A funny thing happened on the top of Middling City's City Hall yesterday morning.
Yours Truly wished to make some snap-happy images from the observation deck so rode the rickety (absolutely no exaggeration, my fingers were already motioning over the numbers 9-1-1 just in case) elevators to the toppermost floor and then ascended the extra stairs to the pinnacle of this Art Deco marvel.
Once at deck level (it should be noted that the stairwell is painted that institutional colour that is sort of a pastel or icy light turquoise that nobody would ever, in their right mind, use in a house.
And the paint gave off that leaded vibe.
And, as most of the building is tragically unkempt, the question arises as to who in hell is sweeping these stairs and keeping this stairwell reasonably free from graffiti and such. And then thoughts ramble over to the trip to the tip of Empire State Building, how equally dismal that is, in a dismal Shiney Apple way that cannot rival this cross-state dismality.
*sidebar: Ascended the top of ESB for a try-out gig to write scripts for a co. that has those handy cellphone warbles about key things in cities. After the long lines, the badly-faded photos in showcases, the crabby staffers, the shake-down to try to get tourists to purchase packages to ascend AND see some hoaky 3-D movie, decided the ESB script of YT would be just non-glowing. So skipped that idea.
So up there, the big metal door with one-key locked situ is totally not allowing for stepping out onto the deck.
Spotted some open metal windows, open about one foot, enough to squeeze through to shoot through the thick plexi. As YT was stepping through the window and then noting the five-foot drop, glanced over to see, for the first time, one of those little casino-worthy surveillance cams.
I calculated.
Rickety elevator to floor - what was it, 28 - then steps, security thugs should be arriving in about fifteen minutes, if they're even truly manning these cams.
So finished up my photo matters at hand and then descended down and then another floors more.
Found an office and requested that YT stand at a window and make some happy images from a window in appropriate direction.
Was there thwarted by some locked doors.
Went down one more floor and found an incredible office with a very-bored secretary at a giant p.c. who did say Fine, about me stepping into a vacated executive suite (replete with empty shelves, a vintage vacuum, and more) to shoot through the windows. Maneuvered my cam around the splattered, aged pigeon poop to get some fantastic shots of the buildings.
Did this at several other downtown locations.
Script.
Hi, I'm here to photograph buildings over to the (east/west/north/south). Would you mind if I stationed myself at a window and shot away for a few minutes. Thanks.
More profuse thanks upon completion and slip out office door.
A grand day all in all.
Went to hear Literal Harold later very same day, as in yesterday, read from the serial killer tome.
Was fab.
Was in Cheektowaga.
Was in vintage 60s library under ultra-fluorescence.
Was oso appropriate.

More buildings, more shooting now.

More now, Love.

Yours Truly planned one fine & fab First Annual Old First Ward Pub Stroll this past Friday night with 25 people meandering from joint to joint.
Highlights, pictured, top to bottom: the group on the prowl (Leica was on multi-burst shooting and didn't have the wherewithal to do anything but work with It); Paul and Harold in McCarthy's (note memorabilia behind); Molly and Lisa in adorable outfits with Dougie and Bob (in midst of dissecting his classical fish fry); Dougie, mid-jump & flash; Annie and Brucey mid-talk; and what I lovingly dubbed Team Pub Stroll.

Handed out maps and we walked from McCarthy's down South Street for a nice view of Industry, then up Louisiana and then across Miami Street which spooked even the guys but, as I pointed out, once we passed the little dog leg the next destination, McBride's, is in sight and all is swell. McBride's was wonderful with a patio with bar on that. From there a quick jaunt to Swannie House which is always good but they were in a state of discombobulation and had run out of a few basics, like Labatt, for those who drink beer. A delivery was en route, we were told, and it came. In cans. Had a helpful barmaid make the Team Pub Stroll image, instructing her to please stand on a bendy plastic chair to do so. Went the short distance to Malamute and, after sniffing the stale beer farts aroma in there, made executive decision that we were not staying. It's an alright joint if it is near-empty, with a side room. But that air. We attempted an extra-OFW meander to Cobblestone but it was teeming with disgruntled Sabres fans so back to McBride's it was.

Oso many more details to follow for life is one big sensual banquet.
As Oscar W. and many others through the ages have noted.

All You Can Eat, Love.

