Worked on the novel last night into wee hours, amongst other tasks more Academy-based.
Minding my own business meandered into the midst of the launch party (after observing revelers on a fire escape, after blending in with three frenchies and a solo femme clutching an invite/directions) of a tshirt silkscreening guru, he in a light saffron robe and matching sandals, his wares or product or Work hanging from his lofty pipes - about 15 samples/works/wares in all. A woman photographed Perfect Me looking up at the ceiling/art/shirts and I thought You know, those men in Customs were SO right, I do look better with shorter hair, it suits things better, the Look... I'm here but not so here thing. And through this all, and a glass of mediocre pinot grigio, I was still clutching a whiteboard from the morning when I met Yong on the steps of The Academy to work on our collaborative web-design project.
Us: Hi, we're grad students at Parsons and we're...
Them: No.
Us: (trying another person, other strategy) Hi, would you like to be photographed holding this whiteboard with a special message of your own devising that we will digitally document and beam to the Earth's four corners.
Them: Fuck yeah.
Our yesterday victims included a french couple who I spoke with in their lingua franca, a heavy (as in large, as in serious) punker who used the whiteboard to send out major props to his very own band's gig, and an actor guy who used the whiteboard to draw a cartoon of himself.
So I'm still holding the fucking whiteboard as I'm looking up at the pipes and shirts of the launch party. The guru kept glancing at me (maybe because I was hanging off his robes to glean some guru wisdom, oracle style) and at the whiteboard perhaps thinking I was going to proffer up a score of sorts for the whole affair.
Score: 8.5

Scores of Love.

+
See today is birth anniversary of an early art prototype of Yours Truly. Wherever you are, happiness to you Greg Sader, sorry for nearly killing you with my vehicle that night and you missed your deadline.