Perhaps, and this is just a hap, the most brilliant thrilling moment of documenting the distinguished speaker event at the bigU starring thee Stephen Colbert was being whisked via campus police sedan over sidewalk and dale, on recto side of street, to the hotel receptions held in his honour.
There is an interesting sensation upon sighting a famous person for the premier time, a quick and human/humanizing assessment of their attributes and a quick compare to impressions of said person against all known images. In short: are they short. Are they tall. Are they looking different in any manner from an expected image of them.
Colbert matched expectation, probably even a wee bit more handsome than expected with mischievous dark eyes and eyebrows at the ready for a quick, ironical lift.
At the receptions he was glad to enjoy a Molson Canadian. He had had some requisite wings, gushing at the experience of it.
He and I did get a chance to talk Macs, he also uses a MacBook Pro. He told Yours Truly that he'd wanted to get some MacBook Airs from Steve J and mail them off to various folks to test that whole envelope concept. They declined the offer, bummed that he was not going to do some creative product placement on his Report.
All in all a workful, intense, creative, action-packed weekend that included Heady's b-day dance extravaganza with foodstuffs by Ringy, and dancefloor mayhem.
Yesterday had a gig and afterwards, with Annie, headed out to CuldeSacville for a CEPA auction-related reception that was most lovely, filled with gorgeous art and gorgeous art pals and collectors.
Onwards this lush warming day to deadlines galore.

Galorious spring Love.

Nephew who Yours Truly brought to all-day rock festivals (Warped Tour, EdgeFest) just texted - moments ago - a cryptic
Holy Crap bat man youll never guess what just happened.
To which his godmother/spiritual & fashion adviser replied
What love?
To which he much later replied (after an attempt to reach him directly on his cell, despite it being a school day and all, and some musings and worries about what in heck had transpired in his sixteen year old universe prompting a text to his dear rock & roll auntie)
We are playing at the hsbc next thursday.
To which I replied to the effect of YT being so utterly proud of him, and wanting to photograph the entire thing, but of course.
Nephew's band, Amber Wood, won a classique battle of the bands and now gets a slot performing in front of multitudes.
And now, me being me, thoughts run to their merch. YT recalls their rather unsplendiferous t's in xl only. Girls need girl t's. And stickers, where are the stickers and the like.
Read the NYT review of the Scorcese Stones movie, Shine a Light, much space given over to describing their physicality, of the gushingness that effuses from the fandom raging in Scorcese.

As you scrutinize the aging bodies of the Rolling Stones in Martin Scorsese’s rip-roaring concert documentary “Shine a Light,” there is ample evidence that rock ’n’ roll may hold the secret of eternal vitality, if not eternal beauty.

YT has to wonder why she was not in her oso usually Perfect state of mind, and skipped attending an Imax preview of same film with Annie this past Tuesday, at the invite of Deb at the former employing publication. We were off to attend an Arts & Letters alum event hosted by the big U and YT supposes there was overlapping, that there was the ever possibility of just seeing in on another screen.
This was faulty judgment.
There were Middling City rock & roll luminaries traipsing off to the suburban screening and I imagine that the cultural, residual effects would have been far greater than the good wine and needing-work cheese that we engaged in. There was good conversation, and we did look at the Sam Francis exhib and several other works on paper. Anderson Gallery was the viewing and sipping venue, always a treat, for their collection is deep-reaching.
Time to wend toward Wyatt Design to pick up my CEPA auction piece for public viewing starting today.
View the works online here.

Love on the block.

