Today in the Middling City there is a brash warning that has those, like Yours Truly, in need of maneuvering mowers, in throes of joi: the air is in an agitated, polluted state and it has been advised from higher-up meteorologists that heavy lifting and such be avoided. Like the plague. Like touching mower blades. Like petting raccoons.
Yesterday had a marathon Starbucks editing day, five straight hours in their hyper-ac'd place until I looked down and noted that my legs were a neato shade of violet.
Today, for the sake of balance and reportage and science, I am working in a locally-owned coffee joint that has no ac on and I am sweltering.
Lesson learned. Always opt for cold when working on laptop.
When I first arrived here there were three women reading newspapers as a toddler that assumedly belonged to one of them tottered about, occasionally cracking his head on things and then screaming until one of them scooped him up and carried him outdoors. Then they'd knock on the large plate glass window amusing their little group hugely. Me and another laptopper were just not as amused.
Lesson learned. Always opt for cold, and child-free zones.
And never ever forget earbuds again to keep the screeches out, the soundtrack in.
On Thursday night went out with Kennedy and the jazz musicians, Bandmate Scott, and a couple of filmmakers for a post-concert repast. The music, speaking of soundtracks, overhead was a hideous blend of bad rock tunes, short on ironic inflections, just bad. Two of the bandmates are Brits and it was quickly noted that most of the badtunes were from their homeland. Suddenly Billy Joel came on and I noted loudly that now the quote unquote mix had reached rock bottom. Discussion turned to Mr. Joel and I regaled them with my Billy Joel lore: You know, the teleprompter on the piano, the pre-Mr. Joel stage arrival reading of The Rules (no requests, no Happy Birthday, no handing of any tapes whatsoever to Mr. Joel ... he had gone to court over stealing the riff of an aspirant). I then told them of how one of my Richmond Avenue roomies announed to me and Constance one evening that her younger brother had been living in our attic. We had heard music. He loved listening to Billy Joel. We let him continue living in the attic. We charged him dearly for the priviledge. But things took a weird turn when he listened to Mr. Joel louder and louder and Constance and I one night, arm-in-arm sung along to She's Only a Woman as if we were the deepest revellers in an earthy rathskellar. Tom/Attic Boy never spoke another word to either of us. Well, he never usually did. For he never usually left the attic, save for when he went to his engineerng classes. Then he moved back to Pennsyltucky.

Sweaty, working Love.

Had two divergent gigs today, the last one in the epicenter of the quaintness of Hamburg. You know, the place where thee hamburger originated.
On the way to said quaint gig I spotted a caffeine joint I had not seen before and whilst talking to my photo subject asked if she'd ever been there. She swore by their caffeine, and added another option. Common Ground. Since it was getting to be rush hour traffic I opted for the latter choice, it being on the same side of the street that I was wending along. First weird thing was the parking lot was empty save for four Amish-type men, all in hats, functionalware, like over-alls. I parked across the street. Inside the joint, billed as a restaurant/cafe I was overwhelmed by my solitude. I called out to see if anyone was inside. A zonked-out looking woman appeared from the shadows, in plainclothes. They were open for coffee. Looking around the room Yours Truly was amazed that this place had been airlifted from about three decades ago, replete with macrame wall-hangings, earthy artifacts, rough-hewn wooden furniture.
Some Biblical quotes on the wall gave this place away as thee Common Ground associated with the bakery, a religious commune, some would say cult. My pal Michael Niman reported extensively on this group, noting their zeal at having youngsters working, some anti-Semitic sentiment in their brochures, and on. The Buffalo Food Co-Op felt so strongly about these matters that they stopped carrying Common Ground bread after Niman's articles were published.
The zonked-out girl asked if I knew much about their community. For the sake of escaping in under several hours YT replied Nope.
Had the meager coffee, elated it was not drugged and my name is not now Sykirah or whatever. The muffin thing was okay. Zonky Girl had baked it.
Let us just file this under Fieldtrips that need not be repeated.

Common Love.

