Despite the fact that there was no pole to slide down, the visit and lunch at the Art Deco firehall in Rochester yesterday was good. As I wandered off to the ladies room (really just a small private bathroom which one of the firemen ran ahead to check for me and was in there for a good long while and when I entered I was nearly overcome with the scent of Lysol which I could taste for several minutes), I contemplated searching for the allegedly-missing pole, believing that that might be a stock response to that query, in avoidance of truth and law suits.
The chief said he could, if our group had time, drive me to a station with a pole. But we (me, Evan of the Shiney Apple p.r. firm, the judge, the judge's handlers) had no such thing and after beans, greens, diet Cokes, we sped off to the next photo shoot spot, a scorching public park in a suburb of the post-industrial city.
Shot hundreds of images of the judge, also manhandled her all day, getting hairs to stay just so, giving her short demos of how to stand, how to rest her hands in a natural manner.
Now, back at school, where tensions and exhaustions are running high as the defending process happens next week Monday-Wednesday just before the opening on the 10th. I go on the 9th, first, at 9AM and plan on rising and shining early, meandering to the French pastry/coffee place near my subway stop, getting all cranked up and heading into god only knows what. It was suggested to all of us thirteen that we devote the first ten minutes to presenting a historic sweep of our work. As this is the new directive I must add some more material to my powerpoint amassment.
About to meet pals out at Sweet and Vicious, to soak up some real life after a full day of school, travel, inner-city travel.
Tomorrow a further quest for materials to hang the screen I purchased earlier today at B&H.
Yesterday, I'll end with this tale, I took a ride from a stranger as I was rather in distress.
The judge and one of her handlers took me down the supersecret judge elevator in the court building, depositing me in a sector of the parking garage's lower level/deep bowel. This whole ramp had no signage, no clues as to where or how to find one's vehicle ever again.
Spotting me a man in a conservative navy blue sedan stopped and offered assistance, informing me firstly that he is a divorce lawyer and secondly that I was to become the third lost subterranean person he aided in this manner.
We drove around for about fifteen minutes, me looking for any sort of guidance from the endless array of concrete pillars, explaining how I'd entered this fracas in the first place.
Finally, the car. Then, as the man/divorce lawyer gruntingly got my lighting bag out of his sedan he told me he had done some archival management of a firm that had records of many prominent people of the Middling City, Millard Fillmore amongst them. It sounded interesting. Or was I just a grateful listener.
Last days of school are upon me. I will forever be back in the travel role of coming back to the Shiney Apple as a person with an art agenda, not as a grad student ever again.

Ever Love.

Merrily emailed off the thesis approximately two hours ago to JR. It came out as 2200 words and received a panicked email from Beth this AM who said that our theses (which, curiously, rhymes with feces - another post-ingestion product) are not to exceed 1500 words. Which I find odd as it's to be at least 1K. That is a tiny wordy window. I imagine someone at Parsons taking a giant marker to my thesis à la CIA and x-ing out all brilliant phrases, passages, footnotes, ruminations from word 1501-2200. That would like totally suck.
So now onwards to finishing up the digvid edits and then kapoof. Almost done. Let us not put our champagne before the flute shall we for Yours Truly still must defend her watertight diss on Tuesday. For that You must burn candles, think fine positivity-rich thoughts and oso much more.
Onwards.
Tomorrow is gig in Roch all-day with a politico.
Speaking of pols, just picked up lit by/for a would-be politico who is a restaurant man. He knows lines, he knows 86ing. Does he know how to run a Middling City.

Pol Love.

Stopped over at Liz and Alan's place today amid the Garden Gawk to give her the gift from The Frick that I forgot to give her last evening at my pre-grad soirée that they held for me. As I walked up the walk, underneath the mock orange they spotted me. They approached me and queried thusly Was it you two (meaning me and Kennedy) who bolted that thing to our front railing. I attempted a boldfaced white lie in the spirit of a prank but thought Really, it is rather obvious. But if they didn't think it was us then I wondered if Liz would presume the thing bolted to their front rail was left by a cross-town garden foe and then an all-out garden war would ensue. Last night's party was a raging success - no gunshots, broken coffee tables, no fisticuffs, no fires. Made one of my famed green soups and made sure that Blair et Monique (the affable hosts of the dinner party series Soup Night) had a slug or two of it. I told Blair that I am already excited - way in advance - to make again a fine Brazilian potage I made not too long ago. Cue following remark from Kennedy: This from the woman who not too long ago stated that she HATES soup. Well, here it is, for the record. There are many shitty soups that to me resemble something perhaps that'd be served in a 19th C halfway house: all water, no body. So I've been crafting soups that completely rock. The end about soups.
Time now to sign off for now to do a bit of online stalking of the famous photog Hiroshi Sugimoto for The Thesis.
Onwards to that.

