Gadzooks and pass the holy guacamole.
A lawyer type called me yesterday to inquire about my Perfect Foto Services and, after talking official imagistic this-n-that, said Oh, I, in searching for you on the Internet System saw your blog.
That's usually then the prompt for some slightly discovered, well-placed Heh-heh-heh's.
Today I jet from the east side of the state back to the Middling City and am pondering how best to not squander these next seven or so hours. Another visit to the Whitney. A foray into Chelsea. Another caffe con leche at Habana.
Hung off the FDR a few (sunny) days ago to re-shoot the pop of colour and light through the iron square that keeps the garden watchers off of the FDR itself. Out of harm's inevitable and invisible way. JR said Nice work to the ten new pieces that I PowerBooked into his consciousness. And then Ronnie joined in on the fun. They are about anticipation, passage of time, my breath (homage to the fundamental idea of Sam), that'll do.
At the Whitney every video star has a distinct way of showing their work - on plasma screens on pedestals, as double-hung heroic pieces, in a darkened room on three walls, more.
I see my pieces looped and composited on walls, each in its own moment, overlapping in their idea, a collage to wander in and out of. I'll be experiementing next time with projecting the images onto mylar, onto different textures.
Now is the time to think of one's big-ass thesis presentation. Now. Now. Now. Not then. Then. Then.
JR kept insisting These are all about you. You are the weed. You are the tree.
What the hell is NOT about me in this Perfect World, I ask You.
Beth and I met up with LA pal Jodi yesterday, at the MAC clubhouse where we had missed the FinalCut time and were regaled with somewhat related iDVD info. Then we went next door to Jerry's red diner to compare lifeal notes.
Today is the day of art, shuttling off a jpeg to CEPA Gallery for inclusion in the catalogue for the Auction. The Biennial Auction. So whatever I've got here will be there, via technology.
The merging of art, technology, high-test espresso and rushes of adrenalized chutzpah = the spice of Friday.
Freya Love.

Met Mr. Lessig last night at the 92nd St. Y, before his little talk on intellectual properties and pirates and wizards and laws and such.
Arrived with Beth and Inbal despite its sold out condition assuming that rush tix would be available. The rude little man in the ticket booth actually made my Perfect face crimson with his insolence. The Y had released more seats/tix yet were, contrary to their policy, no longer offering students the half-off price. I nearly tossed out my copyrighted and famed Do you know who I AM, little man. I walked away, thinking I'd approach one of Mr. Rude's colleagues, when I spotted Mr. Lessig in the lobby. I had my copy of his Future of Ideas and compared and contrasted the author photo with who was standing before me. Lessig was having trouble getting in, being recognized, as he looks like any ol' typical lunky lawyer. I shouted Mr. Lessig, turning to the workers I said That's Mr. Lessig, speaking in an hour, you have to let him in. I got his autograph, in the book, with a blood red Sharpie, and Beth did the same.
I said Mr. Lessig, we're impoverished grad students from Parsons who're studying your ideas and books. We can't get in for the student discount, is there anything you can do. So off wandered Mr. Lessig, over to Mr. Rude. Then all was magically changed. Three tix, half price. And there we sat in the front row soaking in his brilliance. Beth acquired an advance softcover of his new one from the ME (oh, that's managing editor to your unjournalistic self) of WIRED mag.
Our Parsons colleagues, about five more of them, joined us in the front row. Esteeemed esquires and justices, is what we harangue.
Off to digital worlds beyond, to shoot alongside the FDR and more.
WiFi Love.

Artist Michael Straub is gone. Dead. Last work. I still have one of his pieces unframed - waiting - and it has to, now, be on the walls. Amongst the other risers, fallers and dead. While he died today, at 3PM, to be exact, I was editing dv. I was sitting and thinking edgily of my own human and earthly and meaningless deadlines, and he died. Left here, said goodbye, unclung to the body and lifted away to that place I saw once when I was drowning in the lake and was ready to go. Got an email from Pam who is sad, despondent, said what life is, and that's fleeting. No sense is made of this, we forage on and do what we know how to do best.
Foraging Love.