Yours Truly is merrily ensconced in Vagabond World.
Sort of a lesser Off Grid Moment, working on the laptop (with sanity-saving iTunes blaring a lovely soundtrack down into the ear canals) in a corner with a nice pot of tea in a cloud of wi-fi.
In actuality a near-Perfect moment.
If I could just erase the femme nearby who is an unblinking grad student here to charm the pants off her male prof, all would be Parfait.
She speaks loudly of writing poetry, cites thee Derrida with abandon.
She swings her tattooed foot in his direction.
His hands are off the table, on a folder.
This deconstructive body language whimpers the erotic dance between teacher & student. The give & take. The mind meld and the mind shield.
Just emailed Sparky a nice little reverie, a dance choreographed to Touch and Go's Would You ...?
Yesterday's talk to the yutes went very well.
There were twenty-two of them, three of us advisers. And three handlers.
At one point I suggested that we all trek outdoors so the students could make their first frame on their dispos-o-cams of themselves for identifying purposes.
It was as if I suggested we suddenly pass a loaded revolver around the room and take turns aiming at the old marble mantelpiece remaining in the beleaguered former grand home's sitting room.
We all went outside. The other adults made much of this. YT did not.
All went swimmingly and they got to stretch their collective legs.
I noted that the other instructive people did lots of direct talking whereas I asked them some questions.
Who in blazes wants to only be talked at, never asked a question.
It's a simple, human thing. We like to feel noticed, placed, respected, asked.
The ol' give & take once again.
I especially enjoyed talking to two girl pals who sat in the front row, they were very funny indeed.
They revealed that they didn't want to take their portraits just then as they hated the way their hair looked. I suggested that they do this later, at home.
They looked concerned about not following the directive and I suggested that they fake the taking of their portraits.
They dutifully stood in line. They made faux ports.
I said Nice job, ladies.
Afterwards met the fam at Tempo for a grand dinner.
Pal Paulie Jenkins helped me and Soups wine & dine the hell out of our parents, now married for a whopping forty-eight years.
We had superstar treatment and it was magnifique.
Time to wend to the suburbs to take the niece and nephew out shopping for some school items that will rock.

Rocking wardrobe Love.

Tomorrow at this very minute, 10 past Stoners' Time, Yours Truly will be imparting photo wisdom to Middling City youths, along with two other photogs.
I plan on showing them some work. Capital W.
As in art work and freelance work samples.
Kids, I shall say, sighing briefly, you can shoot anything. In any way. It's what's in here (thumping chest) that makes it real, gives it what Benjamin called an aura. Bluff your way through the landscape and make cheap shots and not only will you not feel something akin to passionate love, but your audience will know it, too.
Then I shall state my favoured statement of all time.
I rest my case.
And have a seat.
After that imparting, YT and her sister are taking the matching set of parents out for their 48th wedding anniversary. Not 50. As had been mistakenly believed to be this anniversary year as one mother of the pair mentioned 50 at some point and YT, being ever the party planner as well as diligent and thoughtful person, began planning a fete. It was only after nosing about a bit that it was discovered that there are two more years for that grand event.
But we are still heading toward one of the MC's fanciest, schmanciest joints for dinner which should be a treat.
Just finished documenting an event for the Big U and featured was a speaker, a reader of poems and essays who brought down the house in a moody manner.
One attendee said to another, on their way out.
Oh, you didn't miss a thing, all the readings were about Death.
Apparently attendee two had not been able to hear the hushed words.
Onwards.

Passionate, photographic Love.

Freeland would have been oso beaming at what Jon et al created last night at Artie's Town Ballroom in his honour, a veritable rock & roll throwdown and jubilant reunion cavalcade of good people from the club sphere.
Went to the big trib after the Big Orbit opening, with Annie.
Big O did some changing of the space for one of the installations and it made the space a bit claustrophobic. Also taking away from the ambiance was the x-l dumpster parked right by the steps.
Midway through our gallery stop Laura appeared with a balloon half full of red vino, and I hoped for her sake it was not that horrid yellow tail that has infested the wine world.
We motored on towards downtown and floated in the rock world for a long while.
TZ was there selling her Planet Love wares at the table that also featured Freeland's two books.
I was at the table to buy one of the books but got distracted by the sheer simplicity of the iconic Freeland shirt. But was sad that they did not have my size in black.
TZ sold me the shirt off her back, literally.
Here is the before and after.



She instructed me to launder the black shirt before wearing it.
Fercrissakes, Yours Truly stated, I've known you for decades, what's a little DNA between pals.
Seen, heard:
Carla (of course), TonyB (the emcee and on sax and on point) and Kimmie, Darien Hicks, Donny, Marcie, Paula + Greg (yes, +!), Kane w/Bud, Bud's Sue (who tells me Andre now goes by Booker (yikes), Lisa K, Jill, Marty (who pointed in the direction of Susan, not seen), Bob of DasBoot historical fame, Maria, Harvey (on date and +2), Erectronics, Paper Faces (who I saw a few times at thee premier Tralfamadore Cafe when on Main @ Fill), Industry of Life Divine (aka Industry of My Behind, featuring the Middling City's own Bono, Gary), and oso several more.

Triumphant, Tributary Love.

