Where have I been.
On the other side of this great Empire state, wowing the masses with my brand new digital video skills. I filmed a gaggle of brides in Central Park in their flowy whiteness in the middle of the parkish snow. It reminded me of the joke about a polar bear in the midst of a blizzard when someone made a darkroom gaffe and had no details in something that was blown out. Photog humour, a laugh an f-stop minute.
So during aforementioned blizzard in NYC I sledded with Beth and Phillip for hours down the stairs (yes, stairs) near the fountain whose special name escapes me. There were groups of people watching us, probably thinking they were witnessing a taping of Jackass.
But then they'd see our glee, that we were able to stand afterwards, hadn't broken our limbs or necks and would ask for a turn. It was slightly bumpy down the first set of steps, then a quick skidding over the landing, then a catch of air as you careened down the second set of steps. We warmed ourselves in the boathouse next to the fireplace then headed back out for more. This time the steps nearby leading into a dark and icy tunnel. More whoops of joy, all captured by Beth's video option on her micro-Elph camera and after seeing the passable quality I thought Hmmm, why did I buy a Canon GL2 and not use the Olympus 5050?
So back in the Middling City where I'm rushing to meetings and errands and to pet the stray cat fellas and work on school projects from afar. For in four weeks we grad people are converging at Parsons for a marathon array, display and critique. For those of you who have never splayed yourself before a roomful of people let me say this: you are on trial, your ego balloon may be popped by surprising pins of criticism and at times you have flashes of the thought I'm an artist and I don't give a flying pixel what you have to say about this.
Onwards to art.
Love.

First it was the great blackout of the summer of 2003.
Now it's the mammoth blanketing of the winter of 2003.
Coincidence?
I think not.
Every season that I'm in NYC there seems to be a great catastrophe whilst I'm here.
Winter catastrophe in NYC is four inches of snow (cars immobile, people falling, general malaise and confusion, school buildings shut down all weekend... grrr) whereas in the Middling City four inches is barely noted, people plodding in their boots in their cars as breezily as if it were, osay, summer.
Two of my Parsons classmates have never seen real live actual true in-your-face snow. One is Phillip of Louisiana who realized that
1. snow means really cold
2. parkas are a necessity and that wearing a hood means less visibility and aurality
3. two pairs of socks don't cut the snowy mustard and one must purchase true klunko boots.
Speaking of my Middling City sturdy preparedness my own new Columbia high-tech boots are in the Middling City, approximately 400 miles away from my feet which are jonesing for them. Instead I have somewhat fashionable leather boots with traction and no warmth.
Moral:
Have boots, will travel.
Snowy love.

Okay, so I couldn't get the chromagenic scene transitions to work properly and the audio is a big gigantic question mark in my mind (but I get the theory of it being such an audiophile and such) and I'm not sure how to replicate and loop a sound, and there are no titles but my 20 minute long dig vid project is a triumph.
It's snazzy mental title, Untitled Gesture.
Oh,
how many of You can state with surety, alacrity and piety that you told the nation's poet laureate to break a tonsil before his reading this past evening.
I thought not.
After his humour-ridden and at times evocative reading (he said the best inspiration to write is jealousy and, as I watched him I mumbled internally, Baby Poet your words have been - can be - will be again better than these, of this career wordist) I wanted to say Hey... X... dug it but I couldn't recall if his first name was Billy, or Bobby.
Keythought: why do grown men go by boy names.
So I was whisked over to meet the Laureate Poet and as I shuffled away was when I gave him the sonic high-five to which he responded Break a lens. Now if you knew what recently happened to one of my beloved f5s you'd know how the thought of breaking any piece of photo equipment brings tears to both eyes, a shudder to the heart as well as requisite deficit of bank account.
A tonsil is fixable but a busted piece of photo equipment is not so.
Remind me if we ever find ourselves around a campfire or barfire to tell you about the time I had an architectural gig and whilst using my car as a ladder of sorts slipped and did all that was possible mid-air in gymnastic flair to save the camera from harm.
All for now and laureates for all.
Love.