That love.

(subtitle: from Endmatter, from the piece Three White Moments. The last moment when the critical turning of corner of three women in black is happening.)
A select handful of you epinw faithful/hapless have informed me that your snailish internet system connections have rendered it impossible to see my excellent digvid vlogposts. So, as I had to gather some stills of my digvids for the school's site and postcards and such, here is a smatter.

With extreme assistance from Beth and Chris the postcard for grad show and beyond for Yours Truly was completed. My machine's PhotoShop definitely has some type of buggish tendencies and so that only explains a fraction of my PS ineptitude. At one point Jim walks in as we're trying to accomplish some type of maneuver and I stated I know how to get images ready for clients, I don't do design work. The truth is out - I am not a complete ardent PS supporter.
After leaving school I got the green skirt that I've been yearning for, thanks to underwriting from Kennedy, so all of You are off the hook for that item and should begin immediately searching for other appropriate graduation gifts. More on Things & Me. Liz and Alan have dubbed their garden party on Saturday a bonus pre-grad party for Yours Truly. Liz and the designer(s) at the Shiney Happy mag recycled my headshot (made by a colleagues during his Glamm Period) from when I got 40Under40 when I had a cavalcade of hair. Note to self: your hair is growing out, no more wanton explorations into power of suggestion/scissors.
Went to see a movie around the corner from school at the Quad, Ballad of Greenwich Village which Jamie saw and liked last week. It was a bit sloppy but the woman who directed and culled archives covered a lot of history, terrain, personalities. My favoured joint in the Village, Caffe Reggio (where I've spent many hours reading and writing since I was about 20, when Chaz turned me onto it), was featured as were all the usuals. Tim Robbins is one of the featured personalities sharing a story and he was one of the best portions, speaking of returning there after long years away and being shocked by the 80s gentrification. Odd thing: current discreet gentrification of spaces in the Middling City - old office buildings, train and trade terminals, churches - is not paired with any great surge in population or outward beauty or any type of aesthetic improvements. I write that but know that I mean improvements in a manner that means more care of a building, addition of amenities like gardens and Not or Never would mean loss of art or artists and accompanying possibilities. Actually, that's what you don't see unless you live or spend a great deal of time in the Shiney Apple. With farflung gentrification it's nearly impossible now to find rough edges, something that seems Real, removed from the pervasive commerce aura. I do find myself missing midtown east a bit, sector of Dragon Boy, with smell of river and beat diners and a population largely comprised of eccentric beyond-retirees, but my favoured spot here is SoHo - from where I blog this instant. Where I revel in the still-dishevelled Lt. Petrosino Square. That is one rough edge, to be sure. Heading to Greene Street for a fine Moroccan man-made repast before the trudge to school and beyonder.

Trudges for Love.

Sure some of You don't, if not of the WiFiscenti, appreciate this blogmoment, but I just landed at the Gugg of the Far Rockaways and had to check work emails - another fine op has opened its interesting arms in the realm of freelance.
JW,Esq. (yet another public note for Your litigational self): saw Vito this AM, carrying a tray of fresh fruit through the Middling City's micro-mini terminal. He says Hi. And how was the big L in Chicago this past week. Can't seem to recall if the Pixies were playing it but if they did what was this like time number eight you've seen them this year.
Off to the A to the 4 to school, to delightfully meet with Mark the Shrink who will offer up cogent words of praise and somewhat Freudian and ever-intense thoughts on Art and, more importantly, today, the work of Yours Truly. I have been awaiting this. He helped me to delve deeper into what was the impetus and helped me unearth some influences I'd been pushing away. Like Sam. Like That Time. Happens that Mark and I share a respect for this play for three voices and last week I had a dream I produced (and I think even shot on digvid) a version of the play. I will ask him today if he has any interest being involved in this project.
Showed some of my thesis work and beyond to a group of people yesterday and the response was great. As in digging it, as in I felt that way about the work itself . . . and the responses.
Got an impromptu haircut from Jen at TruTeas yesterday. Mentiond that I was a bit less than thrilled with the growth progress of the locks and she said I can fix that. And so, grabbing some random scissors from behind the counter, she did.
Told her she'd best not tell Jon.
Jen noted that several of Jon's clients and such sport the same primary red tresses, like my former glowing mop.
Off to school to learn to think to blog and read further into the night.

Into, like, Love.

THIS JUST IN.
"There is a solid architecture to the piece." - Mark Stafford.
Just met with MS who had many helpful and respectful opinions for subtle changes to my grad thesis work. He noted that I'm calling it Endmatter, which he liked, though that title is not on the work itself.
Five stars.