*NB: new, better Ana Mendieta link below for You*

As usual, there I was, minding my own business.
The business at hand was documenting art and happenstance at the Cuban American (no hyphen) exhibition yesterday. Upstairs, in the other gallery space, were four prints by none other than superstar Ana Mendieta, the artist who Yours Truly believes is responsible for planting a lucrative seed in the mind of Cindy Sherman. Mendieta had a fab Whitney retro a while ago, one of those altering experiences. What in earlier times (70's) was called an earth artist, site-specific, gender issues tossed in.
You may also recall the story of her untimely ending as I do - neighbors hear yelling, scream, thud. Ana Mendieta tossed out a window by her sculptor beau, Carl Andre. Who walks freely amongst us.
It's time for YT once again to wend my way out to the suburbs to begin attempt #2 to make some portraits of a doc (that's doctor to those in the non-know) who gave me the slip on Friday, leaving out the back door after a meeting as he had not shaved. This is Diana Ross behaviour. Not many can get away with this type of thing. Carl Andre defenestrates at will. Diana Ross can slap whomever she pleases. And docs can stiff photogs any time they wish.
Is this a democratic world.
Is Gitmo a Club Fed.
I rest my case.

Weaving, wending Love.

Have no delightful evidence just yet but will in sooth have some primo, eye-pleasers soon as twice this week I was hired to photograph (God only knows who is reading so Yours Truly will not say bootylicious) Mikhail Baryshnakov - at a last dress for the premier of three new pieces and then for last night's VIP hoopla where Himself appeared in troubling brown shoes with a dark suit, yearning for a glass of wine. I approximated that it took him about one hour to traverse the room from wine station to snack centre as in the gulley between were about fifty people who wanted to touch him, to do the usual and adulatory things.
During the last dress I was sitting after some set-ups for the NYT and Middling City News at the edge of the stage when Himself came towards me. Enjoying? he queried.
Suddenly I demi-gushed, replete with fluttering hands thusly.
Oh it's GREAT, so much action.
Action.
The special visual treat for You is forthcoming, I think a nice solo shot of him where the light is hitting his eyes in an arresting way.
In one of the pieces Baryshnakov dances before a digvid projection of him as a teen, all jumpy lithe energy. It was not my favourite part but was a great use of digvid for sure and I did think of aeons ago when I was Cultural & Performing Arts Chair at UUAB (that would be univ union activities brd) and programmed an evening with Kathy Rose, who danced in front of her own animations to a funky funky beat.
Across the room where I am blogging and soaking up the wi-fi molecules is a Native man bare-chested save for a brown leather vest. He's wearing a brown suede cowboy hat with a gold chain around its crown. He looks like he's wearing eye makeup. This is something one just does not see each and every day. My thoughts, naturally, lead to Johnny Depp.

Depp in Love.

Here are two images made by Richard Wicka at the premier party for Sweet Jesus last night at Otis's joint, Century Grille. Richard Lambert did a primo job playing Jesus, as some said perhaps a bit too dead(pun intended)-on. The soundtrack was excellent, Michel Weber's song a typically-dark number which all her work is infused with. At some moments, however, of the film, I would have yelled CUT if I had been sitting in the director's chair for they went on a bit too long, visual trails that could have been a bit more tidy, chopped. The above left image is Yours Truly with Kimmie and Tony Billoni, who are both in the film. Richard was photographing them and I snuck into the frame and then this happened. When I saw the results on the back of Richard's camera I let out a skuh-reem - look at that tongue. The other image is YT attempting a supermodel look to no avail while Annie gets the job done. There were no snaxx at said party and the former Studio G (upstairs from CGrille) is now an odd, emptied space for hearing live music. Oh, one of my most fervent stalkers who shall remain unnamed, was there being avoided deftly for he had seen me upon arriving at the movie theatre and I barely escaped his overzealous and discomfiting attentions.
Had popcorn for dinner, as well as some deep and hearty laughs. What more could one wish from a movie premier. Oh, a gift bag. Where in hell is my freakin' gift bag.

Love of gifts, and bags.