The convergence of two Perfect worlds is happening in the not-too-distant future: Johnny Depp will star in the re-do of Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory and I cannot think of anyone more perfect to play WW. A little pirate swagger, a dash Benny & Joon Chaplin, Chocolat mystery and Viper Room rockstar danger - how parfait.
What part of Hi I have cash money and want to give some of it to you media moguls to help me with a few things on a video did they not understand.
Called at 11 in the AM with query and now it's nigh 3PM and no return call.
Money, help, video, hello.
So apparently the errant mom across the street sort of set fire to her home as I looked out and noted five fire trucks and that many children out in front of the house, wrapped in blankets.
And it wasn't a leftover ember from holiday pyros chez moi.

Audio blogging is a new poss these days so one day You will return to epinw to see a little icon and, upon depressing it, you will see the Quicktime logo and then you'll hear a recorded message from Yours Truly.
Oh, why am'nt I doing this now. All-purpose because.
Was invited last night to a party and drove by the address left on voicemail by one of the partyplanning brothers. Saw some crack house action next to the house and there were few and far between cars on the block so moved along. Last night was a night of meandering and classic rock star loss of time. Watched some short movies by kine-kook Maya Deren this AM and read an online response to my online response to a post by one of my grappling classmates on the concept of manipulating models. As the sole journalist in the class of 15 I have no qualms about flexing my imagistic muscle of a differing take. Everyone needs a little art direction from time to time and that's that. Did a gig for a politico and his family and he, in front of his wife, said If X leaves me I'd like to marry you. I was perplexed. Flattered yet perplexed.
A few of my blogly brethren have been persecuted for blogging, losing jobs and being told to omit posts as they were deemed too interpersonal for public perusing. epinw is heavily edited and contains barely at times a semblance of the whole gigantic big picture, people are never named and I sure as shootin' don't post with any incrimination.
I have been too distracted by my new musical acquisitions to begin grad school reading so perhaps I should put the newbies away: Kill Bill s/t, Lost in Translation s/t, Beth Orton's Pass in Time, the nouvelle Pink and Love is Hell Pt. 1 by good ol' poet Ryan Adams.
Visions of sugarplums and endless digital video editing hours are dancing, moshing in my head.
Pre-holiday Love.

Fun Fact about Yours Ever So Truly:
I have never, in my pre-adult and adult span of years, seen Thanksgiving sans the hangover filter. But I have moved away from the pre-adult move of showing up at the fam dinner just in time for dessert, eyes a-sloshin'.
So there I was last night, partying like a rock star with the Middling City rock stars, after pronouncing my arrival (through the music joint's side door down the alleyway where I ran into a gaggle of pal smokers) by lobbing an ice cube from cocktail #1 at Marky Sparky Norris's beloved shiny red guitar. Two rows of Middling City rock stars turned in choreographed surprise to see Perfect Fan Me grinning. Onwards.
Had a great conversation with Roger Bryan who, at my and several others' urging, got out of Last Conservative to forge full steam solo ahead. Now he's got a band, The Old Sweethearts, and he rushed out to his automobile to get me a copy of their forthcoming ep - it's genius.
I told him last night I'm sure several tell you this Roger but get the band together and get the hell out of the Middling City - asap and often.
Kaslosh Kaslosh, sippin' on the venti Americano (Donny Kutzbach's pro recommendation) and moving along the getting-dinner-ready path.
Giblets and gravious love.

Boys listen.
When it comes to their rock careers and success (big money) they listen. To me. Maybe like Ozzy listening to Sharon/v.o.r. (voice of reason).
I have seen the old, the new, the mew-mew and you smell the dewy-eyed (to quote an old prof) attentiveness in the faces of the seeking, of the deserving. I talk, they listen. It's not about fucking. It's about their rock success. I opine. Those I am behind I'll do anything - for politicallty or visually... and that's known. Tonight. Roger. New cd. A copy. A listen. A word to another who is on the p.r. track. Words of encouragement. Always, always, always the softest heart spot for musicians.
I am struggling. I am full of musician-paid scotch and it's time to say bye.
Roger, you are a star. !
You are a star so pure that it is both a shaming and enflaming to the true.
Rock on Roger, baby rock star.
This new cd rocks.
I am in awe.
Love.