Realized I had not yet translated the little Leica's memory card molecules into visual treats for You, images made at TriMania '08.
An event that is demi-revelry, demi-workout, what with all the traipsing and stairs and such.
Images evoke Cheryl and Yours Truly whilst on the dance floor, multitasking madly making images, making bold dance moves, making pals. And, in case of YT, making sure that Annie's personal belongings did not get kicked under the d.j. riser or worse.
Another image evokes Joanna Angie, Buffalo Art Studio foundress, in throes of what YT calls Hostess Syndrome, in midst of party frenzy there is still the hyper-awareness of all things good, bad, near-catastrophic, near-dumping, and more. She is shown reaching underneath d.j. area to hit a switch to move some air around via an overhead fan. YT shouted Joanna, Joanna but she was off on another situ-fixing mission.
Other image shows some of my posse wending from a point A of sorts to a point B, or perhaps C, of sorts. Despite my ever-helpful, Perfect p.s.a.-like pointers, some of the girls wore shoes that overruled sensible in favour of fashion. Hence they suffered TriMania Foot worse than YT.
Other image shows Dave Derner's studio, and his way noteworthy 8x10 glossie of thee OJ back in his heady Middling City days of yore, before the drugs morphed him into a Bad Man. Derner says he garbage picked this and oso many more. Derner will not say where, fercrissakes.
Onwards to sun-drenched matters at hand.
And the search for ever more crocii continues.

Little purple, white, yellow crocus Love.

Laptoppermost vocab word du jour is restasis, dry eyes due to a state of nonblinkingness for hours whilst editing on la machine.
Carpal tunnel.
Check.
Restasis.
Check.
Caffeine jangles.
Check.
Just added Cat Power Station to the newly-beloved Pandora. As I wrote to a pallie last week, what in H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks took Yours Truly so long to get my Pandora shit together.
One of the editrices requested a B.D. (that'd be Big Delivery) of pixel magic today, yes, today, so YT is in throes of burning/id'ing/invoicing before zooming out to the former wetlands that is now the Big U.
Stephen Colbert rolls into these parts on Friday and YT gets to document his nearly every move, including the moments he meets and greets his biggest fans for express lane conversation and decs of love and such.

Deck the halls with art, decs of Love, to boot.

Went to the triennial TriMania last night with members of Solid Gold Bookers, the event that fills up TriMain building with people and art. A warehouse that was formerly filled with windshield wipers, and pallets, and workers putting together wiper blades, and Hallwalls.
It's an event of serendipity, as everyone is traipsing up and down stairs, up and down the slowest elevator in the land. Last TriMania I employed the freight elevator to much speedier effect. Best portion was dancing to an imported d.j., a yawn-stifling femme from the Shiney Apple who mixed up some nice international drumbeats.
Just planned the next art foray to the very same S.A. to make and see, interspersed with various errands, and reconnectings. The one Me and Ro solid gold necklack, the tree-imaged ingot, needs a new cotton thread laced around the neck of Yours Truly quick fast in a hurry.
Time to wend out to a ladies blogger brunch.
A roomful of photogs is a much different full room than that of writers.
Given a choice I might pick the former, as it's a more robust energy with an ingrained democracy of shared information and a generalized, rumpled joie de vivre.
The brunch happens at the Middling City's famed Art Emporium so it will be a fine op to pop back into the digvid projections of Steinkamp - especially her Jimmy Carter vertical flowers projections.
Image toppermost is the ceiling of Saint Adelbert's Basilica, shot to show the windowly art.

Windows to Love.

++
This Just In.
After a few reflective moments, a few imPerfect barking dogs this fine a.m., and TriMania fellows complaining of their own barking dogs, YT coined the phrase - TriMania Foot. This is a post-reveling - and dancing - condition affecting the lowermost portion of one's person after hours upon concrete flooring, and racing up and down stairs most of an evening.

There was Yours Truly, ever minding mine own beeswax, as is my wont.
I knocked on the door of the photo portraitee in question and heard a Come in.
There before YT was this pup, a yorki-poo, one of those newfangled canine inventions, or amalgamations if You will.
YT quickly deposited both cam and laptop bag onto a nearby chair and got down to puppy business, rumpling this pup's ears, tossing her little pup toys.
It has been a delightful cavalcade of ports lately.
It is now time for YT to motor out to a gig, an event just off of the circular highways and biways that make nearly all a tidy twenty minute commute.
Began watching final act - number 5 - of Spike Lee's When the Levee Breaks, as it's being shown as part of the Whitney Biennial I thought I'd give this most important doc its viewing due.