Yours Truly is hosting an Old First Ward Pub Stroll this pending Friday with a nice, short tour of the best joints in this quadrant of the Middling City.
Invited those who are near & dear as well as those who just will get, or already do get, the OFW. And its attendant visuals, examples of extant industry.
Extant Industry ... another great band name.
While on the prowl for an obscure and oft-closed joint, spotted lights on this past week and headed indoors to scout out what the apparently new(er) owners have done to its charming interior, last being there when it had, no shock, pretenses of being a muy authentico Celtic gin mill. It did not last.
So I pulled open the heavy front door and discovered an aluminum window screen propped up in such a way that YT had to pick it up to avoid having it crash to the ground. I entered the barroom with the screen in my hand and most of the heads turned in my direction. A man near the back shouted The girl with the screen is here.
Now that is a classic MC moment.
I sat at the bar and talked to a femme next to me and asked what the name of the place is, as there is no sign in sight.
McBride's, she stated. That was for certain.
What is the address, YT queried.
That's where things fell apart, with several numbers helpfully shouted out.
One three-digit number was finally agreed upon.
But the most important thing is that I do know the historic corner upon which it stands proudly.
And it's added onto the Stroll if everyone is in agreement and wishes to cool their heals mid-way to the Swannie.
It should also be noted that YT had a mag gig quite some time ago when the Iraq War was a newer world event, making portraits of a femme soldier who grew up and went to school in Western New York and who was on leave, having just lost a close comrade in a terrible incident.
I went to her mother's home and met the soldier, who was obviously in a state of shock, her mother looked on proudly, worriedly.
Made images of her with her helmet that had been signed by her fallen friend, and inside and out her mother's bedecked home.
My favorite, and I think the image the mag used for their cover, was the soldier, Jeanna Marrano, on her mother's front lawn with her hand along a string of American flags, her in casual dress. Despite her shock she re-enlisted.
YT was surprised to see Marrano on the cover of MCNews this past week, now against the war, but still in It.

“Get out. Immediately. We should have got out years ago,” said Marrano, 28, a sergeant in the Army National Guard who spent a year near Baghdad patrolling the most dangerous highway in the country.

Watched an excellent movie last night with Kennedy, Sam Fuller's The Steel Helmet, about a small band of survivor characters amid the Korean War.
One character despairingly wonders why they cannot invent a bulletproof pot/helmet.
Of all the war movies and films viewed to date this low-budget movie creates an oppressive sense of terror in the field.
Hilly Kristal, inventor of CBGB, is dead. And like other important things that emerged in '73 (including Dark Side of the Moon), this is one.
Saw my nephew play his premier varsity football game today.
I asked my father what his title is.
Defense.
Not sure what sub-title.
They kicked ass, as they say in the sports world - 22 to Zip, as they also say in the wide world of sports.
Last night went to see a hexcellent play at New Phoenix, Thrill Me, with Sparky and Annie. After all 90 minutes of gripping action, told Richard Lambert and Bob Waterhouse that YT gives it 3 thumbs up.
I was not on the star system last night.
Tonight is Freeland's Tribute and I am like so going in rock & roll solidarity, bon vivantness, and good karma.

Tributary Love.

Forgot to post this image earlier, the image of the art runner handling the drawing by Yours Truly for Paint the Town.
The white gloves are always a charming touch, it makes every piece seem so precious.
Got an email from Literal Harold, images of himself basking in the Adriatic sun. He claims that some nice corporation actually sent gaming writers to Dubrovnic for a junket. I asked why YT is not also there. I did go to Vegas for that Bally/VH1 junket. The Adriatic Sea would have been nice, too.
Here is some artwork by LH (a This Just In):


Presently, the Middling City is awash in its superb annual autumnal light, art-inspiring light. Last night's dusky sky featured 9/11-worthy, gloomy black clouds, followed by some batten-down-hatches rain.

Worked on the HeadyVet Beast Project, as I am calling it, for her new digs on Delaware Avenue, photographing pets both domestic, casual, and exotic for the walls. Big decisions regarding edits as there are oso many. And framing, always a hot art topic.
A small selection of the results and then off to deadline points beyond.







Beastly Love.

While minding my own business, for I am certain Yours is quite enough for You to deal with - let alone me - and really none of my Perfect business to boot, found myself completely in Twilight Zone portion of Kenmore Avenue.
Looking for a school at Kenmore at Vulcan for a photo op yet all the street and all the numbers ran out.
Found a helpful Kenmore c.o.p. and asked her (I was nearly afraid to approach her car, lest there was hanky-panky of some sort happening in there ... or if she'd be angry I was infringing on her setting-up of either a sting operation or speed trap) just where in hell the rest of Kenmore Avenue is or was. She reminded Yours Truly that Kenmore rejoins itself about two blocks up north.
Then I spotted Lisa Ludwig, who was also searching for the school. And then we were informed by a teacher in sensible shoes that we were, in sooth, at the wrong school, that we had to push onwards further west.
There was the school, with helpful WalMart greeter type in day-glo vest and holding a small stop sign.
First-graders are teeming with hard-hitting questions, with interesting facts about their noses, and their families.
One kid claimed his papa can put a penny through the table.
He was one-upped by a classmate who claimed his father could put an EGG through the table.
YT was there to photograph John Simpson, UB President, who was reading to this inquisitive classful. They asked how much he makes. They asked if he has a wife. Then they wanted to know how old she is.
Last night was Paint the Town, the annual charity art-making and auctioning benefit for the Hysterical/Historical Society.
Harvey Siegel, Esq. purchased my excellent drawing from a nature-meets-industry view on Ganson Street.
Apparently Simon Pagani was in his office this fine a.m. and saw the piece and also dug it.
Time to careen out of here and get to next gig.
And then onto Shiney Happy Mag matters.

