Gee, that was fun.
According to my meager and somewhat impressionistic calculations I think it just took me nearly two hours to book my tix for jetting to and fro this fine summer to get my Perfect self to school. Sort of like taking the cheese bus but a whole lot more expensive than school taxes, nobody is yelling their stinkin' head off in the aisle (well, okay sometimes the wailing of infants - cringe - happens upon lift-off and lift-down), and in lieu of a crotchety bus driver there is a whole ensemble of perky staffers, armed with strong arms to lift baggage snacks and drink items. And, mid-June, I'm officially over 100 super-sonic-bonus points and can traverse off to a swell spot of my choosing and at this moment I just might head to the furthest destination sight unseen but I've probably been there and it's probably LA or SF. Tokyo would be nice, been craving the fruity dry air scent of that island, the food that surprises you, the wack juxtapositions of things, the flora. JetBlue doesn't fly left of Cali.
Shot a wedding today and informed the couple that when the photog gets misty at a wedding it is good luck. And that quippitude is bound to end up on the special epinw calendar, chock full of wizened words, helpful hints and good old-fashioned snark. It has to be good luck if the core of the day, oh, you know, the sentiment of these two people, creeps down their bodies, across the floor, up your leg and into your brain, rendering things slightly swirly for a few moments. I mean, really, I've seen it all. All. Seen. All. And that's just the backstage antics at rock gigs. Then the weddings. All. The only snag du jour was the seemingly benign priest cornering me after all was said, done and official to tell me that basically I'd thrown his whole gig off course as I had gotten too close to a moment onstage. I feel bad for individuals at times like those, having to divert anger and negativity towards someone who they deem their easiest mark. In lieu of Uhh, excuse me Father Malarkey, don't you have something better to do like administer to the bereft instead of invading my time with your fear of losing one centimeter of control over your regimented scene (and keep your hands off the kids), it was Well, it was important to the bride and groom to get a shot of that and I was quite quick about it.
Then drove to a nearby exurb (you know the one, where everyone is wearing a blank smile, walks at half-speed and is wearing sensible shoes) to purchase, on behalf of Yours Truly and Cheryl and Liz, a gift for the pending baby of Jen and Jamal. I decided to call Jen from the sto - JEN, I shouted, I'm in a gift store, did it come out yet. Do you know what it is. So I have to buy yellows and greens. It is imminent. Jen sweet Jen is about to be a mom and I forgot to ask if Jamal still has the scruffity beard he had in the winter as I think his new child should see him at his best and that beard is not included. Jen suggested instead of posting the gifts that I hand deliver them. I considered. Drive to Boston. New baby. School beginning any second. Maybe pile.

Maybe love.

This is a stilled moment from a brainy concept I had that never really got past the "TheArtistIsFuckingAboutWithAConceptThatMayNeitherSeeTheLightOfDayNorOtherSubjets - NorEspeciallyBreathlessAndEnthusedStrangersInGallery" stage. Let us just say that its title could be Sing Into My Hairbrush.
Models were lined up. Concept was so light-tight. Well, crap, I'd best not give it all away lest I'm trolling for said concepts later this art-making cycle.
Have been having odd dreams where I'm being visited or am visiting with a parade of people who I know who have drifted away. Last night I saw Chaz and we hung out for a while and it was like the heady and adrenalized and blatanly strange old days.
So where did Laura's jpeg escape to, the one of the man in Central Park lurking behind me and my digvid camera. Buzznet (below on a past epinw post), so not working with me at this moment.
Oh, note to self:
Remember that on warm days driving around with too many layers, not opening up window for fresh air, and not turning AC on high enough results in snappiness with unwitting photo subject who is not only awkwardly self-conscious but just trying to break the ol' photo ice. Then all improved, went swimmingly, &c.

Swimming in Love.

Mere moments ago Yours Truly was trying to Perfect her mind even further by listening to a scientific radio program about the space program. Now, all due respect to my colleagues and full range of pals who dig the big S as in science and all the engineers and rocket boosters. However. After giving it about a good twenty minute college try I was like so done with it. Onwards to Daft Punk I say.
Having what I love to call a ping-pong day - suburbs, city, suburbs, beach in suburbs (for a photo shoot fercrissakes, really), city, suburbs and - finally - city for some vino with Liz.
Back to Middling City U deadlines fast and deep.

