Did a whole lot of minding my own business - ha and harumph - this weekend and am in the throes of conceptualizing how to write some ferfucksakes malarkey (as in some sort of Middling City sporting coach) for online course, get some art made, get some other items dotted and crossed and such.
If 100 magical fairies showed up at my door and they were all charged up on caffeine they might be able to lend some nec hands.
The church next door is rollicking for the lord or god or satan or saran wrap or whatever and perhaps as it's the yuletide it's turbo-charged evangelizing time. But I gleefully forget each year and so each time it's a different surprise inception at the disruptive wherewithall of these folks.
So now it's off to points beyond and then some and then some and then some and then some.
Did I mention there's some sort of malarkey abrew for Parsons School of Demarcated Anxieties?
Yours in Evangelizing Agonies.

Love's Agony and Contrapuntal Sensation.

(sung to tune of Love Machine, 70s Motown dance mega-hit)

I I I am a digital video editing ma-chine
And I don't work for nobody but Parsons
Oh oooh cha
A digital video editing machine...

I now have a plethora to send off to JR. And one, I swear, will be like so suitable for the next Whitney Biennial. No lie.
They are each little snippets of digital video editing mastery and the more I'm using this Final Cut extravaganza the more I'm meandering off the trail into black diamond territory, playing with scale, and other secret things.
About to jet off to Liz's girlie jewelry party for charity and find my sister some swingy earrings. Note to You: I do not have faux earholes. I do not wear earrings.
The last time I believe I attempted earrings was at the wedding of my beloved sister whose marriage (cue sit-com applause machine) went down in flames a few years back and whose d-word is now nearly final. (cue giant ovation)

After the jewelry purchasing power party Kennergy's free-jazz gig at Soundlab, renowned for serving the region's worst wine. At $3 per glass. O mighty God, if there is one, please prevent the temple squeezers from finding me if I so drink three of those glasses of rotgut that will rival the near-grain-alcohol vino of Thanksgiving Day when I served Stan and all the accoutrements. A-freakin-MEN.

Musing Love.

Well, file last night's charity event under Well, That Was Interesting.
First interesting fact is that I have the same, very-same, crimson chunks in my hair as does Robbie Goo and Carla, Mark Freeland's girlie companion.
Very same crimson, very same hair stylist.
Attended the VIP moment and ate about 6 Swedish meatballs and a rock sound guy queried if in Sweden the Swedes eat these. I thought not. The wine poured, the people schmoozed, the food disappeared.
Alison Pipitone played with her rollicking band and that was a highlight on the music end of matters.
Lead Boy Colleage and I spoke ever so briefly, told him about my beloved beau Kennergy who was not with me, he avoiding the rock scenario. O, velcro, I say.
I watched the video playing non-stop overhead and was delighted to hear that Yours Truly makes a cameo. It was described to me as TJ Zindle of Last Conservative fame and moi exchanging an Eskimo greeting, rubbing noses. And then, I saw it, this digitally-captured moment.
Have to FedEx off a dvd to JR for the grad student open house, sure to wow the masses my videos will be/are. Spoke with JR for a good long while yesterday, describing in full detail the work coming his way - a triumph. Triumph of use of adjectives, triumph of editing, triumph of shooting.

Triumpant, defiant Love.

A Johnny Depp look-alike meandered by in a gray poly-oly-um-cum-free suit. We danced a mean hustle. Afterwards, after twirling in a fashion that could best be described as near-arm-amputational (arms of Yours Truly), he growled in my ear Nice following, baby. The little vid made by Beth Dearest of the dancefloor encounter proves it to be not a good example of following, or leading.
Sky-high minis, sky-high 'fros, sky-drunk guys towards the evening's end, sky-high Leif Garrett of former idolatry (photographed by YT after collaring him and after his junkie eyes sort of focused upon where my voice emanated from), sky-high drink lines, sky-high bartenders in bowties, was the disco vibe.
Today I suffer from Convention Center Foot, the phenomenon that follows hours of fancy footwork upon a concrete floor.
Beth Dearest dared me (dared! me! what!) to dance with a cop guarding the point where those with all-access passes (me) could separate from the masses (them) and of course - suddenly - there I was gyrating in front of him. When the song was over he kissed me (kissed! me!) on the side of the neck and whispered into my nearby ear Thank you. It was such a touching disco moment.
Highlights Include:
Eric C not knowing who in hell Yours Truly was with my new colour-rich tresses and all, until I was practically on top of him.
Cell calls from Cheryl and Liz, somewhere in the morass.
Charlene Tilton, of Dallas fame, working up a sweat by the autograph stand where revelers were charged $10/Polaroid.
Finding a discarded Polaroid on the concrete floor of a chemical disaster that had beheaded the Polaroid's subjects = an artful triumph.
Discovering a cache of crap canned beers backstage and delivering them to the dancing girlies, and Myself.
Leaving and having to jump a curb to get out of the parking spot that I created.
Now to deadline day.

Concrete Love.

A Johnny Depp look-alike meandered by in a gray poly-oly-um-cum-free suit. We danced a mean hustle. Afterwards, after twirling in a fashion that could best be described as near-arm-amputational (arms of Yours Truly), he growled in my ear Nice following, baby. The little vid made by Beth Dearest of the dancefloor encounter proves it to be not a good example of following, or leading.
Sky-high minis, sky-high 'fros, sky-drunk guys towards the evening's end, sky-high Leif Garrett of former idolatry (photographed by YT after collaring him and after his junkie eyes sort of focused upon where my voice emanated from), sky-high drink lines, sky-high bartenders in bowties, was the disco vibe.
Today I suffer from Convention Center Foot, the phenomenon that follows hours of fancy footwork upon a concrete floor.
Beth Dearest dared me (dared! me! what!) to dance with a cop guarding the point where those with all-access passes (me) could separate from the masses (them) and of course - suddenly - there I was gyrating in front of him. When the song was over he kissed me (kissed! me!) on the side of the neck and whispered into my nearby ear Thank you. It was such a touching disco moment.
Highlights Include:
Eric C not knowing who in hell Yours Truly was with my new colour-rich tresses and all, until I was practically on top of him.
Cell calls from Cheryl and Liz, somewhere in the morass.
Charlene Tilton, of Dallas fame, working up a sweat by the autograph stand where revelers were charged $10/Polaroid.
Finding a discarded Polaroid on the concrete floor of a chemical disaster that had beheaded the Polaroid's subjects = an artful triumph.
Discovering a cache of crap canned beers backstage and delivering them to the dancing girlies, and Myself.
Leaving and having to jump a curb to get out of the parking spot that I created.
Now to deadline day.

Concrete Love.

So, minding my own business and shopping for toppings for my famed paella I actually had a family of four staring at my hair. They were making no attempt to hide the fact that they were staring and I returned their stares with my most Perfect, beatific smile. Nearing the paint-melt stare but not quite.
Shot a bar mitzvah today and this was overheard as a woman fumbled with a very decorative and overly-designed doorknob: Weeelll, that was easy after those bloooody marrrys.
To that I thought Well, yee ha to you, mid-afternoon tippler with abandon.
Tonight is the World's Largest Disco, or, rather, the Middling City's Largest Disco Scene. You know, the one where 10K people or so in flammable clothing and faux 'fros do their best hustle. Despite the fact that for most the hustle etc. was aeons before their time and if not for VH1's series loving all things retro they would just not know.
Bringing Inbal and Beth Dearest to the WLD/MCLDS vip portion of the evening for high times and no misdemeanours. Turned them on to sponge candy and now they are addicted.

Spongey Love.

*neato! this post was just completed as the previous was allegedly lost as I blogged on another internetal set-up with woeful and antedeluvian dial-up. So double post Love for You, lucky sunnuvagunn epinw reader/Lover.

The colours of crushed cranberries and sumptous, foolhardy and light-coloured pumpkin pie are running through my tresses, thanks to Jon. As of a few days ago and the visit to the salon and the espresso and - oh - it's all a blur. But I left with multi-colours. And they rock. As I told Kennedy Jon wants us all to look like we're out on tour. Speaking of tours, Robbie Goo and Jon are having a slammin' party on Monday night as part of the whole Music is Art genre of rock activities.
It's 3PM and I have not started cooking dinner for T-Day. Am I worried. Are real cranberries growing from my cranium. I rest my Martha Stewartlike case.
So I'm making duck with 40 cloves of garlique. 40. I went to B'Way Market yesterday for a special special duck from a poultry stand. I asked if the feet were extra to no noticeable mirth. Jon kept asking produce vendors if the various items in his hands were 2 for $1.19 a pound. To no noticeable mirth.
Now back to the Kennedy Kitchen for some good old-fashioned slicing, dicing, stuffing, and, most importantly, imbibing of wine all the while.

On NPR at this moment a man with one of those authoritative accents is describing the tradition of wild boar hunting on a holiday. You must make the kill... Oh, he's discussing ancient Greece and the historical figure, prince of Macedonia, Alexander, in honour, assuredly of the Oliver Stone movie starring the lips of Angelina Jolie and others. But really. No hunting of wild boars, please. Pigs are people, too. Ducks are not. Ducks are a dime a dozen as they are plentiful on ponds and in zoos feeding off the land. Alexander, a very present threat, the man accents on.

Stuffing. Love.

Cranberry and pumpkin pie colours now swirl merrily through my hair after a visit to Jon who touched up the red chunks and added anew. He and I visited B'Way Market to buy a fat pig .. home again .. home again .. jiggity-jig. Astute lovers of epinw and all things Yours Truly know, just know, I do not ever eat pig. But I did buy a duck, a solid bag of duck, no feet and no head. I asked the nice man behind the counter if I might pay more for the pair to be attached. Answer: no. Jon suggested buying a gag chicken and attaching those feet. I never swung by a shop of magick so no feet it is. Beth Dearest arrives in about an hour, onto this frost-strew gray Middling City terrain. Inbal comes on Saturday, just in time for me to drag their unsuspecting asses to the World's Largest Disco on S-a-t-u-r-d-a-y NIGHT for the beerish mayhem that it is. Now it's off to video land, cooking land, landing land, and more.

Love stuffed.

