off to points beyond for festivities and to embrace Party Zen.
First stop was 888 and busted out the tube which I had already sensibly snipped and wrapped in foil.
Gave FB pal JJopp a nice "Client #9" in swirling letters along her hand.
Then gave Annie a nice NINE along her knuckles (see above).
Gave myself a nice lefthanded martini (also above).
Gave JJopp's pal Gina a nice ohm just below her neck and then tarted up JohnC's hand with a sun/moon/happyface.
Gave Gary an IX but he put his hand in his pocket and it went to hell in a handbasket.

New Year's Resolution last night was altered.
It began as: Learn to spit like a boy.
YT prefers to Perfect new skills in the new year rather than embrace an omission.
A few hours later decided that the resolution is to try to use more cliches in speech, especially those that hearken back to the Old West, the Wild one, or any of those than make wry agricultural refs.

This image is of the stuffed wolf at the Middling City's Science Museum, where Kennergy and I made a midday field trip.
The wolf is in a box, like a well-trained mime.
Note his/her playful pose.
Elsewhere in the joint one can finally pet pelts of other mammals, it is no longer necessary to sneak a pet in here or there.


This is a new year, one that promises to be a stellar one.

Stellar, lupine Love.

Above is one of the gifts that Yours Truly presented to Kennergy, a lovingly restored Tarzan Zerbini ad from the 1960s gleaned during research for the Buffalo Spree Mayors Gone Wild piece.
It began with a small ad, microfiche copied to 8x10 and then cleaned up for hours as it was all scratched and falling to bits.

This is the sort of Middling City morning that this is: Neil Diamond vids (NB: this here's a rollicking v. of Cherry Cherry sans live image, instead one must gaze at one still image of Neil, not a terrible thing - here's another Cherry Cherry in unforgettable brown leather pants) lovingly selected via YouTube whilst working on laptop; was nearly been whiplashed out in the great outdoors as the weather is a confluence of some warm and cold fronts and all flat surfaces are rutted with ice, and it's the intermezzo interzone between Christmas and NYE.
When seemingly everyone is comparing thoughts, plans, and aspirations for NYE.
Should it include public events.
Should it feature lots of others, lobster, a flowing situ of Veuve Cliquot.
Always.
And thoughts are already thinking ahead to Red Dinner in mid-February.
The HoldTheDates, the decorations, the menu of course.
Penultimate stop on Christmas night was Mark and Polly's, always a cheering destination.
Polly made latkes and another sort of latke with parsnips and ... beets.
These will be a new addition to the Red Dinner menu with its other trad items like Nance's Famous Red Caviar Deviled Eggs.
You know, the ones that made the BNews reporter break into a sweat upon being offered a taste of one.
But ... I ... don't ... can't ... eat ... eggs. Never ... had ... caviar ... thanks ... No.

Your homework assignment du jour.
Go here and Perfect your technique, carefully selecting angle and distance.
It does indeed take a few attempts but - mark the words of YT - when you have Midt I Fleisen/success you will be oso proud.

Holding an Inauguration Gala at 888 on 1.20 with black tie tendencies.
Long dresses, tied, tiaras.

Shoe Love.

Voilà moi, self-portrait whilst shoveling per request.
Please note the bundled status, the shovel piled high with snow, the drifts to the left and right of Yours Truly.
Posted this on FB and noted that this is in sooth not an astronaut being chased by a crescent moon, but YT being chased by a cold front.

The last three days or so have been all Middling City blizzard action and the subsequent, requisite shoveling.
City plows do their gig and deposit pounds and feet of icy melty business.
Yesterday Kennedy and I dug out my drive while a plow came and we, helplessly, got buried as they rolled along.
Kennedy, as is his nature, gave the last of the two plows a gloved finger.

We here in the MC need fluff-related gear.
So, to conclude today's snow-related thoughts, sped off (figuratively) to the nearest big box to buy the best shovel offering.
They had a palette full of crappy shovels, and two priced just over $20.
One with a pathetic blade, the other with a respectable one.

More holiday gatherings tonight, tomorrow, and the next, and the next.
And then Boxing Day.
A day to reflect upon pugilism and all that that encompasses.