What matters. Love.

Loads of Those of Note will be at this year's Rockin' at the Knox, including Jen+Jamal, The Rifkins, and members of Solid Gold Bookers (prominently featured, somewhat, in The Shiney Happy Mag except they forgot a nice little photo caption listing everyone's names ... Yours Truly was, however, mentioned in the profile).
And oso many more.
As I discussed, and agreed, with Deb, Feist is a bigger personal draw than headlining Elvis Costello. Feist was in the marvelous TO band Broken Social Scene, as good a surprise as the Shiney Apple's Ambulance Ltd.
Speaking of the SA, DK is having a b-day today and is heading out for a sumptuous treat just not available in the Middling City, recently deemed the nation's second poorest city for real.
DK is heading out after her workday for grapefruit margaritas with complicated jalapeño salt.
Told her a while back our next restaurant foray must be a joint that actually received a mediocre review in NYT, Rayuela on the Lower East Side. I think I should like to head there for the descriptified interior which sounds luxe and natural, a tree central to its room.
Soon YT is heading out to make some drawings of grain elevators for the charity event for this poor city's Historical Society (read museum and social hall), Paint the Town, as is my wont.
Despite lifelong photographic tendencies, no photography for the event is allowed so drawing magic happens. I usually take a documentary photo of the finished and framed piece before it is on the block and hung somewhere unknown.
Speaking of unknown, Literal Harold is heading to a strange place on the Adriatic for work, he writes.
Dubrovnik, a Croatian city on a skinny tract of land.
Speaking of skinny tracts of land, the block party tossed together by The Kitchen in the SA sounds most appealing as it is not only gratis, but includes High Line, the former El turned into a green space.
Time to make, do, draw, draw upon my mused reserve.

Reservations for Love.

Image from Windfall, up there in the wilds of Canada, where trees grow symmetrically.
No far more earth(l)y images from last night's Mulligan's Reunion, at DiGiulio's in what was once the VIP zone of the club.
Supped with Sparky at the near-deserted Mode, filling our tanks, so to speak, for hours of hustle and bustle.
Met up with the others there, making a pitstop at Kennedy's to drop some bags, flotsam. Upon arrival noted the cars parked everywhere but, as the parking goddess always shines upon Yours Truly, came up with a spot mere feet from the awning, the tent, the fete.
At the entryway sat Mike Militello of Mulligan's Legendary Fame, who hugged and kissed me and said he wondered if and when I'd be arriving. He did not charge me the entry fee which warmed my heart. Amongst the other Hall of Famers was d.j. Charlie Anzalone who said he'd also wondered if YT would be there and, when he saw me, yelled my name loudly as he spun out the name brands and the more obscure.
Now my mine meanders over to that dance hall hit Last Night a DJ Saved My Life and I'm not so sure that's officially oso disco but did not hear that last night.
Danced non-stop, well, except for a few breaks for refreshment and talked ever so briefly with Donny behind one of the bars.
Saw several grammar school pals - Carla, Sandy, Victor, Mark, Lisa, Deanna. Deanna owns the joint with her mother, Joanne, so of course she was there.
We all still look like we did in our 8th grade class portrait, made long-style, b&w on the demesne of 66. I reminded Sandy that we'd all just been mooned by a guy in a speeding vehicle so all had very smug looks on our pubescent little faces.
Danced and danced some more until I noted to Sparky that I was beginning to feel as if we were in a dance-a-thon, our book club girlie pals had all left hours before, and it was time to hit the road.
Today is Labor Day, so that is what is primarily on my Perfect agenda.

Laboring, Love.

Damien Hirst's For the Love of God sold for $100 million dollars U.S. - even the NYS mega millions winner could not have afforded that solo: the glitzy skull sold to a group of investors, including the artist.
Not selling for that amount, actually not selling at all, was the piece made by Yours Truly for the Hallwalls memberific show, which You may recall.
John Massier mentions it in this week's Hallwalls and Elsewhere and mercury buckets to Pam for letting me know it was onsite.
If You should like to purchase, just let YT know. It comes ready-to-proudly-display. And it's a keeper.
So jumped back into the saddle/office chair/work-ready Subaru immediately and worked yesterday and today shoot a holiday weekend wedding which will either have a very relaxed vibe or be untilthewheelsfalloff raucous.
Afterwards heading to the Mulligan's Reunion at DiGiulio's and I did promise Deanna I'd provide girls in tube tops and a cloud of disco fun.
I do hope that the air is not rich with the scent of Jovan musk.
Time to move forward into this Middling City day, sunny and full of industrious energy.
Love Autumn.

