In the voice of one about to engage in !Meltdown! I said to famed filmmaker Jon Hand this: I am nooooot taking any more photos, as he was nearly dragging me by my right elbow towards the dancefloor where 50 or so did their best collective FunkyWhiteFolkGrooveThang, post-nuptials, mid-reception.
No. He wanted to dish on a Middling City luminary who shall be unnamed, who is of ill repute, &C, on a smoking balcony of the wedding reception factory where we found ourselves mere hours ago gainfully and freelancefully employed.
And, as we ran into a cigar sub-fete on said patio one of the puffers, remembering or recalling Yours Truly as an imbiber of stogeys, planted one in my hand. I proceeded to crumple the sad brown thing unintentionally and smoked it from the crack down.
The theme of this weekend is weddings. Unrelated song quote happening concurrently to this post: Aluminum tastes like fear. Compliments of Stipe and Smith, REM's New Adventures in Hi-Fi or whatever the helk it's called.
To date I have made images of perhaps 6,783 of them. And some of them confirm that people have love, real-live love, in their hearts. Today's was one of those, the look on the groom person's face was a study in intent desire, love, yes. The look that inspires this very - and temporal - thought: Hey, I'd like to have a look like that tossed my way from time to time.
The wedding of yesterday, I explained to one a week's worth of beautiful blogposts, and this was harvested from that one:
(Woman meanders up sun-drenched sidewalk of a church in toxic Niagara Falls, NY, a shamble of a building alongside some dismal, mustard-coloured housing projects. She is speaking loudly, nearly panicky, into a cell phone.)
This is YVONNE, when I left your house I had a LIT CIGARETTE IN MY HAND. Did I put it out.
This got my artful mind to thinking of a home in the toxic Niagara Falls area bursting into flames, aluminum (tastes like fear) siding melting off of the sides faster than you can mumble unfortunate fire. No, really, unfortunate fire.
Love's Fire.

Chomped on some jerky, bison/beef jerky, as I left the Middling City behind me for a few days of roadtripping with Kennedy. Sucked on the sinewy meat product until but a clump of protein-rich mass was in my mouth, then time to unroll/download the window for a ptewee out into the highway wind.
On this trip met a girl named Phoebe who showed me how to suck (no, not sinewy masses) the nectar out of honeysuckle. A miracle. At this advanced and garden-centric age to not know that the central thread may be pulled to unleash a drop of bee-left nectar.
Last night, post vino with Laura at the Goldman Joint, discovered my wedding outfit for Jen and Jamal's unity, part Diesel, part swooshy velvet.
Back to work marathon, Middling City gray sky, and the rest.
The Parsons School of Law co-profs landed me a B+. B as in boo, as in b.s., as in bitchy, as in but...
B+ Love.

To Whomever it is/was that designed the miasma, the horrific headache, of cul-de-sacs, pain-in-the-sacks and chaos of suburban "streets" with quaint names with twinnish names in Court formation bending off and bending off into oblivion.
Why.
Why not think in terms of the tried & true grid. Blocks. Streets with names of substance. Relevant to location.
Not Poofery Splendour Way, doglegged off of Poofery Splendour Court, for the love of Urban Planning.
Needless, I think, to say/write, I spent the better part of an HOUR this evening trying (stubbornly refusing to resort to the ol' cell phone appendage for a whine of assistance) to find a locale, a client's home. I meandered and re-meandered looking for a certain #36.
And then I realized this very important realization.
The planners of said sub-sub-sub-division, nestled into former wetlands near sinking Middling City U, decided it best to have all mailboxes on one side of the street/court/cul-de-sac to facilitate strongarmed and righthanded delivery.
So a mailbox offering up a #35 blocked the destination's mailbox. And so on.
Now a memory floats to the surface, like a fiber-based masterpiece in Dektol:
Fanny, the Poland Spring postmistress, who had perfected the art of delivery from her K-Car, leg stretched over the car's median hump to allow her the requisite right-armed delivery. Irascible, chain-smoking and intrepid Fanny.
Intrepid Postal Love.