LOST:
(virtual flyer tacked with a red plastic tack, end broken from hammering, to a sapling on a busy street)
HAVE YOU SEEN MY ACADEMIC CAREER?
IF SO, PLEASE CONTACT ME.
ROCK ON,
NJP

I am in the midst of a freelance gig, part two (ding-ding) begins in a few hours. I informed one of my hirees that I am in grad school. She looked confused. SO I CAN TEACH IF I SO CHOOSE, I sort of warbled out. Well, if you ever do teach let me know. (long pause) I'd like to learn how to take better photos.

?

So, minding my own business, like fucking usual, and standing in the doorway of Jon's Salon (the man who gave me the crimson chunks and who is retouching them for brightness's sake this pending week) I see famed and lanky product and housewares designer Karim Rashid. Today, all dressed in white. Yesterday it was an all-pink ensemble, right down to his powdery pink shoes. Shot him last night at Albright-Knox Hallways of Art as he was lecturing, expostulating, espousing and effusing. Left Cheryl at the AKHA bar with one Jeff(rey) who was regaling and regaling to make the/my familiar less so, if you catch my deft storytelling drift.

So there was the imported designer, Rashid, meandering down Elmwood Avenue, the Middling City's one last outpost of pedestrianism. Spending his hard-earned design dollars in the MC. Jon ran to the window, leaving his client mid-cut, to see the man. I dared Jon to rush out and ask for an autograph, but on his left buttcheek. Jon, a rockstar, refused.

Love Refuse.

Minding my own business and about to blog this moment away as Interpol blasts away at a volume I'm sure that has the next door neighbors enjoying it completely, I glanced up at a stack of books. Dreamweaver MX for Dummies caught my eye and a cold shudder of death waved through my body.
Met Kennedy at a jazz gig at the church last night and Bandmate Scott was there, across the way/aisle/GodPath. So we go out for post-show drink(s), me and the Bandmate, at that joint Prespa. Small, functional, former storefront that pulls off the ginmill vibe well. We were glancing up at a college basketball game when - suddenly - there was a player with a face mask on. He'd had his nose busted or some such thing (as has Yours Truly - twice) and it blended his basketball head with the shiny plastic to horrifying effect. Bandmate Scott turns to me and sez "KNIFE CALL SHOULD WEAR THOSE ONSTAGE." I like so completely agree. This is like that dj that JW,Esq. was going to see last night, an alleged daddy of the suburbs who does his gigs in a metal half-mask. Masks, all the rage, suddenly.
And Bandmate Scott joins list of pals who have informed me that I must grow my hair. Puh-leez. Is it time to walk to the green line after grabbing a tall strong French coffee, wander into Diesel store before walking to Parsons, take a lunch break at Marquet and meander the streets in a visualizing stupor yet.

Love Stupor.

Awaiting the call. From Elliot Caplan, filmmaking guru and star, to meet up with him and show him a thing or two. Funny thing is I can't seem to find a critical cable needed for my one external harddrive that houses most or all of my most recent video oeuvre.
And I promised him an Americano so there's that to acquire as well.
And then I'll have one and then all hell will be breaking loose.
Got a note that I'm in the Parsons School of Delinquents Rogue's Gallery as one who has not yet registered/sent in funds. Oh, velcro, I say to that. It'll happen. Soon.
Sending off samples of work to a U for consideration to confuse and mold young minds - i.e. teach a few photo classes in the spring. Without giving away the exciting, exurban locale, it's a highway drive of two hours away. If it's a big green go Hello, books on tape. Hello, dashboard thinking.
All for now and over and out.

Love Out.

Senatorial shoot was a slammin' success, except for the lunching part. Evan, the imported (NYC) mailhouse guy that I drove about from location to location, and I had drive-thru from (gag) Wendy's. We both had the #6 with Diet Coke, should you need to gag along. Had to, at some point, coach my senator in the ways of the hand, how to wave it in front of his body like a salmon swimming upstream in a pleasing and non-threatening (continuing the metaphor, not like a salmon hung-over and threatened by a hungry, streamside grizzly) manner. Be Italian, I coached. To the softened gasps of all in the room. I'm half-Italian, I said, I can say that. At some point I bossed Like karate chops in the air.
Moments ago shot a Korean drum ensemble who marched and danced and ran while playing. Very kodo and affirming. And deafening. I was in front of them, as if they were marching into me (oh, they were) for the bestest shots e-ver.
Onwards to deadlines of redwood proportions.

Proportional Love.

Sloppy miasma, as all good parties should be. In the midst I discovered, on purpose, Polly and Mark's stash of aged rubber bands, broccoli bands, twist ties. A pet peeve. I scooped up half the collection and deposited it next to Kennedy, who was at that instant a seated reveler. I had just caught crap from him earlier for disposing of his twist ties. This has happened numerous other times when I am visiting someone. Scenario. Kitchen and Yours Truly is moseying about when lo and completely behold there is an amassment of the aforementioned and, before you can shout flotsam! jetsom!, then I dispose of them as they should have been months, nay, years, sooner. Au revoir neurotic gatherings. But then, as it was pointed out to me mere hours earlier, it is neurotic to gravitate and dispose of these.
As I was shooting at Burchfield-Penney Art Center Bearded Lady arrived, inquiring if the Cyndi Lauper show was still up. Poor testosterone-addled dear, she did mean Cindy Sherman but when I heard her request for Cyndi Lauper I turned like a cat sensing a snack, eyes lit from within, in a half whisper uttering Cyndi Lauper? Bearded Lady did not catch her artsy mis-spokulation.
Now I am putting together Regards., the column. And tomorrow an all-day shoot with a state senator doing the usual beautification and beatification.
All this and more as techno smoothness fills the space between.

Space of Love.

ps: still haven't sealed the deal, as Laura is wont to say, with Caplan. And Beth Dearest reports that Joel-Peter Witkin was not only high as a kite, but dismissive and incommunicative, this from Simone. To that I say Well ferfucksake, the man is a rock star. Does he have to be nice. Was Kurt Cobain nice backstage. I rest my haggard journalistic case.

Beth Dearest phoned me moments ago, from the computer lab at good ol' Parsons School of Deism, where she was sitting next to Mentor Jim. Upon hearing that BD was speaking to me he said to relay the message that I was in big trouble. For what, I queried. For not writing, for not calling came his basso profundo response. For. Having a sabbatical of sorts from all things grad, for having a moment of introspection in lieu of making - a commonplace must in art making, fercrissakes. Meeting up with Good W later today for some party wares as it's the b-days of both Liz and Polly and a party is afoot. Note to self: turn heat up on a more regular basis as the green plants are waning. Note to self: when the mood is of a certain nature keep the soundtrack peppy. Note to self: continue to bother the shit out of Holy Crap why Me Elliott Caplan to work with me as mentor #2, despite his wonderings if this is for money, for furthering of his fame, for coffee comp.

Compensatory Love.

ps: gleaned moments ago from Internet that the veep of this very land has been rushed or taken to hospital once again, for Shortness of breath. But he has a cold, the sniffles, so it may not be Arafat cause for alarm. Whew.

Firstly whilst shooting production shots of MacB (look, that'd be Macbeth to You), there was a fire alarm. Blaze, I wondered, a photo op of real-live flame, the lickings of orange and red that is escapable when it comes to my graphite brandishings. No. False alarm. While watching the non-burning building, housing, apparently, thousands of co-eds, as well as Leary Theatre, some co-eds thought it zany and unfettered of them to ditch their clothes so there was one nude male and one nude female. To the delight of the onlookers. I might here mention that this is a catholic (not as in universal) university. I might here also mention it's Oban time in my book, this moment, which always lends a special je ne sais quoi/feistiness/X Factor to epinw. Blaze. So there in MacB was some smoke effect(s) to accompany the Wyrd Sisters - one of the WS aided me in a moment of snack elusion when my bag of Smart Food brand over-cheesed popcorn ("dinner") landed sideways and was unable to enter my awaiting and disappointed hand, and mouth, and teeth crevices. Enter Wyrd Sister. After some magical wiggling I had my fucking Smart Food. She said Always call in a witch. To which I muttered Magick. Exeunt.
Shooting, shooting, shooting then this in Act V, Scene V, after death of Lady MacB. This quote haunted my own private moor and I reread it to Kennedy and have it now copied on one of the walls as it's the new digvid inspiration. Life's but a walking shadow, he sayeth thusly and following is most of the passage, fraught with phrases that have entered our mainstay category.

Macbeth:
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Dig. Digvid.
Moving bodies shapes in space and with the gray that hovers it's time to bring the show not on the road but au contraire in the rooms that smell of perfumes. To bring the lit refs up to the 19th C.

It Ove.
Lit Love.

Embarking shortly for a theatre-related gig. And You know how much I completely am enamoured of all things theatrical. As in stages, not emphatic speech, mercury buckets. Informed moments ago that not ONLY Beth Dearest but Inbal the Newlywed Israeli are jetting to the Middling City for holiday fun with Yours Truly. Sitting currently in the new newspaper digs to discover that the printer has had a snafu of sorts and there is no paper as of yet. And today is the day. The day that it miraculously appears from our minds and fingers out onto the streets, into the eagerly-awaiting hands of the masses. Emailed famed filmmaker Elliot Caplan earlier to inquire if he'd be my on-site idea masseuse/grad school advisor and to that he replied Holy crap, why me. To that I replied Because, fuckhhead. No, not really. Told him, oh, a plethora of reasons why. Just Why. Just Because.
Time to embark.
Love to Embark.

Minding my own business, as usual, awoke to the boisterous man at the front desk informing me that 400 cops were coming and they needed my room ASAP. Not for any bust of any sort. Just a convention moving in. And Yours Truly was being evicted from her seaside abode high above the large-scale folks walking back and forth the Myrtle Beach prime real estate. So I moved out and then did some art shooting that already has a fine fine title - Towards the Ocean. Shots made from the high parking ramp where I'd been docking my rented Chrysler cherry red convertible Sebring that in a flash would have one way way over any limit of speed or prudence.
So I says to my self, Nance I sez, You have not been on a beach in a year or more and why the hell not meander down there. So I did and then proceeded to sleep for the next three or so hours, scorching my face a bit which has now evolved into a tan = egads.
Heard from JW,Esq. today who informs me, as usual, that he hit a grand show and I did not. He saw Brian Wilson on the Smile Tour.
Back to chaos, back to the mountain that is the to-do list, the holy shit you had best do this NOW list, the emails, the calls. The past three days of beach and work and pals a hovering dream. Like the blissful dreams one can have only on an autumn beach.