Shovelfuls of Love.

Today is Nephew's 17th birthday so therefor called to give him my trad harmonic-blast-o-rific birthday blues-esque spoken word greeting.
Who does not remember the magical age of 17 when you're teetering at the precipice of adulthood and drifting out of the less-assured childhood years.
Teetering and drifting entirely sums up the teen miasma.

Today is also the birthday of my longtime rock&rolla pal Marty Boratin and Erin's baby boy who got his first taste of Middling City Bison chip dip from his Auntie Nance this past summer.

∞

The Middling City is in beautiful, blizzarding throes with snow raining down.
Just looked out window and there's a respite in process. Pro-sess, as they say up in Canada. Time for more snow removal before a snowshoe date in the wilds of Delaware Park.

Gathered with girls last night at Polly's and am slated to hit a holiday party this fine evening. Nobody in the Middling City lets a blizzard, driving ban, or any other natural catastrophe from keeping one from a party.

Have AWD, have chain saw, will travel and forge ahead.

Forging, shoveling Love.

Little dogs, whether in the Shiney Apple or the Middling City, enjoy window shopping, Yours Truly opines.

Spent a chunk of yesterday with the Niece, first brunching amongst the pop art and down the hallway from photo-secessionists. I speak, of course, of muse at the venerable Albright-Knox.
Afterward we moved along to the Hysterical Society as she requested, meandering along the Street of 1870 display that has been creakingly in existence there since Yours Truly can ever recall.
According to wall notes this modest display has been standing since 1959.
Five decades of edification fercrissakes.
After that we went to Burchfield-Penney Art Center's new digs to enjoy a look at the new white curves, the blonde wood curves, and the Kurlands on view - three in all.
As we stood in front of his panels we phoned him to tell him where we were standing at the very moment.
He enjoyed that.
We enjoyed his depictions of magnolias.
Bought the Niece two artful bracelets from the gift shoppe and told her that when she wears them she has to think of her Auntie giving her a loving squeeze.

Downloaded some music by Alexi Murdoch today, a mellow selection for laptopping. Another primo artist discovered on pandora.

LisaF suggested a Frock Swap this past week and YT, ever suffering partially from Rock&RollEar, heard Frog Swap.
LisaF, originating from the midwest, would like a small bunch of ladies to gather to swap things that are not so worn any more. Have done this before but never called it a Frock Swap.
Frogs or Frocks, it'll be fun.

Book Group #2 met last night chez Kerly for feasting convo about Great Expectations - what I named this group, a good name. Especially as the first selection was the same.
Our next book is democratically up for vote.

Speaking of Democracy.
The shoe throwing incident involving our outgoing president.
YT was ultra-impressed by his comback aplomb with the quip that all he had to report is that it was a size 10.
Brilliant, actually.
And then he stated that that's the price for democracy, Calling attention to oneself.
As the journo who did the shoe tossing was being beaten in the hallway.
Goodbye Mr. Bush.
Please pass the change.

Change Love.

Quite an interesting surprise discovered whilst digging through old cam bags in preparation for getting together a starter kit for one of Vincenzo's kids today.
There, in an old Tamrac bag (always the bag choice of Yours Truly - woman-owned, good and hale designs) were these items above.
There's such a narrative here that it's overwhelming.
In summary (and this image does also pay lovely homage to one of YT's favoured photog instructors, Marion Faller):
Shiney Apple subway token, two sets of keys to two different living situs in the SA (undisclosed addies), love note from an X (who was in habit of leaving notes in bags of all genres), VS mints (for him, however, guess YT thought the tin less treacly than the XX version), a Fuji (always the color film of choice) creds neckstrap, and some turbo-powered earplugs as YT did for over a decade shoot at least five concerts per week.
As they sing in the tropics,
What a Lovely bunch of coconuts.
Happy memories, intense mems.
Onwards.

