Yours Truly is much better with a chainsaw than a power drill, either cordless or cord varieties.
Triple F Ranch: freakin' finger-burning fiasco.
Was told after fact, via Vincenzo, that one does not touch one's screw newly screwed as it results in just the injury I had just sustained.
Then there was the issue of speed versus impatience.
It had probably been about twenty years since I screwed drywall screws into drywall and it is like so not getting back onto a bicycle.
I let others do the power drilling. Perhaps I will never use my power drill, resplendent with its shining choices of bits, and handy case.
Six of us in total worked sawing, power drilling, taping, moving, and the like. And the paintings - now a Polaroid installation and photo depot - is nearly ready for action.
In a lull of gigs tomorrow I have to rush over to Central Terminal and put on finishing touches.
Heard from Julian Muse that he is in the Middling City for a wedding and will be hastening and gracing. And, assumedly, purchasing a fine Polaroid of his likeness.
En route to Hardware from Central Terminal witnessed some curious things: motorcycle club on William Street looking most welcoming, a nice tungsten glow for it was Thursday and that is loud pipes save lives through the MC; a bevy of copcars near Mohawk Place as a band covered Neil Young's Powderfinger and then later on news report heard that a femme fell from a window, probably not a Neil fan; and then after Hardware saw throngs of gothkids wandering out of Town Ballroom, a good portion of them with white and black-painted faces.
Thought then what a fab photo series that would be, documenting the groups that leave venues, all charged up.
Speaking of such, Little Laura realized oso late that Interpol is playing in TO and we are ticketless. I proffered up the hypothesis that someone is always willing and able to unloose some tix from their person.

Ticket to Love, Love.

Consider Yourself lucky, oso lucky, that You did not receive one of those calls. You know, emphasis on those.
For Yours Truly was, self-amazingly, so completely lost just rambling down a familiar road. The latest vehicle doesn't have a handy on-mirror compass. Like that would have helped, but moments and moments later I was still trying to figure and make some orienting calculations from clues such as the angle and position of the sun, the powder blue water tower, the direction of traffic on a thruway overpass at one point.
Finally, I did find a tiny Welcome to the Middling City sign, one of those small green ones that proclaims it as City of Good Neighbors, this one within a neighborhood that has one locking one's doors.
YT is on the Buffalo Rising online site, via an aforementioned vid made by Kelly, who interviewed me about Hallwalls's Artists & Models and art-making in very general.
Unbelievably, YT had no Flash plugin on the supersonic laptop and had to download said e-contraption earlier today to see this vid. Nice editing, but jeez all that hand gesturing, painting of ideas in mid-air. Liz emailed me a nice screenshot from the vid, mid-blink.
Time for installing the Artists & Models panels/paintings, tomorrow the designated day and hopefully all will go off sans hitches but really, something always comes up. I'm sure a future post will feature amazement at how many little glitches were quickly mopped up. Or not. I offered a little helper pre-beers but then thought Yikes, no way, there are no washrooms, as they say up in MacIntoshToffeeLand, at the Central Terminal. Yet. For You can rest assured a troop of dismal port-o-wc's will show up on Saturday.
Today is Kennedy's b-day and I did find him the most amazing thing online, which I may or mayn't mention in a later post.
Time to make and do and wrap and sing.
Not rap and sing, dig.

Wrapped, singing Love.

Decoration/Memorial Day.
The Iraq War stretches on with more deaths, more money bled into this futility. This day is set apart as one to recall the efforts of those who die as martyrs, for their beliefs in convoluted political skirmishes. Or not, if drafted, perhaps.
Yours Truly was attempting to cross the border from the Middling City into Kenmore but there were sawhorses, cops, and flashing lights – a parade just beyond, down Delaware Avenue. There may have been girls with faux guns down there to add to the ongoing series but the cam was not with. So a u-turn.
Onwards.
Six panels completed for Artists and Models installation, one a double-truck, as We are wont to say in the high-flying world of pubs.
And that is publications, dig, not a joint for the big hunker-down.
The panels can now dry for several days before their cross-town meander to Central Terminal for installation.
A workman nearby (I blog dehors) has been wrestling with his matter at hand for some time, crescendoes of cussing occasionally and then, at moments, a murmur of non-stop monologue to such an extent I wonder if the man suffers from a slight case of Tourette's.
As in syndrome.
As in WoopWoopOBoy.
Today would be a Perfect day for a pedicure, but it is a national day of remembrance.
Endmatter (the very name of the thesis exhib of YT) Maintenance tomorrow then.