Here is a very jubilant image of Hillary, I like this image, it shows her radiance, confidence, love of (still) the pant suit, the crowd's adoration.
Thought You would dig this.
Tonight is the downtown, red-carpeted premier of No Budget Films's Sweet Jesus, written and directed by Greg Sterlace, Middling City luminary. Greg asked if I'd be interested in a part in his next film, the part of a psychiatrist. Will I pursue this, my first filmic role in quite some time. Does the thought (as I wrote last night to Curly) of seeing my face about fifteen feet wide terrify me. Well, I rest my case, and will give it my precious little time.
Time to zoom off to the land of celluloid promise.
Cut to me rushing home as a kid to tell my parents of some political event where I landed in front of some television camera. Mom, Dad, I think I'm going to be on the news at 6. Then we'd sort of listen or watch and then, in several instances, my parents would say Looks like you ended up on the cutting room floor.

No Love for that floor.

Well, here is a nice visual treat for You - Yours Truly plus Mr. Chairman Denny Farrell of the Shiney Apple as well as the Empire State Capitol. Note how YT is showing a bit of meager cleavage. And do note the lapel pins that I and Mr. Chairman Denny Farrell are wearing, the little rectangles depicting an enamelized NYS. This pin meant that anywhere YT wished to roam she could, with impunity. Backstage to grab a shot of Bill + Hill, no problem. The downstaters were not impressed, nor should they have been, with the state of the Middling City's downtown. No plethora of WelcomeDelegates signage, floral plantings in front of buildings, a sense that things were tidy. The VIP delegation I rolled with commented upon the lack of pedestrians, lack of cabs (I told them that I tip people who wish to taxi anywhere that they allow a good hour), lack of a bon vivant vibe. I found Andrew Cuomo surprisingly real, watching him at a few tent soirees mingling with ease, and the way he adores his three daughters for real. I dubiously watched Hill hold a small snowglobe aloft with a buffalo inside it as she told the tale of a maid at The Mansion who took good care of her. No name to fact check. I told one of the Chairman's handlers, one of three Franks, that I found the story not only smarmy but questionable. He noted that a few years ago she would have remembered the name of the maid. If there was a maid. Despite this vibe I will still vote for her. I kept my last Hillary sign which I had inside my window so it would not get swiped in the night. Eliot Spitzer, as I already knew, is a keeper, is a charmer, is as real as Cuomo. He unabashedly left a fundraiser to return to the hockey game he was missing. One of the most notable happenstances that happened to YT was suddenly being sprawled upon the dirty carpet of the Hyatt Regency Grand (in quotes) Ballroom, after a tiny Chinese lady with giant round specs plowed into me as she ran for the stage at top speed. She got tangled up in my right leg and kaboom, we were both on the ground, her head nearly landing in the center of the drumkit that had been in use by the gospel choir that got things rolling on DemCon Day 2. The little Chinese lady and I were both lying there, I immediately worrying about the cam. She got up, never looking behind her, and showed up on stage alongside the Dem committee secretary in moments. I got scooped up by a giant delegate. In a short while I was laughing uproariously about the collision with some security men who had witnessed the entire impact, them telling me to keep a healthy distance from them. Ironically enough, and I always dig the big I, I bumped into the little Chinese lady later as we both whirled around in the revolving doors and THEN the following morning as I departed from the parking garage. There she was, walking down the sidewalk. And, when she saw me, her mean and pinchy eyes glared serious hatred. For she believes that I sort of tripped her unintentionally, that my foot was jutting out unreasonably far from my body. She told one of the security men this.
The balloon drop was a flop. The coffee was all bad. The hours were all long. But mostly it was fun, educational in some ways, adrenalizing.
Time to leave my secret corner of the teahouse and the orbit of happy vibes and to depart for the happy vibes of the little, woman-owned and women-run Italian joint not too far from here. And then more edits. And then more edits.

Edit, Love, Edit Love.

