(all this written whilst listening to downloaded concert - non-bootleg - of Iron and Wine gig at Babeville on 11/14 ... a lovely long fest of beauty)

And what in tarnation, You ask, is this, oh epinw creatrix.
It is the art trouvé, public art, that Yours Truly nearly stuffed into back of vehicle as a new art acquisition before Little Laura introduced some sense into the situ.
It's got rusty nails on the back, she said.
The mention of those stinking nails brought my hopes of owning now-defunct Rascals's Spag & Balls signage.
There are other gems waiting for an art connoisseur in the know, who loves outsider food adverts.
These are on panels about six feet long, Perfect for a big wall in a nice urbane kitchen.
YT already features on her cucina wall a swell formerly public art piece by the Art Guys. Also crowbarred a piece by them for Alan & Liz.
Somehow Little Laura and I were trapped in a vortex and could not seem to find an art opening so visited that classic other, non-defunct spag & balls joint, Santasiero's, for some sustenance to-go and wine not to go.
A sad-assed carafe of god only knows what.

Still to post:
Images from my wonderful art opening this past Tuesday featuring a cast of luminaries, as well as new work by YT, and work by Linda Gale, and Bob Schulman.
And cheese.
Of course.

Of to dinner plan and the World's Largeesssssst Disssssssssssco.
Boogie Oogie Oogie.

Boogie Oogie Oogie Love, Love.

Toppermost to undermost these are: Hand with Cyclamen Roping; Bulb, Roots with Aster Sprinkles; Driving Rain Hand; Homage to Aunt Marion; Bee, Smoke, Sage.





The new art.
There are ten pieces, actually eleven, split between Studio Hart and Neighborhood Art Collective - opening officially tomorrow and Friday, respectively.
Hung ten new pieces at Studio Hart this brisk Middling City morn with the other two artists, Linda Gellman, and Bob Schulman. With Dan Hart in attendance. He was impressed that I showed up with my own hammer, a holdover practice from two decades + of Artists & Models and other various installations.
+ duct tape, various nails, extension cord, chutzpah, and scissors.
Never forget the scissors for You will need them, guaranteed.
We four hung the work in a record hour and a half. As always work spread out along baseboards of a gallery never looks as good as when it takes art show form up on the walls.
Work is still lifes, and new hand work.
Thank you to Heady and Jeremy for their Perfect hands.
People have been asking to see the new pieces - here is a sampling of.
Forgot that not one and all are FaceBooking.

New Art, Love.

Amongst yesterday's happenings went to the fully-formed Burchfield-Penney Art Center's first members' op in the new 33mill digs.
Walked on over there with Annie and met up with Kerly, running into a plethora of favoured individuals, including the parents.
Deciding that carpeted galleries are a no-no and now the BPAC is carpet-free.
During the pre-op tour months ago decided that their new sky-high gallery would be, as PB says (in German accent), THE SHIT.
It is.
In it is a lovely Christy piece that I had forgotten that I'd ever seen, and a moth piece by Sean S., and a Juan Puerdigero that I always loved.
Could not seem to get a glass of vino and after the day wished for one.
Kept hearing sad tales of friends waiting for half an hour for a draft beer.
And the guards keep everyone from sipping through the entire space.
So waited until afterwards and had some lovely bottle with the ladies at the nouveau wine bar at Main and Va.
The owner of the wine joint came over to say hi.
I told him he should consider some thick cafe curtains to soften up the windows.
Kerly said he should consider buying better bread for his little sandwiches.
He agreed to the latter.
At the BPAC decided that I really should check out a few things.
Touched one of the little glass mushrooms on an upper level and a guard sauntered up to ask me if it was in fact my own work.
I gave her a demi-hairy eyeball and said No, I'm just touching it.
She said not to touch it.
In the presence of John Opera and a few other friends I stated that I had no regrets, I was glad that I'd touched it and I'd do it all over again.
We are now friends.
Yours Truly enjoys a wide array of friends gleaned from many modes of friendship, including the rare haranguing of art security guard.
So went into the auditorium, very dark, with Dawn and then Annie.
Trying to see how it looked.
Finally Annie and I decided we could use our iPhones as little torches.
YT employed her new virtual Zippo lighter app to little effect.

All in all a lovely art-ridden day.
Today is all work, some play.
The MC is crisp of air and scorching of sun.

Scorching, crisp Love, Love.