Red poppies for remembrance, Love.

Yesterday was, amongst other things, the day designated to get panels for making the Artists & Models paintings, five in all.
Scouted out materials at a Home Depot, made an art image for an art postcard for Dean, picked up Jana at work and drove to another Home Depot more conveniently located regarding the whereabouts of said materials to barn.
Where the special art magic will happen.
In the midst of the aisles I had a revelation that ceiling grade drywall would mean no pesky priming of wood for the paintings. Years ago, for another A&M, I made large paintings on cardboard and had to prime the surfaces twice.
So we wrangled the panels onto an unwieldy cart and then wrangled some nice young workers to toss them atop the car.
We did some winding and knotting of nylon tine and after one lurchy and ominous sound all went swimmingly - no drywall was lost.
I felt so confident of our knotting abilities I contemplated taking the Skyway back to the Middling City.
But then did not, opting for the long and scenic doglegged route instead.
Now is the time for the opaque projector sketching and filling in of images.
Mega thanks to Todd Treat, artist and racecar driver, for the big lend of the projector.
In case You do not know, A&M happens on June the 2 at Central Terminal from 9ish to 2 in the morn. This installation of Perfectly fun and audacious interactivity will be on the main concourse of party mayhem.
A&M, major Hallwalls fundraiser, is a nice way to usher in the MC's summer, a nice way to say Hey lighten up.
What are the images to be made. You will have to come and see.
On a much differing tangent, Literal Harold is in town for one month to attend to his regional matters at hand.

Nocturnal Love.

You wonder.
Why, fercrissakes, a mushroom cloud.
If ever there was one person on this atmospherically-challenged planet who should probably never touch the knobs of a microwave oven, it is Yours Truly.
Despite the apparent widespread acceptance of these contraptions into everyday situs, YT has really never developed an affinity.
Did not grow up with one. Did not own one in college. Did not own one in salad years. Worked with a chef who loved to intone Slow cookin' is good cookin.'
Kennedy has a microwave oven, probably a first edition.
It has faux woodgrain.
No, come to think of this all, I have seen older microwave ovens.
Oh, now I do recall a beau way back who owned a microwave oven and it had a small hole in the door and when he fired it up everyone ran out of the room.
I made a handy DYMO label for the door of this microwave - DANGER.
So today.
I decided to whip up, mid-working, a lunch for me and Kennedy. And on the lunch to throw some melted cheese, perhaps inspired by all my recent thinking of Richard Serra who has tossed molten metal about in his day.
I was working with rice cheese.
I put it in a bowl and set all knobs to high and I think five minutes on the timer.
I could smell molten rice cheese after a while.
I opened up the door and there was the image You see above.
When air hit the mushroom molten rice cheese cloud it slowly slunk back into the bowl.
Despite this I am a worldclass student chef, in my Perfect world.
Things are coming together for my Artists and Models installation, an old-timey stick-yer-head-through-the-holes-and-trade-your-self-for-a-thematic-alter-ego stand.

This week I was in a Wegmans and noted that there were no more of their DIY black nylon shopping bags for sale and commented upon this to the checkout kid, Kevin.
Kevin said Well, since the bags came out shoplifting has risen ... Americans SUCK.
I kind of felt around for what inspired Kevin's words and, no surprise, he had a favourable exchange student experience. And now is imbued with the Other. The tramontaine now is within, that exciting post-experience experience.
I did agree with him that this is a tragic and unfortunate thing, that people stuff bags meant to ease earth back to better health with goodies and wend their selfish (probably overstuffed) asses out the door.

Thematic and experienced Love.

Sunday evenings in the Middling City have redolence, they feel like something.
But since Yours Truly works every day I don't think it's that pre-Monday feeling.
It feels unlike Sundays in other cities – anywhere.
Kind of celebratory, sleepy, relaxed, depending, perhaps, on the season.
Onwards.
This Sunday evening is bright but an autumnal chill hangs over everything and for this reason dinner tonight is asking to be baked.
Speaking of baked, the Sabres are like so over.
Shot an event yesterday and did manage to hear in the automobile snippets of the game inconsistently so sometimes it alternated hopeless and hopeful.
Ultimately the former.
YT was on cusp of deciding to document all the homemade Sabres paraphernalia about town: the homemade Stanley Cups on front lawns, wishful spraypainted words, shoepolished car windows and the like.
During photo gig someone had the game on and as I breezed through a room I stopped on someone's nickel and on a proverbial dime to watch as much as possible and just at that moment Drury took the friendly fire puck to the face, resulting in biohazard blood droplets dropped off to the locker room.
Fires raging in this Perfect world include excitation at the pending Richard Serra show at the Modern, the Matthew Marks show of (holy shit, right, like happening now) Andreas Gursky, and, despite the fact that I'm booked for gigs and cannot wend my way to not Wembley but Giants Stadium for the 7.7.07 Al-created Live Earth show of rock legends, wannabes, has-beens, must-sees. For the halibut checked to see how much tix were in the algore.com section as well as another inner sanctum.
Naysayers naysay that rock cannot change the world and to that I say Are you freakin' kidding me. Money raised goes right to Alliance for Climate Protection fercrissakes and even more and more pedestrians will be inundated with Inconvenient Truths.
Rock saves the day, rock may save the planet.