Wow/HolyGuac/GadZooks for since Yours Truly crept into the Canadian wilds, Blogger offers digvid posting, and how oso much easier my late-in-life-salad-days of Parsons could have been when posting to the internet those few years ago meant Sorenson 3 conversions, several messy steps, the holding of breath, and meager results.
But I digress or, rather, offshoot, when the matter at hand is this.
I have been away.
You have missed me, creeping along the internet–famished–for my Perfect takes on this world, and Yours.
One premier order of business is that YT hit upon Ryan Adams's wondrous, hermetically-Perfect pop tune Nuclear and it is so right for this weekend, as it's about the waning summer. And beyond.
His newest is good, not quite living up to the cover.
So, there YT was in Canada sans wireless or plug-in devices of any sort.
Cooking haut cuisinely on a gas stove under propane-fueled lights that give off a hiss and a light fume.
Mice romp wildly in the kitchen all night and one night, as I cooked, a smallish dark bat circled about the cabin, coming into the kitchen in a delicate arc at hip level. At one point its little wing brushed near my ear but bats don't really mean to scare people, they are far too busy and concerned with their foremost matter at hand - the decimation of the insect population and for that we should embrace them, figuratively.
At my request and behest there was a kayak, two, actually, and this created a delicious daily diversion.
It was all those campy years ago that YT fell in love with kayaking, the ability to skim low on the water and sit, when desired, in the midst of a loon's point of view of a lake. And sitting amid the gentleness of lotus flowers in bloom is always a highlight.
Yesterday I headed out solo with a backpack holding a decade-old CD player and played Coldplay's Rush of Blood as I kayaked out into whitecaps under a late afternoon sun. Heading in a straight line for I was not sure what.
Thought I'd paddle until the CD was completed but I had reached the straight line's shore end before the end. So I drifted as I listened to the final three tunes on the disc before hitting play once again and heading back to the cabin in about half the amount of tunes, singing whenever I knew the lyrics.
Kennedy watched for me on the shore, on a rock, thinking I could have been enveloped by the water.
There was only a brief flash of fear about the water, when I began to think of how powerful and relentless water is, and about the near-drowning ages ago.
There were no sightings of moose, or bears, though we all did look. A total of eight eyes saw nothing but elegant wild birds, including partridge and one kingfisher.
And a persistent woodpecker.
I did see, besides lotus, a very gorgeous orange wildflower I have to look up.
I picked up one perfect white granite square for a souvenir.
And did take a few images with the little Leica which continues to impress YT with its smart design.
There were a few short hikes with some random chomps of black bugs - the horse flies, the black flies, the moose flies.
Finished the Solid Gold Booker last choice, Middlesex, which was super. It won a big Pulitzer fercrisskes. Then started and mid-way into Hunger, a Nobel winner, fercrissakes, in '20.
I blog from the highway.
As other deep woods wildness crosses my mind again I will send those images forth, as well as a scan or two from the sketchbook (I think of the Toles correspondence), and some of the Leican shots.

Returning, Love.

As Yours Truly frantically burns DVDs and CDs blogging happens.
Freelance gigs piled up mere seconds before the imminent leaving of the Middling City for Wilds of Canada.
Yesterday's gigs included one at a nursing home, a place of multi-colored tile floors that stretch seemingly endlessly down corridors that then dead-end abruptly.
Was buzzed into a side door as YT has a kind face and I did not look dangerous.
And had several heavy bags that scream photog, or maybe even pharmaceutical rep - with samples.
After being buzzed in was wandering, and wandering, and wandering some more.
I did, as is not my wont at moments when I am in the flow of discovery, ask for directions and received some fairly terrible directions. One bad set of directions had me landing in a classroom of people watching an educational vid.
One by one all heads turned in my direction. Until the instructress asked where in hell I'd like to really be.
I shall soon catalogue all moments where YT has entered a door and all activities have ceased.
One that springs to mind includes a public bathhouse in Japan, Itabashi-Ku, to be Perfectly exact.
So I was sent on my way with a finger pointed in another erroneous correct approximation of where I'd find the person I was searching for.
I should like to point out that this building is not equipped with security cams, just a lot of lino.
So then I dead-ended at a chapel in a corner space and heard the strains of a solo voice singing their proverbial heart out and if YT had to guess it would be one of the residents with a purpose.
I did finally find my subject.
Onwards.
Time to deliver the goods, as we say in the photo business.
My Empire comes to a quiet halt as I now wend up north.
Not knowing if blogging magique will take place in the next five or so days but here is a visual I would like to leave You with:
parents are moving and so is their long-forgotten archive, including a sub-archive of my very-forgotten papers from high school and college - with memorabilia.
One item in latter was a folio of 70s Olympic kiddie gymnast sensation Nadia Comaneci photographs and press clippings from when I was a gymnast back in the pre-day.
One of the clips was a small vertical image of Nadia with comedian extraordinaire Flip Wilson.