Perhaps as of late You have heard Yours Truly refer to something she lovingly calls an Art Bomb.
What in H-E-DOUBLE-HOCKEY-STICKS is an Art Bomb.
Following is a pictorial essay on her Art Bomb privée.






Showing some new and older pieces at Annie Adams's Neighborhood Art Collective and also have a three-photog show opening on Tuesday at Studio Hart.
All new work for the latter, a blend of still life images as well as a return to the ongoing hand series.
Below is YT, the one responsible for the strewn bubble wrap, boxes, flora, fauna, and Sharpies.
Onwards.
Today Liz and I spoke to high school guidance counselors about the merits - no demerits - of becoming wiser/stronger/faster at the Middling City's BigU.
Quite happy to do so, always.
A few of them took my bizcard so that some journos-to-be may contact YT directly for some hap-snappy pep talks about the BigU and the BigF. As in Future.
Time to race back out to the former wetlands for a big delivery.
Always.

Love of only bombs that spew Art.

Originating from the Middling City, with it as orientation both conscious and sub, view first snow with glee.
And then, completely automatic, comes the beginning strains of It'sBeginningtoLookALotLikeChrissssmussssss.
There have been random vehicles for the past few days showing up in the MC with piles of snow on bumpers and the like but today only a smattering.

Yours Truly tells those who inquire about precip that the MC has a Multi-Month Appearance & Disappearance Snow Plan.
But, here's my $50 advice, buy good boots, colorful hats and gloves and scarves and you'll look forward to the precip, the smatterings, the blizzards.
You, tossing colorful scarf over shoulder, pulling hat down to eyebrows, stomping into boots with good socks, will scoff at the swirling flakes.
Unless, of course, your car has skidded off the roadway and You are doing the ice rock & roll.
Onwards.
JW,Esq. wrote to a bunch of MC Advocates lamenting the wide right of Bills last night, believed he saw the ghost of Scott Norwood.

This is a very very MC blogpost.
Onwards to more universal matters.
And Hello to COBoy.

No One is the Same, Love.

Had la famille Allen over to the inhouse studio for some swingin' art making moments yesterday and they refused the VC as they had yoga later in the afternoon.
Image above is Hand and Daisy Pieces.
Thank you to the Shiney Apple artist, a new art mentor of sorts, for words to move past lodged thought to making and doing.
And all this still action makes me miss digvid, a shocking development.

What is best about making & doing.
Well, lest You do not know I tell.
Creating your own language, a place that is another world, a parallel place informed by all that is.



Is Love.

Oh right, perhaps You don't FaceBook.
And therefore did not see an album of images created for entertainment purposes.
And perhaps you missed my 2nd annual Old First Ward Pub Stroll, but would like to see images from that night of special interval training.
To see what I mean, go here.
And just what, You ask, are You looking at.
I shall inform.
At stop/pub #3, Cook's, this is part of the decor – it's a carefully-constructed shotgun shell garland over the circular bar.
As You can see, in alternating red and green, very yin and yang.

nancy...now that i've had time to reflect i'd like to thank you for making my last show special....and thanks for the traveler's gift package...you're very personable.....gregggggggggggg

Appeared on the final Sterlace show on Halloween and now Greg and Paula are wending their way here and there, to and fro, yonder and yonderer.
Texted the travelers yesterday to say hi and to check on their whereabouts and they were walking along thee mall in D.C. - as in monuments, not anchor stores.
Ordered them to march along to Maya Lin's Viet Nam memorial pronto for me.
Planning a trip with Kennedy to see her wavy fields of green on the Hudson in the spring.
The last Sterlace show was as chaotic as usual, with a panoply of guests who come on and riff along the mental lights fantastic.
What I enjoy most is free jazzing along with Greg, we usually end up haranguing the guests: that night he was upset that whomever sat in the ol' hot seat didn't spend enough energy mourning the loss of his show, or presenting him with gifts.
I made up a bag of traveling tricks, including ear plugs which he said came in quite handy on the NJ turnpike (where, You may recall, o faithful epinw reader, Yours Truly spun out and did a 360 in a rainstorm on her way to Dragon Boy's lair).
That night YT was a scary clown.
Is there any other sort.
I think not.
I summoned forth all my mime and modern dance training which, along with my rapid-fire piss & vinegar Sterlace-inspired wit, made for some of the best comedy the Middling City has watched in ... well, since the previous YT Sterlace stint.
I jest.
No, come to think of it, I do not.
Onwards.