Love of rock, rocks, planets.

Liz just emailed me, Catherine, honoree/very-recently-past bday girl Cheryl, and Polly to give us the tally of what we sipped on as we supped.
Quite impressive indeed. We champagned Cheryl's birth and Yours Truly put out a call for work online about a month ago to a long list of friends, colleagues, relatives of Cheryl's for b-day wishes and images.
Selected Flora's (her daughter) collage of her and her mom surrounded by a pen and ink drawing for the cover.
This took many hours to get together and had it spiral bound via some helpful Kinkoists.
Stuffed the inch-thick book into a garment giftbox with tissue paper and some dish towels that were very Cheryl-appropriate so she wouldn't see what was underneath them for a bit.
It's been a trad with this circle of pals that YT makes sign-in/wish books for friends arriving at 50. As Cheryl wanted a very intimate dinner of her inner circle several would not be there to sign a book. Left some empty pages, however, for her to pass the book around at a few other, post-b-day gatherings planned in her honor.
Did a classic encompassing EveryoneHere image at the evening's near-end.
Some technical issues with that little Leica.
It is in time-out.
Pushing pixels merrily before back-to-back planned outings.
Today is Mark's b-day. Happy b-day to Mark. At midnight last night we toasted his birth.
Tonight is the Nullstadt re-emergence at Hallwalls, a flashback to wayback over there when, when the Continental (the fount of dancefloor inspirations and so many rock and roll tales and experiences of YT) was running full-tilt.

Full-tilt dancefloor Love.

Yesterday was interviewed by StevieB's lovely lady Kelly for a piece about Artists & Models for Buffalo Rising Online. She made a digvid of Yours Truly for possible inclusion in an accompanying podcast and one of her last questions was about my cooking prowess – she was one of the twenty supping on my spring/ICP-inspired menu last month.
Kelly has been recording with Robbie Goo et al at Chameleon West and from her descrips and stories of her singing history it was hard to imagine what the product of those studio hours would be: girl with gospel background, rollicking bass player, knob twirlers of various ilks.
I gave her a lift downtown after our interview/lunch and she shoved her in-progress two-tracked (at this juncture) disc into the appropriate slot en-dash and omigosh and voilà, great dance music. She can sing for real.
At first I thought she sounded Pinkish, kind of aggressive and gutteral where needed but as I heard more I thought Nope, better. And I am a Pink fan. And, as I told StevieB tonight, she writes better songs and they're way more interesting than that twerpy boozer Lady Sovereign. And I'm a fan of hers, to boot.
So tonight was an artist meeting at Central Terminal for pending Artists & Models. I commented to Meg Knowles, also on the scene as she is making & doing for this grand fete, that it is astounding how in so many short years so many people stripped out so much and destroyed that giant space so very well. The surrounding neighborhood is now, pretty much, a ghost town with its former homes, bars, restaurants, corner stores. It would be a great movie set. The east side was, until even the 90s, a quadrant of the Middling City where, on a lark, a gaggle of us (and loads of others) would wend our way over for Polish food, some laughs in a crusty and well-equipped corner bar full of memorabilia and crusty neighbours.
*this just in*
Literal Harold is on a rooftop in San Diego on another press junket via Sony. He was talked shop at and now his fun may begin, the payoff, if You will. He mentioned the possibility of a Padres game, a sidetrip to Mexico. Nothing much about the goodie bags. Yet. I think the inclusion of YT on said trip would have made it oso much more raucously good fun. But, oh, right, getting away this time of year is as possible as Father Baker getting canonized this weekend. Double bummer.
Kennedy is in Spain, where I should or could have been. This would be time numero trio that YT has not been able to jet off to Spain. Sparky says there must be a reason for this and it is does seem soothful of her.
Off to do some prep things for Cheryl's lavish dinner created by a group of us for tomorrow evening, for her fiftieth b-day.
And, on another, warbling note, iTunes's email's subject line in the inbox mentions a new release by Paul McCartney.
Is this to prevent me from instantly deleted it.
It did not work.