Enjoying the Middling City gray sky, inspiring for a day full of screen capturing and freeze framing and the like.
Hopped from pal to pal for visitations, post-school work: Bruce and I ventured to the waterfront to experience the patio of the joint where I held my second and fateful waitressing job about a gazillion lifetimes ago and I felt we'd been transported to Vegas as that was the cheezball vibe - replete with a lady in transparent genie pants; Liz had me over and we sat amongst her lilies which were all reaching out with their stamens and scent molecules; and I rounded out the fun with Deb for a long while until James returned with one of the region's largest grills which the three of us wrangled out of their car and down the driveway.
Made a digital image of one of Bruce's paintings and the painting of a flayed sheep head and other accessories is now in my place, yearning, I am certain, to become one with my wayward collection of art.
Sitting in TruTeas again, soaking up the supersonic wi-fi molecules and about to upload digital files for the school website.
Have to say my PowerPoint prez rather rocks - collided the early grad student stills with early and later digvids.
Back to the Land of Wi-Fi.

Landed Love.

So maybe the burned-out 70s-era station wagon, faux wood panels, was a bad omen.
At the airport things started swimmingly: good parking spot, minimal security line, jovial TSA staffers. The coffee was fresh.
Got to the Middling City airport to see that, as is de rigeur, my plane was half an hour late. It arrives.
We troop onto the plane and are informed that due to some sort of weather system in Pennsyltucky we are going to sit for an hour and there will be a handy update as to our status. 10:00 arrives and we're informed that we're going to sit another hour and a half and then we'll get another update. The pilot gets onto the PA (don't You confuse that with Pennsyltucky ref mere lines ago) to tell us that he'd let us deplane but then we might get word that we can leave any freakin' second. And we know how long it takes folks to dawdle off and on a plane.
I make some Perfect calculations:
Perhaps we'll be rolling away from the gate at 11:30.
Then let us factor in another half hour for taxiing. Then actual leaving could be more minutes.
Then one hour in the air.
Then commuting into the city which can take upwards of two hours via the A train emanating from the Far Far Rockaways.
A to the 4 at Fulton Street.
That would get me into the school's front doors at 3PM.
So, after some phone calls, deliberations, got off the plane with a few businessmen.
A woman behind me was flipping out about needing a smoke, saying that she was Ready to scratch someone's eyes out. When told SHE could NOT get off the plane she inquired as to the fine for smoking in the lav and was quieted when told it was $10K.
I got off of the plane. Called Allen who fetched me when my parents were cellphoneless and in transit moving my car from the airport to my pad.
So, here I sit in the Middling City. Just emailed JR and Anthony to say I'm here still and will be there again on Wednesday.
There are three more weeks of school and now I have the bonus worry of wondering if these air traffic grumblers will foul up all my remaining flights to and fro.
Wondering if another airport might yield better results.
All for now and over and out.

Flightless Love.

So there I was, minding my own business back at the loft.
A day or so of learning, learned behaviour, trekking about doing my Perfect epinw thing. The Keren Ann gig was sold out to the rafters so to speak and so that was perfectly out. Suddenly, bursting through the door was thee very Keren Ann, entourage, and some tasteful floral arrangements. Celebratory shots were poured. Laughs were laughed. And then, en masse, we made our way to the after-gig soirée around the corner at the corner deli. In their secret, subterranean party chamber which is entered via a door that says Employees Only and, after walking through the kitchen with workers changing into workpants and boxes of produce - voi-freakin'-là . . . hot nightclub.
It was sort of a more rathskellar Double Happiness.
I commented to Katherine that the joint was so undergroundish it seemed we should all be allowed, encouraged even, to puff away if we so chose.
Jason was sitting underneath a chandelier with stilled candles that suddently the barkeep had to light. I said to Jason that that moment could approach the scene of Mahogany with Miss Diana Ross dripping candle wax upon herself. Only in lieu of Miss Ross would be Mr. Jason and instead of her curvaceous body it would be Jason's shaved head and kind face.
I informed Dorota that I had gussied myself up and had used her special lotion with the sparkles and that, in the elevator's harsh light on the way down, I noted that not only were there sparkles but a strange tone to boot. Think: supermodel meets Oompa-Loompah. We all looked hot and the club was not and once again it is time for me to hop aboard the plane to the Middling City, the left side.

Left Love.

