Veritas rockus.
Hearing NYC live last night in the 30s-ish theatre in Crackville at Interpol gig was waking dream.
And for the first time ever in my unshockable rock demeanour, near-lifetime of hanging at gigs, backstage tales beyond belief of rockstar hijinx, fraternizing with boys of all rock genres, I shut my eyes during a show to let every molecule of this one song hit me like light therapy (and, speaking of capturing light, shot a few phonal images of the stage and one of them, I pointed out to Laura, resembled images of the WhiteSnake rock inferno a few years back = computerized lights ablaze like so many foam cushions sparked by pyros) and felt emotion well up. Momentary bon voyage to Perfect unshockable rock demeanour.
Proud to report that fellow Interpol people and I drained all scotch out of the Dome. Laura went to refresh and came back with the bad news so it was onto other items.
Had a hell of a time finding the right crack-addled boulevard and wended through the numbered streets and at one point we were approached by a youngish man with wild eyes holding onto a piece of paper like it was real important. Which way to the border, he queried. Like I knew. But I had a guess U-turn, make a left and look for Rainbrow Bridge signs like a pro. And onwards we drifted. Mid-gig I looked at ticket and fuckinlo, behold there was a clue - address.
After the gig Laura and I learned some fun facts about the practice of crack from a humourist manning the front podium of a sketchy gas station. First he pretended to know no english. Then he informs us he lives in Rocheter. Then he points out the copper scrubbing pads avail in shoppe are in high demand in the neighborhood as they're used for stuffing crack pipes. Then he pulls out some small glass "pens" from behind counter. "Pens"? Um, hell no. Crack pipes.
Poetic, life-enhancing, perfect set and encore from Interpol.

Love's Encore.

Latest brilliant thought in a lifetime of chain of them. Newly-sprung, shawl-toting Martha Stewart has her mag Everyday Food and just thought Fercrissakes I too can have a fine shiney oso informative mag = Everyday Chaos.
v1 n1.
Yours truly, offuckincourse, on cover, looking adorable yet mildly tortured.
This entire concept might be reminiscent of Reader's Digest's famed feature Drama in Real Life - a childhood fav, just another factor that made me so who I am.
There is an uncomfortable silence in an office building's elevator, lights blaringly and screamingly awake-driven as four (YT included) grownups stand around a large handcart packed with new reams of paper. There are two men and two women and the woman who is not YT comments Gee, look at all that newww paper. Inane elevator words. A few more seconds of silence and then I look over at the man not operating or about to resume operating the handcart and say You know, if I had lost my foot in that door I would have seen you again in court. A few seconds of silence. Then good old-fashioned laughter. For what happened? Well, I will tell you what. In a gesture of insane kindness I had thrust my right foot over the new reams of paper on the cart towards the shutting stainless steel doors so Skippy could join us. I did not think he appreciated my selfless, near-body-part-losing geture so I mentioned the litigational possibilites that hung in the air like all those fluorescent molecules making our brains sputter with all their miliseconds of bursts of light wave explosions.

Explosive Love.

After a week(end) of reading about transgressive art, or, in common parlance, what might be deemed !shocking, have come to some interesting and deep conclusion.
Nothing, I repeat nothing, is shocking.
Still battling right now (on phone with a rep) with a clerical error on my mortgage payments and escrow overage.
One envelope + two tickets + one address = massive corporate chaos.
OK, now that's cleared up. Hip hip.
Back to the transgressive.
Thinking about the Chelsea art couple, dealers of all things artful, who said that they thought our MFA class's work is safe, not taking chances, is not messy. Harumph.
Transgressive is cliché right about now.
Thanks for your attention in this matter.
Had coffee yesterday with Laura who suggested wisely a trip of sorts to be inspired to make and do. Think this is a suggestion most sanguine and, as luck might have had it, super discount trips to gai Paris were noted in today's online digiworld.
Paris. Art. Dreams of photographing people walking through beams of sun (oops, first typed sin) at Grand Central.

Love Central.