John Lennon Forever, Love.

Whirlwind in full effect.
And Yours Truly functions well in whirlwinds and other moments of pure motion in throes of observing and documenting.
This past Friday evening motored to Rochester for the member opening of the Ansel Adams exhibit at George Eastman House, where YT has been a proud member since Tony Bannon took over the gig of director.
Arrived on the scene with Sparky and we promptly toasted our arrival with a nice glass of champ before we headed in different directions so I could subsume.
As I sketched some of the prints and took notes I overheard a man telling his much younger date on his arm that No, this was the age before PhotoShop – to her amazement at the tonalities and sharpness of one of the prints.
I was there for art's sake and for a piece I'm writing for the Shiney Happy.
Big Fact Gleaned (BFG) is that AA did not use a darkroom timer (as some non-timing old timers did not) but a metronome, emanating from his pianistic training.
A main lovely feature of the show (besides a vid of AA and Georgia O'Keeffe in conversation) is a wall explication of how he created a shorthand of notes on printing each print, in a grid system. I think this is lovely info for all photogs who actually spent years in the darkroom, it certainly springs up lovely (for real) mems of being in the darkroom, lovingly sloshing chemistry over a print and working for hours and hours on one image until it was just Perfect.
And still, after all those years of childhood photo self-ed/experimentation, Nancy Golden workshops, big U undergrad courses, news bureau and newspaper printing on a deadline it was all still Magic.
Tony Bannon and I were so happy to see each other and me, Tony, Sparky visited in the GEH café and Tony gave me two gorgeous books: an AA book and another called Picturing Eden (after I told him of my nature-capturing photog ways and concerns and how grad school powers that be tried to flush this all from my system but it persisted and persists) in which he not only wrote a profound intro but a very sweet note to YT.
He then took me and Sparky on a back-staircase tour of GEH, culminating in a visit to his office which, back in the day, was Eastman's screening room.
Tony had photos (quel shock) of the screening room in Eastman's day, replete with stuffed animal bounty heads, extension cords suspended awkwardly from things, stacks of films in their canisters, an odd assembly of chairs for watchers.
Tony also wanted to show me a plant I gave him as a big thanks for writing an essay for a solo show I had at Big Orbit. The plant thrives, perhaps better than the art career of YT, who works all the livelong day making everyone oso happy with beautiful documentation of what they do.
Speaking of such, had the most amazing five-course dinner chez President Simpson and Katherine on Saturday evening during a pre-Commencement soirée. Tuna carpaccio, duck breast, side dishes that were so intricate and a dessert that, due to a pending deadline, will only be described as Architectural. A few of these dishes YT will attempt to recreate for one of my next dinner parties.
Mucho latero met the gang of girlies out for double b-day trouble, celebrating the births and lives of Jana and Tiffany.
The only snag du soir was that the Sabres lost in double OT.
Dined with my loving parents last night and, despite giving her a lavish bouquet that she received direct from growers (ProFlowers rules), gave her another gift so that those in restaurant would not glance over and think Geez, what a cheap-ass, no gift for her mom. So I stood up and in grand gestures, lest anyone was watching, presented my dear Mom (Fats to YT) her lovely gift of excellent jacket, just the thing a daughter who digs the shop acquisition, will buy for a mom who would not toss herself over that certain precipice of fashion chance.

Back to Pixel Management.

Laser-focused Love, Love.