Both feet are Whitneyed, the syndrome of spending time at the Whitney Museum with its unforgiving concrete floors. Experienced the biennial which I dug completely, especially the video work, shown in seven different styles. Will go back this week for a longer look as me +3 had 2 hours to view after I procured, with my rockstar charisma, the requisite square green stickers for all of us. A guy passed me and stuck his sticker on me, and it was printed out for a student no less. And then I found a sticker on the ground, for Beth, which labeled her Corporate Sponsor. Then I approached a couple and asked for a few Euros if they'd give me theirs and, in a flash he gave me his off his jacket and she handed me her whole dang ticket. That got the four of us to the front of the line, in the returning and member line, avoiding an additional hour of wait. Onto the sights, the sounds.
Saw again tonight Peter Brötzmann, sax, with drumming Milford Graves down in the old stomping centre from the mid-80s, the easties - two more sets of free jazz. Just returned from the gig. It rains in NYC. The pending scholastic deadlines are storming in synchronous pelts.
Last night's Brooklyn foray ended late, a fine blend of JamMasterV's loft, a swillhall, a return to lo-key Boat and intermittent emotives in between.
Emoting Emotional Love.

Minding my own business landed in the beloved Diesel Store, Union Square and, before I knew it, I had a most gorgeous leather halter top, on hanger, in my hands. I meandered through the Diesel Store, grooving on the dj's peppy beats and then, before I knew it again, it was mine. Mine. Now to find the perfect place to wear this perfect black leather body sling with silver grommet holes and thick cotton keepers. Just dined with Phillip up in the cage area of Parsons, him hopping up from time to time to help out the checkers of equipment and I'm about to meet up with schoolmates and Brooklyn pals for a night of grad studentesque debauchery. I'm sure JR would be proud. It promises to be a Grads Gone Wild kind of night, hopefully no arguments or punches will be bandied about. Still searching for the parfait paper topic for Law School. Wanted to do something music industry-related but thinking maybe it'd be more joyous to write about visual artists. Having breakfast with Painterly DK at Habana. Said Let's meet at noon before everyone shows up, sans place-naming, but she knew. Oh, how she knew.
Justin jets off to a Pan-Euro Voyage tomorrow so he's one of the cast of characters for the Friday Assault of Brooklyn. Biennial may have to wait until Tuesday. And it appears the Peace Rally, in honour of the year anniversary of the invasion of Iraq, may be in the Not Happening heap.
Heaps of Love.

Careening towards my freelance gig today (the ever-famed Match Day of Middling City U whereby med students find out where they'll be schlepping their worldly goodies for several years to come to become... officiants of all things med) found myself in the midst of traffic and yet more traffic as thousands were descending upon HSBC Arena for some reason. Open bottles of beer walking alongside cops, the scalpers doing their thing, cars resting here and there waiting for a few more inches. A mess. Meandered into the gig as it started, the handing out of the envelopes. The jubilance. The popppping of flash cubes.
If you ever needed another reason to know how or if the Great Photo God Almighty, let us call It Photon, smiled upon Yours Truly here is YET another example of Perfect Fortuitousness:
No parking. Then, as the curtain of the sky parted (ie: clouds) a beam of sunlight shone down upon a discreet and attendant-free lot where I abandoned the golden Forester for a while. Free. As in free to be, you and me.
Big P Love.

Now, fully oriented. The merging between sleep and ideas and study and sousing leads to calendar confusion. Meaning. Wednesday. Thursday. When is the flight departing for the city opposed to the Middling City. And the breathtaking discovery that the flight is Tomorrow. That TODAY is the deadline for school. TODAY is the uncovering of my auto, the driveway, the walk for the asshole mailman (who suddenly decided not to risk life and limb this season by chancing the driveway's few inches of crusty edges and had my mail hostage for a week, a stinking week, in his government-issued rust) and my joy. Shovel. Snow. And, if this can be accomplished in one hour from now - rightnow - I can have breakfast with Deb and Sarah. Kennedy escorted me to the suburbs for some errands and, joyofjoys, we meandered into WalMart Palace of American Taste. Me, searching for a now-rare Spectra Polaroid camera for the 3/27 gig. Him, entranced by some "electronic" objets d'art. Kennedy gave me and the Perfect subsumed english major self the stories of Henry James. A book that invites the nose to sniff the page notes and bouquet.
As Beth Orton warbles with the near-power of Marianne Faithful and the intriguing controlled passion of most of us I think:
1. I really should be shovelling.
2. You should really be looking at this.
3. We should all look up and say Hey, Saint Patrick, whoever the fuck you were, described in Histories of the Saints (and other Tortured Souls) as "an ill-educated but passionately sincere man," thanks for the nature analogy of the shamrock and hope you weren't too passionately sincere at those harmless Druids.