Nephew and I acquired the verylast two tickets to Iron and Wine last night (see iPhone rendering above) at Babeville/Asbury Hall, thanks to Mary and Susan (and my fast car and legs) waited alongside the ticket printer machine to see what remained.
Got to hear part of the soundcheck with Beam and backing band and knew the show (which was just over two hours) was going to be magical.
Yes.
And then slapped down cash and made my way back to my home office hovel to pixelpush until time to get 'phew.
YT has been taking her nephew to shows since he was six when she was photo editor of Artvoice and making my column WhatHasHappened and we'd hang backstage and cavort with roadies, merch girls, and sundry others who make rock & roll roll.
We did that up until 2003 when I split the gig but still we manage a few shows a year, and still cavort with our rock pals.
Speaking of such, saw Scot making sure that nobody misbehaved, as is his wont.
Said hi and such and still think of Scot as a housepainting colleague (with Ani) all those years ago.

We are all who we are at rock shows.

It turns out that my nouveau dentist is a Deadhead, and he proudly states, as all fans of that genre do, how many shows he's been to: 45.
It turns out that he and I were at the same ultra-memorable Phish show at Arena Rollerskating Rink in 1990, when the vacuum cleaner was played and Trey skated through the crowd.
Told him that Phish bought some of my work, documentation of one of their Darien Lake shows, for their live series of recordings.
Again speaking of crowds.
At the Iron and Wine show a woman yelled Call a doctor as Beam was beginning a solo song (two drummers/percussionists, pianist, keyboard/accordionist, violinist would join him in a few) and I said to Kennedy later last night Who in hell yells Call a doctor.
He added it was as charmingly cliche/antiquated as Is there a doctor in the house.
So it was a fainting femme.
YT in her long journo/photojourno career has seen her fair share of young ladies crushed up against barriers until saved by security thugs, mid-show broken arms, women at gigs concurrently out on town and amateurishly partying like rockstars and collapsing.
Suspect it was the thrill of seeing Iron and Wine doused with the gasoline of imbibe plus the crush of bodies.
He stopped, he began again.

My nephew commented on the number of plaid shirts and beards in the crowd.
He revealed that he's unable, despite his height of over six feet, to grow a beard.
I commented that I thought that was a good thing.
So, show over.
Big applause applause.
And now the next shows in sights:
Band of Horses, biennial in New Orleans, Maya Lin at Storm King, and oso many many more.
Today is a day of art making.
Flowers have been purchased, organic objets and models amassed.


Many More, Love.

Minding my own business and driving down Ganson Street in the Old First Ward noted this flaming tree and nearly-requisite grain elevators.
Voilà, the confluence of Nature and Industry.
What is really charming about the OFW, amongst a few other things.
Am in two - count 'em - two art things in next little while: a small group show of photogs (3) at Hart Gallery and a holiday art show and sale at Neighborhood Art Collective.
As all the best emcees say, it's time to Bust out the jams.
King of the Rodeo, by Kings of Leon, is today's special song, this bright Middling City day.
Time to wend to gig.

Flaming, wending Love.

Yours Truly, You will not be shocked, was minding her business.
There I was wending behind a group on a tour of the bigU's dental school when confronted with this Perfect moment.
It resulted in the image above that YT has entitled, ever so succinctly, as is my wont, Exit/Bald/Duck/Rack.
YT did not recall that the denizen of the laboratory just about to be entered is a connoisseur of all things taxidermy, also one of Eremite's sub-specialties.
NB: This taxidermist lovingly placed some grass, much like the type ducks like to walk upon when vital.
Yesterday was a flurry of gigs, with pixels fluttering behind me, a veritable cloud of productivity surrounding my ever-imaging head.
YT did use her patented phrase Watch my squeezy dog, to get the attention of adults and children alike.
When not questioned about the statement's sense, or veracity YT feels like she might be among people of her ilk.

Today has been dubbed Cello Day by me.
For the past hour or so have been listening to Yo-Yo Ma's solo cello release, enthusiastically downloaded after listening to Fred's cello mastery, after listening to all the songs crafted to date by Kings of Leon.
For, You see, YT has been up since post-asscrack of dawn pushing the pixels to their respective proper places - online orders, albums, folders, and the like.