So here I am, back at the Geek Clubhouse.
Was all ready to purchase the cog of the e-process to streamline my vlogging and lo, behold, it's not in stock. And more expensive than I thought it would be.
Turns out there is no seminar with Mark the Delightful Shrink tomorrow at 3 so I am leaving after meetup with JR followed by a portrait sitting of sorts with Philip for his own thesis project. The usual weekly exeunt has been at LEAST two hours late so this will hopefully be a slight improvement.
So I called Ms. JetBlue and I says Hi, Nance here, again. Look, more changes with school and all and I'd like to make some minor changes and, seeing that I was/am on an overbooked flight howzabout you waive all penalties and punishments and such. And give me extra water. They complied, so now I am arriving back in the Middling City several hours earlier. Told a select handful of my classmates that this to and fro feels like a weird micro jetlag. One downfall, a serious one, when squatting in the Geek Clubhouse is that you will absolutely, sans doubt of any color, hear/see the U2 iPod special tune aLOT. You can listen to Dr. Yo Internet Radio (highly recommended by YT) but it may still eke on through. The Genius Bar is abuzz and I traipse back in memory to that sad then joyous day when my PowerBook did not do the proverbial crapout.
(was looking forward to hearing Keren Ann tonight at Bowery Ballroom but that is like so sold out)
U2 iPod tune over.
Onto the next one.
At least they've taken Sheryl Crow, iLife spokesgal, out of circulation.
So, Kennedy tells me a staffer of the Starship Enterprise d.i.e.d.
Not relatedly, in honor of the BadW's idea for the next supreme court figurehead, I am wearing my anti-George t-shirt. I proudly showed it to Nova Chuck and he said You know, that means No bad pictures of our president. I managed to muster him up a tiny other side of the aisle hardy-har.
Off to mine own and art-related geek matters.
Calling my entire thesis project Endmatter.

Entire Love.

With the nice lady at JetBlue's assistance, I was truant yesterday. In lieu of jetting over to the right side of the state for a gallery foray, a field trip of sorts and more group panic about the pending thesis group show, I met with my attorney. Enough about that.
Been working like, as I like to say, a mad fiend. I did get the gig with the senator and will need to jet mid-state, again with assistance from good ol' JetBlue, for that gig for the Shiney Apple p.r. firm. Also picked up a mag gig this past sunday making an exuberant headshot for an editor. Midway through the sitting I put my camera to one side of my face and queried thusly Are you a nice editor or one of those hard-asses. He is, according to him, the latter. I know the type as I've been working for mags and the Press since the age of 13 or so, if we must count high school rags. Those micro-rags still have deadlines so it was probably at that tender age that I learned that deadlines are amorphous, that editors have bark and bite and as human a need as anyone else to stretch time to the max and have a few cocktails in the interim or posterim.
So back to school tomorrow for the ending of week 4.
Then on to week 3.
Have the digvid timeline down to the top ten. Ten, the most significant of numbers. As You should or will recall, Yours Truly emerged on the scene on the propitious date 10/10.

Love of Tens.

THIS JUST IN:
The finely-wrought format of epinw is such that a ThisJustIn is to appear at the end of blogposts. But. But this is way too. So, trotting out of school in a northerly fashion, I pass Valentino's, a deli, a shithole diner that nets probably $1or so millions from me and my cohorts. Thinking in a most efficient manner Hmm, should get some healthy thing to eat as who knows how long I'll be stranded in the Far Rocks, and grab a tofu and vegetable thing. A thing. Remember this word. So I get to JFK and, as I've changed days, times, itineraries, focus, etc. many times this summer I get the SSSSSSSSS treatment. This means Secondary Search. This is not what you want on your bp (that's coolhand frequent flyer lingo for a boarding pass, dig.) and then you and the other suspects are corraled into the S is for Special line. Moments before I see the SSSSSSSSS on the bp I begin to take a bite of deli sandwich. It tastes very . . . acrid. It is really stuck to its paper plate that it's wrapped against. I pry the sandwich off the plate and - lo & freakin' behold - it's COVERED in black mold. Not a smattering of mold. A full-throttle blanket of mold. A sandwich cosy of mold. I had had two bites. Bite number two I made come back out but bite number uno was floating down towards the stomach acids for efficient chemical deconstructing and such. So now there are mold spores in my tongue cells and the taste is quite . . . unforgettable. Now I'm going through Special Treatment Line. It's taking for forever. Finally I get to my last handler and I can't resist. (NB: I've already been quite mean to this little man telling him my bags are full of expensive electronics and I will carry them, etc. etc. etc.) So he's going through everything and then I say Want to hear something gRoSs? S is for Ssorg. So I tell him my sad culinary tale. His eyes widen, he's really digging the story. He asks if I have a sensitive nose, a sensitive palate. ? I say yes. So does his wife. I mean, fancy that. So he turns out to be a decent person and I tell him that I told him in case I spewed in his vicinity so he wouldn't tink it was due to Nerves - or Drugs. Then I tell him what's next on agenda: go over to food area and order what I determine to be the thing that will best cover taste of mold spores. After some quick analysis I determine (despite tomato allergy) it is pizza, full of more (non-moldy) vegetables and topped with about 1/8" of garlic powder.
I do feel sorry for the wi-fi-heads on either side of me at this juncture. But oh well, beats the sight of me vomiting black mold spores. Hey, reminds me of the book Christy Rupp recommended so many years ago that I love to quote from - Hot Zone.
I do not have ebola. I will never have ebola. Oooh, knock on wood.
Wooden Lovelettes.