Natural Love.

Roared east with Kennedy (and in this cast of characters it's as DK as mine other DK of urban(e) painterly fame) to Rochester last night to shoot the moments as I am wont to say. Milestones. Free jazz. Peter Brötzmann (sax&things) and Hamid Drake (bangers). According to my astute calculations I believe we made the journey in 20 minutes. Or so. I still don't understand the Audi's red dashboard. Do studies indicate that red is the wake-up call of drivers. Continuing on I'm still pirating the day away, infringing copyrights all over the damned place. I created a company, CLeft Designs, and our motto is: Your Design... Our Design. Not really, but I thought I'd toss that into this narrativational mix. Following the free jazz I asked Peter B if he had a website, half suspecting not but it is a question that one asks in the getting-to-know-you scene, as if asking for a bizcard. He said no and went on to say that there are sites out there that enable complete strangers to know more about his life than he does. Leading me back to thoughts of the tangibility/intangibility of the world that is cyber.
Distanced Love.

One of the favoured Middling City features has shut its proverbial doors and I'm in mourning. Cybele's, both restaurant and bohemian cast of characters resulting in a satisfying blend of sustenances, is no mo, thanks to the building co-owners. Shot a documentary-style video of their last day, first at brunch with sister and pals, then in the evening when things were much more sloppy.
So now's the big question. Where do I feed my Perfect self.
Blogging as I'm speaking on the phone with Lead Boy Colleague who's telling me about his sphere. Now we're speaking about the Goo Goo Dolls. And now we're talking about Tom Calderone of MTV fame, little buddy Tom formerly of the Middling City and WBNY fame.
Onwards to the mid-term assignment for Law School, whoops, I mean Intellectual Properties class for the grad school experience.
Delayed Love.

So the distillation of Secret Window, the Johnny Depp wonder, is this:
Cheating = BAD.
He's nearly in every scene and for that it gets six stars in my Perfect book.
There, too, is Timothy Hutton with an unsightly zit resting on the side of his nose. Where was the makeup artist to squeeze that shit.
This morning I regaled my breakfast pals with the tossled look of Johnny's hair as he arose from his many movie naps. Short, blonde disaster.
After Depp Time Laura and I revisited The Rendezvous and it was pleasurable, back to its old self with the dinge-riddled booths and smattering of vintage artwork and signage.
At one point, after several tall scotches and sodas, did an extemperaneous dance to the hell that was the jukebox run of songs from the oeuvre of Frank Sinatra. With a paper napkin stuffed into each cuff I twirled and plieed and whirled through the barroom.
Today I shot a Bar Mitzvah to fund my high life and there was one fourteen year old boy who kept giving me the eye and at first I thought Jeez, kid, what's up with you, what'm I blocking your way to the ice cream station. It, the glance, rehappened three more times and I realized Oh, this kid has crossed the boundary from the innocence to the practiced. At that age kids now, and any parent reading this stuff your ears, are doing It. And It hangs over some of the teened heads like the smoke from a cherry bomb.
Bought four new ones: Matthew Sweet's Japanese release, new Beth Orton, and two clerk recs - TV On the Radio and Zero7. So far, so good, so acceptable, so interestingly swingin'.
Onwards.
Sonic Love.