Listening to classique roque radio where Fat Bottomed Girls via Queen still reigns supreme. So Interpol comes to Toxicville north of the Middling City this pending week and called Laura to see if she'd like to go as this is an Event.
About to embark on a gig capturing the high times and hijinx of the Theodore Roosevelt Inaugural Site's gala hoopla, replete with Mark Russell hamboning the night away and a TR impersonator in attendance. ! Can you shout out photo ops galore.
Thinking - I repeat thinking - of homework. Doing is another thing, another delicate facet yet to be wrangled with. Look, these deep grad student thoughts take time. Looking to dreams for divine art inspiration for the art-directed Parsons School of Desires career and so far I've produced one sorry dream whereby I was excited about going to see Sarah McLaughlan in concert in TO. Why.
Was having a conversation today and was informed that word on the street is the Hillary Clinton Pre-Faint org ladies are pondering suing Yours Truly. Puh-Leez. For fucksakes let's recap: no contract signing over rights, photog always owns rights sans contract, ethics decree I was in right to dispense with them as I wished. The End.
Shiney Happy Mag appeared yesterday with my Pulitzer-ready piece on those t.v. design shows - a triumph. Editrix changed one thing in first paragraph I don't really get but hey, it's HER domain/gig/trip.
Off to work, would love to regale You with more more more but someone has to pay the bills around here.

Here's Love.

Limbo. And I don't mean the archetypal party dance. I would explain but I'd rather not. Had a poem simmering for a long time and today it poured out onto my laptop in a fairly tight formation of ten syllables per line and fourteen lines and 104 words and that's all very important, significant even.
Just had to shoot the gig at Middling City U and amongst the players was one kum-bay-yah singer I know very well and she always turns up at kum-bay-yah moments far and wide.
Re-read the obit of Samuel Beckett, sparked by a Kennergy comment yesterday. Rolled around in a few good SBB quotations about his working process. One, when asked by a producer who Godot was. His answer: If I knew I would have said so.
Onwards to retrieving numerous articles from electronic bowels of hell.

Love is Hell.

Inquired to Middling City news editrix of Yours Truly if cannon balls were on agenda for tomorrow afternoon's photo op as I envision such sailing through the air, passing the trio of flags flapping in the breeze, maybe even still at half-mast for some reason but I argue, as only grad students can, that it should be always at half-state as there's always something to be aggrieving in the world, landing with soft kaflops in the loop in a snowbank alongside the curbs in the loop in suburbs just beyond national chain stores sinking silently into a former wetlands.
Tonight Justy et al in the band sort of named by Yours Truly hits the infamed stage of CBGBs and I am sad to miss it. As in the Shiney Apple just last week it seemed a bit of a stretch to be back mere hours later but it is where I would really dig being later later.
It was a week ago I got the last of the last airbuses out of JFK before the closing of that wi-fi and travel and mag-reading venue.
Today it's freelance org day and later meeting up with Brucey who had to make plans later as he's driving out to an exurb. A rather uncommon exurb but one which houses a Big House. Why there, I queried. After some hezzing it was revealed to meet up with a pal of his who's in the BH for a rather Coen Bros. reason: he told me and I burst out laughing. Brucey did not match my guffawed outburst or cinematic wonderment, wrapped instead in concern for Big Housee.
It's onward to working on freelance matters, thinking deep art and grad thoughts.
Happiest b-day to Ron who always asks that each of his pals do something self-loving rather than walloping him with cards, congrats, cellophane-wrapped treats. And he likes to know what we've all done.
3/3 Ron B-day Plan was this: drive to Starbucks drive-thru, order venti Americano in honour of the man who turned me on to my premier cuppa Starbucks coffee about - wow - 15 years ago.

Historical Love.