It is not Friday, as previously thought by Yours Truly, but Thursday.
As I told a few: woke up Monday AM on plane to Shiney Apple and had no idea where I was when I lifted my weary head off of the tray table.
A Where AM I but on a plane. Cheese & Crackers.
Met with JR today about final edit of thesis snippets on the big timeline and he questioned a few. The establishing shot/moment as well as another on Met steps as the light is way different. Told him about the new Whitney shots and said I'd think about reshooting the steps about an hour before they close.
What does this really mean.
It really means that YT will be lugging two heavy bags again, not one heavy and one lighte. Laptop, hard-drive, camera, assorted cords, books, a tiny and random selection of attire.
Speaking of attire, there is a great green skirt in the Diesel store in Union Square, hanging just to the left as you walk in. This would make a great pre-graduation gift.
Thanks in advance and for Your attention in this matter.
So what did I shoot at the overly-secure/uptight Whitney.
Amongst other shots I snuck my digvid cam into a video viewing gallery and made a great shot of a woman who I believe was only in there to cool her jets so to speak. But she was ideal as she did not move one millimeter as the action on screen continues for many minutes. I can't say what show or what footage as what if some Whitney hack reads this, contacts Parsons School of Debunking and creates a ruckus.
There is another Whitneycentric shot of the stairwell, what I think is key to experiencing the joint. The dark and odd stairway that is two flights up per floor, with seating areas. I waited like a beer-soaked hunter in a blind for a moment and finally a woman came up the stairs and the edge of her hand is/was visible.
Eu-frea-re-kin-ka.
Now to capture, wedge it into the project, burn the dvd, get the scrim and projector, and dowels and wire and whatever hell else, hang the whole dang thang from a ceiling and write and research and defend dissertation.
Now to seminar, then to JFK.
You know, You know, what YT has dubbed the Guggenheim of the Far Rockaways, one of my branch offices.

Branches of Love.

Did not get the eBay item, the projector, as I was offline and missed a frenzy of last-minute bidding. Now I'm onto another auction and have also checked the universe for more used LCD projectors for digvid.
Before sleeping last night saw the lofty roomies - Dorota, Jason, Keren Ann. I told them how JR critiqued my apparent out-of-character summertime enthusing yesterday after our meeting of sorts. I informed him that I had finally found some supreme and school-related positivity and was expressing that amongst the required dourness of grad school thesis show preparations. Of course I'm stressed about this process but I am also determined to get the work done in a manner that allows for some enjoyable creativity and the serendipity I have in my working method.
Off shortly to the Whitney to do some shooting as I've been obsessed with an image that I'd like to add to the work for show.
Started using the browser Firefox by Mozilla for the vlogging and it really is better, stronger, faster (just like the $6,000,000 Man), just as those vloggers said it would be. If You have woes of internettal variety, do this.
Recently JW,Esq. suggested that Peet's Coffee had more chem oomph than Starbucks. I did not believe him. Gourmet Garage in SoHo just switched brands, swinging over to this left coast concoction. Halfway through my first disposable cup I thought OK, you win, and tossed it into one of those overstuffed wire municipal trash heaps.
After today, and then tomorrow's seminar, there are four more weeks of grad school.
And nine more plane rides to & fro.
And several more oodles of dollars spent.
And dozens of coffees slargled.
And scads more worrisome molecules unloosed into the general vicinity.
And then.
And then.

And then love.