Went to the Shadow with Erin and Justy last night, after their sporty evening downtown. A non-feeble cover band replete with horn section had begun Honky Tonk Woman when there coming into the joint was thee Honky Tonk Woman, a vision in black georgette, gold lamé, and straw. Straw for the hat. She was the arm candy of a fella who, it was quite obvious, had her at the center of his libidinous sphere.
And, along the country line, the previous night was primo girlie night and, en route to our final and sushi-rich destination, we spotted what in the Middling City (in some circles) is what they call a big deal - the former mechanical bull now coated in thick brown fuzz to resemble a buffalo. Get it.
For a moment I watched the tipplers board the buffalo and hang on, first doing their best and most sexiest humping moves until the man manning the buffalo controls got this wicked look on his face, punched a few other buttons resulting in sideways fast bucks and the tippler would topple.
Geez, with consonance like this I really should be a banner engineer for New York Post.
DKNY has invited me to rent the lofty sofa for the summer.
On this wistful note I end, wending my way towards shooting the fourth wedding of a Middling City pal. I reserve snark at this moment, as is so not my wont.

Wont Love.

Ryan Adams's Demolition seemed the perfect afternoon choice, a collection of jangly rock with a political undertow.
Good news came at me about half an hour ago, I've been selected to be Eliot Spitzer's shadow for three days during the Middling City's Dem convention. I am a fan, I wanted this.
As I got The Call Dorothy was doing my nails, painting them a most femmey light pink, a good luck gesture I forged, in addition to a hair fine-tuning.
Now it's time to do a little homework.
Found frames yesterday for the show, ready-mades that will suffice at an affordable price. Now just the creating of images to be trapped underneath the glass. Have to alert Todd the Printer that images are coming his way soon, the realizations of what is in the sketchbooks and in the head of Yours Truly. The newly fine-tuned head.

Outward Appearances Love.

To be filed under A.
For Are you freakin' kidding me.
A pregnant femme was referred to me by several pals who I have made portraits of over the years. I call said pf and reassure her that not only has Yours Truly been doing this artsy-craftsy-journalistico thing for, oh, decades and more to come, but that I have photographed the mid to very pregnant before.
She tells me that her sister-in-law has had some pp's done in The Shiney Apple (cue the photog reaction of Oh, here we go. . . ).
Cutting to the good bits, the smarmiest of the bunch featured a butterfly, faux, on the belly of the femme in the photo. A faux butterfly, as if the belly were a force of nature, a giant flower to be alighted upon.
Thoughts wander to this femme is probably going to Google images and such under my name and I'll never hear from her again but this must be said
You are pregnant, the human body is usually quite alarmingly beautiful in all its dimensions, and pregnancy should strive for the primal end of the aesthetics spectrum rather than dumb down into what includes Precious Moments figurines.
And no paired wedding rings around your navel, either.
Here I end my anti-pregnant-art-smarm rant.

Love, in all shapes, in all sizes.

Like trundling through a new recipe, wearing a pair of smart & smartly-designed shoes that make you feel in touch with some very great part of your self, like a pal allowing you a turn driving a new and fast car.
What, You ask.
My first time out with my newest lens, one of the Nikkors made solely for work on digital bodies. A 17-55. A dream. Fast, sharp, lovely. Its first gig was a hoopla celebrating the ritualistic noting of manhood. A Bar Mitzvah. Fab images of children in throes of sugar mayhem, high on my list of images to make and do. And, as I have blogged before, one of my few life regrets is that I did not start amassing such images twenty years ago in lieu of a few. When they're ready I will probably post a few of the more, shall We say, chaotic ones here.
One in particular shows a near-drooling, wild-eyed six-year old girl coming at me and the 17-55 with a party favour. Another, a chocolate-smeared face of a pre-teen. There were no teen lust images to make, no slow dancing amongst the young and hormone-addled.
But there was waltzing, as the parents are both South American. And some (read between lines) Interesting ensembles. The barkeep nearby diagrammed out the ladies's attire for me thusly.
This is quite and ODD one, isn't it.
How so, Yours Truly inquired.
Well, you've got the lady over there (head nod) in the pink plastic cocktail dress, then you've got some in jeans and sandals. Then you've got Annie Hall over here (another nod).
And there, coming at us was Annie Hall, in unspringlike, dark fabrics.
The Middling City grows more verdant by the hour and the flower seeds beckon to be buried from 1/4"-1" but it is still too on the other side of warm for that.
Today is the first gathering of the girlie reading club.
We read Fahrenheit 451. Bradbury riffs well on action-adventure moments whereas his dialogue inspires thoughts of corrective red pencil tracings.
Just read the NYT article about architectural travails in China and at U of VA.
Compare & Contrast:
-China, go for it (gee, reminds me of Sen. Schumer's famed and fabled speech YT has heard to date 4 or is it 5 times... I didn't get the job and I didn't get the girl... which ends with his fist-up and resounding GOFORIT)
-U VA, we'll see.