Recently distracted by oso many things. To begin.
Firstly the idea of a blogger convention of sorts at this year's SXSW, Monday. Has Marty Boratin departed? Is it feasible to travel to TX mere days before departing for the BigA? As I'm an official grad student, and an art one to boot (and did I mention that I've resurrected the dusty Frye cowgirl boots and that they could harm you), I believe it's in the bylaws that returning to one's roadtrip days is advisable.
Secondly it's opening night of the new Johnny Celluloid Explosion. Story line, schmory line. It's all in the orgasmic casting of the lead, baby. I mean, who even remembers whatinhell Donnie Brasco was about, to Perfect me it was all about the scene when he does pushups.
Thirdly is the return to basics on this fresh-snow day. Meaning The Bends and all its sonic and poetic merits.
Fourthly is the piracy that I've been engaged in for my Intellectual Properties class, and I cannot divulge any secrets but I'm in the process of setting up an online business of copyright-infringed works. (my head rolls back, chin up to ceiling, raucous laughter).
Parting thought is that that little sneak, Beth, took all my epinw closures, the love-full gestures, and created icons for about two months of them. They are beautiful, in the spirit of the Starbucks Do-This! campaign of drawn-upon cups meets Jim Dine and were produced on the nickel of some Manhattan corporate giant that believed the sneak should be paid quite handsomely to do... something. Only she wasn't doing that... something. She was surreptitiously sending me my mad props.
Cowgirl Love.

Spalding Gray, floater found.
Now for some Perfect name-drops.
Commissioned I jetted in to JFK and was picked up by Justy and Erin in the trusty and trusted Honda to haul our collective arses out to the Hamptons breathtaking home of Richard Ekstract to shoot in my special minglous way. I was dressed. I was laden with equipment and notebook and set out. Searching for Hamptons celebs, for bigger, more expansive celebs and in a corner I discovered Spalding Gray, hunkered down and talking to a younger woman. Actually she was talking, he was sort of ingesting impassively.
I hovered and dove in asking to steal their souls and they agreed and I made three frames of the two of them. Later, when editing the images for Hamptons Cottages and Gardens shiny happy mag I looked then closer at the reconstructed face of Gray. How he looked like himself, sort of. It was understood that he had had a major life-changing accident, like I had in April 2002. When you're surrounded by the vacuum of disaster you never forget that sound and you never live another minute, nearly, forgetting that fate missed swooping you away by a fraction.
I was down by the East River a few weeks ago making art with the DV camera as Gray was still, submerged. Body floats as fish and people and other forces do their usual. Seizing the day.
Floating Love.

Like a cheap bar the Edwards doers and shakers and mess-makers (before the drop-out) basically papier-mached one of his appeals flyers to the windshield of my Middling City vehicle. So I can think of Edwards with every drive. Which I was just doing, returning from a gig at Middling City U. First item on agenda when Kerry stomps Bush is to appeal to him to rid the country of:
1. cornball musicals with no redeeming social value
2. cornball mod dance with same.
Had to shoot a percussion ensemble. And they're good. Only trouble is my editrix failed to mention the gaggle of mod dancers that were accompanying the bangers and whiskers. In what appeared to be mall attire, garments in that weird stretching shiny sort of textured rayon that was interesting for about five minutes a few years ago, they cavorted onstage. One number had me swallowing my groans, straining to be unloosed. Cutesy, near-mime gestures. It's a freakin' good thing I'm not reviewing that travesty. Drumming: primo. Dancing: barf bucket.
Speaking of such, still recovering from some mysterious bacteria in some food eaten a few days back. My stomach acids are still negotiating the re-acceptance of solids which, at this point, it feels is Martha Stewart to its good will investing.
Analogous Love.

Eavesdroppingly, walked behind two fellas in the rain. One was regaling, the other was smoking/listening. We were rascal kids, it was the 80s. My friend lit up a joint on Prince Street and we were walking down the street...
they turned the corner.
I nearly followed them onwards for the rest of the story.
Watched the Depp interview at Actors' Studio (which I might add is via my excellent New School U) from recently. Mellifluous. Perfect. Shy. Those limpid dark pools of soulfulness watching watching. It was almost unbearable. A whole stream of his Perfection. Different grades of Perfection. My quipping Perfection. Your good-sensed Perfection at blog reading selections. Mr. Hung's Geek Perfection. Darter's Imaginary Perfections. Dorota's painterly Perfection. Beth's positivity Perfection. JR's mentoring Perfection.
And on.
You all have your Perfections.
Wow, and I have mine.
Love Parfait.
Hold the nuts.