Flipped on Love.

There Yours Truly was, having a fine IP (in poetry) moment as a favoured song played on the car's hi-fi as I was viewing up ahead what was interpreted to be a slice of something oso bittersweet - a fellow Middling City driver earning a rare speeding ticket on the 33, meaning YT would have to hand over her maligned crown for same.
In sooth it was a cop lazing down the 33 with all his bells and whistles going full throttle, perhaps transporting a VIP, an MIA, an MVP, or a DOA.
Whoah, something totally crazy happening currently on hi-fi in house.
Placed one of the new discs into carousel, pushed play, and voi-freakin-là - no music from CD but from some wack pop rock radio show.
Okey-dokes, all is Perfect once again.
What has transpired in the last several days is just a parade, a cavalcade, if You will, of matters summery, sporty, saucy.
Went to a AAAAAAAAAAA baseball match with Jana, the MC's own Bisons, who were spanked, as they say in the sports sphere.
Believe this or not but I stuck my hand into one of those novelty over-sized finger pointer foam hands for the premier time. It belonged to a kid sitting in front of us. What I found shocking was that I was not able to stick my own little pointer up into the foam hand's pointer man. I found this to be a design flaw.
Those around YT found this foamy discovery quite amazing, it was not unlike when YT silenced a diner/bar/gambling den with the statement Gee, this is my first corndog.
Silence.
So then the balls started popping into the stands, a kid was wacked in the face, his father fled (with kid), and then I realized the added superbonus of having a novelty oversized foam item on one's person.
Next night was another item to be ticked off on the Summer To-Do List: Float in a swimming pool.
We Solid Gold Bookers met at Jeremy's parents's place in Kenmore amid a lovely glowing garden and splashed and conjured up some Esther Williams-worthy watery routines.
Next night was Bills pre-season madness with Sparky as we wended our way into the football zone, me procuring rockstar parking in a flash. Then the healthful hike to the stadium, the rare MC R2W (reason to walk).
Then wended about inside the stadium to find the numbers that matched our tix and merrily we discovered we had entrée to Jim Kelly Club, avoiding the multitudes and headed towards a friendly bartender for some cocktails. Then we made a dinner decision, then another cocktail decision. Then we carefully balanced ourselves out the ushered door to our very excellent seats.
Our asses his the seats just as intermission was happening.
Then we watched the mid-game festivities, and the Jills, bien sur.
Then some romping by the Bills.
Then an injury.
Then we did the wave eight times.
They (NB: YT did not write we) did not win. But they did look good in their outfits.
All for now and back to rainy MC day matters.

Love of Rain for flowers and focus.

There Yours Truly was, minding mine own photo beeswax when suddenly I found myself Perfectly ensconced up in the bell tower of the Middling City's east side Saint Ann's Church on B'Way. And then later in Black Rock's Saint Francis Xavier on East Street, just a small stone's toss from where Creeley lived in his fire house and where KC had his photo studio on the ground floor.
Fabricated an idea and pitched it at Catherine Parker (who YT collaborated with several years ago on a grain elevator show) about doing an art show, collection of work on the doomed and architecturally magnificent churches in the city.
Saint Ann's is lush and Gothic and has a complex carved altar rimmed with little white lights (see illustrative image), much like the altar of the performance venue in the Shiney Apple where VisionFest happens.
It took Martin Ederer, the man who met us at the churches, keys in hand, several flips of several switches to light up the altar.
One of the most arresting things in St. Ann's is a carved pelican, in nest with three fledglings (see other image), Martin told us a symbol of selflessness as pelicans will make themselves bleed to feed their young if there is a shortage of food.
You do the metaphor.
So then gazing up at the pipe organ, 99.9% sold off in the 60s by a misguided priest, went up into the choir loft where YT picked up a paper from 1955, the sports section and we speculated it was a bored chorister on a Sunday catching up on hard news.
Then Martin asked if YT is afraid of heights.
Then I did one of my famed and classique hai-karate kicks to emphasize that the answer was a big, fearless, and thundering No.
He and I basically crawled up many rickety and uneven wooden stairs amid the limestone blocks which smelled so lush, like the rapids of the mighty Niagara.
Up in bell tower looked at the six bells, the largest of which weighs 3800 pounds. Wanted to hear the hour chime and was up there for 11 of them, watching the mechanism of the 150-year old clock do its thing. Then took a stroll around the clock tower, making images of the skyline from a nice alternative angle.
Onwards to Black Rock, where YT was getting led into the wrong church. A woman sweeping and her Hillary Duff-listening kid were taking me down an alleyway to a side door so I could make some images. There was a car just like Catherine's parked in front. Then Martin appeared and said only Wrong church. I thanked my helpers and moved along then to the right one where YT met a man who has worked there for 22 years as choirmaster and organist, there composing a very somber tune for their closing on the 26th of this month.
More to come–curios, doc of works by forgotten craftsmen, backroom flora.