Beth Dearest and I are to be prepping Lecture Notes, that's right, fucking Lecture Notes, for our online class.
Raison d'etre anywhere but inside Land of Homework:
#1: It's online, there is no lecture.
#2: We are grad students, not instructors. By preparing Lecture Notes we are lightening his edificiary role in the name of pedagogical lessoning.
#3: I really have other things to do.
Like procrastinate.
I rest my case.
Kennedy handed me a snippet of Middling City News - letters page - from the 23rd when Yours Truly was on the right side of the state. When, in a rush of pique and defensiveness and such, two letter writers had their thoughts about Gripping the Podium Hillary and Yours Truly aired. One is pro, other con for a fair and balanced (just like Fox) purview. Said to Kennedy I should thank them as it keeps it all alive. But the anti HC Grip shot letter states wrongly that the org that asked me to pro bono owns the rights which is not the case. She meanders along in her letter stating what her club does. The pro letter sidles along my view that of course the public has a right to know and that includes seeing.
Soon my Globe cover shot will be available on cafepress.com and I know that each and every epinw reader will want, must have, will lust.
My former product line - CLeft Design models - are still up and can be found on the site and then via a search for cLeft Design.
If You simply type the word cleft I believe You will still yield beneficiary t's and such for an org that benefits those with dreaded cleft palate.
Onwards to homework.
Onwards to further pitstops, pratfalls, petulance.

Petulant Loves.

Quelle hazing ritual moderne.
Have freelance hackish writers regale screening committee with super details of none other than Empire State Building, post-marathon waiting, cattle prodding, souvenir lashes. All this to be 350 words for a company, Charlie'sAngels-like like the Digital City gig of infamy, that creates cell phone tours for wanderers who pay to have scripted Look Here's and Do This's beamed into their ears.
The first hour is spent in a DMV-like basement, painted French's Mustard Yellow, screaming colour, lined up and as a corner is rounded one might realize that for twix the prix one might circumnavigate this experience and head right on up to floor 2 if one pretends one is interested in seeing a movie about floating over the skyline or some such dirigible thing. Couldn't find the movie/observation deck ticket booth and then with the help of a nice young man I fina-fuckin-ly did. At the window I said Movie ticket please. Then I asked So this is for observationalizing deck, too, right. She said No. She called for her manager who came over and, when she heard the scenario, narrowed her eyes at me and said this ultra-friendly thing: You SAID you wanted the movie ticket ONLY, I was standing right there (gesturing), I HEARD you. (note to self: be afraid of workers who work in landmarks for they are manhandling 35K visitors a day and do not have fucking time for aberrations of any type. period) I start sobbing. No, I am kidding. I said Well I want both. After much huffing, puffing, glares of hatred I had my two tickets and completely took a right towards the observation elevator to 80 then to 86 for the sights. On line in the basement, pre-hate, I met a photog who was cluelessly heading up up and away to, she thought, get some fab shots of Christo's Curtains. I made some internal photog calculations of my own and deduced that this woman not only should not be called a photog of any sort but did not understand angles, the curve of the earth, etc. I suggested she might get into a high room of The Pierre, a swishy hotel on 5thAve I've crashed in before as it's on the southern tip of the park. She looked baffled and atop the landmark/hazing focus/ESB I could see but five tiny orange blips on the horizon = The Curtains! A snippet of. I am glad I did not bump into Esmerelda up there for my look of derision would have been undisguisable.
Began the plan, the trip, this literary foray by sitting in a middle seat, not my usual window/hublot and was in a snit until I began speaking to Rose, the newly-retired former Viet Nam nurse who lives in Cali. I asked her about nursely and otherly things about VN. We discussed our vitriol pertaining to the U.S. president.
About to meet Justy for our traditional night of binge revelry and he's got a head start. Gadzooks.
Tomorrow's agenda: collect self, see The Curtains, see some art, write about the Empire State Building and all its attendant charms. Wow, including the wall of art glass depicting the Eight Wonders of the World which include, bien sur, ESB as well as Hanging Gardens of Babylon, Rhodes's Giant and oso much more.
In the Shiney Apple I learn learn learn.

Learning Love.