Deep deeper love.

Late morning, today, outside the big box store, you know, the one that chokes you with the aroma of popcorn when you enter and where in HELL are their greeters of yore, or is that another box store, a man gave me a choice. Are you running a cat clinic or are you a crazy cat lady, I bet you're not a crazy cat lady. Oh, I said, I am the crazy cat lady of my neighborhood, I feed all the cats. Then I went on to tell him how Extra is the original cat, how he's had shots, is neutered, and the rest are all transients, as the man smiled said an odd Thanks and turned quickly towards his car, stating weakly that he, too, was some sort of cat lady.
Just weeded and dropped some perennial seeds in a flurry as it's time to hit the road again and the sun is for seedlings, not for Yours Truly.

Seeds of Love.

About to embark out to Middling City U to shoot the difficult donor wall, a respendent and very reflective surfaced creation that necessitates Yours Truly shooting from behind dark fabric.
Saw several noise bands last evening with Kennedy at Matt Kantar's joint, Kitchen Distribution, a warehouse at the terminus of Auburn just a quarter's toss from the toll booths where now an additional quarter is charged to bring the toll for the ol' Niagara Extension up to 75¢. Scott's band - Caustic Solution (another clever as hell band name) played first and were truly the best, followed by noisemakers from Rochester and some from points beyond. The bricks quite possibly are still reverberating, I'm sure the foundation is a little weaker for the sonic wear and tear.
Yesterday, driving away from photo lab spotted a young girl with snow shovel, already this season an odd sight but she was shovelling out her home's front hallway. Glancing towards the open door I could see another person with another shovel. Happy to report I've never had to shovel out my hallway.
Came up with, in a dream yesterday, the way to show my digvid work this summer at the thesis show. A self- contained enviro of semi-darkness.
Off to donor wall shooting.

Shoot Love.

As we say in the biz, Gee Willikers, whomever happened to be epinw reader numero 20000 please speak up as I'm sure there's a prize around here somewhere for you. And a friendly reminder that Yours Truly never put a counter on epinw until well into the second year so really the count and amount (a wry ref to Dialing for Dollars - a slice of Middling City television arcania) would be higher.
Second off the amazing and stellar and tear-wrangling news is that Neil Diamond, epicenter of the universe, is working with Rick "pleez breath relevance into my career bro" Rubin. And RR knows, understands the austere beauty of Neil's early work.
A quote from today's NYT article:

In fact, the two men have much in common. Both are transplanted New Yorkers, dropouts from New York University. Both have played with the ethnic and racial makeup of American music, Mr. Diamond as the star of the 1980 "Jazz Singer" remake, Mr. Rubin as producer of the Beastie Boys. Mr. Diamond grew up wanting to be a doctor; Mr. Rubin, a lawyer. When they eventually met in 2003, in Mr. Rubin's house in the Hollywood Hills, Mr. Diamond was impressed by the living room. "It's only got a Steinway piano and a huge Buddha that goes up to the ceiling and out about half the wall," he said. "And a rug in the middle of the floor, and that's it. I've been thorough a few of these, uh, transcendental situations before, and I understood where he's coming from, what can I say?"

Neil, a transcendentalist.

Allright, let us all collectively forget the surreal memory of Neil in blackface in Jazz Singer but otherwise it is a fine article. Rubin, a wise wise man.

So, being a Diamond Girl and all, I do know that Neil is coming to the Middling City late August and I really must get some tix soon as assuredly it'll be packed. Part(y)ing thought: Cherry Cherry. Only one of the world's most perfect songs.

Cherry Cherry Love.

Special combo blogpost - begun Thursday, finished Friday.