Fearless Love.

A mere stone's throw from the Middling City in any direction and about a half hour drive leads to agrarian sights and sounds - bonus photo destinations, distractions, passing narratives.
Yesterday Kennedy and I made my second, his first, foray to that excellent garden joint in the suburbs and had to pass the backside of the Erie County Fairgrounds where Yours Truly spotted a black goat being groomed for, assumedly, his chance for the blue ribbon.
Speaking of blue ribbons and such Sparky and I bought some Mega Gazillions tix and never even checked the numbers.
At the garden spot picked up more perennials, as is my wont, including doppelganger coneflowers (piggy-backed flowers, very surreal) and some scrubby, intriguing alpine plants that have morphed over eons into tough little flora that can make it amongst the mountain winds, sun, and goats.

Sidebar: As I have been editing and making & doing since the earliest hours of this day I have been e-educating myself with both quick perusals of my favoured online periodicals (NYT, Paper, mediabistro) and Flashback Alternatives.
Flashback Alternatives, if You are of same sonic inclinations, is an aural treat that can be streamed on oso many levels via different players for so many differing situs, and it makes YT pleased that coming of age happened in the fine and odd-sounding 80s. They are now playing, for example, one of those lush Smiths tunes that when you hear it once again you want to just go out and dance, eschewing, of course, most of the attendant wardrobe.
Those were odd, sartorial times.
To say the least.
I am thinking specifically of the very complicated Z.Cavaricci khakis, pointed elf shoes from TO, gloves, assymetrical hair.

This past Friday YT was on the monitor/audience-facing side of karaoke things as Jana has some sort of report to report for the MCNews about such matters.
Her and I went to Garden Park something-something where YT was determined to sing the best works of Seger.
Which I did.
With aplomb, YT might Perfectly add.
Jana does a subtle v. of that Tracy Chapman number, Give Me One Reason. Which she saw fit to trot out at the next joint, King's Court.
Although it was not Seger, Simon's Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover (it also being on the S's page, dig) was performed by YT, dedicated to Jana of course.
At that Garden Place there was some background dancing, some round-the-tables dancing. At King's Court there was a smattering of dance, some frightening (this in finger-arching-in-air quotes) artichoke dip, and a plethora of donuts (YT does not touch deep-fried molecules), and R&B tunes.
Saturday included me and Sparky location scouting for some dance spots and landing in Jesse's El Diablo Muy Authentico Gin Mille where we could not dance on the checkerboard floor as a duet from Chicago did a complex act with keyboard, costumes, stuffed animals, shadow puppets, and false eyelashes.
It was kind of like something you could see at the fair, or in a talent show, or on the stage of the Pyramid in the Shiney Apple.

Shining, staged Love.

Between gigs and e-working, e-reading, and e-such.
Made portraits of a biking policewoman and chose a setting that was full of Nature. Sadly, however, Yours Truly forgot her SPF5000 and now my face feels that tinge of radiation.
Took Niece and Nephew to Thursday at the Square, that free downtown Middling City throwdown, as they had selected that date to see quote-unquote one-man jam band Keller Williams who did not impress. Sure, he can play lots of equipment and loop his riffs and bang a bit on a drumpad but his lyrics were insipid and his playing's novelty wore off halfway through song three. It was far more amusing to watch Keller's devotees, throngs of happy Esmereldas and attendant boys, some with the usual hippie accessories like patchwork pants, devil sticks, one-hitters, toe rings and oso much more.
Went to dinner and show with N & N as well as Annie and her niece.
Stayed for about 45 minutes of Keller's jammie goodness and headed down to Allentown for some frozen treats, and more live music (and much better) at Steel Crazy.
Dropped the children with their usual handler and met Jana out for some liquid refreshment, the usual spot with the chatty bartender, who generously insisted that we try some of his, he said, secret stash of chocolate grappa.
He insisted that his nonni sends it over from the Old Country.
It was, as grappa is, deceptive in its potent, portentous potability.
Had talked to Sparky, who was meeting up with a band at one of the MC's international bridges to stardom. I was possibly going to accompany to said bridge until the time changed to the hinterlands of lateness. I did say, however, that she should call to tell me she was okey-dokes and en route to her home.
Awoke to Sparky's voice at 3 a.m. telling me all was swell and all about the band, Birthday Massacre who we may see and hear up North some time soon.

More driving, more shooting, more editing starting now.

Now, Love.