Paul T. Hogan's reading last night was a lovely love-filled affair with Jimmie and Geri doing intros.
I was pleased that they both, and he, too, mentioned our Writer's Cramp Series that we co-produced from '81 until '86.
I screened all the t-shirts that we gave as souvenirs to the writers/readers/presenters and Jimmie revealed that she'd never received hers.
YT also, with PTH, co-emceed, alternating our intros.
Paul liked to say Let's get the ball rolling, when it was time to lay off the sauce and get back to poetry/fiction matters at hand.
YT also gleaned all the sponsorships for the series, and designed very 80s-looking posters for the readings ... twice per month.
This was all pre-Mac and these were laid out with ... get this ... PresType.
And half-toned photographic images of mine, illustrations by YT, or images collaged from sources like NYT.
All this while YT had an 80s-era long hair with rakish chopped-off area/bangs that facilitated the leaning over darkroom trays of chems.
Last night YT was told that she inspired bravery in a man.
Because YT is a proud urban pioneer.
I liked this news.

Time to make and do more making and doing.

Love of all this.

So the above image, a beloved one, Hand and Skate Eggs, was conjured up by fellow artists - a pair/couple - who wished to own its likeness for their veryown as he makes images of watery things, Nature underneath.
We three are included in a holiday festivus artus and she asked if she could purchase above for his secret present. Only then he somehow read her email (isn't that always the way) so now the secret is kaput.
But not the gift.
It was made by me via the ka-chung Mamiya RZ, 6x7 (as in cm's), and they also dug the look of my standouts, a way of showing work sans the ol' mat & frame routine.
Took the neg to ToddT who superscanned it and made an el grande dig file of it which Yours Truly uploaded to the far-off lab.
ToddT printed up one image on etching paper, a Triumph.
The blacks are a little soft and would need some karate chopping for exhibition purposes but it has a nice depth.
Ordered two 8x10's on papier classique and those are sharp as photonic tacks.
This past few months have been fraught with magic.

I will be sending a note to a Shiney Apple artist who helped me to dislodge all kinds of muck in my mind that kept the Art Zen from flowing properly.
Thee MarkD, maker of lively/lovely semi-abstracted panels, said some sooth and kapoof. He teaches art and I feel lucky to have met him, as well as a few other artists at Justy's wedding in the stony Quaker clutches of Mohonk Mountain House.
Gratitude MarkD.

Had a good time with the Chief Art Mentor this night and although we speak different languages (meaning the diff between one who paints and one who speaks the photog dialect) it was inspiring and reported of the sights seen in the Shiney Apple.
Chiefly, again, Sugimoto.
YT would almost jet off to the SA to spend another few hours in that exhibition, Seven Days and Seven Nights.
It is what the Best Ofs have: Aura, Purpose, Words, Lyrics, Passion.

All for now and over and out.
Time to draw with big fat graphite implements.

Implementing Love.

Blogging, as is my occasional Shiney Apple wont, from the Clubhouse, one of thee Clubhouses, on W14th Street.
Yours Truly, of course, speaks of the apple store.
The tidy, lovely, organized world of mac.
And i.
Just walked through Chelsea with a lovely group of ladies (Heady, Annie, Dana, Sandra) and ended the sightings Perfectly, in the Gagosian Sugimoto exhibition.
Seven Days and Seven Nights, fourteen pieces made evenly in both dark and light.
Seven significant bodies of water, still and reflective.
Also looked at the new Sherman work at Metro Pictures, yet another triumph.
Not sure if I like these new elderladies as much as the clowns.
She green-screened the work, putting her made-up self in front of, via PS, backgrounds that are occasionally further altered with swirls and the ol' watercolor filter.
Supped last night at Tabla, a lovely combo platter of Indian spices (thinking my newfangled v. of plural for spices could be spix, similar to the resto plural of chix for chicken) and various viandes.
Tonight is another large part to dine at the raucous Rosa Mexicano, where guac may be made to order tableside.
Another triumph.
Time to touch more macs.
And continue on walking and looking, another SA wont.

Wonton Love.

In throes of Perfect Shiney Apple Zen.
PSAZ for short.
Texting this epinw post so You know this is not only finger-intensive, but tossing Yours Truly into that curious time and space of text narrative when act of writing lags way behind thought.
In Whitney where YT has had a plethora of wondrous moments.
Just and finally became a proud member.
Arranged an ever-expanding cast of characters for supper at Tabla.
Think it's up to 9.
A nice lady called me to confirm and she thought the amorphous Love blob is "wonderful."
Started a new notebook and realized moments ago my fingers are covered with errant green lines.
Walking.
Thinking.
Writing.
Shooting.
Living.
Loving.
As the character in Sam's Rockaby utters: "more."