Finally, I found a cop. In Canada, the fair land to the north of the Middling City, that's an OPP officer. And there he was, in a well-equipped ride (probably inside and out like that of the Niagara Co's Coroner), idling outside - of all freakin' things - a donut shop. In Canada, the fair land to the north, that is donut shoppe.
I was lost. And, if You truly and perfectly know Me, You know that this could be an eventuality when faced with an unknown highway. And Canada wasn't helping, having created a highway system so faceless and so intertwined with the same and recurrent artifacts to make the NYS thruway look like a charming two-lane country road.
So I was on the 407 ETR (that's Electronic Toll Road to the newbies) heading back to the Middling City for a gig and a vino engagement and was heading west/ouest. For miles and smiles and miles until I thought that the next roadway should have been making itself known and, sans helpful distance markers or signage, it was all one stinkin' guess. So west/ouest then thoughts of No, it's east/est. Then more miles/kilometres. Then the cop.
So I pull up snugly next to his car and am waving around my MapQuested print-out like I was contemplating tossing it into his vehicle. He snatched the paper out of my hand with a smile and draws me directions. One straight line. One line and the number 407 underneath. You'll be on the 407 in one minute, straight ahead. Then stay on it for 45 minutes.
45 minutes mine arse, I had a gig to get to and vino afterwards to engage in. So with the keeping up with the Canadian drivers at high speeds it was more like half that. Then onwards to photograph over-the-top and tipsified law students glowingly celebrating the demise of their educations and such. Read: commencement.
Shot one of the season's final commencement this afternoon. No senator. No repeated speech. No beach balls flying overhead for this was the dignified pomp and circumstantial and velvet cap-wearing of med students.
Best quote: medicine is art and science.
Art: science and zen. No medicine.
Well, the recreational sorts.

Sorted Love.

So, here's a visual treat for Your perusal, a fine image from Middling City U, parked outside the commencement ceremonies. Why, I ask, was the coroner on site.
Why does the coroner drive such a bitchin' ride.
Why, look at how squat Yours Truly appears in the hi-gloss surface.

Surface of Love.

To be filed today under O for Oh, No! Not That Anecdotal Story... Again.
Today's gig, Middling City U's general commencement ceremony (read: multiple hours, multiple grads, multiple mortarboards), included a special message from NYS senator Chuck Shumer. Or is that Schumer. You look it up. Anyhoo. Moving along into the proceedings I tell one of my boy colleagues, Derek, You know, I bet he'll be telling the same anecdotal story I've heard three times to date. He needs a remindful booster shot. You know, I begin, the story about the scholarship. The trip around the world. The dusting yourself off. The not getting the girl. His face lights up. YES! I think I HAVE heard that story. I said Well if you've been on the commencement tour you sure as hell have. So the senator begins. I turn to Derek You see, the same story. He still didn't get the girl. One wizened audience member shouted out Take the scholarship, nearly derailing his narrative choo-choo.
Saw Elliott there, in cap and ballgown, looking quite beleagured under the ceremonial garb. I heard someone calling my name and there was his cinematic face.
It should be noted here that as the platform party made their way past Yours Truly many of them greeted me as if I were master of ceremonious hoopla or some such thing. Why, even the senator of repetitive anecdote shook my hand after quickly deciding, I could see, not to give YT a kiss on the cheek. His handshake had my very important hand, the one responsible for lifestyle, &c, nearly shaking. A grip to be sure.
Here I must end.
The online course is done and if I was sure that You would read my brilliance I would post it below. But You would only not read the whole fucking thing, you would not glow at me about it. And I do so deserve it for creating a new branch of aesthetics. Voilà thesis.
Onwards I must float.
JW,Esq it's your turn for correspondence and I do hope this publique shaming hastens such. Or perhaps your head is far too emburdened with things litigational, corporation takeoverish, or rockish.

I rest my case, my adrenalized self-employed and over-achieving case.

Cases of Love.

So, there I was. Minding my own business.
A postcard came to my newspaper office from Parsons School of Design, a Manhattan school. Suddenly I was applying to said institution. And then I was accepted, a call from Jim Ramer told me so and the night was Mardi Gras and I had been out shooting for hours. Glee. Panic.
Now, years later, about two, I find myself writing another research paper for an online course with a photographer instructor named Brian Moss who lives somewhere near Los Angeles. He's upbeat, savvy, very nurturing in his comments. As is JR, my art mentor and leader of the small and efficient Team Ramer.
I am tossing words about in this nearly-ultimate research paper like nobody's business, pulling out all the grad student stops, if you will.
Why, topology is even used. And scads of others that perhaps a few years ago would never have flown out of me. At that time I was still (sort of) living with a pro academic who was landslided into words and theory and I, throughout those ten or so years, tossed myself into the Real - the real world's images, the real world's happenings and descriptions of those. So now I am balanced between academia and realia which is, in my truly humble grad student opinion, the way to go.
Speaking of go, off I go to finish this burdensome task to proceed along to a small mountain of freelance deadlines and assignments and hell, where's the fun.