Time to make, do, drive, and oso much more.
Fluffy, puppy Love.

A visual round-up of the lily-rich and squirtgun-rich holidays in the Middling City as of late. I speak, of course, of Easter and Dyngus Day, in particular.
Wended toward Broadway Market last Friday and, amongst images made, were of foodstuffs for sale - and Stella's Coat. Not Stella McCartney, presumably.
Went with parents last Friday to the Market and at one point walked through a wall of fish sea scent. And hyacinth scent, to balance. People walked about eating Polish food, and on the way out there was a table noted trying to save St. Adalbert Basilica - so we sped over there for a look and some images, in case it is closed forever and ever before Yours Truly gets a chance to document its craftworks.
Dyngus Day, of course, was a raucous, Mardi Gras-like festive assembly of MC people up for some dancing, mingling, squirting, swatting, and sausage eating.
Began DD at Central Terminal, meeting up with some of the Solid Gold Bookers. There saw a bunny couple dancing to Those Idiots, who also turned up at the next party on the agenda, Adam Mickey's.
Adam Mickey's is the best DD party around, with barroom out of the 50s, and back room jammed with dancers, live music, Polish buffet, and general mayhem.
Met a sassy kid there, Alicia, who tried desperately to get me to let her use my beloved squirtcam. To no effect.
The group shot is YT plus members of SGB (plus someone's beau) before we called it a proverbial, Perfect night.

Time to wend out to work and more pixels.
Perfect Pixel Love.

Zoom Your eyes into the small, white vertical rectangle to see the Middling City's Saint-to-be, Father Nelson Baker.
Of Basilica fame at the top of the hillock in Lackawanna.
This is yet another image from the Irish Parade and Yours Truly, ever a Father Baker fan (who has named a succession of cars Nelson in his Lucky honour), was most heartened to see his likeness make the long line of floats and the like.
However.
It is rather a shame and shambles that the float could not have been a bit more, how shall YT say, well put together.
Suggestions.
Wash the truck. Polish the truck. Add sparkles around the Father Baker poster. Have the children on the wagon dressed identically and doing a Father Baker dance.
And oso many more.
Onwards to deadline fun.

Foggy, soggy Love.

The pawn shop has three balls as its mercantile symbol and nobody, apparently and amazingly, knows from whence this icon through the Ages emanates.
If You Google, and who on a daily basis does not, you might glean that pawnbrokers the world over have a saying.
Two to one, you won't get your stuff back.
This is pawnshop humour.
Yours Truly, as is a theme of late, made images of Brown's Pawn Shop on Seneca Street, a mere stone's throw from that green and red baseball amphitheater - You know, where 190-destined and those turning onto Seneca sometimes meet in bumper-to-bumper combat.
Brown's is Middling City history, and there was a recent article about their demise, due, the owners stated, to different times.
YT wandered in there one day not too long ago out of curiosity and asked to see some wares. There were wares on view, wares just out of view, and wares in safes.
YT had made it to the second tier in the short visit and saw an unusual ring that was shaped as a bee with an amethyst body.
It was not spectacular enough to purchase but it does pop up into the recent memory bank from time to time.
The floor was worn wood, the cases were burnished oak, from years of leaning on both sides.
Supposedly a businessman from OH has purchased the triad of balls and so YT felt it was necessary to document them before they are gone. The day that they are not on the red building will be jarring.
After a marathon day yesterday when I was required to wear both writer and photog caps, met up with the Solid Gold Bookers to elucidate over Flannery O'Connor's Wise Blood. Both Annie and I had vintage copies, with yellowing pages and 70s covers.
As it was Saint Patrick Day there was some Gaelic fare, some whiskey, some other accoutrements that just say Irish.
Two parades, two Irish meals, it is now time to move thoughts ahead to all things spring, verdant, lily.