Images from my 2nd Annual Old First Ward Pub Stroll (another blazing success) will be online later. Thirty or so came and went and strolled and sipped.
The night was a wondrous 70º so it was a fairly jacket-free affair.
As per the special request of Deb, we strolled to Malamute (which, btw, last year smelled quite rank) after Swannie - our last two stops.
The itinerary: Adolph's, McCarthy's, Cook's, Swannie, Malamute.
At each stop we would request sippy cups to go onwards.
One cocktail was tragically dropped, to which one stroller shouted That's why we can't have nice things.
Everyone was in good humour, and, as I texted to Heady yesterday during a weddingshoot, it all felt cozy.

Onwards to ever more pixels.

Ever more, Love.

That lovely Tuesday night, November 4th, began with Yours Truly shooting some football out at the BigU, a nationally-televised throwdown.
That they won.
At one point went up to the student seating sections and wended between shouting spirited co-eds, making images of their various headgear and mouths in enthusiastic agape condition.
Tim Russert's sister did the cointoss and there was a vid of his son, Luke, saying hi to the nice folks in the stadium.
Yours Truly recalls that when things went dark for Russert there was much discussion that he had pushed himself to the max in preparation for the presidential election.
Little Geo Stephanopoulos has claimed, or more fully claimed, the mantle of the country's leading popstar of punditry.
A femme of red party status said of George that she'd like to prop him up like a teddy bear in the middle of her bed.
Geo reminds YT of a puppet from her childhood's distant past.
Is it Harvey the dentist of Rudolph fame. This will require more subconscious delving.
Which brings me and You to the next matter at hand: the presidential election.
The one that began, truly, in February, and that stumbled and glaciered along until last Tuesday with the glorious results.
Two favoured images from the evening - a couple gleefully dance on Allen Street after hearing the results, and the screen and history writ large in the lobby of Ellicott Square Building downtown.
Where all good Dems go to say a gracious thanks to their voters, and volunteers go to tipple, and publicans go to feel part of big history.
Big, historical, pixel-rich Love.

Big Blue Love.

The image above is entitled Haybale House Still Life, made during yesterday's gig in a suburb.
A woman is building a new home on her old property and it's all hay, wattle, and daub. It has boulders cemented into the new foyer floor, a tree de-barked as a central post. It will also feature glass block windows, solar heat, and two new kitties.
Her last kitties perhaps caused, and died in, her last house when it went up in a blaze.

Halloween was its usual spectacle-rich self.
Yours Truly went out conceptually, as a (successful) male Democrat politician - superheroes of sorts in my Perfect book.
Dined with Jen, Eric, Little Laura on Saturday night in newly-crimsoned Trattoria Aroma. I could not help but to think they need to commission me to do large-scale pencil drawings for their pristine glowing walls.

Onwards YT sped to two H parties, the latter a Mac jukebox dance fete.
Annie's costume featured faux two-toned nails and faux crackpipe burn.
You can fill in the costumary blanks.

Today is Election Day Eve.
Do vote tomorrow.
Recall, if You will, that Al Gore, according to red party lore, lost the 2K election by approximately 540 votes.
If You think one vote matters not, you is wrong.

Heading out now to Maggie Roblin's funeral, now free from ALS, sailing up between what we know and what we don't.

Voting Love, Love, Love.

Lesson. Above.
Dig.
Driving along South Park Avenue, a lovely, mixed-use avenue in the Middling City that spans to then South Buffalo, Lackawanna, Blasdell, Hamburg, and then out to probably Las Vegas fercrissakes, saw this image.
In sooth it was a beat-to-hell white coffin on a coffin gurney much like the one that Yours Truly owns.
The verysame one that was used as a prop in the last Artists & Models at the Terminus Centralus.
So there YT is, driving to a gig involving two dogs and Olmsted's best park, when lo, behold, and voilà: coffin on gurney alongside the avenue.
Plastic flowers decorated the opened lid.
As I breezed past I thought of stopping to make some images but then thought Oh, no, I'll catch it on the flipflop.
(You recall, CB talk for return trip. Popular in the 70s and such.)
Well, post gig took another street to the avenue and missed the coffin.
Or, perhaps, as it was just past 5 p.m. a business had rolled it back into its storage facility after business hours drew to a close on yet another Halloween.

Best overheard quote du jour:
Well, we aren't all Michael Jackson.

YT stepped out of the objective journalistic pose, hopped over the invisible wall if You will to say to speaker: Did you just say Well, we aren't all Michael Jackson.
The statement was oddly appropriate for this holiday.
Was unique in its locational delivery point: a science fair of sorts for scientists.

Onwards.
Time to help Greg Sterlace tape the ultimate Greg Sterlace Show at Home of the Futur.
French for Future.