Love Beach.

This is it, shoulders walking strong with the rest of it, eyes looking at ideas of art swirling inside after seeing a masterwork again and again and now the haze of music that matches the outdoors and the interior perfect and also the mood collective at least among people that matter that are personal that wanted change but did not get change. And today, a question that surprised, about now an hour ago, from someone suggesting big changes and that idea hovers like the masterwork, in the dark, the messenger.
Shot last night Dem big winners, big surprises some. Walked with someone over to the bar to merrily discover that all was pro free-o, what with all the work accomplished, the lit drops, the canvassing, the stumping, and more. The spotlit crowd watching results and projections and then people up on stage until their attentions drifted back to the television set next to the stage. Big winners, big surprises. Stood on stage alongside Brian Higgins, a new congressperson, as he thanked everyone and sent out mad props to his forefathers, etc. Talked to pocket-squared Byron Brown, got a hard hug from Sam Hoyt. Got earfuls of gossip and news from various Middling City others.
Back to Mazzy Star, the stars and art and the like.

Like Love.

Yes, I am farting about with my template and that is why there are pixels askew.
File under How Democrats and Republicans Are So Like Cats and Dogs.
Takes place this Middling City morn, gray sky blazing and politics hovering in the air like tragedy or holiday anxiety.
Yours Truly: Hey Chuck (bowtied man who owns photo lab whose rent I pay, essentially), did you go out and vote already. But, wait, I do not want you to vote today, Chuck. (Chuck is a well-known Rep, a conservative one to boot, a lover of the prez, in the political sense as he's also an avowed hetero).
Chuck: Hey, Nance, remember to go out and vote tomorrow.
cue chortles.
As I just told Deb, I am preparing a dinner of flounder or sole, in honour of all the floundering souls out there who cannot get the lead (not Led, not today anyhoo) out and vote. My beloved sister is one of the lax. Oh, gravlax is another good choice for an entree today - in honour of those who are gravely lax in their inalienable right to freakin' vote.

Entree to Love.

Tenterhooks.
Collectively, good or bad/evil/anti-choice/pro-war, we are on tenterhooks - the old-school means of stretching fabric to its limit to work upon it.
Did you think these hooks were for meat, the meat of your anticipatory flesh.
The art world appropriated the def of the hook and it's what said world calls an 'L' bracket sometimes. The little L's that bend and cause one to smash one's finger(s) with hammer whilst installing artwork.
Today is Election Day's Eve and this is, historically, the one to make the difference we are ever collectively bantering about like earnest grad students. Difference keeps us apart, hopeful, suspicious.
If You have your shit together, have registered, know where in hell your polling place is, have the inclination, make the time and listen to the wise recorded words of Caroline Kennedy, professional orphan, that her pops nearly lost his prez election by 1% of a vote in each state (read differencemaking) then get the fuck out and greet the canvassers, the ladies with the boxes of doughnuts, pull the lever and impassively, prosportlike, move, tomorrow.

Moving Love.

ps: happy election day's eve with my whole dem heart pumping the B+

Had good discussion this week with X, AcademeGuru, regarding this my most favoured holiday. He gets this, always got this, about me. Halloween is adopting another persona, getting caramel stuck in one's teeth, trying to be terrified to get the ol' adrenal juices flowing, thinking of the dead and the morbid and the dying smell of rotting plants, Witkin photos that are elegant death. Halloween is not and never will be adorable Hallmark crap, cute and adorable smiling pumpkins. No, Halloween (and please toggle over to archive from last year's All Hallow's Eve) is the aforementioned as well as prankishness and smashing of jack-o-lanterns when it's proper to do so = under cover of darkness, in the middle of public streets and when the day/night is done. It is sad, but it must be done. It dispels the ghosts and after Halloween there is nothing sadder than a jack-o-lantern forlornly smirking as it implodes. Memory: Mr. Hung (whose handy diagram of the extro/into-vert dialectic I've hung alongside my desk) scooping 2-inch white fuzzy mold out of my jack-o-lantern last year, afraid I might be overly saddened that it had done its job and was sitting on a radiator festering. Fercrissakes, get that thing into the trashroom pronto, I suggested.
Be bad, be good, be everything in between.

Love, Pronto.

ps: My Annual Conceptual H'Ween Costume?
This year I am, I so am, Condoleeza Rice. Put that in yer corncob pipe and be terrified.

Hop aboard this thrilling train of Yours Truly thought.
Go to Parsons online course and holy crapskis someone actually POSTED. Instructress says read this and this and this and this and this. All of the readings pertain (very important grad word, like signify, rubicon, student loan, mentor and paradigm shift) to images of the Other. As in xenophobia and the capturing thereof. Or jungle fever and the capturing therof.
One of the links/readings is of images made, turn-of-C-style, of women of Algiers.
Go to CIA's factsheet on Algeria.
Read about Morocco, another former France-occupied spot.
Start thinking of France.
Start thinking of gai Paris.
Go to site listing apartments for rent in gai Paris.
Note that they are not très expensive, off-season, mon favori.
Meander back in memory to last visit in gai Paris, walking streets, echoing feet, speaking the tongue of gai Paris, eating the food on the tongue of gai Paris.
Jump off train speeding like the TGV, hit ground hard and body rolls until it comes to rest against a seeded, gone to autumn butterfly bush.

No love for Bush.

Blogger offers a special memo on how to blog a novel and, as much as I adore all my Perfection-loving epinw fans, I just cannot imagine tossing your collectivity into the midst of This Middling City, a sizzler, a bestseller if ever there was one.
Today's shooting included an anti-drug parade and hoopla. So I decorated the golden Forester and showed up to rep the other team. In seriosity I arrived to discover about 100 screaming children, dressed in red and holding red balloons. New special thought: hire these screamers to line my driveway for my annual red dinner in February. What a send-on for my guests as they arrive for dinner and drinks. So this parade was not a parade at all but a simple line of screamers and I could not make out the phrase that was screamed again and again and to me it sounded Japanese. Finally, I approached one of the children wranglers to ask the big question, to solve the mystery of the moment. BEEP THE HORN, BEEP THE HORN, BEEP THE HORN, BEEP THE HORN.
So when innocent motorists motored by they were greeted by this arcane phrase ordering them to beep so the children would scream louder and the motorists, if lucky and passing by at a slow rate of speed, could glean why in fuck they were beeping.
Nancy's special thoughts on baseball, parting thoughts.
The sport's uniforms are okay, varying slightly from team to team. Some look like really cheap poly. Some look better. When soiled mid-game I wonder if players are allowed to change into a clean one for telegenics's sake.
There are no supremely handsome baseball players and they tend towards awkward hairstyles. In keeping with my formula that the ire level of professional athletes is in proportion to the stylishness of their jerseys baseball players like so fit in. Hockey players look ridiculous suited up for the game and they fight most. Football players's natural looks are obscured and they are rather angry. Baseball players's physiques are open as are their faces and they are least prone to fisticuffs. Soccer players are most exposed and stylish and they don't fight. I rest my sporty case.

Sporty Spice Love.

So I had a Bon Voyage Koji party and concurrent old-fashioned throwdown to which seemingly thousands meandered into and stumbled out of. AJ brought a bday prez for me, one of his empty shotglass paintings, a marvel. I hung it immediately during a break in the baseball action - Kennedy and other fellas watched the game in my chamber and that is exactly where the painting needed to be. So up on a chair with work, hammer, nail and a wapping. AJ told me three times during the party how much he hates my new 'do. The red chunks, specifically. Had a very trying day yesterday which nearly began with the Middling City's mayor smiling into my lens after I asked his handler to Please hold the mayor's trenchcoat, and ended placidly at Kennedy's home as I drifted into SnoozleLand, the newest copy of SPIN still resting quietly in my hands. They did a fine job of amassing a chart to teach the masses of youngters and hipsters the big diffs betwixt the candidates. Shot Nader (again) on Sunday as he spoke not too far from here at the Ukrainian Party HQ on Genesee Street. It was packed with the usuals: Birkenstocks, Green Parties, Hippies, Crunchies, Crabbies - all holding oddly homogenous signs. I realized one of the Nader people had made the cheesey signs and passed them out.
Example:
Bush and Kerry make me want to Ralph.
Now really. Should a self-proclaimed peace candidate, self-reffed spoiler joke about his name being a euphemism for a politically-inspired barf, regardless of the barf's emeticlike source.
Ralph spoke of democracy, how he's not allowed to debate so therefore on his website he debates the other two sports virtually. How does one get a nose like Nader. Why does he always look like he awoke from a weeklong train ride in his suit. Did he. Stumpingly, he signed copies of his newest book, Crash!ing the Party. And sold merch, like any disaffected man with a following on the peripheries must.

Love Votes.

politico ps (pps):
Received the Pentagon conspiracy theory jet v. missile 9/11 video today. Art critique: a bit inconsistent, no firm conclusions, hearsay-ridden, no thrilling conclusion ie: links, deep facts. From me gets a big thumbs mid-way, another blip of fact to add to the heap of election year banter and warfare.

When life gives you lemons, make mojitos.
When life puts assholes along your path, make foxholes.
About to see Jon about shaping up the head of hair and will give him the same directive I gave the jaunty Israeli: short, saucey, sexy.
Ka-slosh ka-slosh ka-slosh last night, speaking of assholes and mojitos, not in that order, exactly.
No time to delve into the context of the assholes but my girlie tribe knows the slew of details.
So, on to the mojitos.
I get a call from Sam and Beth Dearest. One of those We are here and you are so there calls that has me nearly driving to the airport. But, alas, responsibility. So the Wish you were heres. No, wish I was There. Have not been in Middling City's embrace as long as I was gone so I'm still in what I call Post-Travel Limbo as my heart is split in two and I'm a distance learner, a distance yearner.
Have REM's Call Me Leper from New Adventures in Hi-Fi on the play and replay and rererererereplay mode.
Now to Jon for some good old-fashioned rockstar, Harley-driving, Marlboro-smoking, dog-loving high times.

Tribal Love.