Lily white Love.

Photographed the Niagara Falls Annual Easter Egg Hunt at Hyde Park this fine morn, and Yours Truly pictured it in the snow and would-be grass. But nope, the children of Niagara Falls hunted for eggs on asphalt.
Got some shots of children and their loot, as well as the Niagara Falls Mayor gladhanding the E.Bunny.
Afterwards, intuited my way to Bada Bean coffeehouse to edit and sip whilst talking to Niman. I had been hunting for my own veritable easter egg, a functional diner, a tall tall order in NFNY.
There, off to the right was Bada Bean.
I'm heading into a place on Main near Pine, I instructed Niman, in case I turn up in chopped up bits on railroad tracks, the last place I was was Bada Bean. Bada Bean.
Niman said I will tell everyone that Nancy J. was a good person, a good writer, and a good photographer - I'll work on the eulogy.
That's Perfect, Yours Truly stated, and rang off.
Bada Bean was Perfect as well, with hefty wi-fi, good coffee, a decoupaged table with thee Lois Gibbs upon the tabletop, and a friendly owner who, after some conversation, told YT that she'd sold her Harley to purchase the gorgeous coffee maker from Venice.
The joint will be closing soon, she says, as the good people of NFNY prefer to get coffee from chains, she says.
I ate a salad there, it was excellent. Others came in, everyone was sad to hear that they would be closing their doors.
She is in the former La Casa Cardenas, or was it Gardenas, where KateK first took me after a gig for Castellani, and then YT went with Liz, and a few dates.
It was renowned for very racy, figurative murals, one with a thermostat right in the crotchal region of an Aztec warrior carrying a maiden.
The Bada Bean lady informed me that Elvis Costello, the day of his Rockin' at the Knox gig, was driving himself around and about and also intuited his way into there. She added that several bands of international fame come in when they're around.
After that headed back to the Ol' Sod, the OFW, to photograph Jerry Adams, who marched with Congressman Higgins - see happy marchphoto above.
Higgins introduced me to Adams mid-march and YT asked how long he was in town and if he'd be hitting McCarthy's. Answers: not long, and maybe.
Watched (and got teary-eyed, as is my parade wont), with Niman, CourtneyG and her pal Marty. And M's dog, Chloe. Who really howled at all the firetrucks.
Made more images of men with guns, men in skirts, floats galore, and more happy and important pups.



I LOVE a parade.

Voilà an image that Yours Truly made during the '06 Empire State Democratic Convention, the multi-day, all-access pass event that took place in the Middling City's downtown.
This image, showing (as I write to my editors, from l. to r.) recently public undie-aired Eliot Spitzer, Bill, Denny Farrell, and new gov David Paterson.
This is during the speech of Hillary, and YT liked that Bill was so proud and so in the front row.
We can only wonder, cannot we, what Eliot has just whispered into Bill's ear.
Time to make and do ever more, before I head to the faux Wake with Annie, at that temple of Art Deco rock & roll magic, Town Ballroom, where Irish Classical is holding this interactive play.
Speaking of interactive, sent off my Artists & Models proposal for Unhinged, this year's incarnation v.21.
Look for further elucidations.

Lucid, puce Love, in Spring's honour.

Happy uppermost personal computer awareness day.
Had a delightful gig moments earlier at a public school documenting the youth of today learning about the machinations of our collective noodles.
And what did Yours Truly learn/glean from today.
That we have more sensors in our fingers than most other places on our bods. That is how we are hard-wired.
And more.
While at the school saw MarcO, videographer, whose nuptials YT documented a while back. He was at a t.v. station and left for greener, more doc pastures.
YT tried hard to stay away from his roving lens.
Heard that YT was on the news a few weeks back, despite me asking the t.v. cam man to avoid me completely.
So much for requests.
Speaking of so, so Eliot has stepped down and David Paterson is in, as of Monday.
A questions lingers and hovers over the day:
How good, or how much better, is s.e.x. when it costs oso much more.
And, pray tell, as I questioned Liz/Cheryl/Polly last evening, what is the diff between a seven-star gal, and a three-star gal, so to speak.
Very sad about Eliot.
He who lives in a glass politico suite, guarded by staties and officious ladies, should not toss about partisan rocks.