Because I care.
Because I am a culinary genius who can follow the Silver Palate agenda.
Because I want to help spread this tradition that I've made into a tradition and everyone sort of humours me that they dig this.
Because who the hell can have enough side dishes.
Et voilà:
Ginger Candied Carrots
(Sweet and spicy - a good way to prepare carrots any time of the year.)
12 medium-sized carrots, peeled and cut into 1-inch lengths
4 tablespoons sweet butter, melted
1/4 cup brown sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon caraway seeds

1. Place carrot pieces in a saucepan and add cold water to cover. Cook carrots until tender, 25 to 30 minutes.
2. Melt butter in a small saucepan. Add brown sugar, ginger and caraway seeds. Mix and set aside.
3. When carrots are done, drain and return to the pot. Pour butter mixture over them and cook over low heat for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally.
4. Transfer to a serving dish and serve immediately.
= 6 portions.

Everyone will love you.
Maybe not but they will not tell you.
But I will love you for your efforts.
GCC Love.

Yesterday, while shooting the Jets/Jaguars game at the Meadowlands a star from the Sopranos bit me on the ass and I didn't know who he was. Then a celeb made infamous from the Dave Letterman Show bit me on the ass and I didn't know who he was. Then various football players did the same. I can barely sit straight today with all that ass-biting and all.
I shot and shot and shot and only once came close to being stampeded by a rather scrappy Jet... I would have fared pretty well as he wasn't as gigantic as some of the lumpier players.
I skipped out back to the press lounge during intermission for some steaming hot coffee and then to make calls. I was watching the bank of television sets up ahead and realized that quarter 3 was underway so elevatored and tunneled my way back to the field.
Back to my non-sporty portion of my life.
Serious Love.

Ferfucksake let us, collective snarky Americans, stop being all tenderheaded about JFK, who had his rockstar brains exeunted by a sniper forty years ago, when Yours Truly was only just over a month old, en route to becoming already a brilliant yet sinister presence on the highways, biways, electronic forums, cafés and parties that this great land has to offer.
A quote from the Cleveland Plain Dealer today:
"We're not going to solve it," he says, "and that's what makes it a great conspiracy."
The end. What more else is there to say. Listening to Jesus and Mary Chain, the dark brothers of Scotland, for their wisdom on the matter (to paraphrase: I'd like to die just like JFK, I'd like to die on a sunny day) before I head out into this Middling City sunny day to create an ultra-fab image for a cover of a mag and then return to my frenetic smarty-pants grad student work before I get picked up in the middle of the night by Lead Boy Colleague to head out of town on an NFL junket sweet and short and full of breathtaking pixels, it is hoped, of overpaid and overgrown men bashing the crap out of each other. Hello gladiators.
Sportsy Love.

My aislemate and I were having a helluva time in #8 (A - me - and B - him), en route to the Middling City evening. First, the headphones. Whose jack was whose? Whose snack was whose? Then he was in the jack for headphones of the woman in C. I said Gees, yet more confusion here in aisle 8. At least he had a sense of humour, and did not fart during his nap.
I bid adieu to Parsons pals, Parsons the building and all that is good and educational in Manhattan. And, despite my capturing challenges yesterday in the computer lab, all went swimmingly with shoots, equipment, attitude, etc.
So on the plane, where I had expected, even planned, to stay awakened and all jittered out on Diet Coke, I began to read a short essay assigned by the Instructress for this week. Who needs sleeping pills when there's Michel Foucault? I ask you. One paragraph, two, three, stifled yawn, up to seven and mind wandered far away, sat out on the left wing and watched the city lights below. When I saw the chapter 8 then that's where things got all nappy. Ate mediocre JFK sushi, believe it, and then saw Marcel Thimot of the concert promoters monopoly fame, who was also nursing the throbbings of a headache. I ask you, once again, what percentage of airportees are sober, tipsy, loaded and hungover. I venture a guess: 10%/15%/65% & 35%. Shit, that's more than 100% but you catch my drift.
Bach on the hi-fi, a stack of mail, just-fed plump stray cats, the swingin' Hispanic evangelists next door going full-throttle, odd overhead lights, unfamiliar spaces. Welcome Home to the Middling City Baby Poet.

Some things just never do change. Like Michael Jackson needing, reaching for little body parts, like be-smirked Bush pretending to have read famous thinkers and Yours Truly procrastinating the beginning of digitally editing & enhancing her work of art. Amongst others in the computer lab last night saw Martha the Brilliant, the PSD instructress, who had heard, via classmate Lori, that I am making a video. Yes, making, I'm thinking... but finishing is another distant story. She asked if I will be showing this work for the grad open house and I sort of warbled out a Yes. Even going so far as to describe how it would not be the unabridged 50 or so minutes but perhaps a much-truncated 5 minutes... or so.
Saw Christy yesterday and meandered over to a show by her pal Joyce Kozloff. Was going to link You to a JK site but, interestingly (artistically) enough, there are none.
Off to pilates, off to Parsons, off to points beyond before my Middling City return.
Love of Travel.