Did me and the gang of girls learn a danged thang about vino last night at the tasting of Empire State vinewares at the Butler Mansion.
I think not.
And there was not much in the way of sustenance by the time Yours Truly meandered in with Michele and Siobhan, having just snacked at Europa which gets two enthusiastic hai-karate kicks.
The wino people had their usual tables set up at strategic corners and apparently were in their respective cups by the time we did arrive to meet up with Sparky and Annie.
Liane Hansen was speaking from nearly inside the fireplace and all I could make out through the several bodies was that she liked puzzles. Or The Puzzler. I could spy her in between people and didn't get a chance to say Hi or whatever.
But the vineyard cupsers were amusing.
One cherubically-faced girl talked smack about a man I had zero respect for at a nearby table as he'd used metal s-hooks to hang a heavy vinyl vineyard banner across an original nineteenth-century painting. Sparky, Siobhan and I went over to tell him how disturbing this was to us and he looked at us with psychotically glazed-over eyes to state that it was not bothering him and that the event was nearly over.
Realizing that this would be like attempting to rationally discuss a matter with a Grant Street crackhead, I wandered away.
So there was that guy.
Then there was another, who, the cherub told us, burnt a patch of his own chest hair off with a device he used (past tense, apparently) to purify the air around him of the stank of those around him.
We listened all rapt and shit and then wheeled around to have a look.
Siobhan noted that he had a wealth of hair left to burn.
We moved along then to the newish Stillwater to hear Heather and Fellas perform and she sang all songs in a foreign tongue. YT first thought it was a scatting episode but, no, it was Portuguese.
Some pesky men insisted we follow them along to another joint and we soundly rebuffed their feeble attempts at disarming our Perfect, maleless Fun.
My beloved mother, Fats, just called to inform that she has just received the lush bouquet I ordered for her so she would have it before the Day of Moms.

Love of Holidays.

Like so totally rockingout tomorrow night at Silversun Pickups gig at Town Casino with Sparky.
Today, after conducting some non-e-biz at the Mac store meandered over to this side of the state's v. of Sephora, much-anticipated.
It's not the hugest ever but will suffice.
Yours Truly had to keep reminding herself that upon leaving the joint I would not: be swept into the stream of B'Way, be looking into Union Square and sucked next into Diesel, wheedling to a random airport security person that they really should not/need not confiscate the nouvelle cuticle snippers.
The latter happened once. It was real sad.
Buh-buh-buh-but I just bought those.
To no avail.
In case You don't understand the why's or whichever's the reason that this store rocks is that they are a skincare/perfume/gadget/makeup Centre.
Onwards.
Time once again to rush to eat premiertimewise at Europa and then onwards to the BFO vino tasting with members of the bookgroup gang.
Talked to Liz today about the pending soirée extraordinaire we are plannng for our beloved Cheryl next week.
Flowers, Veuve Cliquot, Cameras, Action.

Rushing, Love.

Driving back into the Middling City last night, after an exurban gig, hit the endangered but awe-inspiring Skyway and, as happens up there, had eyes wandering to and fro.
Fro included a most puzzling sight.
Someone at HSBC, the city's tallest edifice, created by architect Yamasaki, who also drew and made happen the late (not great) World Trade Center in the Shiney Apple (and why-o-why is more not ever made of this fact), had arranged some lights on its southern-facing side that featured three colours and an incomprehensible shape or script.
It was not Sabres colours, also those of the MC (blue and gold, lest You have forgotten), like the nearby Rath Building display.
Red, green, blue lights shone out into the still-chilled air and Yours Truly decided it must be a few symbols of the I Ching.
These days in the MC it is not all that unusual to see a vehicle with Sabres sentiments used car lot shoe polished onto the windows.
Nor crews sawing away at trees.
Or women with pedicures wearing sandals, their toes frigid lavendar.
Read today via FlavorPill (link it over there, there, on the right) that another Andreas Gursky show hits the SA walls over at Matthew Marks Gallery: the next reason for a foray there. Last time YT was at a show by him +crew was at MoMA.
Pieces for the Artists & Models installation coming together.
Have to locate an opaque projector, like now.

Projected, opaque Love.

As I just wrote to Paula Wachowiak, all is good and right again for Greg Sterlace returns to his eponymous show.
After a sabbatical, a meltdown.
Annie and Michele and the other Sterlaces of sorts did a fine job but there's nothing like the tawdry black witticisms of Greg.
After the Bill Horvitz Trio gig at Hallwalls this week Joe Rozler commented that he'd just seen me on the Home of the Future site and I thought he meant the 4.13.07 appearance on Sam's b-day.
But nope, he meant a viewing of my contrib to the Five Minute Series, the humourous tale of the implosion of a relationship past. Very past, thankfully. Richard Wicka of HOTF told me that my vid is one of the toppermost viewed of the series.
For what that is worth. Too bad there are no royalties.
Out for drinks with Bill Horvitz, Steve Adams, and drummer Harris E was good, Kennedy and I took them to good ol' Gabriel's Gate where the winging molecules sit in the air between O molecules.
Tonight shooting an event at the Central Terminal, Ghost Train, and from the p.s.a. I cannot quite decipher what this will be: an ersatz train ride to the other side is promised. Then maps are given out. If anyone advises me to just lick the map I will decline.
Speaking of declines, as in of civ, the other day, 5.4, was the anniversary of a bigtime school shooting, probably one of the first–Kent State. The NYT has that little link where you can see what happened on the very day you are reading along online, the actual front page of that particular issue.