Well. Well well well.
It's really real, the new newspaper, Buffalo Examiner - or - in epinw parlance, Middling City Examiner. I am the senior editor which means I've gathered up all the decades of journalistic experience into one big ink-spattered heap.
Received today four cd's made by Kevin Norton featuring fab fotos by Yours Truly of the quartet as a unit and then individuals. I wonder, did I recall that this disc would be featuring these or is this a surprise. Wondering still.
Got turned on to an Aboriginal artist today by a guy I shot at Middling City U - Gordon Bennett whose work reminds me in a flash of Basquiat.
All for now and over and out, think I'll attempt studenthood.

Love charade.

Completely, and I mean utterly, minding my own business yesterday after a gig, you know, sort of la-dee-dah humming and driving along Sheridan Drive in the Middling City suburbs, the golden Forester was magnetized into the lot of Shoe Universe - a place that is a port of sorts for women of all ages, trolling the aisles with intense purpose, eyes searching, boxes under arms, frenzy in the air. So, whilst talking to Beth Dearest, I find not one - but two - perfect pairs (that equals four) shoes. They are mine. Is there also guilt hovering in the air of Shoe Universe. Does the pope have the best interests of pro-choice people in his craggly heart.
Made portraits yesterday of an Iranian femme who's writing a book about Iranian contract/temp marriages - for pleasure (male) + money (female). A sort of fictionalized account of things, a là Rushdie, to be sure. I asked if she'd read Memoirs of a Geisha. But of course. Her house was a carpet museum of sorts and she made me a cup of coffee that had me whirring along the rest of the day.
Onwards to deadlines, the adrenalized onslaught I manage the best.

Best Love.

Just completed as in like so two hours ago the Coronation of Middling City U's newest baddest prez, John Simpson. Lots of my signature people looking human moments, looking ecstatic in bursts. Two nights of grazing on party food, those mysterious cheesey nuggets. Found Laura amidst all today's chaos and invited her to join me alongside one of the tables laden with crudites out the wazoo.
And just back from Philly yesterday, several days of walking through a small town, emptying (with assistance from Bill, Kennedy's bestest pal) a bottle of Oban, and best of all filming for art's sake. Just wrote to JR to inform him of such.
Onwards now to points ever beyonder.
Beyond Love.

Song du jour, du moment, is Beth Orton's Someone's Daughter.
Jaunty, rollicking, chock full of insight perfect for a day that has a chill that squeezes the remainder of life out of the perennials.
So Christopher Reeve died. And I recall shooting him near the Rainbow Bridge where one can cross from polluted Niagara Falls, NY to Vegaslike Niagara Fall, CA. His hands amazed me, all puffed out from meds and flakey. I made images of his body, his talking head, and those hands. At that time he had had no feelings yet in his body and speaking was laborious for him, intake of oxygen, phrase, repeat. It was painful to watch, I found myself holding my own breath and releasing it when he spoke. And I felt like death was upon him then, several years ago. Why was he on the Rainbow Bridge. For a film fest that never happened again, in Ontario over There.
This past weekend, post-wedding, I spoke with Father Jim of the Greek Orthodox Church in the Middling City, a man who if any, has a spirituality hovering around him - uncommon, I believe, in people of the Cloth. I helped him scoop the tray holding jordan almonds, the dual crown used in the ceremony, and some other nuptial paraphernalia, into a plastic bag. I spied the almonds. Are those jordan almonds. Yes, he said, have one for luck. I did. THEN he tells me about two seventy-year old sisters who kept jordan almonds from every wedding at that church, who put them under their respective pillows - for years - as it's superstition that the man of your dreams will come to you in the REM state. Did they ever marry, I asked. No. So much for lucky jordan almonds. I, too, now am assured a life of spinsterhood. Oh well.
Mad props to Beth Dearest for giving me her secret code to print out school readings as my own account with sheister-ridden XanEdu.com wouldn't recognize me as one who had reluctantly and yet diligently shuttled $80 or so at them for the same priviledge to discover last night that Holy Crap I can't access a thing and I'm on the road in minutes and what in hell shall I read on the trip if not good ol' snoozearific Michel Foucault et al. So now I'm armed with Foucault brilliance and won't have to pick up the latest MC News, USA Today or crapmag that I would not usually purchase but for that mysterious state of airport consciousness when suddenly flourescently-lit trash pubs look so... enticing.

Fluxes of Love.

Today I came out into the world. So therefore a bunch of us met up at the Middling City's most eldest of juicejoints, Ulrich's, for revelry's sake. Frosting, cake, gifts, singing, dancing to leder-hosed music, rat scampering quietly around a corner out of the corner of my eye, the debate raging overhead for a portion, more scotch, more dance, more frosting, cards, laughing with head tipped back. Good times were had by Yours Truly, most importantly. Then morning rolled around and it was full-throttle work all day, John Lennon's day.
Today a crisp apple day and, as is my custom, I called my mother who sprung me to discover my father, the other third of the equation, must have been online so no Hello at the exact minute - 2:01PM. Blogging now in my studio/live space getting well wisher calls and emails as the Hispanic evangels rock on for the almighty mightily and I work on various projects before ultimately heading to Kennedy's where I have a huge desire to bake sweet potatoes stuffed with crab or lobster. Tomorrow we jet off to another city for a while.
Older, wiser, stronger, faster, that's what I just told Justy.
Life might be for the living but birthdays are for the birthed.

Nascent Love.

Um, so minding my own stinkin' business (need I say - as USUAL) I'm having a, as in uno, drink with one of my most beloved editors, the Liz. Then more.
So then I query so what IS the next cover story of the next issue of the Shiny Happy. Well, wouldn't You know, it's the Asian Trends Pulitzer Piece by Yours Truly. Very Truly. Truly truly.
While out and about we are speaking to the bar owners, the chef of the joint, and assorted (not sordid) others.
Now here. Where I have the proverbial gun to the head, where I am flailing away and am assuredly looking at an old-school, charming night sans sleep. Hello! Journalism! This, kids, is what it's all about. The over-indulgence, the grace, the caffeine, the deadline pressure, the tension, the creativity. The ebb. The flow.
Love it, live it.
Called Beth in the midst of the throes of it. Noted she has not called back. She is scared. This is frightening. This is Get the fuck out of my way or I steamroll right the fuck over y'all time.
Onwards to crime.
Onwards to less time.

Onwards to Love.

Open thought to Kodak, one of several pains in mine arse. Whyowhy discontinue a winner, namely, your CN41 b&w film. I mean really. A grand film. Now to be replaced by a more expensive model, curiously named VW. Does Volkswagen know of this.
End of letter to misdirected corporation Kodak.
And just finished pondering the big questions raised by snapshots, papparazzi and daguerreotypes for skewel. Dragged philosopher Paul Virlio into it all, about his thoughts on what he dubbed the telepresence, what we all imagistically experience en masse, to global result.
“Since all presence is presence only at a distance, the telepresence of the era of the globalization of exchanges could only be established across the widest possible gap,” he writes.
Rock on, philsopher man.
Makes for further great cocktail party conversation.
Planning a bon voyage party for video artist Koji Tambaata at my joint, somewhere in the 20s. Full-on booze-a-thon with video people and rockstars and others. Or not. We have to hold a summit meeting.
And, on the subject of the day you should really be shopping for already, my bday soiree is happening Friday night at 9PM at the oldest grindingly sloppy bar in the Middling City, Ulrich's. German band live, in those cute little leather short sets.
So, if you are in the MC and are of revelling age, come and be.
Time to further my education, edit some marriage images and then, and THEN, watch the veep debate at 9PM EST. Cheney the Corporate Evil One v. The Dubiously-Credentialed Edwards.
All.

Debate on Love.
Parliamentary Rules and Roberts's Rules of Order in Full Effect.

Holy guacamole a first just happened seconds ago, when I lifted the half-full, nay, half-empty bottle of Oban to my lips and sucked its essence into my soul following this marathon - and I mean MARAfuckinTHON - two days. Today was an oldschool Perfect Me 18 hour day that ended with the dual Harvey Breverman gig at two galleries. First the one, then the other. Made hundreds of digital images of the beloved Harvey and his students, former students, art people, my art people, my pals, etc. etc. I think at the Harvey gig I may have spent about 60% of the time talking. Oh, if the woman who hired me finds this on the ol' internet system that was but a joke. It was more like... oh, 10%. Another sip of Oban, hello nectar of the gods. And tomorrow early to rise and meeting and the wedding of the diva bride and her man until it's time to meander into the final moments of Kennedy's show across the way. Interpol, Oban, a change of clothing, bane. You will be oso shocked and happy to note the Shiny Happy Mag story is complete, a genius array of over 2K words. And happy happy happiests to JW,Esq. who turned, uhhhh, according to some tripped-out femme at a recent concert, 28 or 29. But I know, ever-diligent fact-searching and soothsaying journalist that I am and will forever be, that he is over the age of 30. But never will he reach my age as I'm ahead by five or so.
And, really, there are eight shopping days and what in hell are you waiting for.
Search this blogpost for super-secret bday gift ideas.

Ideas about love.

If You did not take the time to watch tonight's Aspirational Debate, indulge in a firsthand document instead of predictable spin and snippets, I am impatient with You at this moment - or could it be the spate of tea and afterbuzz bordering on hyper-freneticism.
Most troubling phrase uttered by BadW was I know how this world works.
My maddest props to Kerry (who should be buying better suits, in my not very humble opinion as I've got the blood of a bespoke tailor and generations of seamstresses and sewers within) was his comment on certainty. That the hook or by crook BadW is ascertaining wrongly - his words were that there may be certainty but the facts or beliefs behind that certainty may be wrong.
This half-arsed certainty is parallel to beliefs that lead one to follow terrorism or to engage in acts of terrorism - beliefs that are certain and certainly not benefiting many or putting forth the concepts of co-existence, acceptance or peace.
There was one moment, near the end, when Prez43 garbled several words together, just a mash of sounds. Arresting it was. Reminded me of the Martianspeak (KLAATU BARADA NIKTO - to which I replied EEP OP ORK AH AH....... which any self-resepcting fan of the Jetsons will know as well as they will know what the initials WMD or WTO or OPEC stand for, fercrissakes) in the movie Kennedy showed me last evening, The Day the Earth Stood Still.
Oh, and one final parting shot/blow/thought.
Money, and the having of money, mean nothing. It might make the ugly men of the world fuckable or charities creak along. Or prevent historic buildings from collapsing. But. It never means taste or kindness or style ensue.
So. Post talkpoints up come the families. Kerry had only his date, the ketchup heiress. The Bushies had to share their portion of their limelight with the Kookie Twins. Ketchup lady looked like hell. Hair askew, a bad suit choice. And both first lady contestants wore winter white. At moments of appealing to the masses the whites, the pinks and pastels turn up.
Out on her own Hillary showed up in black and that is, seemingly, her colour of choice. Theresa Heinz needs a stylist. Kerry needs a better-fitting suit. Think these things don't matter. In a battle this important every factor counts - demeanour, thoughts, suits, slogans. Frumps and the weak don't win.
Rah Rah Rah.
Eep Op Ork Ah Ah.
epinw readers vote.

epinw Army of Love.