Love of Future, Past, and Present.
All presents.

A new and exciting personal series created by Yours Truly: Wedding Still Lifes.
This image is made behind the scenes at a venerable wedding facility reportedly ceasing all wedding ops shortly.
This is a fine Middling City manse now in the public sector, moonlighting as a wedding venue.
Sadly, caterers have been beating up the behind-the-scenes portions of the manse and YT has witnessed heinous things there.
Like an antique demi-circle wooden table absolutely soaked with water after a caterer placed a large container full of ice and wine bottles upon it.
Ruined.
And this room was once a tidy breakfast room. Now a shambles.
NB: there, off to the left in the image is the terrifying dinner that YT partially consumed.
It was the third night in a row of Faux chicken.
This meal consisted of Faux Chicken formed off, I swear, preformed bones for each piece of Faux Chicken on bone was identical.
Unless the once-chickens were so cloned that their frail legs were identical.
Dead flowers and Dasani bottles complete the image.
Onwards to more more and more.

No Love for Faux Chicken.

Here is the latest addition to one of the several ongoing series, Girls With Guns.
This series has been in the works for about two decades.
Parameter is that the girls must be in parades or in marching operations, and the guns are always those clunky white faux wooden numbers.
They must also effuse some cowgirl energy.
To date one of the favorites shows a small girl and her gun, marching in the rain, the girl with a very sour look on her face. Understandably.
Just sent out eVite for the sure-to-be fabulous second annual Old First Ward pub stroll.
Invited those who strolled last year as well as those who have big love for The Ward. Or things ironic. Or things Middling City.

Gleaned some errant fascinating facts about the MC whilst performing microfiche surgery/research a good chunk of yesterday at the downtown library.
There's a book to be written about department stores and clothing boutiques downtown.
Another book about the history of the mayors to boot.
Breezed through the small book about the KKK attempting to get a foothold in the MC, during Prohibition they viewed this area as a prime op to get more members and, shockingly, thousands signed on. The hateful org was invited up north by a prominent physician.
There were cross burnings, including a huge display along the shoreline of Grand Island and Buffalo's Mayor Schwab infiltrated the group with spies and finally shooed them away back to the further reaches of hateful minds.

Too many people lately seem to repeat their fears that Obama will have an untimely ending if and when he wins in November; an illustration that no matter how far we've come we're aware that the most evil racism continues - but does not prevail.

Prevailing Love.

Today's Accidental Frame.
I call it "The Tilt of the Suburban Landscape: All Good Carpet Wears Well."
Had to faux up a moment whereby Yours Truly was asked to make some Lawyer Ports and me et al were standing in a benign boardroom.
Brain storm, synapses firing.
Off to a handy nearby Library that happened to have Law Tomes on hand.
Here, YT stated, stand like this, picking up the lawyer's specs on table and one of the tomes. Do this, I said, miming out some weighty argument while using specs as handy pointer.
This is along the lines of the Politico Gesturing Image when YT stands in for the subject to be quite specific about what It is.

Watched the clip online of Colin Powell's lead-in to and endorsement of Barack Obama.
I respect Colin Powell immensely and especially so after his talk at the BigU.
He has what a good photograph or painting should have: Aura.
Nutshell: He doesn't care for where the Republican party is heading.
YT talked with Vincenzo today and stated that what Americans should be wary of (and perhaps, wonderfully, they are becoming ever more so) is the ever-expanding inclusion of religion in politics.
Ixnay, I say.

Onwards to pixel pushing, then on to research about Mayoral Matters of the Past within Middling City limits.

Solo show for YT in 2010.
Was asked to be in a group photo show next month (a yes), and a solo gig then at the same small MC art venue.
A green light.
A good solid personal photo project.
Details to follow.
But You knew that. You surmised that, undoubtedly.

Undoubted, true-tested Love.

Yours Truly finds herself in divergent experiences each and every week.
YT welcomes that sort of thing so therefore it comes streaming in a regular and fascinating fashion.

Yesterday a gig was to feature pre-Bulls big weekend game activities with rallying burgers, speeches, and music.
After giant tailgate parties (sensibly held indoors as the Middling City can unloose incredible downpours in the tenth month), meandered along and into the tunnel for the visitors.
After spotting their mascot which YT thought might be a BURRO.
After a quick call to Kennergy I was informed of the correct species.
A mule.
Not quite as dashing as a burro.