To be filed under Holy Crap What Great Timing.
Arrived at Middling City U mere moments ago to shoot students getting special special special $20 tix to see (wretch) Rent. There was to be a Frenzy. I arrived at the designated time, 6PM,to discover a box office type (B.O.T.) announcing to a mild throng that all student tix were sold out. Most people would have spun on any ol' heel and left. But oh no, this is not journalism, turning on heels. I walked up to front of line and basically accosted two undergrads, insistent upon them being all happy and at the ticket window and then showing me their happy tix. And, as luck would have it in this Perfect world, they had purchased the last two tix for students E-Ver. Like, that is so lucky. I wanted them to be a bit more expressive, to be kicking up their heels like those of Yours Truly that were not spun upon but they had been waiting in line since three hours ago and were heading somewhere before the 8PM curtain. Frankly, I don't get it. Cornball songs about pretend life in NYC. All issued with issues and once I was somewhere and was horrified at several people singing along to the Rent soundtrack, one song more bombastic than the next.
File Me under Really Does Not Buy the Whole B'Way Frenzy Thing.

Love Thing.

What a diff a year makes.


Hung with Allen yesterday in studio and met Ian, vocalist for Deep Purple (SMOKE ON THE WAHH-UHH-TERR, FIE-ERR IN THE SKAHHHH), who was about to jet off with our pal Michael Jackson, Esq. (not perved, gloved one) to Russia, land of cabbage soup, fur hats, giant onion domes.
Then met a famed producer. All were hung over and had engaged in collegiate soda can bowling the night before. Perfectly, I was not, had not.
Ironically just delved into an article about the photojournalism racket and the likes of late Susan Sontag by a pal, Steve Wolgast, who works at NYT. Just used snippet of that and other choice thoughts to dispel the online queasiness a few classmates have experienced from being subjected to the work of Joel-Peter Witkin. Puh-leez, this is fucking art school. Where are the open minds, where is the think tank/stand around the cooler vibe, more scholarship money, the studio spaces, and more open minded behaviour.
And got a sweet call from Dorota moments ago and heard from Marky Norris and a few others about what happened one year ago. Good and bad, sweet and sour. And poor Beth Dearest witnessed it all.
Will be in the Shiney Apple mid-week to write a script for a poss gig and to eat good food and walk good walks and head to Film Forum and see select ones and think Shiney Apple Thoughts.

Thoughtful, Retrospective, Happier Love.

Sideline of Yours Truly. Putting together girls and attendants on their nupday. That would be yet another Perfect word to add to the epinw lexicon - nupday, n., wedding day. Dig.
So I'm tying sashes, sashaying from room to room solving minor crises like double-sided-taping Mom into her dress, clasping on necklaces, pinning on flowers, etc. when I do note at some point two jewelry boxes, white, somewhere. Remember this fact.
Depart and go to find the boys, who I don't usually have to help construct, at church demarcated as the place, the venue for The Magic, the Transfiguration. Boys are not in the room where boys hang when they're about to be transmogrified and I ask the woman whatever she is - deacon/beacon/harbinger/priest/priestess - Where. Oh, to find the rings, she says. They are missing and they have scattered to look at the apartment where I was just helping with gusseying and at boutique hotel. The rings, platinum, were stolen out of the groom's bag at the boutique hotel and this was a first in all these couple of decades of shooting nupdays. They had a radio-advertising jeweler drive frenetically to deliver some stand-ins in 20 minutes.
Will be pleased to report to Jon that his creation atop my head was met with rave reviews, as in reviews or revues that happen at all-night dance parties.
At the wedding there was much discussion of the Gripping the Podium shot and the groom had me recreate the shot with him standing in for Hill, a surprise for his nouvelle bride.
Perfect Enthusiasm, so beloved.

Beloved Love.