Unrighteous, partisan Love.

One less bar for my next Old First Ward Pub Stroll, some time in April.
This bulldozed structure was - repeat was - McBride's, at the corner of Chicago and Miami Streets.
This was a true tavern, dating back from the mid-19th C, reportedly built as a hotel and then in the speakeasy era it functioned as one of those.
I will recall with a chuckle always how more than one pub stroller, while wending down Miami Street, turned to ask, Are you sure about this, Nancy.
And I reassured with After that little dog leg you will see McBride's, our next stop.
Notez bien that in the photo, affixed to the stop sign is a Spitzer/Paterson bumper sticker.
Irony and icons just turn up in most pixel-rich moments.
Again, to reiterate.
McBride's is long gone.
There are other fabulous, moist brick buildings along Chicago that I hope do not meet the same sad end.
Another image for Your viewing pleasure, one from my ongoing Extreme Trees Series.




Deep-rooted OFW Love.

This image of Baird Point at winter dusk was made yesterday as the light was regally autumnal, golden, so at dusk there was that lovely convergence of gold and blue.
As my arms felt like lead after a mad shoveling spree I failed to blog about the certain joys of that winter task.
There is satisfaction in clearing the way for pedestrians, one's mailman, oneself, one's vehicle by tossing snow to and fro. I was about to liken it to the joys of tilling a garden but that is a real stretch of imagination.
Extra showed up for his lunch, myowing like a madman and again I had to explain that Yours Truly is NOT responsible for the precipitation. Come spring he will not praise me for the warm grass, or plentiful chirping of birds.
It is the season of greening, and asparagus, and corned beef.
Epicurious, lest You wonder, has a wondrous recipe for c.b. with a whiskey/marmalade marinade that YT has made several times - in March, bien sur.

Met with Louis d'AKAG today over a Zen lunch at TruTeas and all went well.
On the October docket: One rollerskating soirée that is open to the public, per my request, and their complementary desire.
Oso many details to follow.

Speaking of details, most shocked and sad to hear of a breaking news story regarding our Empire State's gov.

Onwards.
Onwards into the imminent gold meets blue.

Colorful, vernal Love.

Dozens and oodles of days and years ago Yours Truly had a few spans of time that are referred to as Ghetto Girl Days, amidst the Salad Days of two decades ago.
There was DavidC's apartment on Leroy near Fillmore (YT on a few occasions - when not bombing around town with him in his aunt's old station wagon with bales of hay in the back for ballast - actually took Middling City public transpo over there, met by him on the corner, very 50s), and then there was the Perfectly manicured home of JoeyD and Pat on Wakefield. Where YT rented an upper bedroom for a while after leaving the manse on Richmond (where YT acted as Den Mom for several years, holding the lease and down the fort, so to speak), and whipped the house of guys into domestically goddessed ship shape.
So today, after dropping a pal off at E.C.M.C. for some intra-body testing, somehow (as is my non internally-GPS'd wont) lost Grider Street and found myself on good ol' Leroy, passing amazingly ceramically-laden Blessed Trinity, and then DavidC's old pad.
The house still has its same mint green siding, still looks the same, and YT imagined that Russell S. was still up in the attic, drumming madly for hours. But, alas, he's out in Cali somewhere making alternative music with some lifelong pals, as men/guys are famous for doing – migrating in groups, and continuing what to women resembles flimsy (but are oso deep) relationships.
While wending my way towards a favoured diner for some sustenance (and where the eyelinered waitress warmed the cockles of my heart by calling me Sweetheart), was suddenly followed by what I thought was a police cruiser, undercover.
Now, here is a little backstory.
Back in the GGirl Salad Days, whilst living on Wakefield, occasionally me and the guys, when driving in the 'hood, were stopped by police officers.
Because we were young, and white. And on Wakefield, or neighboring streets. A rarity.
Why would nice white and young folks be in this sector of the M.C. if not to purchase illicit substances.
So, pulled over, we would be made to empty all our pockets (illegal search), and they would take a look inside the car, and question all of us, who would politely reply that we (or some of us) resided on Wakefield Street.
Then we would proceed.
So, when YT was suddenly, she thinks, being followed by an undercover cruiser, there is a small palpitation.
But then the realization Hey, I was not speeding - for I am wending down Memory Lane.
And I did not roll through a stop sign, being a survivor of a drunk driver's lapse of driving reason.
Suddenly YT realized that the undercover police cruiser is a Cadillac sedan. Perhaps a newer Seville. YT should really brush up on her car models, but that is for another time.
And then YT notes - in a flash - that this cruiser has PURPLE flashing lights.
And that the driver, a femme, has elegantly coiffed hair.
It was a hybrid - Mary Kay reward car meets RoboCop.
Onwards I rolled.