Amongst the themes, John has made several appearances, including a short 16mm film around the Penny Lane narrative.
What energy, what a nose.

Love of Lennon's nose.

Open Letter du Jour to God.

O God, venerable life force that hovers above everyone on this planet, why arest thou punishing me.
I finally drag myself in to get a pedi - post-gig - and what movie does Team Nailbuffer have on the set but the most godawful piece of poop ever made.
I speak of course of Forrest Gump.
Trying to recall how or why I sat through this cinematic marvel.
Perhaps a pal dragged me into that.
It's just at the part where Dan is sitting on the dock and Forrest waves and swims over to him, leaving the shrimp boat chugging off on the horizon.
Oh, and Jenny just tried to kill herself and her pedicured toes were clinging to her open-toed sandals in a last-second change of mind.

Hillary is officially to be the secretary of state and that is a fab development.
Go Team Obama - Go.

This past weekend brought Little Laura to World's Largest Disco, one of the most festive holiday events known to Middling City Man.
Emailed Dave Pietrowski yesterday morn to let him know that I thought this year rocked, in a disco way.
New disco ball, huge. New lights.
Four of the six Bradys in attendance.
Little Laura and I had our portraits made with the following Bradys: Greg, Cindy, Peter, and Bobby.
All have been to WLD before and I welcomed Peter back to Buffalo.
He deadpanned Have I been here before.
As the photos were being a-snapped I put Cindy in a little lighthearted headlock.
I haven't scanned it yet but below is an iPhone rendering of the moment.



Headlock Love.

(all this written whilst listening to downloaded concert - non-bootleg - of Iron and Wine gig at Babeville on 11/14 ... a lovely long fest of beauty)

And what in tarnation, You ask, is this, oh epinw creatrix.
It is the art trouvé, public art, that Yours Truly nearly stuffed into back of vehicle as a new art acquisition before Little Laura introduced some sense into the situ.
It's got rusty nails on the back, she said.
The mention of those stinking nails brought my hopes of owning now-defunct Rascals's Spag & Balls signage.
There are other gems waiting for an art connoisseur in the know, who loves outsider food adverts.
These are on panels about six feet long, Perfect for a big wall in a nice urbane kitchen.
YT already features on her cucina wall a swell formerly public art piece by the Art Guys. Also crowbarred a piece by them for Alan & Liz.
Somehow Little Laura and I were trapped in a vortex and could not seem to find an art opening so visited that classic other, non-defunct spag & balls joint, Santasiero's, for some sustenance to-go and wine not to go.
A sad-assed carafe of god only knows what.

Still to post:
Images from my wonderful art opening this past Tuesday featuring a cast of luminaries, as well as new work by YT, and work by Linda Gale, and Bob Schulman.
And cheese.
Of course.

Of to dinner plan and the World's Largeesssssst Disssssssssssco.
Boogie Oogie Oogie.

Boogie Oogie Oogie Love, Love.

Toppermost to undermost these are: Hand with Cyclamen Roping; Bulb, Roots with Aster Sprinkles; Driving Rain Hand; Homage to Aunt Marion; Bee, Smoke, Sage.





The new art.
There are ten pieces, actually eleven, split between Studio Hart and Neighborhood Art Collective - opening officially tomorrow and Friday, respectively.
Hung ten new pieces at Studio Hart this brisk Middling City morn with the other two artists, Linda Gellman, and Bob Schulman. With Dan Hart in attendance. He was impressed that I showed up with my own hammer, a holdover practice from two decades + of Artists & Models and other various installations.
+ duct tape, various nails, extension cord, chutzpah, and scissors.
Never forget the scissors for You will need them, guaranteed.
We four hung the work in a record hour and a half. As always work spread out along baseboards of a gallery never looks as good as when it takes art show form up on the walls.
Work is still lifes, and new hand work.
Thank you to Heady and Jeremy for their Perfect hands.
People have been asking to see the new pieces - here is a sampling of.
Forgot that not one and all are FaceBooking.