We'll see, Love.

Gravitating towards - ever - the merch table at the Whitney, post-biennial, snatched up (and paid for) a copy of the new Bjork/Barney cd, soundtrack for Drawing Restraint 9.
Let Yours Truly just say that yesterday was a fulfilling day, running and rushing the gamut from puppets to pasties.
Had a dinner most perfect at some Lower East Side hotspot, the little Italian chef looking up periodically wild-eyed. I liked his combos. I did not (and Dorota and Jason would concur) dig his chair selections, they cheapened up the joint.
Time to rush.
For that is my nature.

Natural Love, running the gamut.

Flung myself into the visual strata of a few Shiney Apple art joints, drawing parallels, sketches, and conclusions.
First off the 4 from the A from the AirTrain from the plane from the car, I wended my way around the old school haunts noting that my favoured pedicure joint has unceremoniously folded up their mysterious tent so to speak.
Spotted some old ghosts around Parsons School of Disconnectedness and moved along in the rain that turned to sunshine to the upper regions alongside the park to just soak in creation.
Found amazing reference materials in the show of Kara Walker, who makes those political and violent, usually, silhouettes. Some Dutch artists who noted the powers of the elements, mostly water. Something I needed to see as that's what I am making and setting afire in the studio.
I thought, for the sake of safety, about making a simple lean-to of transluscent material to filter out a lot of natural light in a controlled manner.
Had one of those memorable dinners at Pink Pony on the Lower East Side - and then a few at a poseur rock hangout - with a gang who kept it light light and light.
Awoke to Dorota and Jason's newbie kitties scrambling down my legs before nestling in to steal some of my lithe body heat.
Time to walk to Elizabeth Street and then to points much beyond for more more more visual language.

Languid language of Love.

Have a firm date of sorts for the opening of the next show to happen early next month, as in June, as in mere weeks away, as in good, old-fashioned adrenalizing p.a.n.i.c.
The making/printing/framing/hanging dance.
And opening banquet to plan.
And postcard to design.

Therefore it's time for R&D which has been happening in sketches, readings, but now the grand R&D Centre for Visualizing - The Shiney Apple.
Heading there for moments as that's all about that can be crammed in around working.
Longer blogpost later, there's coffee to catch, planes to catch, A trains to catch. And then the green line to catch.

Caught up in Love.

Been in ultimate throes of commencement/wedding/freelance world. Photographed a delegation from Singapore last night, the ladies in colorful silks.
Speaking of colorful garb, this past weekend, in the Middling City's gray downtown district, saw throngs in white, flowing robes, red ceremonial-looking headwear, and white suits for the men. Upon closer, casual inspection saw that they were of the Ismalia Temple, an interesting contrast to the bright yellows of the Lions.
The Middling City is awash in Sabres Pride, Sabres magnetized flagpoles affixed to cars everywhere, and a general sense of adrenaline in the air obvious even to the most casual of sporty spectators - Yours Truly.
Dropped a big box of golf balls off at the public yet fee-grubbing golf course yesterday for the man who drove me about the course for my book gig. The book, a historical docu-drama about the US Open, is to appear in the world this autumn.
Speaking of autumn, Mrs. Ganey died, surrounded by five of her eight children, a few days ago. As sick as she was it seemed that her awesome will for more life would carry her along for months to come. Today is her wake and tomorrow the funeral and my thoughts are full of not only how the family was still reeling from the death of Mr. Ganey about a month ago, but of her strength, talents, quiet intensity. She was one of my lifetime's greatest inspirations as she painted, drew, wrote, pursued an advanced degree as a non-traditional student, cooked well, gardened, socialized madly, loved music, and all her children. One remarkable thing to me as a younger person was how both the Ganey parents welcomed challenges to their authority, if presented in a logical manner - something that did not happen where I lived. Mrs. Ganey inspired everyone who knew her (students she had at Nardin, friends, kids) to push to experience innate, creative gifts as well as the creative efforts out there in the world.
Despite waning, her last week she watched her beloved Sabres, went to a concert, played bridge, and talked to all her children.
One of the last things she said to me was Put pen to paper.

