What a weekendous cavalcadous as to make even our block-rich lifetime both marvel and amaze. Met up with City of Light authoress Lauren Belfer this afternoon as she sketched with a local artiste and, as we reporters are wont to do, asked about her upcoming project which at first she abso-fuckin-lutely would not discuss. OH PUH LEEZ I wanted to shout into her facialed face, a response to her finishing school dusky come hither voice. Finally: she IS working on something, mucho research involved and it's not about Buffalo as if I would break down that it was not about this middling city. She mentioned the notion of the advance. I asked. Advance? To which her dusky voice responded I cannot discuss that but I will say that I am under contract. She is pleasant, beautiful, dusky-voiced, and cannot draw to save her life.
My Perfect Weekend, in a nutshell:
The Hipster Police patrolled the venue where Lee Renaldo et al performed seriously as mediocre video footage played and stage lights rested, unused. Squonky noise jazz. People, affeared of the Hipster Police, muttered into my small ears that they were unimpressed, that they felt ripped off. I eagerly await the appearance of Kim and Thurston soon, my money's on that being the show to be at, to remember and remember.
Guess Who and Joe Cocker: night of puffball XY rock. I took an informal survey in the security pit as I shot away with the boy colleagues: Burton Cummings's hair, real...or fake? Joe Cocker opened for G.W. (?)
Shot a wedding last night and the video gal was a psycho. Me and the dj and the caterers plotted her untimely death over the side of the balcony. At the reception met a few highly interesting men, and had a lengthly discussion with the groom (of all people) on the dancefloor about single malt scotches that we know and love. One of their guests kept staring at me and so I went up to him and gave him a karate chop in the head. Afterwards went about my photo beeswax and ended the evening behind the bar celebrity guest "bartending" and trying to remember was that vodka and tea or tonic. Had a two hour talk with friends in Louisville as in KY Jelly and nearly, during convo, lost my right thumb to a circa 1940 fan, learned to love the dog and his gang of fleas while sipping Oban, and shot the proverbial shit. And so much much more happened this weekend which will only come out in spurts along this rock and roll highway called my perfect life.
Oh, I think I want to write a novel like every two-bit journalist this side of Paradise. Rented house, coast of Maine, jugs of Oban, sporadic visitors, sushi takeout. Wow. And maybe a novel would usher forth. Maybe not, maybe cirrhosis...or minor misdemeanors instead. Story for future: brushes with law in the state of Maine in states of bliss. All for now, love.