Yesterday was Deposition Day. The day that I first-ever laid eyes upon the woman who nearly crushed Yours Truly with her mother's sedan exactly two years ago on the 21st of avril. A quick glance was sufficient. And her mother was there, and she sat, non-stoically, during my interview, rolling her eyes and sighing aloud and shaking her head as if she had written - even produced - the accident. The other driver woman was mysteriously absent, sent down the hallway to wait the two hours. I had to divert my attention from the shaking and sighing mother by telling myself that she was deranged and had a nervous condition to not glance in her direction with my patented paint-melt stare. I had met earlier with my attorney, Tom, and told him I was afeared of becoming emotional rehashing. I did not, only once I found myself sort of lost in that memory, looking perhaps too intently too long down at the conference room table. So, the joyous part of this accidental tale is that Tom hammered, to usurp his verb, the other driver woman until she admitted that she ran the red light. Lead Boy Colleague, an expert in all things depo, said now my fate, or case, is sealed. Or something to that effect.
And so on.
Convinced Middling City U's Law Library that they should indeed give me, a litigious alum, a permissive card to fondle (not borrow) all their legal tomes for the next year. But, thankfully, that'll be necessary only until the end of my Parsons School of Law course in IP. . . a few more months where I can glean more info about all things CopyLeft. JW,Esq. thinks I am now an IP geek and, coming from senior corporate counsel for Oracle of the left banks of the USofA, I take that as a compliment most deliciously supreme.
After this long-ass day of freelancing, regal legal researching and more more more I find Oban and Orton and some digital editing to be just the thing to usher in a new day.
New Love.

special ps: link to this Kill Bill-related game, discovered as a link on a Japanese blog.

Sent to Yours Truly by David Hoffman, epinw-mentioned previously, pals with this rock & roll trio that includes a girl who used to revile me and my newspaper column, who moved from the Middling City, and who apologized to me years and years later.


Fancy Pants by Kate Mosstika

Live thinking that you brought yourself out the waste
So sly thinking that you caught yourself - I'm the slave
Don't lie to me and tell me you disagree now
'Cause I know just what you're freaking on
When the times change and you want in on our palisades
You'll find that you're not wanted anymore
Lay me, oh my Amy, but you're just too messy late
Fancy pantsy Nancy J. Parisi -- Jeez he's singing about me
Blah thinking that I brought yourself up the blame
So sly thinking that you brought yourself up the same
Don't lie to me and tell me you disagree now
'Cause I know just what you're freaking on
When the times change and you want in on our palisades
You'll find that you're not wanted anymore
Lay me, oh my Amy, but you're just too messy late
Fancy pantsy Nancy J. Parisi -- Jeez he's singing about me

Where have I been. I will tell you where I have been not. Not at the law library of Middling City U. Not getting my artwork ready for the somewhat venerable CEPA Gallery auction with a cocktail preview reception TOMORROW night and there they are, I'm certain, the entire staff, pacing pacing pacing Where in H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks is her Perfection. And not avoiding the grand tradition of too many turbo-powered Polish beers and honey liqueur/Krupnick at my favoured Dyngus Day extravaganza nestled deep in the Middling City's east side. Much to my current chagrin. Highlights include: a conversation with a woman of a certain age who informed me that she dates her Dyngus Day date but once a year and that she likes to beat the crap out of him, a man most Slavic who had the most dense chestpatch that I couldn't help but squirting and marvelling at in sheer disgust until his large-scale lady friend dragged him out by his dishevelled blonde hairs, my dollar store faux camera which does not leak and has a powerful jet of water reaching upwards of 10 feet to my utter Perfect dee-light and a collage of faces dripping with water and red from the aforementioned bevvies.
Lead Boy Colleague left moments ago, helping me scrape my framing brain cells together in his usual helpful manner and JW,Esq. contacted me commenting that to round out the post-Dyngus malaise I should have thought to ingest Jaeger shots and cheap red wine as well. He also thinks I'm a perfect Intellectual Properties nerd, with my Larry Lessig fanaticism and all and I heartily concur and rest my case, yer honour.
It's a Fake Plastic Trees re-re-re-&-repeat sort of grayness and now it's time to wend my weary-assed way to CEPA where the people with the white gloves are salivating awaiting my arrival. ETA is like so now.
Salivational Love.