Apparently one of Hillary Clinton's Middling City interns quit her gig due to my "gripping the podium" image of the senator. One Laura of longness and leanness, who was once a friendly to Yours Truly, was calling for my head, wanted to sue the Buffalo News. I mean really. So Nicole, the aforementioned indentured servant/intern, quit, screaming of the first amendment all the way down the stairs. I sent her a jpeg of her, the other MC interns and Hill last night and today she sent me this small tale. She advises me to Let it all in one ear and out the other. Like so right on, Nicole.
Off to speak to suburban teens about the highlights, lowlights, shenanigans and pratfalls of being a journalist and artist.
Think I'll skip the part about grad school.
As Beth Dearest pointed out last night I do have a new skill - a more keen x-acto blade to slice through the requisite/hazinglike readings's flotsams, jetsoms to get to the juicey bits, to analyze them in a compelling manner and not in a wind-baggy one such as one X (one duplicitous prof) who tirelessly traipses on and on and on with the facts, wringing every ref, every possible allusion past and present - theoretical and novelistic - to a satsfying ending.
On that note I end, gather up my important docs and such scattered about the home of Kenergy and forge on to the suburbs, edification and elucidation on each shoulder.

Shouldering Love.

As is my wont, my annual quest to know, just simply know, who in hell Saint Valentine is, I did a little research for Your edification and can add some new Fun Facts to the puzzle that is Valentine on this puzzling holiday.
If you want to "see your future mate (tonight) in your dreams" go running now to your spice rack as, according to lore, pinning bay leaves to your pillow today will yield such results. The scent of bay leaves, according to aromatherapy, is said to have calming effects so if one is calm in dreaming and sees one's mate and it's not the one expected then perhaps this scented leaf on pillow helps.
Also.
As we know from past Valentine-related posts on epinw, Valentine the Man is a hodge-podge, a collage of perhaps a triad of men - all martyrs, all perhaps beheaded and here I propose that's where the expression to lose one's head in love comes from.
Also.
Valentine's Day, a patron saint day, is really honouring the Feast of Lupercalia, pagan love fest full of wine and more wine and champagne and fancy schmancy dinners and little nosegays and smooching and a chocolate truffle or two.
So, let us forget the gruesome end of the Valentines and stick to the pagan focus.
Happy Lupercal, kisses.
Everyone is loved and love is in the air, always, like wi-fi molecules, like air itself, like vibes of life.

Air Full of Love.

Helpful advice and note to Self:
when cutting atomic red chilis do not forget to wear gloves or you will for rest of evening feel a burning yearning earning deep inside them, as that bitch Diana Ross once sang.
So my Red Dinner happened and the food, clothes, desserts, beverages were all that. Happy to report that nothing spontaneously combusted, there are but a smattering of leftovers, nothing was broken and there were no punchouts. Just smiley heart-shaped high times with a crush of available favoured ones.
Turned many on to kir royales, what I lovingly refer to as the French version of a shot and a beer = a splash of cassis and a whole lot of champagne. Suddenly I realized that Brucey was addicting to them.
It is now with a procrastinating heart and heavy hands that signing off is imminent in order for me to turn all of my wavering attentions to readings, homework, deep grad student thought and posting. Exactly in that order.
Happy Eve of the Saint Day, the Saint who nobody really remembers, a possible amalgamation of several.

Eve Love.

Modernism's fascination with marginality.
Now you know you're in deep (mmm, just mis-typed deep as depp, You read between the subconscious lines) to the whole grad school miasmic mix of words when you read such a phrase and keep a straight and jargon-enhanced face.
Listen. Listen but good.
Run and do not walk to your grocery store or pharmacy or, if You are lucky and in the Shiney Apple, a freakin' true newstand, and pick up The Globe to see the next printish incarnation of Pre-Faint Hill, in a state of Gripping the Podium.
All aflutter with wonder if they've attached my image with a tale most sordid, I have my own conspiracy theory I cannot put on the web as I'm sure They will make my life more complicated.
Off to go practice out some more graduistic phrases aloud, maybe with some politico hand gestures to stun and such.

Such Love.