Creative, vibrant Love.

The Middling City is demi-sun today, another full day of gigs for Yours Truly.
Just had a gig for the U and had to battle my way through hundreds of Lions, the ballroom foyer awash with yellow vests, wacky hats expressing individuality to fly in the face so to speak of said vests, stalls of info about home care aids like giant-buttoned phones as well as helper dogs, and a general sense of conventioneer camaraderie and fraternity et egalité.
Sipping on coffee that the U had put out for its own attendees I decided to see what the buzz was around a certain booth that had attracted about a dozen or so Lionesses. I was immediately pounced upon by a Lion who noted I'd infiltrated, also noting that I did not fit in in my business suit. Now You can ask me any fun fact about Lions - I have them all.
Photographed E.O. Wilson, Pulitzer Prize winning scientist, who has studied ants. His talk was sobering, noting how collectively We are completely ruining bio-diversity - even our own.
On that note I'd heard enough and meandered back through the outer activity, seeking out the live demo dogs.
Yesterday's ultimate gig ended quite miserably, the chef in charge of banquetly matters really sucking and enraging those in charge who could not believe that one hour after the first dinner plates hit tables some were still sans dinners. The tension in and around the kitchen tasted like white vinegar and the woman who'd hired Yours Truly worried about the status of her job after this comestible fiasco. She informed me I was finished, and could leave a bit earlier than planned because the photographic meter was running and there was no end in sight of the plating. He is an artiste, she said, the chef wants each and every plate to look like a work of art. As any artist worth their art supplies will tell You, art may be made in a timely fashion.
As YT will tell You, regarding the pending art show allegedly to happen next month.
Where is the art, I ask You.
Expediently, when the time is free and right, it will turn from idea and sketches into real bona fide, on-the-walls work.
Parting shot is that art is work. Just like real work.
The drummer and priest at the unfortunate church next door are practicing - beats and on mic. Just not what a jangled workaholic wants to hear so up go mine own decibels, white and rollicking noise.

Rollllicking, noisey Love.

Self-humoured Moment du Jour.
The premier of a slew of gigs featured a very animated translator for the hearing impaired, all big flourishes and mouth shapes, hands in concert-worthy gestures, him near half-standing for emphasis. Made some pictures of him as he was a visually-interesting part of the event. At one point, about mid-programme, I noted that the man and woman next to me were also intently watching the translator. I sort of leaned over and said He's really fun to watch, isn't he. They both just looked at me. I repeated. They watched my lips. Then they gave small, quick nods and went back to watching the translating. Oh, I says to Myself, this is not just a state-mandated service, people actually use it, too.
Amongst the varied and various stops of yesterday was one at the Nowhereseville estate of a Middling City billionaire where I saw my pianist pal, Richie. While milling about, waiting for our services to be oso needed, I learned this fun fact, proving once again that You just never ever can guess what secrets, fetishes, and fascinations lurk in the minds of others.
Turns out he's a self-proclaimed gun freak, just bought a very serious and kick-ass gun, and is going to be buying his girlie a Taser.
The high rollers came into the parlour and we snapped to our respective attentions, being fabulous yet blending as best as we could into the nouveau yet faux-haggard woodwork. Reward after: T&Ts on the richest of verandas, The Roycroft, with one of the Life Coaches, Brucey, for some good old-fashioned Rah-rah You can do it talk.
Do what, You ask.
It all.

5/5 Love - halfway to 10/10, the day YT most Perfectly emerged.
+
Happy Birthday to Dragon Boy.