First observation is that paper layouts have drastically changed. There were many more stories on page numero uno that jumped.
So Kent State, as we all do know, was the shooting of students by State Troopers.
Two women co-eds dead, two men co-eds dead. Two were 19, two 20.
One thing Yours Truly did not know was that the Troopers claimed they began firing when they were sniped at from a grassy knoll.
No snipers.
No surprise.
As I said to a client this week at a meeting, as we began to speak about the war and the killing of the environment, It's not the time in so-called polite conversation to have such a talk and then pause and say Well, on a HAPPIER note, or some such thing. Stick to the talking points fercrissakes.

Full day of shooting yesterday, ending up at a country club in the Middling City exurbs where YT viewed the second awe-inspring toupée in the past month.
I ask You.
Are viewers meant to not notice that the hair is faux? Has anyone ever created a believable toupée. Why are wigs not humourous. Hell, even Britney's wig is not a hoot.

In the online music jibing quadrant of the internet system read today that fans are shocked and stunned that Britney lip-synchs, especially during her quarter-hour quote-unquote sets at a national music club chain.
As You may note, O Loyal epinw reader, YT has photographed this pop icon (who is, undoubtedly, still red hot in Japan) several times, and has always felt a great tinge of sadness and pity for the young girls (in make-up), clutching $50 programs, watching their pop star fav lip-synch the night away.
One pop rock mem worth a revisit is that of Britney popping up from underneath the stage of the MC Arena like a vampire lifting up from the earth.
In all my decades of music and spectacle watching and shooting and documenting have never seen, in ANY music genre, any art genre, a more odd sight than that very one.

On that lip-sunk note.
Sunk in Love, Love.

For the first time in human, art-making history Hallwalls has printed up a poster for Artists and Models with artist names on it.
I have to stumble down memory lane and recall the premier Artists and Models in downtown Middling City with films by Kevin Fix, fashion show by Steve Gallagher, and oso much more. It was a slammin' party and I got involved thereafter as artist and model. And at A&M #2 had work included in the Reject Show, of works rejected from Albright-Knox's WNY exhibition. Before it became the sprawling, incomprehensive series of shows that it is today.
Speaking of AKAG (and more A&M recollections to follow), was there for Kennedy's concert of Roscoe Mitchell and was hoping to catch a glimpse of the Francis Bacon installation. Not yet. That opens tomorrow but Yours Truly is missing the grand op for a gig.
YT needs to get hold of an old-fashioned opaque projector to make large-scale paintings once again, as I did for another A&M with a circus theme. Attendees could stick their heads through and become Saint Sebastian, Fat Lady, Snake Charmer, etc.
This year's transformational panels will feature all things nocturnal.
Dark, shady, street-loving, moon-blooming, and the like.
Last night, speaking of moon-blooms, went with Kennedy to hear and see Acid Mothers Temple at SoundLab, a rollicking 70s-infused rock band from Nippon/Japan.
The four men in the band are avid and two have heads of incredible hair-long, shaken all over the place for full rock effect.
The femme in the band is kind of Stevie Nicksing along with scarves, hands all curled up to the rock heavens, some warbling when needed, a wrist shakey instrument.
In the midst of the set I kept meandering to the front of the stage for a divergent rock perspective, in the throes and deep in the notes.
There was one rapturous guy doing what YT has termed an Esmerelda Dance-a rare male doing the Esmerelda Dance.
Also in the midst of the set I said into Kennedy's ear
There's a new trend in Tokyo, Male Gals, gyaru-o, boys who dress like girlies and wear makeup and go tanning. There was a New York mag sidebar outlining some of the products these gyaru-o fellas use, including something called Moving Rubber Grunge Mat (Love always Love those Japanese names) for $7 (that'd be about 15¥) which is super-stiff hair goop.
Recalling the hair goop of the 80s now, coming full circle back to the Artists & Models inception. Big hair, strong hair goop, shoulder pads (*cringe*) odd fashion twists like cloth gloves for some occasions. And oso much much more.

Artistmodelmusic Love, Love.