Not that this will alarm You but the ol' piece for the Shiny Happy Mag is l.a.t.e. Once again I am creating stress wrinkles in the visage of an editor. But, as I always say, it's researched, fact-checked out the literal wazoo and will arrive Pulitzer-ready. Just when I think I'm done researching - kablam - along comes more fun facts, a new joint to investigate. On the advice of GoodW, bona-fide & head-to-toe Banana Republic Boy, meandered into BanRep today for the FallSale and later spread the good cheer, telling Deb post-standing Wednesday breakfast engagement that indeed it was worth the suburban foray. Thanks to GoodW en route to the Luxe Card. What with all the Parsons School of Demands purchases I should be well on my way to the New School U plutonium card. Favoured new word, speaking of things invisible yet oso powerful: allotropic (an element that can appear in more than one form, sort of like multiple personality disorder). Use it, love it.
$5 Word Love.

Returned from ad agency gig at Middling City Zoo post asscrack of dawn. The femme who hired Yours Truly says Be there at 930. So I am. Along with some construction workers hard at work making Otter City, a display of... otters, and workers engaged in poo management. Finally, the event. For the dessert, if you will, of the hoopla, zoo workers had the elder statesman elephant meander out for a photo op. I saw this as Republican Party propaganda and will be PhotoShopping a Dem donkey into all the elephantine images. Sitting in my car parked in the center of the Middling City's largest park/golf course I talked to Beth and collaboratively we noted that our grad program is so peripheral in our minds. On that note onwards to homework and its attendant focuslike activities.

Focus on Love.

Swearing on the souls of the venerable and very dead founders of New School U (the corporate giant to the start-up Parsons School of Desirability), I was like so trying to do homework today in the wi-fi-rich teahouse. But. But what. I will so tell you what. There was a deep-throated - woopsies - let us say she was whisky-voiced, woman in the joint who boomed on and on and on and on about cancer, meditation, members of the Middling City U English Department Faculty of Yore who Yours Truly studied and partied her balls off with, and much much more. My ears and mind wandered. But, Beth Dearest and I have duly dually noted that the online seminar is so... off-kilter. There is no discussion as of yet despite the prodding efforts of, You guessed it correctly, Perfect Student Me. BTW and ink this on the calendar, there are thirteen shopping days until the day that I plunged into the world the day after the birthday of John Lennon. I count my b-day as a shop day as it's a dimanche fercrissakes and who the hell can't muster up some energy to shop on that day of non-rest, especially for such an important holiday. Supreme likes, should you need ideas: green, green tea, green, green tourmaline (ask the nice counter girlies at Me & Ro about my drooling over their exquisite green tourmaline ring), and world peace.
Oh, another distraction in the tea joint was a familiar disc playing up above so I asked Jennifer to refresh my memory. Over the Rhine. But of course. Then she tells me they have a new one, a double cd and it's for freakin' sale in the tea/jewelry/cd outlet. It is now mine and Blair would be oso proud of me as he manages them.

Love Outlet.

After the priest railed against gay marriage in a political way, preaching to the assumed choir about how Christians/Catholics/The Zealous do not need legislation to tell them that marriage is absolutely between a man and a woman, and a few other matters on the platform, a terrier ran from behind the altar, prancing and yipping all the way. A few congregants/wedding guests asked if I, the paid shooter, captured this Greenpeace-worthy, PETA-like activity. I did not, I said, as I was trying to catch the little beast more than capture it.
I gave the terrier mad props for attempting to fluster Father Blowhard.
Oh, and also, the groom's eight year old son nearly passed out on the oppressive altar. I later asked him how this happened, nearly. He showed me how his tie was tied so tightly that his lips had turned blue. And he nearly passed out again to illustrate.
In the midst of a love song, one that inspires couples to press their bodies together and to press their misty memories together, the dj boomed mid-song over the PA - THIS IS ONE OF THE WORLD'S MOST POPULAR LOVE SONGS. I mean really.
Just once I'd like to request a mic for my unfettered and sporadic epinw-style commentary throughout a wedding day. An example: Who the hell's idea was it to serve so MANY starches for dinner. & Uh, Father Blowhard, this one goes out to you, howzabout we stick to phantasmagoric ideals of a marital nature and keep the Republic out of this.

Dem dere Love.

Again listening, in obsessive fashion, to soundtrack from Lost in Translation x-specially track 5 that is Girls by Death in Vegas.
When life does not spring a Virgin Megastore in one's path one must make do, embrace the rehashing of a collection like a gallery on the skids without funding.
Last night, what small surrealisms in parts. After a solid night of working spun out of my Jetson Heliport in the most wee of hours and, as I had sipped mega-watt green tea all the night long, I was like so up to the task at hand for meeting Good W and his pals. Once I called him W and his response was that I was never to call him that again due to the alleged president's co-opting of the letter - I told him the right thing to do was to reclaim the, his, letter.
Four of us walked a few long blocks to the former offices of Middling City Orchestra, now housing several on its three stories. The MC Orchestra was one of my clients so to revisit this building and be able to meander into its nooks and crannies with abandon was a treat. Up in the attic (who the hell on the orchestra staff had to toil away the workday up in that hovel) one of the residents has a lovingly-organized display of death dolls from a graphic novel apparently. Rivalling anything I saw in the Satanists's home a while back, all black, intricate, ready for battling. It was at that point that Good W's pal Colleen told me of causing the jettisoning off of a young man on a water bed, as we looked down upon an air mattress resembling a water bed.
The residents shared stories of ghosts wandering this old home, about people drowning babies there when it was a home for unwed girls, about people slipping on the wooden stairs and feeling embracing arms about them. Not nearly as spooky as the shelves of death dolls.
Off now again to points beyond.

No love for death dolls.

THIS JUST IN:
I AM BACK ONLINE CHEZ MOI, AFTER ABOUT HALF AN HOUR WITH A FACELESS, NAMELESS TECHIE. CHECK UNCHECK CHECK CLOSE OUT OPEN UP CHECK UNCHECK AND VOI-FUCKIN-LA... ONLINE BRAINAL ACTIVITY UP AND RUNNING. YOU WANT MISERY. OFFLINE MY DSL. STOP.

Well cheese and crackers how the h-e-double-crisscrossed-hockey-weapons did it get to be thirsty Thursday already.
Yesterday's gig was at the home of the parents who brought one of the favoured ones of Yours Truly out into the world, Rio. Her parents, parents-in-law of Ron. So I show up and note most notably that there is a giant grill on the front Middling City lawn rivalling any of the suburbs. And, manning the grill, is Smoker Bob, in shorts, tan, cowboy hat, etc. So the food was insuredly good. John the CW Rocker was there and that was a bonus. Inside, a celebration of 50 years of marital union and guests manhandled programs and sang while Ron and I shot each other blood-curdling-oh-fuck-I-may-just-break-out-into-heathenistic-cackle looks.
You will be not too surprised to know that Yours Truly has once again painted herself into a grand corner and has oso many deadlines on her head that it might just implode like an old pumpkin.
And, speaking of pumpkins, one of my pumpkin-smashing students from last year's late-night seminar, taught from within my golden Forester, was inquiring if class will be in session this season. To which Yours Truly replied Do upraised pumpkins experience velocity and gravitas and gravity and elicit jubilation in equal measure.

Tutorials of Love.

Went to hardcore girlie wedding shower yesterday, sunny yesterday, for MaryB, in Deb's backyard. A real pleasure, a gathering of so many revelling babes and pals and throwdown party girlies. And somehow, despite its being an EstFest, there in the corner lurked Jack Daniels. I left before he was cracked. I left just after Sarah and I played London Bridge is Fallin' Down with our manicured toes (Sarah is 2.3 years old) and talked to nearly one and all. Got the lowdown on the re-opening of Royal Pheasant from Molly "Mad-In-Charge" Q, co-owner. The beets on the menu stay. The Rat Pack banquettes stay. Live lobsters? Staying. Gaggle of barflies? Not so sure.
Saw Festival Express and Janice Joplin's filmed performances gave me bona fide, 100% skin-keep goosebumps. The footage is unforgettable, the editing stellar. But where were the groupies, the boobies, I ask.
For what is R&R without a little r&r.
I rest my rollicking case.
Rolllllicking, documentary Love.

A fun fact.
The only thing Yours Truly can think of that I share with the US hook or by crook president is that we both like to assign nicknames to others.
Put that in your pipe.
Smoke it.
Inhale.
So, according to Beth, we have a School Assignment. I mean, really. School Assignment. Don't these people know I have work to do, money to make, magazines to read. And art to ponder and create.
In mere moments I'll be toodling over to the New School U site to see what is in store for me.
Had a whirlwind of visiting with gal pals this week. Lunch with sister Soups and then Laura. Plethora of drinks with Cheryl, Liz and Annie. To say that some of these minglings didn't devolve into, ramble willingly, into full-fledged revelry would be a complete and utter lie. I regaled Beth, in Harrisburg for the !happynewyeartojews!, with some of the details, always carefully and measuredly beginning with I was minding my own business when...
Trying to get her to the Middling City for another visit, this time hopefully without pyrotechnics of personal disaster.
Haunting phrase du jour/time:
at the end of the day.
Keith the Wired Instructor - as in the material learnt and not in his upper intake - said ...At the end of the day every day we PSD13 were instructees. JamMasterV even found a way to insert that phrase into a report she reported and when she said it, a cloud of irony over her head, we all silently chortled and glanced at each other. Behind me, in the tea house where I am stealing wi-fi molecules, a jewelry designer is listening to something, watching something, on her laptop.
That phrase came out of the micro-mini speakers moments ago.
Do not use this phrase.
I propose that there is no end to any day. Think more linearly, stop thinking 24 hours, 24 hours, 24 hours. Confuse day with night, dreams with wake.
Waking Love.