New Art, Love.

Amongst yesterday's happenings went to the fully-formed Burchfield-Penney Art Center's first members' op in the new 33mill digs.
Walked on over there with Annie and met up with Kerly, running into a plethora of favoured individuals, including the parents.
Deciding that carpeted galleries are a no-no and now the BPAC is carpet-free.
During the pre-op tour months ago decided that their new sky-high gallery would be, as PB says (in German accent), THE SHIT.
It is.
In it is a lovely Christy piece that I had forgotten that I'd ever seen, and a moth piece by Sean S., and a Juan Puerdigero that I always loved.
Could not seem to get a glass of vino and after the day wished for one.
Kept hearing sad tales of friends waiting for half an hour for a draft beer.
And the guards keep everyone from sipping through the entire space.
So waited until afterwards and had some lovely bottle with the ladies at the nouveau wine bar at Main and Va.
The owner of the wine joint came over to say hi.
I told him he should consider some thick cafe curtains to soften up the windows.
Kerly said he should consider buying better bread for his little sandwiches.
He agreed to the latter.
At the BPAC decided that I really should check out a few things.
Touched one of the little glass mushrooms on an upper level and a guard sauntered up to ask me if it was in fact my own work.
I gave her a demi-hairy eyeball and said No, I'm just touching it.
She said not to touch it.
In the presence of John Opera and a few other friends I stated that I had no regrets, I was glad that I'd touched it and I'd do it all over again.
We are now friends.
Yours Truly enjoys a wide array of friends gleaned from many modes of friendship, including the rare haranguing of art security guard.
So went into the auditorium, very dark, with Dawn and then Annie.
Trying to see how it looked.
Finally Annie and I decided we could use our iPhones as little torches.
YT employed her new virtual Zippo lighter app to little effect.

All in all a lovely art-ridden day.
Today is all work, some play.
The MC is crisp of air and scorching of sun.

Scorching, crisp Love, Love.

Perhaps as of late You have heard Yours Truly refer to something she lovingly calls an Art Bomb.
What in H-E-DOUBLE-HOCKEY-STICKS is an Art Bomb.
Following is a pictorial essay on her Art Bomb privée.






Showing some new and older pieces at Annie Adams's Neighborhood Art Collective and also have a three-photog show opening on Tuesday at Studio Hart.
All new work for the latter, a blend of still life images as well as a return to the ongoing hand series.
Below is YT, the one responsible for the strewn bubble wrap, boxes, flora, fauna, and Sharpies.
Onwards.
Today Liz and I spoke to high school guidance counselors about the merits - no demerits - of becoming wiser/stronger/faster at the Middling City's BigU.
Quite happy to do so, always.
A few of them took my bizcard so that some journos-to-be may contact YT directly for some hap-snappy pep talks about the BigU and the BigF. As in Future.
Time to race back out to the former wetlands for a big delivery.
Always.

Love of only bombs that spew Art.

Originating from the Middling City, with it as orientation both conscious and sub, view first snow with glee.
And then, completely automatic, comes the beginning strains of It'sBeginningtoLookALotLikeChrissssmussssss.
There have been random vehicles for the past few days showing up in the MC with piles of snow on bumpers and the like but today only a smattering.

Yours Truly tells those who inquire about precip that the MC has a Multi-Month Appearance & Disappearance Snow Plan.
But, here's my $50 advice, buy good boots, colorful hats and gloves and scarves and you'll look forward to the precip, the smatterings, the blizzards.
You, tossing colorful scarf over shoulder, pulling hat down to eyebrows, stomping into boots with good socks, will scoff at the swirling flakes.
Unless, of course, your car has skidded off the roadway and You are doing the ice rock & roll.
Onwards.
JW,Esq. wrote to a bunch of MC Advocates lamenting the wide right of Bills last night, believed he saw the ghost of Scott Norwood.

This is a very very MC blogpost.
Onwards to more universal matters.
And Hello to COBoy.

No One is the Same, Love.