Apparently my stray cat pal, Extra, is an advocate, a practitioner of Santeria.
A few nights ago I made Kennedy and me some fab squid ink pasta and salmon and other special ingrediently mélange.
We did not finish it and Kennedy says You know how we eat leftover fish dishes, give it to Extra.
Extra nibbled out the fish bits.
Later I looked out to discover a beheaded bird near his food bowl.
He was very proud of his little killing spree, standing very tall in the sunshine.
I told him what a great hunter he is.
And I raised an eyebrow not at his Santeria practice but that just when you think you know someone, sometimes you like so do not.
I do recall that Santeria advocates killed and beheaded just like Extra did to speed Fidel along to good health.
Onwards.

Blooming spring, beheaded birds Love.

Al Gore came to these parts yesterday, first speaking to 5K students from high schools and the big U and then in the evening to that many grownups.
What differed from the movie, An Inconvenient Truth, was the ending.
Whereas the movie (like Iraq for Sale) piled on fact after fact after photo and photo and more factly matters about how We have really collectively and consistently been, in a nutshell, fucking up the Earth, the talk ended with some positivity and how We can change what has been mucked up–NOW.

Al was intro'd by big U prez John Simpson, Lieutenant Gov David Paterson, and U student Kelly Miller. Paterson, who Yours Truly got to meet and photograph for three days during the Empire State's Dem Convention, is a joking man and stated that Al Gore was going to make an important announcement during the talk, that he would be announcing ( mute mute ). He began frantically tapping the mic asking What is wrong with this microphone.
Sadly, Al did not announce his presidential run and in lieu of such stated that he is a Recovering politician and is on step 11.
He said He was the president of the United States and when laughter ensued he did a well-timed pause to say I don't see the humour in that.
Well, Al, YT would like to impart that it is nervous titters, not guffaws, because that presidency was like so yours, so popular vote YOURS.
Onwards.
So there was a positive, rah-rah ending and a deserved standing ovation.
All in all an all-around good Al time.

Later alligator attended and photographed Roscoe Mitchell and his rhythm section at Albright-Knox Art Gallery. Heading in to meet up with Kennedy, Annie, Erin, was rather shocked and pleased all at once that the venerable-yet-altered art joint had not sold off their small, blue glass figurines by Picasso. They were being shown somewhat prominently just off the sculpture garden (no longer a garden), past the Kiefer in a suitable showcase. They were not auctioned off.
Yet.
Off to points beyond on this workful, artful day, also another jazzful one as well.

Al Gore Love.

Minding my own business, as is always my wont, I meandered into an office.
Why, You ask.
As if You have no idea that much of what I do is appearing at office doors, talking, photographing, talking, leaving, but not before some more talking and photographing.
So there Yours Truly is, at an office door of a superstar prof, in midst of conference with a grad student.
Grad Student was being spoken and, having been out of Academe for a little while, my ears were a bit rusty.
I do still recall, howmeverr, how to pronounce Benjamin properly (benYUHmean) as opposed to Benji the Dog's full name.
phew.
So conference and bandying about over and YT had already started making images as the superstar spoke. And then I sunk more into invisibility. And then not when it was just the two of us. Results smashing, of course.
But in mid-pixelation started to talk Mac and mentioned digvid, being self-taught and all that hair-raising miasmic stuff, and then moved on to the online realm.
In about ten minutes I had gleaned so much new information from this man that my brain had the feeling of having spoken French all day and the evening is going to stretch along and maybe even one kir royale (alright, three) have been consumed (or are in mid-sip) and the brain is working very hard at this other lingua until running away from the language is necessary to regroup and such.
I told the superstar this, he was pleased that he had imparted so much in such a short time.
Then there is today.
Photo gigs and then the bleak, stripmalledtrek to The Clubhouse to pick up something I thought I needed for this Mac. Turns out No, not needed, but talked for a long time to a MacClerk about all sorts of things to do with a Mac and the internet system.
Is anything more exciting. I think not.
Saw Donny K at The Clubhouse and told him I'd received a request from afar to get six teeny-rockers into a Goo show down south. And then today a p.r. femme called to see if I'd like to review a show in Rochester tomorrow. The rock world, which never left the side of YT, is creeping closer.
Speaking of bandying about, met up with fellow Spree people to volley ideas about regarding the best that might ever happen or be acquired in these parts.
I do mean, of course, Spree's best of issue.
Everyone does a best issue.
It is as assured as playoffs in sports, blooms in the garden, glances between pedestrians.