Yesterday had the aura of John all around.
Seemingly pretending that I live in L.A. had a tripartite drive-thru experience with first stop being the caffeine stop (second post office, third bank, no bad food involved on this pass-through jaunt) where a Starbucks man who had dipped into the beans welcomed me to The Magic Window.
As I pulled up to the window he asked if Yours Truly would like a walrus. I said Sure. He said the price and then I did like so not want a walrus and then we began a brief discussion of walruses.
How one could keep a walrus in the Middling City. I asked if he'd keep his walrus inside or out. In a kiddie pool, he stated. I suggested a large flap on a door so the walrus could come in and out as he/she chose. He said A sunroom would be good for a walrus, I rebutted a mudroom would be better.
As I began to pull away from the window he leaned forward, stuffed plush walrus in hand, shaking him side to side singing
Koo koo koo choo.
YT just did some online lyrical research and, according to a site it is, in actuality
Goo goo g'joob g'goo goo g'joob.
Several hours later, at the muy excellent Black Rebel Motorcycle Club gig at The Tralf downtown, stood stageside with Sparky dancing our respective rock & roll dances. There, amongst the ring of stageside watchers were three Asian women with cameras (as were about a dozen other ringers), one of which was a May Pang doppelganger.
NB: as you enter May's site there's a cue to Listen to this site. Do not. Unless you are in the mood for elevator muzak, pendulum swing far far away from all that is Apple and yes, We could mean an encompassing Apple as in Beatles, as in iUniverse.
YT wonders about what a band is thinking as they observe the people closest to the stage. Besides YT, Sparky, May and her peers, ringside standers included a guy with a mullet, a heavy woman with arms crossed, a thin woman who could not take her eyes off the Asian femmes, and who YT came to call Tambourine Boy.
Tambourine Boy stood at the feet of Robert Levon Been, waiting for a turn at the tambourine tossed down next to an amp. He gestured madly for a chance to tinkle away when - suddenly - Been picked up the tambourine with the toe of his black boot (much like we tennis stars can do with balls and such, like hockey stars can do with fallen teeth, pucks and the like) and launched it right at Tambourine Boy who played it with impressive precision, arms over head. And, as we are all really animals with instinctual charms, One could read that Tambourine Boy hoped he'd be given a rock & roll arm up onto the stage. Which did not happen.
A precise, long, rock star-studded (off and on stage) event.
For some levity YT yelled Love on the Rocks when the band asked what We should like to hear.
Neil would have laughed.

Laughing with, for, and at Love.

Midst of suburbs, midst of wedding gig and the woman who runs this country club's wedding portion of things just came to tell Yours Truly (editing another gig in the joint's sole room with smattering of a/c - despite all doors and windows wide open, the other rooms have none as it would halt the march of venerability in the ballroom and such) that the couple du moment was about to slice & dice their special cake.
It should be noted that the bride was absolutely not into having a wedding cake at all and this point had been mentioned by several in the cast of characters.
A bartender, an obvious lifer, tipped YT off about this coolest room and, after being out in the sun in a suit, this is a welcomed respite.
Down with sun. Down with heat.
Up with shade. Up with autumn.
Up with removed and discreet boardrooms in the middle of the suburbs with swagged-out windows, hand-painted walls, functional furniture in burgundy, and a view of a tetherball field of green.
There are some great dresses at this affair, one pair of fab sandals, a guy in very solid Steve Madden shoes (impressively he knew the designer), a feisty flower girl, no butt bow, and a priest with an actual good sense of humour who drinks scotch YT duly noted.
Time to make, do, observe, document with blazing finesse.
Would You be so kind as to fetch me another pint-sized suburban tap water with extra lemon squeezes.
YT thanks You.

Love in the Midst.

There I was, minding my own Perfect business, as usual, and a succession of events unfolded.
Headed to the favoured diner to see Betty the Waitress et al, read the Middling City News, catch up on neighborlike vibes, and oso much more.
John and his co-owner are opening a dinner-only place two doors down in what always looked to me to be a former strip club, those frosty up-high windows that obscure looks in and out.
I walked in the diner door - wide open for a theoretical breeze - to Hey, where've you been stranger.
I pronounced it was a morn that if I did not have their signature skillet I would just not be right all day.
Midtime there Betty and I looked out the bank of windows marveling at all the policemen and policewomen across the street, at Father Baker's joint. And then a bagpiper showed up, skirted out but bagless. I believe it was in his nearby SUV for safekeeping. We skimmed over the obits to discover who was going to be held aloft by the white-gloved officers of the law and could not find the name.
Left there and headed in a southernly fashion to points sort of known.
Destination was Lockwood's Nursery to peruse, as Liz had mentioned in recently and it sounded good. It was beyond good and bought some additions to Kennedy's garden, tall perennials of wondrous colours, especially the delphiniums.
Had another stop to make, at a national underwear chain for some summer upgrades.
As the salesgal stuffed the 5-4-$25 items into the trad pink bag she asked if Yours Truly would like some tissue paper, To offset everything.
I had to pursue this.
Offset.
Yes, she said, offset the items so they don't clang around.
Now, I ask You, have You ever had skivvies that clang.
More points beyond and beyond.

Clanging, aloft Love.