Had la famille Allen over to the inhouse studio for some swingin' art making moments yesterday and they refused the VC as they had yoga later in the afternoon.
Image above is Hand and Daisy Pieces.
Thank you to the Shiney Apple artist, a new art mentor of sorts, for words to move past lodged thought to making and doing.
And all this still action makes me miss digvid, a shocking development.

What is best about making & doing.
Well, lest You do not know I tell.
Creating your own language, a place that is another world, a parallel place informed by all that is.



Is Love.

Oh right, perhaps You don't FaceBook.
And therefore did not see an album of images created for entertainment purposes.
And perhaps you missed my 2nd annual Old First Ward Pub Stroll, but would like to see images from that night of special interval training.
To see what I mean, go here.
And just what, You ask, are You looking at.
I shall inform.
At stop/pub #3, Cook's, this is part of the decor – it's a carefully-constructed shotgun shell garland over the circular bar.
As You can see, in alternating red and green, very yin and yang.

nancy...now that i've had time to reflect i'd like to thank you for making my last show special....and thanks for the traveler's gift package...you're very personable.....gregggggggggggg

Appeared on the final Sterlace show on Halloween and now Greg and Paula are wending their way here and there, to and fro, yonder and yonderer.
Texted the travelers yesterday to say hi and to check on their whereabouts and they were walking along thee mall in D.C. - as in monuments, not anchor stores.
Ordered them to march along to Maya Lin's Viet Nam memorial pronto for me.
Planning a trip with Kennedy to see her wavy fields of green on the Hudson in the spring.
The last Sterlace show was as chaotic as usual, with a panoply of guests who come on and riff along the mental lights fantastic.
What I enjoy most is free jazzing along with Greg, we usually end up haranguing the guests: that night he was upset that whomever sat in the ol' hot seat didn't spend enough energy mourning the loss of his show, or presenting him with gifts.
I made up a bag of traveling tricks, including ear plugs which he said came in quite handy on the NJ turnpike (where, You may recall, o faithful epinw reader, Yours Truly spun out and did a 360 in a rainstorm on her way to Dragon Boy's lair).
That night YT was a scary clown.
Is there any other sort.
I think not.
I summoned forth all my mime and modern dance training which, along with my rapid-fire piss & vinegar Sterlace-inspired wit, made for some of the best comedy the Middling City has watched in ... well, since the previous YT Sterlace stint.
I jest.
No, come to think of it, I do not.
Onwards.

Nephew and I acquired the verylast two tickets to Iron and Wine last night (see iPhone rendering above) at Babeville/Asbury Hall, thanks to Mary and Susan (and my fast car and legs) waited alongside the ticket printer machine to see what remained.
Got to hear part of the soundcheck with Beam and backing band and knew the show (which was just over two hours) was going to be magical.
Yes.
And then slapped down cash and made my way back to my home office hovel to pixelpush until time to get 'phew.
YT has been taking her nephew to shows since he was six when she was photo editor of Artvoice and making my column WhatHasHappened and we'd hang backstage and cavort with roadies, merch girls, and sundry others who make rock & roll roll.
We did that up until 2003 when I split the gig but still we manage a few shows a year, and still cavort with our rock pals.
Speaking of such, saw Scot making sure that nobody misbehaved, as is his wont.
Said hi and such and still think of Scot as a housepainting colleague (with Ani) all those years ago.

We are all who we are at rock shows.

It turns out that my nouveau dentist is a Deadhead, and he proudly states, as all fans of that genre do, how many shows he's been to: 45.
It turns out that he and I were at the same ultra-memorable Phish show at Arena Rollerskating Rink in 1990, when the vacuum cleaner was played and Trey skated through the crowd.
Told him that Phish bought some of my work, documentation of one of their Darien Lake shows, for their live series of recordings.
Again speaking of crowds.
At the Iron and Wine show a woman yelled Call a doctor as Beam was beginning a solo song (two drummers/percussionists, pianist, keyboard/accordionist, violinist would join him in a few) and I said to Kennedy later last night Who in hell yells Call a doctor.
He added it was as charmingly cliche/antiquated as Is there a doctor in the house.
So it was a fainting femme.
YT in her long journo/photojourno career has seen her fair share of young ladies crushed up against barriers until saved by security thugs, mid-show broken arms, women at gigs concurrently out on town and amateurishly partying like rockstars and collapsing.
Suspect it was the thrill of seeing Iron and Wine doused with the gasoline of imbibe plus the crush of bodies.
He stopped, he began again.