Well. Well well well well.
No grotto could be found at the Middling City's answer to Hef's Joint. But what I did find was a MC version of Fabio, long golden silken tresses and all. At some point in the evening, whilst speaking to a fun gal at the bar I noted that Fabio had unloosed his mane and was supine on the marble floor, in front of the classical musicians whom no one could hear above the party din.
I spoke with Fabio. His name is Arthur. He is a jazz musician. Who dances while he's playing. Or that is at least what I thought his handler, standing alongside him, said.
With a gown on my body and short hairs on my head - as well as my Don't-Fuck-Wit-Me physique some in the throng who I know did not know Yours Truly. One client of mine of about six months or so back, post several martinis, said to me You look like a movie star. I wanted to say to her Yes, internally I so AM a movie star and have been for decades - only YOU see my true, exterior movie star. And I thank you.
No other party notables except that the white wine ran low to dry and then it was high time to move along to scotch fercrissakes.
Up in the attic/third floor rumpus area I asked pal Sam for a coin to feed the very naughtily racist bank to see if, in sooth, the eyeballs rolled back to white as Kennedy swore they would. And, by gum and by crackie, they freakin' did.
And Happy New Year to all my faithful epinw readers of the Jewish faith.

Faithful Love Forever Now.

Tonight would be the night that me and Kennedy get all gussied up and walk over to a black tie affair hosted by Rick the Sex Man. Owner of sundry boobie bars in the Middling City and in Vegas and god only knows where else. This man bought one of Hef's former rides and I imagine a replication of The Grotto somewhere in the basement. I told Kennedy I imagine losing him at the soiree, only to find him hours later, tux MIA and floating in The Grotto whilst grabbing onto a slippery, frothy bevvie and a slippery, frothy stripper.
Time will party tell.
Love's Tell.

Minding my own business, completely, I found myself in the basement of Middling City Historical Society (wow, what a somewhat elucidating shithole) during a charity art auction in which I was particating. In mere hours my wondrous tripartite piece of graphite drawings on paper would be on the ol' block.
But first, research. Hence the basement. Kennedy and I prowled the depths, gleaning information. We pondered over the model Middling City of Yore, from the way-early 19th Century.
The flats, now not so flat with buildings.
My neck of the Middling city just off the map at my craning feet.
I suddenly became much more inspired by the pioneer days room displays.
I was so inspired by higher learning that I jumped the rail and sat in the "pioneer" rocking chair, rocking slowly, wine in hand, pondering life in pioneer days as well as the state of this Middling City institution.
I checked out the boots in the next "room." I lifted up the bed warmer, clearly a ye olde replication, and pretended to warm the pioneer bed with the missing mattress.
I moved on to a display of photos of the Fishkill Dump where all that remained post-9/11 remain. All the lost art.
Moved on to art on the block, not the dump (yet) and did one purchase - #93 in the air - until it was time to take the learning elsewhere.

Love or Else.

Cheez and crackers. OK more consistent blogposts, more words of wisdom and freewheelin' revelry here... and there.
Again on borrowed time/computer as the new fucking modem is not working and perhaps it is the port of ethernet magic that is a-fried out but that will only be gleaned after a long and intense and recurrent SOS call to some techie person who hopefully I can comprehend - as in their accent. The last techie was a gruff older man so gruff the gruffness obscured the actual words he spake.
Last night we landed after 3.5 hours in car, Kennedy and I that is, in front of the storefront gallery where some jazz happened starring our pal Peter Brotzmann. He was out in front having his customary Starbucks Americano and dark smoke when I unfurled the window to toodle out the window Excuuuuse me, which way to Buffalo. He stared blankly, then away. I toodled again. Same response. So we meandered towards him across the near-barren street of half-baked and half-assed businesses and decrepit row houses until familiarity swam across his face. We talked. The show began. I shot. Intermission. As I was on a road trip and had not had venison jerky it was beer time. Lame-o gallery (with a name like Faulty Metaphors or some such thing) had none. Grabbed $10 out of my bag and wandered to the convenience store. Found there some choice greeting cards. One to send to an accident victim. Birdhouses on the front. I ask, what do birdhouses have to do with accidents. Next. To a wondrous friend. Image on front is a cat, wearing a hat, sitting in a basket. At his feet, a bird, apparently dead. Inside. Sentiment is about You are a fab acquaintance.
And this fucking store has no beer.
Really.
Asking about in line waiting to purchase the excellent cards I met a woman named Janice.
Janice, a mom just off of work, ended up offering me a ride to a pizza parlour where I could buy a six pack. Janice explained excitedly that this joint had a wall of beer and she knew of this despite the fact that she does not drink.
Her car was a purple sedan with 10 pine tree air freshners and on the back seat were eight bags of snaxx for her two teenaged kids.
I did not have my seatbelt on in case Janice turned out to be a nut and I had to dive and roll.
Janice drove me 1 mile. We got out of the car and walked into the pizza parlour together. Janice explaining all the way about how I should trust no one else in the gallery's neighborhood and, most importantly, I should tell NO ONE that I am from the Middling City, as they'd take advantage of my naivete.
So, Janice drives me back to the gallery and Peter is there to witness me exiting a purple sedan. He raises his two eyebrows. I tell him about my new pal, Janice. I show him the greeting cards. May send him the one with the cat and limpy bird.
Ended the night at some Indian restaurant where I was served my scotch and soda with a deathly blue glowing ice cube. Upon leaving I placed the faux glo-stik cube in the to-go box in front of Peter.
The waiter nervously ran up to say
That ice cube remains the property of the restaurant.

I remain Your Perfect correspondent to all things Me.

Corresponding Love.

Well Well Well.
No, not so well for the DSL modem which fried out.
So no internet system for me, yet.
Apparently the trouble is far deeper and darker than I can figure out.
So borrowed internet time for now.
But onwards.
And onwards right now to Pittsburgh to see Peter Brotzmann, sax artiste, for the night with Kennedy.
So more later so all for now.
School officially begins again Monday, fercrissakes. So new cyber pencils must be sharpened, then, fer sher.
Love for now.

Maintenant.
Thank god for iTunes, headphones, volume controls and earplugs as Yours Truly is once again loitering at JFK and my perfect self is hopelessly and helplessly surrounded by pizza gulping, child indulging gum-chomping young families. M'Aidez.

Yesterday.
Had a disconnected lunch with Dorota who is not abreast of any situations in the life of Yours Truly yet remains highly judgmental: not a joy.
Moved along to protest(s) at Union Square and filmed several moments of that special tension that is created when the morass of media, armed militia and protesters circle one another. One false move and the morass is chaos.
Bought a few fab tshirts as well as a set of dress-up Bushie magnets, like paper dolls, only way better.
Had to move along to B&H and that's when things got really interesting.
(The Mess We're In hit iTunes as I am telling You this story, most appropriate as it references helicopters in New York, sung by Thom Yorke on this Polly Jean song. Keep this in mind. Dig.)
Took L to 8th Avenue after being chuted into the Union Square stop, under watchful copful gazes.
At 8th Ave caught the C up to Penn Station.
Tried to get out to street but noted that all was taped and barricaded and guarded and then had to walk two blocks, including down another platform, to get O.U.T.
Once up on the street I saw how the world here had changed. Streets shut off, orange safety cones all about, cops and dopey-looking delegates in spangles and vests and hats and more barricades. Crossing the street I noted I was entering a zone where all were subject to search. A cop with baton was crossing one and all and right up behind him I asked into his left ear if he was our crossing guard. I was followed then for a block by three cops, until I got to B&H.
Escaping B&H I opted for a cab in lieu of the subject to search choice.
Later later later I digvid'd helicopters in the sky as there were many. I noted that the Fuji blimp featured prominently the letters N Y P D.
A real bummer to a fan of the Fuji.
Time to board, read, snooze, deplane.

Deplaned and Delovely Love.

A fellow fan of the wi-fi molecule came to my e-motional rescue moments ago as I was supping in Rialto on wine wine and chop salad. The chef was on his wi-fi'd laptop at the bar as I meandered in. Spying wi-fi molecules hovering in the air like a pack of earnest hornets I said There's wi-fi here. To which he replied affirmatively. Then no luck on this very laptop. So he sat alongside me and together we figured the secret of getting me into the super-secret rialto network. Mind you, I am trying - trying - to write as a woman teeters at the edge of the bannister just outside the open door with her pal/date, drunk to a highly-decibeled degree and now she's doing a pantomime that has him in embarassed stitches.
I saw The Brown Bunny.
Review: eight thick inches of raw talent.
And searing Vinnie eyes, chin, nose, yum.
There are some trying moments but mainly not. It reminded me a bit of my grad student art, surprisingly in static contrast to a personality rich in non-static practice. Another love story. This one more psychological, deliberate, gestural. Ending is yeah chock full of the big... moment but it's a sad end, really, to a broken man's pathos path across the USofA.

+

Yesterday was truly a What the Fuck kind of day.
Began the day, nearly, by attending a funeral with Kennedy. And who the hell puts fun into a funeral like born agains. We arrived early. We sat in the back row. We looked damned fine.
The priest began to speak. That cookie cutter evangelical hands all aflutter evangelical banter. Hands a blend of rockstar, self-help guru and televised chef. Maybe a dash of qi gong practitioner. And the hair, a slick wave signifying the coast of the sea of galilea. I sang, probably much to the chagrin of the lady of a certain age in front of me with the fall rivalling any of the deep south. Kennedy would not sing, despite my raised eyebrows and voce.
So finally the high priest gets around to feting the dead man. And it ends. I am teetering on hysterics because of the lilt of the voice and hands.
And then.
And then.
He takes a turn.
(NB: man who is my waiter sees me writing up a storm merrily and brought bottle over to give me a glass on the ol' house - there is a god, apparently)
He says This is not usually done at funerals but oh what the HELL. or something to that effect.
Folks (I paraphrase) bow your heads. Well, now that your eyes are shut (they are, I quickly look about the new build church that has a slight reek of mildew) please raise your hand if you'd like to find the Lord - no one is looking but me and the Lord so raise your hand.
It is at this point I have both hands over my mouth and am trying to suppress probably the largest guffaw of my fucking laugh, rushing for the door, eyes streaming tears, thinking thank the fucking peeking Lord that laughter sounds like sobbing to the ears of the aggrieved. I charged 100' out into the parking lot and lowered my hands and the laugh filled the countryside where the new build church rests, down into the valley, down into the gorge, alarming not only fishermen but the trout.
Last night, following a gig supplemented by the lights and bear hug of Lead Boy Colleague, I saw a sight most gorgeous.
A laundromat was alight and encircled by firetrucks. The flourescent lights and giant picture windows left a giant lime green cube on the suburban landscape. Unforgettable.
I am out in moments into the Shiney Apple where I am bumping into Art and Ideas.
I am alive in ideas and Vinnie Gallo makes movies and I make videos.
Some head for the wilderness,
some for the shores,
some for the comfort of familiar arms.
I head towards Serendipity.