Much to my complete and utter astonish-freakin-ment the would-be musicians at the Church of the Evangelical Mindfuck next door are becoming - sit down - competent. Sundays can still mean a moaning vocalist and a drummer that needs some solid trepanning but some other nights competence sings through the church's cinder blocks.
Completely and utterly minding my own business, de rigeur in this Perfect landscape painting, I went to Jon's Joint, Salon for the Changes of Hair this week. Always an educational experience (allright, here I really must interject that Tolerance Hour is like so over and now my thoughts are going to lead me to anger management sessions and/or community service as an aftermath so on go the noise-reducing headphones), there I met a bona fide Middling City SWAT Team (do not confuse with Target Team, though their names are oso confusingly sim) Member, a man who I made tell me every tiny detail of using his battering ram. How much does it weigh? How long? Filled with? Two handles? One person device? etc. Answers: 80 lbs., 5 feet, concrete, yes, yes.
Enjoyed his stories of using said device. And then had to regale him with one of this lifetime's highlights, the FBI shooting range and such Perfect accuracy that the FBI men asked if Yours Truly had ever ever considered a career with the org. So the battering ram man is out of commission as his neck is all battering rammed.
Jon made my hair very different, very different indeed. Some say it's beautiful, some say it is shocking. Anyhoo, it is complex and I did say as he was painting my head You know, Jon, I do have a few more conservative clients. I think he heard You know, Jon, I do have a real love for the colour red, paint away.
Yesterday I encountered a shopping cart engineer whilst exiting a store. A tall gangly, glasses-wearing man with a beard and glasses, wearing a hat. From his colouring I could tell he is a natural redhead and he spotted me, whipped off his hat and said Some people are wanna-be's - I'm the real thing. I surprised him by asking What do you think, too radical. He thought not. I've been polling strangers who express an interest in my head. It is not only heart-warming, I think, but interesting to boot and I suddenly realize as Beth Dearest reads this she is, undoubtedly, slowly shaking her head and now I think how JW,Esq. is doing quite the opposite, a more vertical movement.
It's now time for me to sing along with Nico before I make my way out the door once mo.

Mo Love.

Very ensconced in music and libraries and now shouting !basta! to the bridged-over heavens of Pittsburgh, Reese, who I met and instantly bonded with over my gift to him of a1917 class tie from Cornell duringst my famed Estate Sale as I moved from my rented Victorian to my short stint as Ghetto Ghirl (and he had a busted jaw, wired tight), is heading to NZ. New Zealand to you non-vino heads. Joined his newsgroup and the correspondences I expect to roll in shortly, probably tapering off as it so often happens once one is ensconced then there. Drove like mad to various Middling City emporiums and ginmills to insert my Perfect initials onto football pools far and wide and will be waiting waiting to hear the glad tidings. Pools are all random so in choosing willingly I did so based on my fav colour - green. That equals that one team. From PA, which brings Me back to musings on Reese, broke free from PA for NZ. Class is like so underway and got the post posted and realized once I cut through the various hazes and such and flowerations that the readings were actually not so bad. But please, do not quote me on that. Or else. The song that one of my favoured humans was married to in Vegas is now playing on my iTunes and forever this song will make me think of that scenario, a chapel in Vegas, the non-screech of a needle dragged across vinyl, for shame, the onion-rich breath of a preacher, the click of a few bursted frames of film by the resident photographer, the ghost of journalistic me working on my story a few years ago, witnessing several marriages, still emotional despite the plastic, the dust, the absentia, the desert calling beyond the Strip, but a click and whirr and purr of the voice of Kristin Hersh singing Beestung and You know who You are there is no need to name. To flame. To shame. To lame. To aim.
Godammit, words are so fucking fun and satisfying.

Satisfying, fun, fucking Love.

Merrily stealing wi-fi molecules from the stratoscopic atmosphere about the home of Kennergy (Theory: emanating from across the street, a far and sad cry from the immediate wi-fi steal in Soho - missed in general like a lover gone untrustworthily bad) and having a vrai Cinderella moment as I am not at the Red Ball (You, do not confuse this with my savoury Red Dinner not yet happened) as the guest of the Shiney Happy Mag but am in grad student throes. Rather than in the strapless, complicated Nicole Miller dress I am in gradstudentwear suitable for studies, imbibing, procrastination, nimble walks amongst Nature. On that note we Parsons School of Détente enthusiasts are reading about what I am going to heretofore refer to only as The Sublime. You know - beauty, aesthetics. Usual hackneyed to smither kingdom come words. Last night watched neo-gypsy music at the Dungeon/SoundLab (The Feathers, from MA) and it was surprisingly not delving down into the Frost Zone in the joint. Saw Bandmate Scott there and I chastised him for falling down on the job of calling me nightly to remind Perfect Me to eat din-din and then we discussed not only our pending stagewear but our practice schedule.
This is a joke, a little epinw humour.
And I am afeared You do not recognize this as such as I feel our band totally rocks and does not need practice. I have designed the logo, the merch. We know what we're wearing on stage, our m.o. is in place. No matter that we have not practiced once. Rock & roll is so not about practice, it is attitude and forthright confidence. And good merch. So the neo-gypsies treacled away and you could definitely tell the wealthy/parent-fund-injected neo-gypsies from the typical struggling and leaving-wardrobe-to-chance neo-gypsies.