John Massier, one of the curators at Hallwalls, sent me some good thoughts about digvid projecting, stating its become the paradigm of sorts but does the work scream for it. I'd argue it so does.
Especially now that I'm top bidder, no, sole bidder, on a fine used LCD video projector that I'm quite excited about and it so makes sense that I am hanging out at the Geek/Mac Clubhouse working on my vlog as the seats are as comfortable as my aeron chair, the wi-fi is tops, the a/c is maximus and the neurons fly quickly around all this wisdom.
The "studio" at the school is beyond laughable, a flimsy cubicle of some drywall and due to the communication snafu of mid-July somehow Pam and I are not with our classmates in a studio building on 13th Street but are the sole grad students located off the computer lab, in a former classroom. This is what Ivy League level tuition gets one in this city, at this school which promotes distance learning. But distance learning means just that, as I've said before, distance. And manytimes a distance student is treated accordingly. Witness above.
Sans furniture available around the "studio," and not wishing to pay more for furnishings after weekly travel, exorbitant tuition, other expenses, and really expressing my true ADD nature, I need several venues to make work (eschewing the "studio"). So I have a short list of joints and locations where I squat.
And, when it comes to wi-fi squatting, several factors are of utmost importance:
1. caffeine in vicinity.
2. bathrooms in vicinity.
3. honest-seeming people in vicinity so mutual quick babysitting of belongings can happen.
4. outlets are crucial.
5. comfortable chairs are crucial.
6. snacks are a bonus.
7. the wi-fi connection should be at least 50%, 75% is fab and 100%/four bars is dreamy.

Dreamy Love.

*correction of sorts*
Chris, another distance learner, is part of the adjunct studio space.
Note to self: scour building at 66 5th Ave. for 1 comfy chair + average small table.

You know how those inventors would always get electrocuted or accidentally shot or what have you and then after some deducing and calculations - voilà - hello patentable objet d'idea?
Well, today, I hopped aboard JFK's AirTrain and suddenly looked up from my reading and thought You know, this whole landscape is so different. Hmmmm. Calculations were quickly made. I noted that I was not heading towards Station A/Howard Beach but, rather, Station D. In lieu of the A the E was taken, zipping Yours Truly up around Queens and back down on the east side and then over to 8th Ave. Getting me to the school's general vicinity in a much quicker fashion. You see, mistaken happenstances can result in positive and cheering results. Never mind the part where I was trying to figure out the route of the speeding train from my incomplete micro-mini subway map and asking a woman who spoke no English but looked at me to suggest to me that she is one who is very wizened, with all sorts of calming hand gestures at her disposal and if in fact the goddamned transpo was going to get me to NYC any time soon but then secretly thinking Well, if not, no skewel and ojoy but then realizing that all good subways are essentially as looped as an NJP art vid.
So on to the good bits.
Went to a model call for hair. They said We like your hair, howzabout a cut in November.
I mean, really.
When I want a cut, a trim, a life-altering tonsorial wack I want it like so right NOW.
Met a fun gal in line with me and we discussed oso many things. And at some point Cocteau Twins were playing on the hi-fi and I recalled Jeez, I really like(d) them, why don't I listen to them ever.
The best post-salon-type thing was afterwards, call from the NYC p.r. firm that wants me to work with them again, this time in Rochester, NY. Sent them a proposal of sorts. Would mean jetting the hell outta the Shiney Apple for a quick jaunt over to the left again and then right again and then left again and repeat repeat until the MFA thing happens.
And then, and then, I will be once again able to be in the Shiney Apple as I see fit, on my own terms.
And that makes YT so very very thrilled.

Love Term.

The Middling City this weekend has been both the center of the annual eatathon downtown as well as a music fest of sorts at SoundLab. I attended the latter. Back then I would doc the feeding frenzy early in the day, usually hitting the chianti or was it sangria slushie booth at some slurpy point.
At SoundLab I set up the PowerBook (still miraculously working though I hear a haunting voice coming from the Genius Bar - Don't get too kocky, the mother board is craaaaacked...) and external harddrive to work on some art matters at hand. I commandeered a corner of one of the booths that features an electrical outlet in proximity, nestling in with two stranger boys from Ohio who had motored in solely to hear Tony Conrad perform. And it was great to see Tony, as usual, he's always personable, funny. Accompanying him onstage was a woman who played the church bells - three - but it was much more fun to say she was playing cowbells and to refer to her as Mississippi Queen. She had BladeRunner-esque eye shadow, a band of orangey pink across her eyes. Eremite thought she was hot. I think he is nuts. Afterwards directed Eremite's band to get to la maison and met them over there and got Eremite all hooked up with a snooze center. Nice to think the empty joint was being used, in a good manner. There was a party of sorts and Baumann was there momentarily, speeding off and announcing that he was going to pick up a new puppy. Long live the memory of Memphis, beloved Memphis, but it is time for him to have a new shaggedy companion. And I should probably offer up my auntie services to this new rascal.
Time to panic about having to leave for school again again again tomorrow AM. Wanting to change all the flights to a Thursday night exeunt as the flights are ALWAYS late and when late on a Friday the anxieties get too intense, especially when there's loads of work to be done on a Saturday. Appeals to JetBlue will happen again, to appeal to their sense of humanity and let the penalty fees slip slide away.

Sliding up Love.