Played off, bloomed up Love.

wow.
That is what I said, Perfectly like so not sotto voce to myself as I tooled around Target today for this purpose, to acquire more sunscreen.
This, Yours Truly adds, the very same week beloved President Al Gore visits this very region.
You draw the line.
Now You do not naysay, telling YT that SPF 70 is truly something like 35. Like how booze's alcohol content is a snippet of what is printed labelside.
Irregardless of the veracity in the tube, this is huge news for one like me, one who burns sitting near a window on a sunny day.
Al. Al Gore.
This will be the third time that YT has photographed his direct gazed countenance.
The first time he was the veep and appeared with Tipper, Bill & Hill.
That is the occasion at the mega-plex-sporto arena of the Middling City's downtown, the one that afterwards a glimpse of a dummy vehicle with literal dummies resembling the foursome was spotted heading off into another direction from the actual vehicle carrying themselves.
Ahh, the sights, the sites that have been seen.
The second time Al was running for his presidency and was dressed in a sharp, brown cashmere sweater, thanks to Naomi the Feminist.
This is numero trio.
Beforehand I am shooting man on the street shots of attendees, exactly as I did for the visit of His Holiness Dalai Lama–HHDL in media parlance.

Time to mix rhubarb into cardamom into orange into strawberries.
That, You see, is chemistry for good.

Good, chemical Love.

Org'd a viewing of Kenn Morgan photos with Sparky and Annie over at one of those Middling City churches now proselytizing pedestrians with Art as the highest of powers, Karpeles.
And so on that note meandered to put her highness, Cat Power, on the hi-fi.
Kenn made images of profiles of femmes with Roman noses, as they are classified usually and he created some magnum opusesque words of his own that were as admirable as the images - max cascade was one.
Jeez it's been a while since this Cat Power was played and Yours Truly wonders why it has not hit the platter sooner.
At today's high powered event was not only lured into promising a visit to another artist's exhibition in a few weeks, but into having some early box wine. Early as in the hour and early as in was probably vinted last month.
I noted to Annie that the box is meant to fit onto a refrigerator door, they are roughly the width of a jar of mayonnaise. Now, YT asks, with a spigot on one side how does a box wino pour sans lifting the entire package up and away.
The box denoted the contents featured real grape juice and alcohol content, 11%.
There was cheese. We girls were thrilled.
It is time to push pixels and disseminate happiness the world over.
Met with Liz Friday evening to discuss the pending momentous b-day numero fiftio of Cheryl and our celebratory gesture of dinner, Perfection, gifts, explosion of glad tidings.
This is a very busy birthday month for YT has several persons of interest who were born as Tauruses and Gemini: Kennedy (the lone Gem), Brucey, Cheryl, Jana.
YT overdoes the birth anniversaries of others, usually.
I say Hooray to them.
And, usually, one gets a special improv harmonica tune on the phone to usher in all good vibes.
The greens get more vibrant each day.

Vibrant green Love.

+ The latest incarnation of that cable access show, still confusedly called the Sterlace Show although the eponymousee departed after a mid-life meltdown, is out in the world. Viewable on their site whose URL escapes. It was taped 4.13.07, the exact anniversary (to day of week) of epinw and Blogger, Beckett were discussed. Me, Mish, Annie had a sing-off at the end, to which I dragged several rock classics to the table.

. . . and back again for a brief refueling of sorts before jetting off again.
As I told the Girlie Gang last night during our extended replay over at that cold (and, when they dial down the thermo as the hour gets trop late, frigid) Toro, 'tis the season when Yours Truly subsists on reception food. Cheese cubes (one of the three basic flavours depending upon mood-orange, beige, spicily-speckled), bottled water, carrot sticks, random finger foods.
Met the girls out after a 13-hour, intense day that completely rocked-in images, conversations, thoughts.
Called Vincenzo en route and asked him to guess how many hours since YT had brushed all the teeth.
12, he guessed.
13, I corrected.
Today was the inauguration of Hilbert's nouvelle president, Cynthia Zane, who has actually been on duty for about one year already. It is official. Well, nearly not so when her medalion with bas-relief Hilbert College icon went all missing and former SUNY Chancellor Bob Bennett stepped up to the plate, so to speak, and proffered up his own SUNY medallion. Wrong ribbon colour, wrong medallion color but it was something.
Photographed her later with vrai one.
To date have been hired to document three inaugurations - Muriel Moore Howard at Buffalo State College, John Barclay Simpson at UB, Cynthia Zane at Hilbert.

Literal Harold used one of my gaming images from Sicily and posted today about this Mario Puzzle Bobble.
I told him the image's visual provenance, if You will.
An espresso rest stop area, open-air, plane trees outside, sunny day.
A place in Siracusa.
By the water, but, then again, nearly everything in Sicily is near the water.
Off to points beyond.

Pointed Love.