Neo-Love.

Minding my own business met up with girlies Liz and Cheryl at Hardware, Goldman's joint. There saw, firstly, the girlies and Mark and Kittie - ringside. Kittie was one of those at The Fainting of Hillary and we recapped. I'm shooting their daughter's wedding and said that I'm coining a new phrase "gripping the podium," sort of like driving the porcelain bus. You don't want to be seen doing either, if you catch my Perfect drift.
So, again minding my own business, Mark says (and he's the boss, the proprietor, the founder if you will) he wishes to buy me a cocktail and ever-obliging Scott the Bartender meanders over to listen to my wish/plan/order. I warble out Chardonnay, puh-leez. To that he says What . . . no scotch. Coming to my senses I said Of course. He says I have something new - Dewar's Green. I say What the hell. He then pours me a tumbler full of it in front of Mr. Goldman. Thanks for the $28 glassa scotcha, Mr. Goldman, I think to myself and join the girls.
Moments later Mark, Amy and Jeff saunter in from a dinner at Sinatra's. Amy is carrying a Kangol purse and to that I say Amy, when you die can I have that. She says she's buying me one and what colour. I marvel at her generosity then.
Back at Home Office Hovel and it's time to brainstorm as to how I'm going to squeeze many hours of grad school reading amongst a day of freelance gigs and the like and other social engagements. Who really has the time for this grad school thing, I wonder.

Wonderment of Love.

Saw The Death Grip Hillary image on Inside Edition and to ratchet up the drama they referred to it as "this scarey picture." This gets my grad student brain to thinking of what a picture v. image is and is that Beth Dearest I hear groaning in the background over there in the corner. Note to self: school's in session so get out the highlighter and start reading fercrissakes. Got a call from Thee Elliott Caplan today and will have to inform him that, according to JR, there is no Mechanism in place for EC to be my informal, Middling City advisor of sorts. We can still meet and discuss drawings and the like but to no grand offical end.
It should be noted here that I am listening at this moment, to construct a picture/a pixel-based image in Your mind of Me, to a 70s comp of Soul Train classics and am digging ever second of the grooving, falling backwards into a first-run beanbag chair that hasn't yet lost its tiny white internal beads of toxic plastique, when the Middling City still had its dramatic smoke-filled industry choking up the waterfront to the south, hope, post-60s style and tri-coloured bicentennial public offerings like garage doors, lampposts, bunting and Neil Diamond was still considered hip (although in My mind he still remains so). Next note to self: suggest to Marky Norris that he cover our fav ND song - Cherry Cherry.
Declined an on-cam interview last night for MC NBC affiliate, after requesting my pal Marc to do the shooting. Consulted with two wizened souls who helped me confirm my gut sensation that this was so not necessary. They wanted an eye-witness account of Hillary's faint and to that I said There were 120 others in the room, get one of them. They wanted to talk about the drama of surge of interest in The Scarey Picture and to that I said Nope. Which calls to mind when MTV showed up here and interviewed me and followed me about for a night, even mid-shoot, for the Goo Goo Dolls Behind the Music gig which ended up in a later edit of the show but not in its final, eliminated and not command z'd back in. But that moment did yield onscreen images made by Yours Truly and a little wrangle with ViaCom's Rights and Clearances team. Read between lines if you will.

Love's Lines.