Hellacious Love.

Phones are all off. As are the bets.
Can Yours Truly finish the Pulitzer-worthy research paper of 3K tonight, or by tomorrow at 5PM. That is the question. Writing about Sam Taylor-Wood, Gary Hill, Bill Viola. And me. Aesthetics of Stillness.
So, comedic interlude during tonight's commencement gig was when PhD's were becoming such and as they were being conferred their thesis title was announced. One, Fiona Apple-worthy one had approximately thirty words in its title. Me and an usher glanced at one another in faux understanding of what this biomedical person had achieved behind such a hefty title.
My thesis has three words. Six syllables.
Scott is aiding me in the quest to locate the email address of cello boy, to tell him to tell his bandmate that he owes me $51 due to an international credit card fraud scare, or shitheel international practices of zappos.com - or both. Zappos, lest you wonder, is thee place to buy shoes online. They have the best, the obscure, the pedestrian. And one of the tentet ordered, with assistance from YT, some fine Chuck Taylors for his kid.
A rearch paper is afoot. I am ablaze with ideas.
I am off, as Brucey says, like a turd of hurdles.
At times like these the tough just get coffee chugging.
Or something to that chestnut effect.

Love's Hurdle.

Several days later, braincells misplaced and mis-spent evenings later, the band has split the Middling City. I have the paper topic: The Aesthetics of Stillness.
Was procrastinating productively when it wavered at me in a moment of clarity. Will be writing about the video work of Yours Truly, Sam Taylor Wood, Bill Viola and whomever else fits the goddamned bill.
Besides the gigs the most memorable moment of band stay was taking Peter Brøtzmann and Kennedy to the grain elevators. First the favoured street, Ganson, alongside tracks, Great Northern, several other elevators, mounds of sand, an inlet. Then the foot of Hamburg Street for The View. Then to foot of Smith Street to the odd park, across train bridge then to Concrete Central where we saw, amongst other things, a pack of splatball enthusiasts, a few galloping deer, some birds, some wreckage, some skulls. Picked up a deer skull for the collection. Which leads me to thoughts of the frozen sheep head in my freezer. Probably high time to liberate it. As I did with the pig heart. I can hear the voice of Baumann telling me that plastic outgases, imagine the plastic wrapping the head has maxed-out on outgasing and all the condiments and film in the frigerator are just biohazardic.
Weeks until school. Am I ready. A question, a statement. A ploy, a plan.
Have a place to live and will have to adjust to its new offerings of early morning coffee, hopefully French as in SoHo, its wi-fi molecular structures, its proximity to Parsons School of Degree of Difficulty.
Speaking of such, time to continue on this catching up of days.

Caught Love.

Here is my art statement story, and I'm sticking to it:

My digital video work is an exploration of narrative and non-narrative possibilities, of images made that are near-still creating a poetic rhythm of anticipation. Thematically and literally the work focuses on the organic, or green, presences around us in sometimes fabricated circumstances, merging them architecturally, metaphorically or texturally with non-organic forms. I am also inspired by the element of chance in everyday living, the visual stimulation surrounding us all.

Fired that off to JR yesterday, for the thesis show in the Shiney Apple in August. About to foray into my netherworld, the place where art goes from idea to acquisition then onwards to something edited and more tangible and finished. Off for looking, shooting, trignometric study of the landscape nearby.

Tentet last night magical, them in three formations each set. Arrived to discover a rapt and huge audience hung onto notes as if at a poetry happening. It was perfect. Tonight are all ten at once, and ten times the decibels. Peter Brøtzmann gave me and Kennedy cd's and a card game he invented - Images - whereby a deck of cards with appropriated and created images are shuffled and used to create actions. A list of directives help keep it flowing and these are halftimes for musical gestures. He is truly an amazing man, and he has an exhibition of his work in November.

Create, time to create. The flowers yell color and the wind is low and the odd surrounds are beckoning to me Use us, use us.

Used Love.