Blame it on the Genius Bar.
Techie Jason urged me, after my laptop fiasco, to take the day off so to speak. Fearing that any wrangling of info on the laptop would result in smoke and flames and that horrid scent of burning electronics, I blogged and emailed on other computers placed here and there on the landscape.
Taking the advice emanating from the Genius Bar I skillfully avoided working on the thesis show timeline of digvids and instead walked the rather long walk to the movie theatre to see the Frenchie Elevator to the Gallows at that theatre way over to the east, past the Bouewerie (as they spelt it in the days of yore). Movie good. And the crowd was delightfully not full of popcorn munchers and the young guy in front of me even took his cellie outside the theatre to answer his calls. Amazing. Even at Film Forum you are coping with people arriving late, parking their arses wherever they can, crunching.
The movie is shadowy and Jeanne Moreau looks haunted and elegant throughout.
Following the shots of gai Paris I needed to have some vino - for who can participate in looking at gai Paris sans expression of the powers of Bacchus. Of adult possiblilties in the form of liquid inspiration and possible subsequent revelation.
So I headed to Rivoli, where I've had good luck with inspiration and revelation in the past.
I sat at the bar, reading old research papers and notes by Yours Truly. Even some poetry I had forgotten and some I did recall. In the readings of the research I realized it is not urban theorist Jane Jacobs I need to read but Lacan.
All about looking, The Gaze. If what I'm doing in my digvid Art work is studying loci of gazing, people moving throughout art spaces, I sure as hell need to read about the study and remarks of looking.
All right, enough of headiness, on to more rock & roll matters at hand.
Keren Ann, the francophile who also habitates the loft, meandered out of her room mid-song-write to say Hi to me and Jason (uhh, that'd be Duval, Jason Duval, the swain of Dorota - not the Mac store geek) who were hanging in the common area. She emerged with bottle of cognac in hand and a smoke. She shared the cognac and regaled us with a most happy story.
She had just been to Electric Ladyland to look into studio spaces and asked to see a storage area that was mentioned in passing. She persisted as they said it was nothing but she wanted to look.
In her French accent that is most beautiful and makes the heart pang for some long walks in France, she told us that she stepped into the room and told the man Music needs to be made in this room.
The man said that the room had been Jimmy's apartment.
Thee Jimmy.
Oh, come on, you know, Hendrix, fercrissakes.
So this is going to be her space.
Soon I am off to head up north to do some digvid shooting in art places as I have this vision that I want to see in the camera, on the computer.
Until then.

Electric Love.

THIS JUST IS:
AND YES, I AM SHOUTING.
I AM AT JFK. WHICH I LOVINGLY REFER TO AS THE GUGGENHEIM OF THE FAR ROCKAWAYS AND MY FLIGHT IS DELAYED ABOUT AN HOUR. IN LOVING PROTEST I AM SINGING ALL TOMORROW'S PARTIES WITH HEADPHONES IN PLACE UNTIL THE PLANE NOT ONLY ARRIVES, PARKS AT GANGPLANK, BUT HAS US ALL MERRILY NESTLED INTO OUR GENEROUSLY-PROPORTIONED SEATS OF LEATHER. OH, ONE MORE DEMAND. WE ALL GET THE SNAZZY NEW LEATHER HEADPHONES FOR FUH-REE, NO DOLLAR REQUIRED. SHE'LL TURN ONCE MORE TO SUNDAY'S FLOWER AND DIE BEHIND THE DOE.

I mean really.
Sometimes I do surprise myself.
I have scouted out numerous, excellent spots for reading and wi-fi reportage at Parsons School of De/de/de but this nouveau spot really surpasses the others. And, just in case you are a fellow student, I refrain from GPS specifics.
The good news.
I arose at 5AM today (that is like so not the good news) to be at the Apple Store in SoHo at 530, at the advice of Mr. Security Man just on duty for his third shift manning the portal. He advised Yours Truly thusly: Get here then for a line will begin at 6 - AND I like my coffee extra light with two sugars. Thought: how NYer of you. So I arose, I trekked, I got his coffee for Karma's sake and entered the joint. I said I have your coffee. He said Oh, I was kidding. I said Well, this is for the sake of Karma, it'll bring me some Luck.
I wait a while and then speak to Jason at the Genius Bar who looks very grave when I explain how the PowerBook tumbled last night. All the other Geniuses begin to look on at the tragic scene. He begins careful analysis, advising me at some point to get another machine. That's when I had my comicbook moment and felt the colour drain from my once-pleasant, now early-AM and tech-addled face.
He tries one more thing.
He removed the sad little 12" PowerBook's battery and futzes.
Jason says Your Airport card was half out.
More futzing and then and then and then
he gets the fucking thing to turn on.
ON!
2x more and then I am ecstatic and then met with his cautiousness, telling me that he thinks the Logic Board or Mother Board may be cracked, to back up my entire iLife on an external HD as one day the PowerBook might just have had enough.
We are on shaky terrain, me and the PowerBook.
Not me and Jason, for I hardly know the guy. We said our goodbyes and I left, telling Mr. Security the somewhat good news.
Then on to floating through the streets until The Shiney Apple sprung back to fruition for another day.
Back to seminar.
Back to the odd reality of school.
I wrote in my notebook:
At what point do I tell the others that this was all, this past twenty-six months, for a story I am doing. An expose.