Towards Love.

Oh this is such a day for the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
And here they are at 60dB and suddenly I am more at peace with the Middling City where the urban chief (ie mayorissimo) reports to patronage duty at the asscrack of dawn, offering condolences to the owners of the blazen pizza joint on the MC's west side. I can report on the pizza joint thusly. It was a disco kind of joint, chock full of mirrors so that when your drunken face was at the chest-high counter ordering up a slice or so there you were, all Picassoed out, sliced out yourself. And, oh, the disco balls. And pinball machines. A saucey isle in the midst of what was once working class, now crack cultured. All about the fades, the petit larceny, the pockets of attempts at cuh-lean living rather than leaving. So, the mayor reports in to say gee whiz and sorry. Off again to the Shiney Apple tomorrow and the making and doing of art and fine french coffee and the like. Into the eye of the hurricaine as this week happens to be the one in which most of my SA pals have been inspired to avoid: the target-rich RNC. Thought JetBlue would be offering up Hey Dem, Come Fly With Us discounts but nogo. Hope to digvid in peace, far from the madding crowds never to see eye to eye. But, then again, one does never know what forces forces one into the midst of protest and dissent. Some arresting news: JW,Esq. reports he's off to Burning Man in a customized orange fuzzy hoodie. In lieu of glo-stix, should I ever find myself there, I'd probably lean more towards masked rogue and mischief - less fluffy hoodie, more flakey hood.
Contrasted Love.

If the evil insect rushing about overhead divebombs my glass of Oban things will get ugly. Oh, wait, it'll presumably be dead and drownt. So things must get ugly now. (Imagine clapping of hands, as if Yours Truly hears a distant and gleeful folk melody which inspires such maneuvering.) (sidenote: it is with minor sadness that I report Justin believes/knows that I have within my body a voice not so VH1-ready. This evidently evident post-drunk Chinese midget night of songs for a dollar.) And I am not, repeat, not, speaking of the insouciant and diabolical evangels next door fond of marathon praising the high powers to the beat of a drummer I'd like to send off to remedial drumming camp.
Implorement du jour.
O, high power, if there is indeed one, please let there be a remedial drumming camp and let it not only be far far away but require the inept and tireless drummer of next door to be enrolled and away for aeons.
Invited straycat Extra in for a dose of petting and conversation until he got carried away with night-addled claws beseeching spaces in my skin. And the nouveau primitif thing is as off the mark as Mr. Inept searching for a beat.
Hanging - in the proverbial time passing sense - is unfamiliar to me right now in the realm of the Middling City. More familiar with how to make & do in the Shiny Apple, it is a challenge here and now.
Despite the Republicans heading there soon soon soon.
Watched a moment of Kerry in '71, in uniform, in C-Span schedule, and glad to have done so to witness the historical doc in its state, not spun upon by spinners far and wide.
Fleet boat veracity or not, this choice is the better choice.
And, as my favoured wife beater states:
The only bush I trust is my own.

Bushels of Love.

Mark these words.
I will never - like so ever - participate or watch the Olympics, cold or hot, unless the sport of Jarts is admitted to the playbill. And once I hear this sport of danger is part of sporting matters then I will train like Charles Dickens (sipping Noni juice, practicing yoga and meditation, doing extra cardio workouts) to make the grade. Speaking of grades. Me and other members of the roster of sporting student life members of Parsons School of Disintegration have compared and contrasted our grade reports. What I lovingly refer to as our Approval Ratings. I rated fairly well, except for the obvious snag. Onwards.
Back to jarts. A memory. Jarting about one fine summer evening I nearly impaled the teacup poodle of my pal Sheryl. It was then that I duly noted, even in the midst of a wild yet geeksome youth, that this was really a fabulous and exhilerating game wrenched from the conceptualists of hell.
So many interesting things reported to me as of late. Like injuries sustained from dogs. Like dreams of sharing drugs with higher-ups in the political realm. Like fantasies of others that are far from what might be respectable. And so much more. I cannot even name a name, even though I suspect that some of these shards might be sent onwards to Yours Truly in hopes that they appear on this illustrious, ever informative page.
One last item.
Erin called to invite me to a Vinnie Gallo/Sean Lennon gig ce soir. I faltered. A gig in the Middling City. An invite in the Shiny Apple. What was a girl to do. No. The answer. But a sweet consolation is that I will watch the celluloid blowjob with Erin next week in the form of Brown Bunny. And to see if Vinnie has once again eked out quiet and swimmingly contra mainstream art as I suspect or if he has completely gone nutty bumpers.

Love bumpers in the night.

In addition to the wise Lead Boy Colleague words here a snippet from Sam, opened unto in the most serendipitous manner, from From an Abandoned Work as Interpol sends out decibels from a world without sun, safety net, assurances and routine.
Sam says:
...I might be sprawling in the sun now sucking my pipe and patting the bottoms of the third generation, looked up to and respected, wondering what there was for dinner, instead of stravaging the same old roads in all weathers, I was never much of a one for new ground.
There is sun and now I must be going to forage for visions then images then pixels then further fame.
I leave you.

Left of Love.

Remarkably, just as I thought there was no way I could possible feel more rancour towards insurance companies this transpired. Or, more accurately, continues to transpire. Geico is like a leech on my back, between my shoulder blades and I cannot get it off. I called them to say, hmmmm... months ago, You are no longer my insurance co., I have another, we are done, thanks for the memories. So then they report that I have no insurance to the authorities, which is not the case. Calls are made to new insurance co and to the leeches. Now I have here a letter from the State stating Hi asshole you have no insurance and we are about to not only take away yer license but your patience.
Heard from JR, who I had presumed dead. Well no, and let this be a lesson to You, that even mentors need breaks. JR was hiding out, having a proverbial breather.
I am off now to shoot giants in kilts tossing heavy objects in a controlled environment - ie the Scottish Festival and Highland Games. Then onwards to a wedding.
From plaid skirts to synchronized nylon dresses.
Just another Perfect Day.

Love of Perfection.

On the L&I Express reached the Shiny Apple in what seemed to be mere hours despite a pitstop at a pie joint called Bingham's. Pies of all colors and Yours Truly exclaimed Beautiful. Had a massive turkey cobb salad, extra bacon, giving props to my roadtrip fav, salty and sinewy jerkey. When there's no time to arrest travel for jerkey strips, bacon must suffice. And that's my hot travel tip du jour.
Meeting in several hours with Thomas Werner to show and tell - stills and video. Bought a blazing firewire external DVD burner to discover that my rissa-rassa startup disc is stuffed to the rafters so it's burning off tiffs, jpegs and the like.
It's going to rain in the Shiny Apple so out will come the $3 umbrella and the digvid camera to capture and render drops dropping like so many dropper drips.
From the highbeams of angels to drops of water in the urban centre of the universe.
Finished a few articles about Vincent's Brown Bunny this morning, reading that is. My journalism pen is resting at the moment. He, with assistance from filmmaker Kenneth Anger (creator of Lucifer Rising, just turned on to me via Kennedy, the soundtrack, not images but I did read about them and they do seem alligned with my minimalism) foisted a curse upon a critic who shall not be named. But, more shockingly, pretty (and balding) boy Gallo admits to not having read a book, ever. That is just something one should so not admit in this non-voting and non-reading apathetic age. And from a man who is an obsessive non-delegator.

Delegations of Love.

With the assistance of Kennedy delivered an artwork so metaphorical, musty and engigmatic to Tom the Auto Guru. Whereupon he grabbed power tool and installed in a most appropriate Zen-like fashion, pell-mell to hell with measurements and the like. And there it is for all the customers to see: disembodied head floating over a Mt. Fuji-like mountain as a red and passionate cloud roils over the head. It is a sight.
Afterwards a French, vraiment, joint nearby and then on to do some filming of angels' high beams in the Basilica, resting point of Rt. Rev. Fr. Nelson Baker. Dead soon-to-be-saint, en route to canonization and resting amid a grotto in Lackawanna. Filmed the marble and passages of light and bursts of shadow and am thinking, previsualizing, a fast clippy loop of high beams and light beams. Titleism, the first step in my conceptual art practice. Title. Idea. Execution. Edit. And freakin' voilà.
Conceptual Love.

Apparently, according to Gary's message, all my faved Boy Colleagues are down at the dismal and former glorious Central Train Terminal of the Middling City shooting away, merrily. What. They are shooting all the naked MC residents collectively posing for a new image by Spencer Tunic, or howmever it's spelled. And I am so not there, just having nearly completed my list of properties to hit for the next Secrets of Allentown book (my third consecutive year as shooter) and then now onwards to shoot the nuptials of pal Donnie and Heidi in the Delaware Park, MC's version of Shiny Apple's Central Park. In keeping with Centrality as theme du jour.
Received correspondence from Loomis who is heading back east, she thinks, after a school-related indiscretion involving a lyrical poem. Suggested strongly she think of relocating upstairs from Yours Truly. Home of Succour.
Back to Shiny Apple most expediently this week for a few short days, mainly to show work to Thomas Werner of TW Gallery, where I showed a print at his Chelsea joint this summer. He sat in on my endcrit and was most positive and wants to See.
Then to meet with JR and strategize technically for the fall and beyond. To draw, states JR, electronically, the moments in time on timeline of software to tell or not tell a story. With my new technique I see many moments ahead. Some black & white and some figurative. And all very compellingly gorgeous. To state so my art self.
Onwards to readying.
Onwards to image making.
Onwards to doing in the hot hot sun.
A fan of all the above but not the hot hot.