Been carting about jazz musicians for Kennedy's dual Hallwalls meets Middling City Hysterical Society gigs tonight and tomorrow. Guys from all over merging for some free jazz love.
Gigs actually - shockingly! - received great press today in Middling City News and the music critic Jeff Simon actually praised the collaborative efforts (thanks to Yours Truly's usual planning prowess) of both institutions for coming together for what will prove to be some historical musical moments.
Scanning as We speak, images from yesterday's dedication of a long project recreating in bronze some frieze work made by one way-past MC artist, Chaz Rumsey.
The scanner was not at all cooperating and after much wrenching of face, cords, search for installation software did the ol' restart. To fab results.
Just completed Beth Dearest's artist statement for our pending thesis show and it's high time to pen mine own. Memory. Duration. Time. Keywords.
Time for deadline turbo-powered burning, editing, delivering. Then perhaps more more more caffeinated beverage.
Things are falling into place for summer Shiney Apple dwell. JR says it's all about me, all about the art. What could be better. Now to create time to create.

Creative Love.

This AM phoned Dragon Boy to wish him one fine Cinquo de B-Day and we spoke for the first time in mos. and mos. - and loffed and loffed. But we are still in the NoGoZone and that is the way it is. He is 34. He is Solvent. To that I said Ummmm, yes, you told me that already and congrats for that. We then discussed our respective hangovers as that's the way of it, of us, was of us.
And to dangle what the story was:
(from The Tell by YT)
I imagine, beyond imagining, I know it as well as I know the spaces of what I lose on a night of binging like a conventioneer as he does in cycles, that he ruminates on where our steadiness faltered, how the dysfunction worked, and what I never told.

And to that a good night, a good 5/5.

5/5 Love.

Special Memo to All Musicians, Bands and the Like:
If Yours Truly requests a special tune, namely WipeOut, a drummer's paradise so to speak, and your respective band/combo/whatevertet features a drummer of merit then please comply. To not honour such request not only displeases me but spreads minor bad karma as this is one of the world's premier party songs and drummers, the underloved band member, need to let off a little showcasing steam.
Thanks for your attention in this matter.

Onwards to the business of dreams. Next item on agenda for this blogpost.
Champagne-fueled dreams featured an upper middleclass femme first shoving me in the kitchen of Kennedy and then lunging for and threatening YT with the knife. It turns out this hulking woman was a fan of crack and her friend, accompanying her and watching the domestic chaos was apologizing for her pal's behaviour. Be understanding. Be empathetic. Fuck no. I called the cops after I told Kennedy what had transpired. Cops searched the house and found Ms. Knife hiding in the basement. All you dream enthusiasts have fun with this.

On an errand today saw Nate en route to his joint, balancing snack and keys and forgot to tell him the new Tori has grown on me. And, as rock is now on the agenda. Has anyone noted that Liam Gallagher is morphing into Ringo Starr. Just received SPIN for now and it's clear as a good digital image that's that what's happening with his facial molecules.

Molecular Love.

Art. Nature.

Words cannot begin to describe how ecstatic I am at this moment - You are witnessing exciting history as I finally, finally!, post a jpeg to epinw.
This is Yours Truly in Central Park, documented pre-artwork make by Little Laura.
The night before was supping with steaks and scotch and this is a sunny day with what she refers to as Swamp Thing emanating from Frederick Law Olmsted-placed rocks. He was working out. It was 45º.
Today in the Middling City it is much the same.
Now, lest You think I am procrastinating very badly, or very well, this uploading of images is an exercise in work-relatedness and I am thinking the site that will host my images, BuzzNet, is how I am going to post my research project for the online miasma.

Historical Love.

So, in its entirety, is the Perfect pome, about YT, sent to epinw h.q. by its maker, Robert Nesbitt. Replete with odd spacings along the page opted out of.

The Photographer (to Nancy Parisi)

What has happened?

I always wonder if that's you
or someone who looks like you
with a camera

How do you maintain
anonymity
so perfectly
unobtrusive, invisible

of course it serves you
and you have cultivated . . .

a magic garden of skills
blossoms flash
dazzling the eye of the beholder

Capture moments more concisely
than the quantum physicist
not breaking
but stabilizing
bearing new dimension
by forgiving one


Um, what the f-bomb can I say but Hell YEAH, I sure do have a magic garden of skills and what gal doesn't want to be compared to a quantum physicist.
Shot a few events yesterday, including the famed Oozefest at Middling City U in a gentle downpour and, as is always tradition, several young male co-eds opened wide their arms as if to grab me in their teasing muddy embrace to which I always disappoint by not squealing and just giving them a much diluted version of the PaintMelt Stare. Then moved on hours later to a wedding day, capturing that second when the magic words are spoken and ka-poof a couple becomes married. Read between lines here, Yours Truly feels this is nonsense. A public and already-known pledge of ongoingness is a beautiful thing but a couple doing so has already done this between them. But a swell party usually does follow.
Magic words include moment of saying This is over, I quit, I love you, Yeah sign me up, etc.
It's an Interpol day and it's time time time to go make some digvid art happen.