* this just in *

Saved by a laptop and your site for distraction and amusement from getting into altercation with a confederate flag toting biker here at BIKE WEEK
THANK YOU!!!!
You have no idea how invaluable the escape of this laptop and your talented clever and SANE WORDS ARE in this moment....
reading your site is saving me from escaping by writing things I just might regret later.... perhaps....
(from Maureen, a former MC rez, now in Daytona down in the FLA)

* this also just in *
Here for Your viewing happiness is my image of Tina Brown made last night.


Love of Fan Thought and Word.

Envision this, if You will.
Intrepid Yours Truly, ever minding her own business, was wending toward the blinking answering machine attached to the landline.
Twenty-three messages awaited.
Messages one through twenty-two, to be quite Perfectly full of exactitude, chronicled a large breech of communication between a man and a woman.
The man, who we shall call Jim, is dialing the woman, who, apparently is snubbing or ignoring his telephonic advances.
Messages one through three say, emphatically, This is Jim, Terry.
Message four, in a quieter and contrite fashion, says I am so sorry JUDY, I did not realize that you had changed your name.
Messages five through twenty-two are attempts at reaching newly-named Judy with declarations of I am right here, Judy.
These calls clocked in at an impressive call per two minutes - or less.
Terry/Judy, from the sounds of it, was on occasion egging on the exasperated and obsessed Jim.
Yours Truly truly enjoys caller i.d. on her cellie.
However, the landline is old school, sans caller i.d.
As call number twenty-three was an actual call to YT there was no way to *69 the desperate Jim to ensure him that he was dialing YT and not Terry/Judy.
There was a momentary mental image of a distraught Jim doing something operatic in his miscommunication quagmire.

Onwards to points beyond to further dispel and deliver good pixel vibes.

Good old school pixel Love.

Firstly, let me grandly state Holy Guacamole, there's a National Museum of Roller Skating (NMRS for short).
Secondly, let me jubilantly scream that Yours Truly has mere seconds ago received an email from the director of Albright-Knox Art Gallery, Louis Grachos, thee Louis Grachos, who would like to lunch to discuss the comment card that YT sent in, requesting a night of rollerskating fun at the venerable museum in honour of the birth of YT.

Nancy,
Great comment card for us - I get many, but not as interesting as this one! I would like to invite you for lunch and yes lets find a way create a roller skating experience for you 50th or your 45 here at the gallery !
Best,
Louis

Needless to say, YT is pouncing ahead into the future. Laces, bumpers, balloons, Champagne, wrist guards.
This is an October event, seven months away.
No time like the present to daydream rolling, artful thoughts.
Today is Sparky's birth anniversary.
Happy Birthday Dear Sparky.

Rolling, Artful, Thundering Thoughts.