A flurry as of late of Nancy Pants references, much to the astonishment of Yours Truly. First the long overdue email from NYCbased David Hoffman (not so-named barkeep with heavy hand at Hamlin House) who had heard and then hunted for a song by a woman who names me in her song that sort of rambles about. Then that harkened up the song of way-yore by Kenny Kearney, "Nancy Pants," whose lyrics I will not quote here and now. Then a Friendster testimonial by Steve Bartoo, then another ref to NP. Fascinating, Jung-style synchronicity. And there should be no mental leap to the Police. Thank you.
Out last night following a full day of scholarly activity with Justy and Erin, flitting from bar to bar to bar in Williamsburg and at the first one one of the boy Marc Jacobs models lounged about looking somewhat extraterrestrial. Ended the evening by making the aforementioned sibs give me a whopppppper of a hickey, the hot new spring accessory trend that I am starting. Now. Go get one for when is the last time you had a well-placed hey get a loada this hickey. I rest my bruisish case. Now that I've informed New School U that I do not care to be innoculated contra meningitis thank you and now been free (ha!) to register for not one - but two - (ha!again) terms of Parsons School of Law/Art/Teaching/Snark I am free to leave this melodius metro area for the trans-statal crossing towards the Middling City and Kennedy.
Hickey/Vehicular Love.

So now is the cd of choice.
That line confused You and for that I am not sorry for mustn't we, from time to time, challenge the syntax, the lack of commas and other dashes and hoopla.
So, Peter Gabriel, holy crap '86, the fortuna of Red Rain (with its quiet and building start) and In Your Eyes (with its Perfect timed arrivals into moments of driving), the unfortuna of Sledgehammer. And I'm sent into a moment painting Scot Fisher's mother's house out in Hamburg/Angola with Ani - and Scot came to say Hi and there he was, on the sofa we had drug over to the kitchen area, sprawled watching a Gabriel video on the television but I think most assuredly now, truth hovering just over and left to the scotch fumes, that it was for Big Time. Gabriel disc in the midst of where I rest my head in NYC, appropriate as I'm about to dive into Gabriel's online world of concerns via his site MUDDA. I'd link You there, but oh well, link to it here if you are so inclined and not on a speedboat of hurry and worry. Last night Beth (who puts me on buses) and I stood on a transferational platform (the first, I will indent, was a platform where not trains of any Letter stopped and we stood there talking for moments until we noted this and replied Hey, no trains stop on this side fercrissakes and righted our Gotham-crawling path) for the F to Essex Street (from the J/M/Z from the 4/5/6) to get to Tonic for Yours Truly to shoot some jazz creatures before the red velvet and before the adulant crowd.
In Your Eyes, I mean who really doesn't dig to the max a song (well perhaps anyone within earshot who hears it being played and replayed and rereplayed and rerereplayed) about driving and beyond. And who can't float with ideas looking at the wooden joists above free jazz while players slip and slide along instruments of choice. Chad Taylor, a drummer to excavate, and elder saxman Fred Anerson and the kid bassplayer = primo. Beth, in my eyes, transformed herself into the most effusive jazz fan and I was duly impressed.
Joist Stare Love.

En route to the Slavin family seder in Harrisburg - as in PA - made a quick sidebar foray into the Zippo Centre, rimmed with lighter lamps along their driveway. Inside, Zippo art and all things merch. Had mysteriously forgotten my sunglasses when leaving the Middling City and, lo & behold, there were several Zippo sunglasses (not fabricated in Bradford but in .5 my motherland, Italia = even better). Have to say Zippo makes a better sunglass than Revo, Brooks Bros., and that other old-school company. Then came lighter shopping. Met a 12-year old kid, Brandon, who happened to be purchasing the same model that I was oogling. It looks like the body of a beetle in the sun. So we're both at the checkout and this kid, completely eyes glazed over with Zippo lust, gave me a quick tutorial on how to undo the Zippo screw to douse the Zippo cotton while his puffy mom hovered over this Zippo kid talking to the eager-to-learn older lady who, I'm sure in his kid brain, seemed at odds with the moment as she, at her advanced age, had never ever loaded up her own lighter with flammables. Onwards to PA for seder and four glasses of wine and mucho laughs and this morning a quick spin in the Porsche of Stu, Beth's dad.
Now time to push towards NYC for high times and Parsons-related misdemeanors. And how I mean that.
Zippo Love.

Whilst listening to the Spinners on a Middling City classic radio station I multi-tasked by driving down Bailey Avenue, marvelling at what it is in the sun. When, much to my astonishment, moments later, I spotted up yonder The Statue of Liberty drifting down the sidewalk up on the right. I noted two gangstas in uproarious laughter, so obviously not fans of the far-flung genre dubbed Performative Art. After a red light moment passed The Statue of Liberty in his perfect oxidized bronze robes and beacon headdress. Gave him a big beep beep beep and he turned most beatific towards my golden Forester, right arm upstretched to the sunshine of Bailey, a ray of good old-fashioned American know-how.
How to Love.