Happening Love.

To be filed under Like so totally stressed out and disarmingly distracted.
D, lest You are not up to par on your filing skills.
Wow, now doesn't that remind me of a tale of Yours Truly in her college/first-round salad days when I was a highly-paid non-internistic office worker at the on-campus corporation which I also worked for as Cultural and Performing Arts Chairman. So I was corporate double-dipping, if you will.
And working with a bunch of jaded grownups, all into their tasks at hand while I had to sometimes file requisition forms by Number. And then sometimes, in my daydreaming wanderlust and distraction (much like that previously mentioned) I'd be filing along and think Oh, SHIT, this one is not even close. And then I'd see there would be whole subsets of misfiled forms. And sometimes I'd go back and fix the situation or just think Really, who needs to see this crap again, and move on.
Then, years later (I am so on a filing memory roll here so go with it), this is where at the bottom of screen the words Five Years Later flash on screen, I am temping at some bigger, publicly-traded corporation and I'm sealed up in the bowels/tomb of this joint, filing for aeons. This was the trust department of a bank and I'd get lost in the tomb for hours as I had access to basically the back stories of scads of dead people and I'd look at their memorabilia, their passbooks, whatever. It was much like my stint as housekeeper/watcher/gardener at the North Buffalo home of a deceased lady and world traveler for a year.
So there I am, Wednesday night, campus of Niagara University, not too far from Toxicville.
Basically I live out of three bags - laptop, digital camera, film camera: I am a commuter in all aspects of my life.
So I grab one bag and shut car door, realizing in that nanosecond that keys to life are in bag #2.
Quick thinkathon.
Gig is starting in minutes so, in a nutshell, parents were called and they rescued me as AAA was called and the man on the phone had some confusion and had never heard of Niagara Falls ever. I imagined waiting on the campus, huddled against a closed 70's-era building for half the night. So Mr. & Mrs. Perfect, my mom and dad, rescued me. We were talking on our cell phones and they were saying We're in front of such and such. To which I replied But I'm in front of such and such. And, in the midst of a few bedraggled co-eds were they. Parents to the rescue. And, sadly, this is only the beginning. As the stress of cross-state travel, thesis thinking and writing, term paper r&d, freelance fulltimeness, basic life logistics chugs along I find myself in self-amazement at how things slip through the cracks of reason.
Many Did I just tell you thises. Lost keys, lost books, lost everything.
But then, mid-August, if all goes swimmingly, as JR thinks it might, I'll be a new Master. Of You. Of the Universe. Of all things interconnected, challenging and Olympiad in execution.
Salman Rushdie last night at Middling City U ended a lecture largely about the nature of writing and being a writer thinker with these words:
That's the job of it.

Love's Job.

JR wrote to me today to say he has all sorts of confidence in my ability not only to get my thesis done but to defend it brilliantly. Well, glad he thinks so.
There was a communique from Parsons School of Defense Mechanisms stating that the thesis and work and statement are to be completed quickfastinahurry and then defense of said thesis will happen in front of a panel of five people who each get ten minutes to rake us over the coals, so to speak.
And I have to make new digvid work, and make editing time. And write a paper for the online class. And continue to work to pay for all of the above.
Did a reading yesterday at roughly 745 PM as part of the poetry marathon Urban Epiphany. Read about five and finished with a story poem I wrote called The Tell. About using the poker notion of the tell, the giveaway signifier of aother's gestures, to know when they're bullshitting, lying, etc.
Was approached afterwards by amongst others RD Pohl who edits pomes for Middling City News who asked that I send him some words for publishing, especially one for Creeley = Believe.
Time to make the longass drive to my dentist for the pro cleaning by the woman whose name I can never remember and make small talk all the while, or most of the while, while she does her thing. She usually asks about school. Maybe I'll suggest beforehand we avoid this topic completely as I don't want to be responsible for the loss of any of her pro digits.
Driving with Kennedy tonight to see some jazz in Rochester. A road trip. Of jazz proportions.

Proportionate Love.