Lest You needed evidence that Spring is in the Middling City air, here is an image of Nature getting ready to burgeon forth.
It is, despite a day of evidence, a day of deadline.
And reminiscing, in a way.
Moments ago e-heard from a grad school pal and bandied about some recollections and thoughts about the entire matter.
One, for example, is how Yours Truly was making digvids during that Parsons School of Design timeline, but how that fell away.
Not sure what to do, exactly, with the digvids.
How to show them, where to show them.
Prints are still my showing and sharing genre of choice.
Still.

Still Love.

In honour of Leap Day and its attendant Year intended to create an image of someone - perhaps Yours Truly - in mid-air, mid-jump, mid-springing, mid-leaping.
In lieu of that here is an image of Canadian Geese in flight.
Wending back from a suburban gig noted about a hundred geese munching on fallen grain on train tracks.
This is what the feral do in the Historic Old First Ward, they glean.
Reaching for the cam noted a city bus lumbering around the corner of Hamburg and South Streets (the ol' Louisiana Bus, I believe Number 18, Danny Gare's number of yore) and thought OHNO, the bus will scare away the feasting geese.
Sure enough, the bus not only scared the wild fauna, but the bus driver was also transfixed by the sight of the hundred or so in the gaggle grounded.
This image is them fleeing.
Through the windshield.
It hearkens back to Our Country's wild west, road images, tales of journeying onwards.

Speaking of onwards.
This fine day encountered the annual road race dubbed the Shamrock Run, the afternoon when thousands rediscover, or re-remember, where the Historic Old First Ward actually is fercrissakes.
And then they overtake the neighborhood and make it nigh impossible to get to one's home for quite some time, until the last of the stragglers hobble to the finish line for a beer.
This happened.
YT, after meeting up with Annie, to lay upon her the six Police tix ordered on her (and her sibs's) behalf - via a handi CitiCardi - for a cuppa (and random community conversation) encountered a true member of the Police force. This true Police man, a leathery and scrappy man, informed YT that she had to hit the road.
Even after a quick explication that I needed to just go a short dist...
Black leather hands flailing in air.
But I have to...
Frantic waving of pleather-covered arms.
How long until the race is done.
Leather policeman is ignoring.
YT yells louder HOW LONG will the RACE BE ON.
Half an hour, with frantic waves of arms.
So YT proceeded onwards just then to purchase a bunch of futuristic b-day presents for loved ones.
Moral: When life gives you the leathery, turn it into an errand.
Saw Butch Morris and an orchestra of Middling City pals on various instruments last night, a Hallwalls gig in the big colorful Babeville Hall.
Lovely conversationettes, including one with Kelly down in The Ninth Ward, as she worked on a few spots to dispel the sinusitis headachis.

Fauna Love, Leaping Love.

Here, for Your erudition, are some images from the Empire State Capitol Castle - the funeral of Lincoln memorabilia, one of the lovely green velvet sofas (high backed, comfortable, very arts and crafts with cushion) outside the State Senate Chambers (and, really, a sofa Yours Truly would not mind owning, or a facsimile of thereof), and an exterior detail of such sandy sandstone as YT has never seen before. This pedestal looks, to YT, as if it's just been formed by damp sand. A triumph.

Today YT had a gig in a public school where I've done some work before, one on a rather obscure street off of a former lovely main drag on the east side. Across from the school about half of the houses are slated for demolition, with those telltale squares spraypainted on the facades, maybe even some helpful notes to those who may be doing the demo, or contemplating squatting or the like – Kitchen floor has holes, Floor may give way, and the ever-popular Gas cut off.
Drove to nearby Central Terminal (the site of this year's Artists & Models – hooray – as the light was oso Perfect and thought there could be images to be made.
The dark bricks looked rather mucky against the gray sky so YT rolled onwards.
Onwards to another gig.
Purchased flower seeds today, crafted (or collected, rather) by Richard of Faerie Seeds. Some that YT has planted before, like Nigella, and others new to this gardener.

Seeds of Love, Love of Spring.