Champagne bomb went off in my head this AM.
Slargled champagne at Marty and Susan's Mexican fiesta last evening starring Yours Truly, them and Janine, who skips to and Empire State fro.
Marty, bien sur, hard at work at table to stove to table to sink to stove to oven making and doing. And then the champagne. And then an excellent Frenchie red I brung to said fiesta.
So today back to Law School, dragging the brain to the four fair use factors, kicking and screaming. Spotted a boy colleague at Nova Photo and he provided a necessary and helpful CamelLight to the bomb scare as I picked up some excellent would-be starlet-heading-to-Hollywood work I shot yesterday.
Yesterday, as well, was treated to the entire side4, as in Frampton Comes Alive, the album of my nearly Perfect formative years when I wore the shit out of that vinyl. 97 Rock didn't play the lame cropped version but let Frampton and Pals wail away, voicebox away, and I thought about the song being a mantra (Do Youuuu FEEEEEL Like I Do) for the Good Times, Good Times, Good Times, Good Times. Hell, it was the late 70s. I had just had my head blown by Dark Side of the Moon, as I've regaled You, harangued You about for years now, and FCA was a furthering of the ponderous teenaged condition of things getting better, of crazed adult super-freaky concert and disco times just out of my transformative reach. But I ever thank the vinyl and babysitting goddesses for sending me JoJo and her daughter and the weekend-long sitting gigs where I discovered the aforementioned rock and roll joys of yore.
Yore Love.

first things first to You:
I am the mistress of April Fool's Day, practically inventing it, so do not attempt to swindle, hornschwaggle or misle me today. Thanks for your attention in this matter.

Minding my own business was en route back to the home office hovel for school workings when suddenly, sonically a grand ol' VH song - via radio waves - appeared, so to hear/speak. So I had to keep driving. It so perfectly antidoted the weather that it was necessary to meander along, calculating arrival after the song's last notes hung in the car air. Stopped off at SPoT for an Americano and gave a giant hug to giant Geoffrey, who no longer works at Cybele's and who works the counter of SPoT as well as Goldman's new wine joint, whatever the fuck it's called. We strategized about eating healthily in the Middling City. I pondered that I may have to move across the way way east in order to do so. Signing off with a VH song in my heart and Larry Lessig (link along here to his très informatif blog), Intellectual Property guru, in my mind. And tarlike coffee coursing madly through Perfect Me.
Course of Love.

Yet another Perfect chestnut emanating forth from Yours Truly.
Way to keep smile/smirk on face in midst of formal freelance gig =
find mischief, critique matters in behind-the-scenes fashion with fellow freelancers suited up as chefs/waiters/barkeeps/musicians, and snack when possible.
Told some chefkid that I hate coconut. Loathe coconut. Queried, in a secret room behind a secret door that the revelers would never discover, what's in these pink cookies. He said They're cherry, or raspberry.
Well, let me tell you. They were nothing other than dyed-in-the-can coconut and I later told another freelancer that this guy (who, at another gig, I chatted with as I hid behind a potted plant behind him to get some surreptitious party photos) had nearly poisoned me.
One more scenario. Bloated from booze and self-importance, one male lens victim said I'll strike a captain of industry pose. uh huh. So I made him and his mate put down their plates and cocktails and turned to her and said So he's striking a captain of industry pose, what do you want to be. To which Mrs. Him Whomever burst out laughing.
What was sorely missing tonight was the archetypal, booze-breathy question -
So, are you the OFFICIAL photographer.
No Captain, I'm actually a p.i. hired by your mistress to document your other life.
Snark Love.

Called upon by more Middling City culturals to make and do, including WomenStories for whom I'll fabricate another art bra. Yup, you read that oso correctement - ARTBRA.
Last year I grabbed (oops, no pun intended, intentionally... or internationally) images of boobs of three gal pals and let me tell You it was a really beautiful creation. Black & white photos, grommetted together with approximately 150 tiny silver grommets then with the separate bra pieces (nearly 20) lashed together with thin red ribbon. This year? Grain elevator boobs/bra. Who can really freakin' say at this juncture.
True Confession:
Now that I have your attention let me tell You how Kerry reminds me of Abraham Lincoln, the president who drew on a shovel with coal alongside his family fars and embers. No, really, this is the confession...
I own two copies of PJ Harvey's Rid of Me. As far as I know this is the only disc whose initial purchase I replicated. Because I love it so much.
If you love someone, do not set them free.
Go out and replicate them.

Replicant Love.

Thought I was in for a teen gang shakedown mere moments ago, as neighbor pal Andrew wheeled into the backyard with a silent teen girl and another boy. They rushed back as I arrived, I made no great welcome to them and then we spoke. I'm thinking Cheesh, what's this, these kids going to case my recent purchases in the car, going to ask for some money or beer-buying favours in exchange from protection from the band of roving teen thieves who are First Ward-bred.
Nope.
Andrew, who, with his twin would be excellent models for my work however their crack-addled pops keeps that sentiment from becoming realer, had hands that looked like they had recently been dragged from the back of a moving vehicle for a moment or working on a highway teen chain-gang. What the HELL happened to your hands, I queried, being the hand aesthete that I am.
Bikes.
His teen answer. Short, sweet, succinct.
Ah yes, bikes.
Fucking bikes with spokes and things that are all gunky and sharp and such.
Onwards to Sunday meanderings.
Teen Gang Love.

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.