More shooting of the dv tomorrow aft lunch and Chelsea art meandering with Christy Rupp.
So the dust has settled a bit on the graduate student discussion board where two damsels in distress basically stoked fires raging and deep by mis-understanding the usage of candy cig -instead of real - in my brilliant Isabelle Series. Then one of the instigators today refused to spell our classmate Erik's name correctly, and more mayhem ensued when he corrected her and then she jumped on his shit for having an identity crisis when a K became a C. Can't the 15 of us blend into one fine body of intelligence, wit and creativity? Shit I hope not.
I imagine advisor-to-the-grad-stars Jim Ramer rolling his eyes in slightly bemused horror. But, as Yours Truly Perfectly said to him the other night, as casting director for this version of The Real World he knew who was oil... who was vinegar.
Today picked up some colorful contact sheets from Duggal, still images of Tommy and red rose petals from my first official dv shoot.
Sat in a dim Mexican hot sauce fiesta of a joint this afternoon reading Final Cut Express for Complete Morons and Rushed Grad Students while simultaneously drinking coffee and falling into a coma of procrastination.
So, reading only the headlines about Bush and Iraq I am most confused.
One day it's
Let's Get the Hell Outta Here!!!!
next it's
Another Foray into the Badass Heart of Darkness.
I could read more about this matter but have been instead reading about other places, more intelligent, seemingly, leader-types.
Love of news bits and bytes.

Ohmygod Beth, there's a man with a pompadour here.
And what a pompadour it was, heaped and starched to a sleek perfection atop the head of a 40ish art patron at one of the art ops I went to last night. Solo, looking for a place to shoot randomly the hand and eye coordinated interactions of strangers but deciding to move along (the white - wine - was excellent) but the atmosphere, including seriousminded/wrongheaded pompadours, was a bit stifling. Art ops, think revelry. This building, top to bottom art galleries, was filled to half-brim with folks who thought long and hard about which garish pair of shoes to wear, which brush to sleek over the pompadour to utter perfection.
I am off now, no comment from You, to purchase bagels, champagne, head down to SoHo where I'm shooting a couple in love in gesture in video in project in situ.
Off I go.
Production Love.

My image of toddler Isabel with candy cig has created much gnashing of teeth for two of my PSD classmates who have had little to say previously on our online class discussion board. Suddenly there they were, these two righteous women, stating how onerous I am to have photographed an innocent child with a cigarette = HOW could I?, where was the parental consent. Etc. Etc. Etc. Etc. Etc.
I wrote back a short & sweet, sweet & sour, response basically stating that the child's guardian, another of our classmates, was present, and that no childish lungs were charred during the filming. I made a reference to the rampant moral righteousness in the USofA, both of the wrongheadeds took that and ran with it down the corridor of nincompoopness. My two best classmates, Beth (the aforementioned nanny) and Vanessa, hopped on to the cause defending my artistic and moral integrity. V was right, I believe, that these two are feeling out of the loop, excluded from our reindeer games.
All for now and one for all.
Have set up times for video shoots with suspecting others. Spotted a perfect ramp that is part of my school, indoors, and am wondering how and if the guard will have to be bribed to allow shooting.
Location scouting, production managing, etc., what a racket.
Production Love.

So last night, here in the good city of New York, I came to the aid of a man lying lifelessly on 14th Street near Parsons. Me and another cell phone afficianado were on the phone calling the ol' 911 and were told not to touch the body. Help arrived but not before a few well-wishers tried to touch the body. One person, a concerned man, put his hand under the body's nose to feel for exhalation. I had a paranoic image rush through my mind of the body suddenly coming to and chomping on the hand. It didn't happen.
So help arrives. Two ambulances, one for each caller.
I had located an empty plastic bottle of methadone at the body's knees and thought Aha, a junkie. Who overdosed.
So the emt's shook the body so violently that he was yanked from death's door and he stood, very slowly, wobbly on his feet, his face bleeding from falling. I moved backwards away, watching the proceedings and noted that one of the emt's, the smuggest of them all, swept his arm in a Carol Marol-like gesture, to show the former cadaver/junkie all the worry he had caused in the arc of onlookers.
Ongoing, I am working at school, on the video project, and am meeting with the mentor/advisor in mere minutes. To show the footage. To explain myself. To explain my process. Then it'll be off to the Mac store to ponder the other things I need: more RAM, another cable, the time to edit. Oh, and the time to shoot, to gather the cast of characters and shoot away.
Processional Love.