So there YT is, in the tunnel and then on the field.
Blazing sun, pumping music, walked over to speak to some Campus Officers that YT knows and discussed their pending color guard duties.
YT frequently photographs them doing such and emails images to the officers for use here and there.
This is a good not only for The Cosmic Favour Bank, but to keep the driving vibes good at the BigU.

Suddenly it's time to make some images of the Bulls charging out of their own tunnel so YT gets down low on the faux field to get the drama of flag people, smoke, players, a whoosh of blue and white.
YT is just underneath her pals who are documenting via vid for ESPN.
That over it's time to move along to other marching band moments, and then the line-up, hats off Star Spangled Banner.

YT realizes that she's standing amid the Army teammates.
Basically standing as if she's one of the lineup.
Not only am I not then able to make a real objective image of the Army team, but there's a chance that YT will be showing up here and there in the documentation of others as one of Them.
So YT nicely asks two players to part so that she may stand on the other side of player things. We all laugh.
During the coin toss I make my way into the circle to get Willie Evans, from UB's team of '58, doing the honours.
Willie et al are in attendance to commemorate their golden anniversary and be documented by ESPN, taking up their story of boycotting the Tangerine Bowl which was segregated.
UB had two African-American players and the team voted unanimously to skip the Tangerine Bowl, having better more positive and non-segregated things to do.

Up the quarter flew.
Your pal Nance, so intent on exposures and thinking in the full-frame moment, didn't think to really pay attention to heads or tails.
Just then suddenly players all pressed up close to each other, speaking in gritted teeth and then Army kicked off.
UB Bulls won.

Go Bills, Go Documentary Love.

Latest Accidental Frame image, made during the shooting of a mural of a Saint.
Clare, to be exact.
Could this image be like the various likenesses spotted by believers in places as divergent as clouds, oatmeal, toast, a corn flake.
It is a black & white image during a colourful photo shoot, and day.
Does this image look like the curve of the Vaticani's Saint Paul dome.
Clare is famed for what I just do not know - a quick Google is in order.
(pause)
I like Clare, according to ad-ridden Catholic Online she was a great Italian beauty who fell in love with Saint Francis - his words of wisdom.
She founded an order called the Clares, a roving band of gorgeous do-gooder nuns, Yours Truly imagines.
They did not wear shoes.
Shoeless beautiful Italian ladies defies logic, and experience.

Just made lovely portraits of a professor from the BigU, one who was in my English Department but who I didn't take classes with. He is, though, one whom I had many conversations with during those salad undergrad years and beyond.
He's a great raconteur and I left with a signed copy of his latest book.
Quite old school and lovely.
We had coffee in his garden.
YT has never refused a cordial cup of tea or coffee on assignment but will not imbibe on a gig.
Next up is the hoopla surrounding the big football throwdown between the BigU and Army.
A moment of blue & white pompoms, bodypainted undergrads barechestedly spelling out G-O-B-U-L-L-S-!, and oso much more.
YT loves hoopla of all sorts, including that of the sporty genre.

Love of Mysteries - saintly and footbally.

Got to meet Khaled Hosseini - author of Kite Runner - last night during gig at the BigU; he was in town to do some Q&A as a Distinguished Speaker.
While walking down a long hallway from green room to V.I.P. reception asked him some questions, including: Do you draw.
Hosseini said that he drew when he was younger and his brother is a talented artist who may be inking some for either DC or Marvel.
He made time when he was still a physician to write every day, rising at 5 a.m. to do that.
Asked him also if he needs to center himself before he speaks publicly and he gave me a wry look before saying No, I just go out and do it.
He also let it be known that he'd sign books and memorabilia for students until the cows came home and then some as, he says, he prefers to meet students.
Yours Truly is always surprised when people at receptions approach writers to sign books and they don't speak to the author, as if the signature is really the most important thing, not sharing a thought.
Also, people seem to approach authors with closed books, and no pens.
Then there is the awkward scramble to find the correct page, and a nearby pen.
YT didn't stay for talk but forged ahead to a b-day dinner (Yes, the celebrations continue - hooray) with Brucey and meeting out some ladies at venerable Nietzsche's where YT caught up with, amongst others, Michael Meldrum.
YT noted that MM carries around a copy of the photo of him and the very young Ani.
We all have our pride, mementos, and fandom.

Onwards to art openings featuring work by two pals - Cynnie and Catherine.
Both conveniently located on historical Allen Street.

Artful Love of Fanfare.