Well. Well.
Deb and I partied like rock stars a few nights back. A most cathartic and wondrous time of talk, and more.
Darter from Down Under emailed today to say that it is - in truth - his date of birth. And, by his orders, we his best pals are to do for ourselves something most great for ourselves and get back to him.
I am sad to report I've done nothing great for myself.
Well, except for talking to JR the Mentor.
Attempting to steal wi-fi molecules un-fuckin-successfully from two places today.
By gulping down too many ounces of Americanos in his honour.
Hey, Darter, how's that? I got cranked out in your honour on Americanos.
Caffeine Love.

Fercrissakes. OK, it was a bad idea. No ink. No ink on Perfect Me. I was just notified by Darter from Down Under that it was a stinking idea. OK, I was listening to a cute waiter who has the ink. I will not be indulging the ink. I am beyond ink in my skin. Tonight is the AIDS charity Cause for Celebration, which Liz and I were art co-chairs of a few years back - we had a record-breaking amount raised via swift art sales. I donated something to Cause (I always thought there was something rather inappropriate about the event name) and have two free tix. Not so sure about going but I did promise Danny Winter/Vicky Vogue that I'd be there. Ended last night with Cheryl, Liz et al at Mark Goldman's new wine bar. And, true to form, we are not sure what the hell he's calling it. It might be The Hardware, as it was a hardware store until a few minutes ago. I relented to my sartorial obsession and bought the smart black coat at Banana Republic with the satiny trim and the belt in the back. Chic. Super. Classic. These all scream Yours Truly.
With fashionable love in my consuming heart I sign off.
Love.

Minding my own business encountered two suprise rock & roll moments.
Rock & Roll Moment 1:
Went to the favored joint to read, eat, and study. In that absolute order. Suddenly I was chatted up then joined by Waiter Wes who was "bored." To and fro, to and fro when - suddenly - the subject of tattooes came upon us. He has several, very colorful, inked by his pal John. I mentioned this year of life and significant alterations seemed so memorable and that I'd always had an idea tacked to the wall for a tat. He said, Hey, $50, let's do it now. I hemmed. I hawed. I even happened to have a neat Grant in my back pocket. I demured, saying I'd have to think about it. He pressed. So, whenever it is that I decide to do this inky project I'm taking Waiter Wes and we're going to see John. And for an even $50 (is there tipping?) I'm going to have the between-the-shoulder-blades piece of art. Then, as the rest of the plan goes, WW and I will go out and drink wine to celebrate. Will this happen? Who can Keith Richards really say.
Rock & Roll Moment 2:
For reasons I cannot understand I have to have my leased vehicle photographed for my new insurance co. And there are but two garages who can oblige, one being in the epicenter of the quadrant of the Middling City where several ghetto genres collide. Appointment? Why would there need to be, I speculated, if in fact this is common vehicular practice. I rolled alongside the place, skeptical. Inside were many signs separating the customers from the employees. And they were mean signs, to boot. I found some people who were not tinkering with cars, in a hazy office of flourescent lighting, beige office equipment, stacked papers and who the fuck knows. Inside were two shady characters who I imagine were doing little more than viewing internet porn. They approached. I held out the form. They queried, in the voices of svelte boutique ladies, if I had an appointment. One of them left to get "him" "upstairs." While waiting, and waiting, I stood at the edge of their showroom, a cinematic view, gorgeous with high ceiling, crap chandelier, an odd assortment of American-made cars missing hubcaps, a somber man mopping, a burgundy (and I chose this colour carefully, with love) Ninety-Eight with pinstriping and a sign readin' "SMOKIN'" on its windshield, a man truly smokin' - Dorals - next to the classic, and a beat popcorn machine on wheels, a jug of orange compound atop it. A real scene. And, while taking it all in, Led Z blared behind me. I snuck the hell out of there. If they caught me before I reached the vehicle to be shot I'd claim I thought I was badly parked. With a glad heart I gunned it out of there, flicking on the classic rock station they had been listening to. Tomorrow is yet another day. Another garage, in the Middling City suburbs, is where I'll be headed for my matters of insurance.