Here is a very educational site for your edification and erudition and such, compliments of pal Paul Morgan who suggests that you have your computer's volume cranked.
Going to delve in to video, digital video, for art's sake and delve into the video realm at Parsons, also for art's sake.
So, for art's sake, I sign off for now to make the cash money to support the art.
For its sake, my own.
Also: visited the life-sized Buddha at the museum, experienced two years ago, which had me magnetized by some internal energy. Thought Oh, that was then, a mood, an inner commotion. So.
Went back to said museum, paid a visit to same Buddha - Japense Heian period, mid 12th Century, gilded carved wood.
Felt nothing and then a click in my chest cavity then a warmth that held me in place so intense that I didn't feel I could move.
I'm going to write to the administrators there and ask what is this Buddha's story? How does he magnetize? Does he magnetize others? Any other tales of magnetization?
All for now.
Buddha Love.

Masterpiece!
A triumph!
I laughed, I cried, I rode the subway!

That's what I imagine the literary critics will have to say about my newest, latest piece for the shiny-happy mag. Truly, I mean it, a triumph. It's not often that I bust open that word.
Had a discussion with Lead Boy Colleague yesterday about all sorts of photographic and psychological matters. Conclusion? Both are slippery slopes.
In e-discussion with Lori yesterday we co-thought of creating a small and select reading group of Parsons grads. First on the agenda may be the Bataille book about eyes. Been thinking, apparently she has too, based on our class work, of seeing/eyes/cameras lately.
Did I mention that my article is a triumph?
Got one of those personality revelatory evaluation forms from Gary last night and actually filled it out as I had a whole lot of procrastination to accomplish.
One of those things that assume everyone watches television, eats poorly and thinks of trashy cultural icons.
I do none of that, I'm too busy attempting to create my own trashy cultural icons.
Speaking of such, my muse/the Girlpope boy, is coming over for a shoot on Monday night so I'd best be knowing my new video camera by then.
All for now, time to slink off and procrastinate about something else.
Love of this, love of that.

As the director was giving notes I was packing up my gear, listening to his, I thought, overarching negativity. I wanted to pipe in and say Hey look, I have abso-fuckin-lootly NO patience for theatre and I wholeheartedly dug it - don't listen to him kids.
I'm not sure of the title. Way of the World might be it. I was, of course, shooting, shooting production stills. What did you think I was doing there, understudying? I whispered, as I clamored over them, That was great, really great. I slunked off to the front door of the converted church/theatre to discover it was locked and I had to reappear from the shadows to exit rear church out into a bracingly cold night. What a scent, all the rotting leaves and moistness in the air made my heart explode with rapturous life. Rapture in the dark. The title of my first romance novel. The ride that I derailed on at Crystal Beach in Ontario. No, that was Laff in the Dark. And that's another story.
Arrived at the photo lab to see Adrian still working working working at printing orders such as mine. Slipped my envelope of film through the slot as I shouted Don't work too hard, a cliche that slipped out before I could catch it. And he replied I don't, that's why I'm still here.
I began my work day at a grand opening of a business, much joviality in the air, much praise for the man who is a Duke grad who will, by golly, make this business the best business in The Land.
I am off to do more work of non-blogly proportions.
Workaholic Love.

This poor overtaxed iMac dv special edition.
Groaning under the weight of my graphic demands - crop this, post that. Are our days numbered. Only if this discly attitude improves.
Super props to Ron for coming up with a theory that is True. What makes to-go coffee so special is paper cups. I have proved this thesis. What a difference disposability makes.
It is time for Yours Truly to go off into the dark night and vote, polls close in half an hour and I don't want to roast in anarchic hellfires ruled by Republicans for eternity so for now I sign off
Voting Love.
ps: Middling City model Tom the Rockstar is musing for me on Monday evening, part of the Parsons work-in-progress.