My nephew commented on the number of plaid shirts and beards in the crowd.
He revealed that he's unable, despite his height of over six feet, to grow a beard.
I commented that I thought that was a good thing.
So, show over.
Big applause applause.
And now the next shows in sights:
Band of Horses, biennial in New Orleans, Maya Lin at Storm King, and oso many many more.
Today is a day of art making.
Flowers have been purchased, organic objets and models amassed.


Many More, Love.

Minding my own business and driving down Ganson Street in the Old First Ward noted this flaming tree and nearly-requisite grain elevators.
Voilà, the confluence of Nature and Industry.
What is really charming about the OFW, amongst a few other things.
Am in two - count 'em - two art things in next little while: a small group show of photogs (3) at Hart Gallery and a holiday art show and sale at Neighborhood Art Collective.
As all the best emcees say, it's time to Bust out the jams.
King of the Rodeo, by Kings of Leon, is today's special song, this bright Middling City day.
Time to wend to gig.

Flaming, wending Love.

Yours Truly, You will not be shocked, was minding her business.
There I was wending behind a group on a tour of the bigU's dental school when confronted with this Perfect moment.
It resulted in the image above that YT has entitled, ever so succinctly, as is my wont, Exit/Bald/Duck/Rack.
YT did not recall that the denizen of the laboratory just about to be entered is a connoisseur of all things taxidermy, also one of Eremite's sub-specialties.
NB: This taxidermist lovingly placed some grass, much like the type ducks like to walk upon when vital.
Yesterday was a flurry of gigs, with pixels fluttering behind me, a veritable cloud of productivity surrounding my ever-imaging head.
YT did use her patented phrase Watch my squeezy dog, to get the attention of adults and children alike.
When not questioned about the statement's sense, or veracity YT feels like she might be among people of her ilk.

Today has been dubbed Cello Day by me.
For the past hour or so have been listening to Yo-Yo Ma's solo cello release, enthusiastically downloaded after listening to Fred's cello mastery, after listening to all the songs crafted to date by Kings of Leon.
For, You see, YT has been up since post-asscrack of dawn pushing the pixels to their respective proper places - online orders, albums, folders, and the like.

Images from my 2nd Annual Old First Ward Pub Stroll (another blazing success) will be online later. Thirty or so came and went and strolled and sipped.
The night was a wondrous 70º so it was a fairly jacket-free affair.
As per the special request of Deb, we strolled to Malamute (which, btw, last year smelled quite rank) after Swannie - our last two stops.
The itinerary: Adolph's, McCarthy's, Cook's, Swannie, Malamute.
At each stop we would request sippy cups to go onwards.
One cocktail was tragically dropped, to which one stroller shouted That's why we can't have nice things.
Everyone was in good humour, and, as I texted to Heady yesterday during a weddingshoot, it all felt cozy.

Onwards to ever more pixels.

Ever more, Love.

That lovely Tuesday night, November 4th, began with Yours Truly shooting some football out at the BigU, a nationally-televised throwdown.
That they won.
At one point went up to the student seating sections and wended between shouting spirited co-eds, making images of their various headgear and mouths in enthusiastic agape condition.
Tim Russert's sister did the cointoss and there was a vid of his son, Luke, saying hi to the nice folks in the stadium.
Yours Truly recalls that when things went dark for Russert there was much discussion that he had pushed himself to the max in preparation for the presidential election.
Little Geo Stephanopoulos has claimed, or more fully claimed, the mantle of the country's leading popstar of punditry.
A femme of red party status said of George that she'd like to prop him up like a teddy bear in the middle of her bed.
Geo reminds YT of a puppet from her childhood's distant past.
Is it Harvey the dentist of Rudolph fame. This will require more subconscious delving.
Which brings me and You to the next matter at hand: the presidential election.
The one that began, truly, in February, and that stumbled and glaciered along until last Tuesday with the glorious results.
Two favoured images from the evening - a couple gleefully dance on Allen Street after hearing the results, and the screen and history writ large in the lobby of Ellicott Square Building downtown.
Where all good Dems go to say a gracious thanks to their voters, and volunteers go to tipple, and publicans go to feel part of big history.
Big, historical, pixel-rich Love.

