Flurry of bizemails to and fro, fro and to, this time when I should be subsumed more more more in this "research" "paper" for "art" "class" in "NYC."
As one orchestration of Radiohead is looped and loops and loops and, as is my wont, I am occasioned to meander over to here, to there, for distraction's sake. It is suddenly very important to hang that excellent image I made of Jonny Lang, for example, right NOW.
I am falling in to a circle of jazz journalists, or so it seems. I'm going to shoot some portraits for them of the "legendary." I am shooting, also, the annual Jazzy Awardshow at ol' BB King's. I remember back when BB King played standing. Standing. And one time, while he still played standing, there was a beautiful woman in the front row so coiffed and so intent with that backstage know-how look you only see on the faces of women who are thusly intented to squeeze some fun out of the onstage idol. I've never seen that look on the faces of men or boy fanatics. At the BB King standing gig a handler told me that that frontrow woman is his Middling City woman.
A port in every storm, or so the saying goes.
A cool, welcoming cave in every desert.
Updates:
Ron is apparently missing and I am afeared he's been eaten (or gummed by) a band of roving toothless backwater hillbillies in KY, Lead Boy Colleague is way broken and am awaiting a call-back after a snappy send-off yesterday, Jules and Jim (a Frenchie movie, to You non-cinés) featured the elegant and gorgeous sculptural nose of one Wutzizname Serres... YUM, haunted (in a good way) by pending video images and am wondering who will be cast in a few roles - one being the boy hands rolling and unrolling/wending/unwending in white sheet, Mr. Hung celebrates a big OJ Simpson b-day tomorrow/the tender age of 32 on the most tequilest day of the year, Faux Extra (in the process of expiring) has disappeared and amn't sure if this is IT or not, scheming how to Manic Panic the nephew's hair into a nice blooo sans a parental freak-out as he's distanced from the strictures of middle school, and, lastly, wondering how many cuppsa joe I can have before my brain explodes (that ol' occasional science project).

Projected Love.