So, dig this.
En route to the poesie extravaganza I saw a spectacular car fire (NB: this image is via Google Images, not moi) not too far from the bridge that bridges the Middling City and The Land of Mackintosh Toffee.
The car fire was in its beginning stages as I was approaching, that stage when it seems perhaps there's just an overly-hot cuppa Starbucks in the cup holder, or something akimbo with some trash alongside the vehicle. Then that sight of the upholstery catching, that fearful thought that something is really going to ExPlOdE. But it does not. Somehow Yours Truly has managed to see a lot of car fires and subsequently I consider myself a bit of an authority on them, having also, You see, discussed them with emergency car fire anti-abettors - i.e. firemen/killjoys.
So I am stopped in traffic but all the world around the roaring car fire had stopped. Then the firemen arrived and the show was like so over. My camera was not on hand. I have soul-searched and I am allright with this.
Memory bank offers up another car fire on an overpass of a biway of the MC and, as I approached the blaze up ahead and above, I reached for my camera and shot away madly through the windshield. Very dramatic - both the shooting and the fire.
That's far down south and down and over in the southwest.
Urban Epiphany, like the fire/far, was a raging success, although running behind. I read and read and read some more. Actually cutting down to about one-third of what I had penned & planned as the hour was laterific. I felt solid reading, really digging the words. And enjoying most of the words of the others. I needed to leave and upon leaving was followed by one of the readers who asked me to be a featured writer/reader at a series that he produces.
Now another memory.
The Writers' Cramp Series that YT ran for years with partner Paul T. Hogan. This series freakin' rocked: two free reading per month, and always featuring one newbie, one established, one superstar of sorts. I moved the WCS from the somewhat obscure Bethune Gallery (sigh) to Central Park Grill. Thursdays. MCd alternatingly with Paul and I gave readers souvenir WCS tshirts I hand silkscreened. Ahh, the 80s.
So somewhere sometime YT will be a featured person.
Arose at the asscrack of dawn to wend my way to a golf course to make poetry in the form of digital images for a book to be published internationally about the History of the U.S. Open. Part of such took place aeons ago on the green greens of Grover Cleveland GC.
Had a sherpa, Paul, who took me out on the cart and who guided me about so all's I had to do was focus, look, think, compose, think, focus, chat, laugh, focus, repeat.
Let Us just put it this succinct way. With my imPerfect sense of direction and maply impatience, I might still be out there looking for freakin' 18.

Hole 19 Love.

Minding my own business, of course, I said Yes to the annual pome marathon. And, lest You not know (or knot now) pomes is the old-farty word for poems.
In a matter of moments I'll be facing a (hopefully unhostile) bunch of amassed listeners, reading, amongst other things, my new and sketchy Element Song.
Element Song is meant as a sketch of sorts for the pending photo images for the show.
Secret: this is what Yours Truly does, makes lit for visual shows. If there's not a good bit of poesie for the work then there is trouble abrew. So there is Element Song and all is swell.
Think I'm most happy with Fire. Then Earth. Then Water. Then Air.
But Air is how I'll be ending this Urban Epiphany reading as it has some hale advice for how to read the air, how to groove on what surrounds us. That, Everyone, is always the matter at my hand regarding visuals. And what I tried to say in that grad school - put a visual on the world teeming with air/fire/water/life/rock & roll/earth/shoes.

Love's Teem.

Got together with Les Girlies last night to celebrate the birth of Janine, who was in her rare form. Got her some crocheted tights and a Middling City mag for her Shiney Apple joint, her being The Crochet Girl and all, crafting hats, or at least she did in the past.
Slated for the other Shiney item, the Shiney Happy Mag, Yours Truly will be inking away furiously, or, rather, laptopping madly, a story about those who live literally in the long shadows of the grain elevators. I plan on knocking on doors, the camera bag disguised for wisdom's sake. Hope to not encounter any secret cockfighting rings, crackheads, and the like.
Script.
YT: Hello, pardon me, but may we rap about how and why you live here. I want to hear stories of high times, union riots, the scent of Cheerios, lay it on me.
OFW resident: Plethora of witticisms with mad quotes peppered in.
Onwards.
Cannot say just yet what the other is about, today switching from something else.
This AM shot two gigs out at Middling City U, the first being a crafting extravaganza for children along for the Take Your (Snivveling) Kid(s) to Work Day.
Crafting. I ask You.
Supposing this is a respite for the children who don't give a hoot about water cooler convos.
Time to wend away for errands and then the usual laptop moments.

Tethered to the laptop, Love.