THIS JUST IN:
The finely-wrought format of epinw is such that a ThisJustIn is to appear at the end of blogposts. But. But this is way too. So, trotting out of school in a northerly fashion, I pass Valentino's, a deli, a shithole diner that nets probably $1or so millions from me and my cohorts. Thinking in a most efficient manner Hmm, should get some healthy thing to eat as who knows how long I'll be stranded in the Far Rocks, and grab a tofu and vegetable thing. A thing. Remember this word. So I get to JFK and, as I've changed days, times, itineraries, focus, etc. many times this summer I get the SSSSSSSSS treatment. This means Secondary Search. This is not what you want on your bp (that's coolhand frequent flyer lingo for a boarding pass, dig.) and then you and the other suspects are corraled into the S is for Special line. Moments before I see the SSSSSSSSS on the bp I begin to take a bite of deli sandwich. It tastes very . . . acrid. It is really stuck to its paper plate that it's wrapped against. I pry the sandwich off the plate and - lo & freakin' behold - it's COVERED in black mold. Not a smattering of mold. A full-throttle blanket of mold. A sandwich cosy of mold. I had had two bites. Bite number two I made come back out but bite number uno was floating down towards the stomach acids for efficient chemical deconstructing and such. So now there are mold spores in my tongue cells and the taste is quite . . . unforgettable. Now I'm going through Special Treatment Line. It's taking for forever. Finally I get to my last handler and I can't resist. (NB: I've already been quite mean to this little man telling him my bags are full of expensive electronics and I will carry them, etc. etc. etc.) So he's going through everything and then I say Want to hear something gRoSs? S is for Ssorg. So I tell him my sad culinary tale. His eyes widen, he's really digging the story. He asks if I have a sensitive nose, a sensitive palate. ? I say yes. So does his wife. I mean, fancy that. So he turns out to be a decent person and I tell him that I told him in case I spewed in his vicinity so he wouldn't tink it was due to Nerves - or Drugs. Then I tell him what's next on agenda: go over to food area and order what I determine to be the thing that will best cover taste of mold spores. After some quick analysis I determine (despite tomato allergy) it is pizza, full of more (non-moldy) vegetables and topped with about 1/8" of garlic powder.
I do feel sorry for the wi-fi-heads on either side of me at this juncture. But oh well, beats the sight of me vomiting black mold spores. Hey, reminds me of the book Christy Rupp recommended so many years ago that I love to quote from - Hot Zone.
I do not have ebola. I will never have ebola. Oooh, knock on wood.
Wooden Lovelettes.


It is not Friday, as previously thought by Yours Truly, but Thursday.
As I told a few: woke up Monday AM on plane to Shiney Apple and had no idea where I was when I lifted my weary head off of the tray table.
A Where AM I but on a plane. Cheese & Crackers.
Met with JR today about final edit of thesis snippets on the big timeline and he questioned a few. The establishing shot/moment as well as another on Met steps as the light is way different. Told him about the new Whitney shots and said I'd think about reshooting the steps about an hour before they close.
What does this really mean.
It really means that YT will be lugging two heavy bags again, not one heavy and one lighte. Laptop, hard-drive, camera, assorted cords, books, a tiny and random selection of attire.
Speaking of attire, there is a great green skirt in the Diesel store in Union Square, hanging just to the left as you walk in. This would make a great pre-graduation gift.
Thanks in advance and for Your attention in this matter.
So what did I shoot at the overly-secure/uptight Whitney.
Amongst other shots I snuck my digvid cam into a video viewing gallery and made a great shot of a woman who I believe was only in there to cool her jets so to speak. But she was ideal as she did not move one millimeter as the action on screen continues for many minutes. I can't say what show or what footage as what if some Whitney hack reads this, contacts Parsons School of Debunking and creates a ruckus.
There is another Whitneycentric shot of the stairwell, what I think is key to experiencing the joint. The dark and odd stairway that is two flights up per floor, with seating areas. I waited like a beer-soaked hunter in a blind for a moment and finally a woman came up the stairs and the edge of her hand is/was visible.
Eu-frea-re-kin-ka.
Now to capture, wedge it into the project, burn the dvd, get the scrim and projector, and dowels and wire and whatever hell else, hang the whole dang thang from a ceiling and write and research and defend dissertation.
Now to seminar, then to JFK.
You know, You know, what YT has dubbed the Guggenheim of the Far Rockaways, one of my branch offices.

Branches of Love.