R&R Love.

Well.
What a day this Sunday turned out to be.
It ran the gamut from brunch to betrayal. Resulting in the ingestion of nearly a pack of smokes.
Stinky Love.

Nipples the size of spaceships.
Well, that pretty much sums up my astute assessment of the new Bertolucci film/movie The Dreamers. Whose spaceships. Did you really ask that question. I half-jovially whump you, dimbulb, upside the head for who else in the movie would HAVE said nipples but the sole girl in the movie. Not the two nubile boys. And, really, I think the entire point of this movie is to have us first guess at the spaceships before they are flying free. Hints of spaceships through diaphanous shirt. Then the yanking of a shirt. And... then... holy Chariots of the Gods.
Saw the movie with Vanessa (Jam Master V) and Beth and we had divergent goals although the commonality was lurid in scope. V's critique: Not enough dick.
And, really, it's no Last Tango.
Onwards.
Oh, JW,Esq. writes a dispatch from Oracle on my Mars rover, conspiratorial post. And he does put forth some fine twists and turns, of course building upon the thesis of Yours Truly.
To quote, summarily. An abstract. A brief. And then I am to rest my case. Your Honour.

"Now what to make of the White Boat?  Clearly it's a symbol of racial and moneyed-class superiority; it is now a target, a goal, a dream, perhaps unattainable by the unwashed masses unless you too have the best 'things' that money can buy, like the most expensive ATV in history.  I can virtually guarantee you that this Christmas, the Sharper Image will have a replica Mars Rover for sale in its catalogue for a mere $99,000, complete with extension arms with which wealthy suburbanites can "explore" the peripheries of their well-manicured back lawns -- 'nature' to them.
In short:  the Republicans are simply evil.  Go Kerry."

Nice work, JW.

Onwards to more by Perfect Me.
Turned AnnieD and Beth on to the favoured Toronto restaurant, Caffe la Gaffe. A hybrid of North American bistro and Parisian parfait flourishes and easy elegance.
But before that, the true crux of this section, I purchased my first hands-free wristwatch. As in no hands. A display. And from the Canadian version of EMS, LLBean, About Face, North Face, whatever. Roots. I feel really sported out. I feel like I should be timing everything around me. It came with a fucking manual and if there's one thing in this world I do not need is more orders, more directives of a non-art nature. Who else owns an iPod but doesn't use it because who really has that kind of time to transform the cd molecules into iPod compounds.
Speaking of molecular structures I am now a very proud wifi pirate, hunting out non-lethal, non-ebolic hot spots to squat on the internet system efforts of others. How I do love technology. And gadgets. And shocking spaceships. And not orders. And not wonky surprises. And not strange emails from people I don't know stating that they know something that "will change my life."
Thanks for your attention in this matter.
I remain.
Remainder Love.

Not my usualling opinion but still in the after-haze of feeling ripped off by the Mac dude (a complete dude, worthy of that hated title. him, bearded, slight residue of Canadian accent, crappy beard, darting eyes) who charged me $30 "installation fee" as I hadn't shoved my Airport card enough into its slot. I mean. Really.
Giving him the paint-melting stare I said Really, you're going to charge me for that? Mr. Darter Dude stated that once your machine is dragged off to the mysterious back room from the Genius Bar you can pretty much kiss $30 au revoir.
onwards.
Thinking of my left coast attorney who sent me an email not too long ago so in the spirit and style of epinw, Yours Truly's Perfect locution, that I may have to sue his ass for plagiarism or some such thing.
The most soothing bane to the whole Mac fiasco and a few others is that there is a new Johnny Depp movie creeping towards me. Opening March 12th. I'm thinking he's so on a roll to finance that fat French bitch that he married and her wayward lifestyle.
Oh, learnt a very important civics-style lesson yesterday.
When one's country's national holiday of questionable origins (say, Presidents' Day, combining the b-days of two very different and very dead leaders) it's probably wise (oh, how we know it not wise) to get a haircut from a Russian on that very day.
For she, of questionable background and training, will hack the living daylights out of your hair to make you look like a gulag gone bad.
Clipped Love.