Big Blue Love.

The image above is entitled Haybale House Still Life, made during yesterday's gig in a suburb.
A woman is building a new home on her old property and it's all hay, wattle, and daub. It has boulders cemented into the new foyer floor, a tree de-barked as a central post. It will also feature glass block windows, solar heat, and two new kitties.
Her last kitties perhaps caused, and died in, her last house when it went up in a blaze.

Halloween was its usual spectacle-rich self.
Yours Truly went out conceptually, as a (successful) male Democrat politician - superheroes of sorts in my Perfect book.
Dined with Jen, Eric, Little Laura on Saturday night in newly-crimsoned Trattoria Aroma. I could not help but to think they need to commission me to do large-scale pencil drawings for their pristine glowing walls.

Onwards YT sped to two H parties, the latter a Mac jukebox dance fete.
Annie's costume featured faux two-toned nails and faux crackpipe burn.
You can fill in the costumary blanks.

Today is Election Day Eve.
Do vote tomorrow.
Recall, if You will, that Al Gore, according to red party lore, lost the 2K election by approximately 540 votes.
If You think one vote matters not, you is wrong.

Heading out now to Maggie Roblin's funeral, now free from ALS, sailing up between what we know and what we don't.

Voting Love, Love, Love.

Lesson. Above.
Dig.
Driving along South Park Avenue, a lovely, mixed-use avenue in the Middling City that spans to then South Buffalo, Lackawanna, Blasdell, Hamburg, and then out to probably Las Vegas fercrissakes, saw this image.
In sooth it was a beat-to-hell white coffin on a coffin gurney much like the one that Yours Truly owns.
The verysame one that was used as a prop in the last Artists & Models at the Terminus Centralus.
So there YT is, driving to a gig involving two dogs and Olmsted's best park, when lo, behold, and voilà: coffin on gurney alongside the avenue.
Plastic flowers decorated the opened lid.
As I breezed past I thought of stopping to make some images but then thought Oh, no, I'll catch it on the flipflop.
(You recall, CB talk for return trip. Popular in the 70s and such.)
Well, post gig took another street to the avenue and missed the coffin.
Or, perhaps, as it was just past 5 p.m. a business had rolled it back into its storage facility after business hours drew to a close on yet another Halloween.

Best overheard quote du jour:
Well, we aren't all Michael Jackson.

YT stepped out of the objective journalistic pose, hopped over the invisible wall if You will to say to speaker: Did you just say Well, we aren't all Michael Jackson.
The statement was oddly appropriate for this holiday.
Was unique in its locational delivery point: a science fair of sorts for scientists.

Onwards.
Time to help Greg Sterlace tape the ultimate Greg Sterlace Show at Home of the Futur.
French for Future.

Love of Future, Past, and Present.
All presents.

A new and exciting personal series created by Yours Truly: Wedding Still Lifes.
This image is made behind the scenes at a venerable wedding facility reportedly ceasing all wedding ops shortly.
This is a fine Middling City manse now in the public sector, moonlighting as a wedding venue.
Sadly, caterers have been beating up the behind-the-scenes portions of the manse and YT has witnessed heinous things there.
Like an antique demi-circle wooden table absolutely soaked with water after a caterer placed a large container full of ice and wine bottles upon it.
Ruined.
And this room was once a tidy breakfast room. Now a shambles.
NB: there, off to the left in the image is the terrifying dinner that YT partially consumed.
It was the third night in a row of Faux chicken.
This meal consisted of Faux Chicken formed off, I swear, preformed bones for each piece of Faux Chicken on bone was identical.
Unless the once-chickens were so cloned that their frail legs were identical.
Dead flowers and Dasani bottles complete the image.
Onwards to more more and more.

No Love for Faux Chicken.