Exposed. Love.

For the love of Godot, the vlog project (and that IS pronounced PRö-JECT, fercrissakes) is fraught with one tech/geek complication or fiasco after another. Not to inundate You with all sorts of miasmic lingua geeka but Yours Truly not having the slammin'est v. of Final Cut means no simple exporting to compressor to make all the pixel molecules all tight and slow and tiny so that any Tom, Dick, Harry, Evelyn can watch the goddamned digvids I pump out for grad school explorations and such at the click of a button. Deepest sigh. Onwards.
I have the URL anyhow, if that is any consolation to YT, and, really, it is nice to feel there's a launch (or crash) pad of sorts but then. Where are the goods.
www.njpdigvid.blogspot.com
When You arrive there just might be virtual orange safety cones, a flagman, some smoke, maybe a little bright flame, some confusion. Under construction, if you will.
Next week is the week slated that I am to have a happy reunion with my camp friend Elba Rosa Cruz whom I have not seen in a long while. Who I shared many et al and hi-jinxed moments deep in the dense woods of Maine.
And this is a public query for JW,Esq. who may or may not be in this neck of the woods. It is now or soon and this space following is to say Call, don't be a stranger, see you on a nearby barstool, etc.
Got a fabulosic phonecall today from a politico's right hand inquiring if I'd like to in fact work again with an AD from NYC who I hit it off with, was it okay to pass along the number. Umm, yup.
There were several who bemoaned the fact that YT did not have an annual hoopla rich in pyros for the wack holiday that happened yesterday.
Mark these words:
Once the grad school experiment (lovingly heretofor ref'd as the GSE) is kapoof things will be changing dramatically. And I do mean drama, a return to Perfect basics, sans the financial cloud of tuition, travel, books, pencil expenses, what am I forgetting.
Dramatical.
As the colleague says, Can't wait for the old NJP to resurface.
She's swimming back to the shores of what is lovingly sometimes referred to as non-GSE reality.

GSE Love.
Sure, yes.

Missed their Friday night gig at the Middling City's famed Nietzsche's but got to see them, the men of Vinnie Barbarino Experience, at yesterday's rock and roll wedding at the landmark downtown = Shea's.
During their soundcheck I was most disappointed to not see oversized 'fros and Timmo's lime green suit. When they truly began, after the dinner/pre-first dance there they were, all gussied up. They were a little decibled for the wedding majority but many danced to their set list of wedding clichés.
Shea's is now redubbed The Wonder Theatre.
Read a wall plaque about its founder, Mr. Shea, who was raised in my post-industrial and hardscrabble neck of the MC woods. Somehow he turned his OFW and iron worker smarts into theatre love and building and such. I imagine that his ol' OFW pals must have hid in bushes and beat the pansy-assed crap out of him for giving up roughnecking for velvet seats. But this is just a working theory.
So, for the wedding, contrary to what I discussed with my Boy Colleague Advisor, busted out the new rig and experienced the sometime joy that we photogs experience when working a perfect new, full-throttle machine.
As the BCA says, It's sick.
The pastor at the wedding looked like he could have been a brother of David Byrne - same height, same black limpid eye pools. He introduced himself as Pastor Mike. Pastor Mike was a bit intense, he was very pleasant and pseudo-easy-going until I asked The Position Question. How will they be standing, where will you be standing, Pastor Mike. And then explained to him that, according to my calculations I'd like to be standing behind him. Pastor Mike's face changed. I've seen this Man of Cloth Facial Change before and I am ready, armed with cool reason and an internal version of Paint Melt Stare.
You know, Nancy, weddings are sacred . . .
(thought bubble *are you fucking kidding me, get over your self Pastor Mike*)
. . .
Shot from behind him and he never knew a thing.
Later, during the eat time, he wandered over towards me and this would be the point where he'd sidle and complain, post-act. But instead he surprised me whilst drinking a diet cola.
You look so alone over here.
(*shudder*)
Just taking a bit of a break, Pastor Mike.
Onwards.
Time to head to the suburbs for back-to-back gigs and then more more more.

Back-to-back love.