Not hot love.

Note to self:
Being hung-over in JFK is bad for the head as the booming PA system, always indiscernible and bass-heavy, rattles around the mind like a coconut bouncing about in an elevator falling through its shaft in space. Now that's an analogy to remember. Not ©'d, yet, so use it, love it.
Met up with JW,Esq. at Gotham for high times and softshell crab and wine and more wine last evening.
Dougie Fresh called so we met up with him at the joint where JW,Esq.'s dj pal was to be doing his thing. The joint so over-chilled I not only felt the sea monkeys swimming back into my left knee, but asked the barlady to turn the damned chill down.
Afterwards the three of us meandered over to the East Village and I revisited my halcyon days on E7 between A & B. Discovered the age-old shithole on the corner not only hasn't changed a bit but has a photo booth - where we put our rock and roll graphic knowledge to good solid use, making images that rival the best of any album cover. Some post-teens were next in line and they were such ditzy girls that I kept sticking my hand in giving my famed Rock On! salute which Lead Boy Colleague adopted around 1997 or so. (as if the PA system were not miserating enough now there's Paul McCartney's insufferable voice warbling through the air. ow.)
My digvids yesterday were received most positively and I did have the butterflied insides when I saw one of the four for the first time. Equivalent to the sloshing in the trays and the coming up of a magical image of silvers and other toxins.
Time to wend my way to Gate 01. And yes, I can assist should the crew need my buff ass to help should we need to ditch the plane fast and ferociously.

Ditches of Love.

Thinking of nothing and shooting stars.
Post wired seminar wrap-up, the wrangling together of dangling concepts and links as well as heated repartée regarding laptop and cellphone use in public green spaces (the tossed-in salty ingredients, if you will, into this unchallenging bouilliabase was that such conservative banter teeters on the fascistic - and my additional shocking utterance that to some of us the wailing of babies is as offensive, for example, as chatter into a cellphone is to some), I escaped to Lincoln Center on a rec to see The Naked Spur, part of a retro. Starring James Stewart, an actually enthralling western whose landscape is masterfully rendered by Anthony Mann (like a back country rogue he, too, has an alias: Emil Anton Bundmann) back when the world was Technicolor, shot in Technicolor and there were shoot-outs. Wait a second, there still are shoot-outs.
So following all the boy action and guns and the like I was sorely disappointed that the ending was most girlie and smoochie. Yes, I will follow you, stranger, to god really knows where and marry you. *barf*barf*barf*. My eyes rolled like credits, despite this nonsense it was primo.
After leaving the movie I walked into a happening happening happening, replete with spontanteous dance, stringy students from Julliard, Indian lady dancers, painted faces, a man holding a stuffed sun on a pole (can not we ever have a fucking festival without these Slaves of Whimsy), a slight dose of mayhem. Insert here my wish against wishes that artsy school had this sort of enthralling energy. Watched a photog from a distance, one of those hobbyists who fantasizes that he's part of a more seasoned and serious pack. These sorts usually tow a few unnecessary props. This guy got it all wrong and wore his backbrace outside his shirt, I think to signify that he works damn hard and has the battered spine to prove it. So I walked amongst the revelers which inspired me to ponder where I am, like where I AM, man, and then stood in front of The Met's schedule thinking which I'd go see and further if I should buy tix to the Bill Viola staging of L'Opéra in gai Paris in early pringtemps. Rain came down to rinse away my joie and it was back to art for crit's sake. Returned to loft to work on the digvid and spoke with JW,Esq who had an equally challenging day, his involving those difficult to pinpoint planes, amorphous flight plans, a sidetrip to Maine, etc. As he stated Our biorhythms are in synch - in synch with minor discomforts. He pointed out that I'd found myself in yet another Perfect scrape. Namely, there I was/am face-to-face with the PowerBook and it needed to work with me, not against me, to spew art forth from the cockles of its electronic intricacies to match mine own.

Matched Love.

Minding my own business, as You can assuredly mind Your own, so many things happened today.
Most notably is that I am going to see my music-savvy attorney in the Shiny Apple. But, to be fair, I do not know the musical proclivities of mine other attorney. And, not surprisingly, JW,Esq tells Me - ME!, bedraggled yet savvy urbane gradgirl - about some hip-hoppening gig here that we will most undoubtedly pop into after dinner on jeudi.
Was most fascinated today by the terrorist-ready armed men standing at attention outside and around the Forbes building, right next to Parsons School of Deconstruction.
Phillip and I puffed away as I watched one of the attentive kevlared men attentively watch girls jiggle by. I meandered over and stated, patriotically: Umm, excuse me officer, but my homeland security is at stake here. Could you puh-leez refrain from checking out the derrières and the frontières of the ladies for one fucking minute.
I pointed out to Phillip that all a terrorist had to do to get Forbes would be to drive recklessly (like any ol' cabbie) down Fifth, wrench wheel at appropriate moment to the right, jump curb (one of my absolute specialties), careen down sidewalk about 50 feet, drive through green scaffolding outside Forbes's joint and do their business. Mr. Boobie Guard and his buddy would be fairly ineffective I am sure should that transpire. The Parsons School of Detachment door/security man told us the armed people were out there as there had been a Threat. When I left after the critique (not a reaming, as I had imagined after the snappiest of snappy emails I got from Misery Seminar instructress, the verysame who thinks I've done no class readings and am a general flaked-out distraction to one and all and recourse is to not recourse until said course is fini) of my artist statement, the AK47 holders were gone.
The scaffolding and the Forbes building remained.
All back to status code yellow, or perhaps a nice soothing seafoam green alert.
As all you loyalest of epinw readers/groupies know I am a gigantic fan of the Wild Animal in Urban Setting tale/newstory. So today in my beloved Post was yet ANOTHER story about a beast in the Shiny Apple. This was a most challenging snippet of a story (with byline no less - but is Laura Italiano really a flesh & blood & sweat & tears reporter, You be the judge) and it took me a few read-throughs to catch its nuances. It centers on The mother of Harlem's notorious Tiger Man. The mother is 70 and her son kept a tiger - Ming - in his pad. Here comes the best part, a quote floating out in space, disconnected from logic, from Antoine, the son: She doesn't know whether to be happy or sad.
Who, I ask, is happy or sad. Ming. The mother. Linda Italiano. The girl who was bitten by the tiger. The woman cop who was recently injured in her struggle to capture another wild cat last week in the Shiny Apple. Fact check please.
My mother always told me to believe in myself, Antoine added.
I ask You, believe in what. The ability to keep a 250 pound tiger in a Harlem apartment, undoubtedly flinging raw chickens through a doorcrack. Apparently Antoine traveled with Ming to South Carolina. And he had Suspicious bites at one time, which he was treated for, on his legs. Conclusion, if there could ever be one in this convoluted story:
Antoine tearfully pleaded guilty last month to keeping a deadly wild animal, in a deal that got his mother off the hook.
Do You feel like there are details that slipped through epinw cracks, down its slippery slope.
If I were Lou Grant, as he was in Mary's from bell bottoms to cheeseball pantsuits show (even though it was a television station), with scotch in the drawer and a song in his heart, I'd be shouting Italiano, your ass is on the line, go out and get me another TIGER STORY with more scarring, scaring, details. And bring a photog - and clarity - this time.

Grant Tough Love.

Today's JetBlue landing on the JFK strip awoke me rudely. And then one of the attendants informed all of us buckled-in people that we'd be Taxiing for a few hours. I shuddered to think. Now in Marquet having the day's first tankard of java, reading up on what is happening in the world and just re-read my artist statement for perusal by the theoretical instructress. Last night had Kennedy read said statement over and over to his vast amusement. Economy of language nuthin', he pointed out the flotsams, the jetsoms.
Slipped in to the Middling City Sonic Youth gig for a moment Saturday night and found myself standing between my bandmates, Ben and Scott. Behind me were more Middling City band and art types and in the space of mere minutes I had seen a dozen quality citizens.
With a votive candle, with untrimmed wick, set a wicker basket in my house's back room ablaze which I tossed out the back door and then fired upon it with garden hose, all to the wonderment of Extra, my stray cat pal.
Onwards to eating, walking, learning, musing.

Love's Muse.

Perhaps the majormost pinnacle of things that have happened this summer is the singing of Dream Weaver, with Luke, the drunk midget, last night during my foray to (what was it called) Wanda's, Wilma's, Wilhemina's, with Justin. I did not remember that the song rambles on at moments, nearly spoken word-style, and realized that it's the chorus that I dig so completely. All that other filler of words about whatever, astral plane references. Higher planes. Planes, planes, planes. Summer not of Love but of Planes.
The midget, I felt, was not trying hard enough. Was it the language barrier. He is Chinese and we were deep in the bowels of China Town. Was it his blood-alcohol levels. Was it stage fright. Was it a madcap independent streak that flies in the face of karaoke law and order.
And this all is for yet another short (no pun intended, for real) story, a collection, of stories about midgets.
Last night, in the midst of fabricating/creating an artist statement, a short fiction piece sprung forth, a story about M called The Tell. It's about 500 words and I'm very happy with it, thus far.
Met Dorota for lunch today at the usual joint and as we were leaving she recalled a shoe sale on Fifth. Where was the question, exactly where. I asked What, you are a Shoe Girl, how is this not emblazoned onto your consciousness.
We found said sale. And what did I find but an Italian pair of sky blue jobbers that are rather complicated.

Sky Blue Shoe Love.

Nothing like a few grand Middling City gigs, late-night conversation with Academie Guru, a select PJHarvey song and a little class skipping to raise one's spirits and reinvigorate the��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������

Nothing like a few grand Middling City gigs, late-night conversation with Academie Guru, a select PJHarvey song and a little class skipping to raise one's spirits and reinvigorate the head. Told JR it's been weeks, three, to be exact, since I fondled the digvid camera. And here I hear the voice of Kennedy, half-growling/half-groaning And this is art school. Yes, where is the art. So a break to find art, again.
Reading a book about experiencing art and just garbage picked a passage about John Cage and Robert Rauschenberg, specifically RR's White Canvases. Cage wrote that these paintings were Airports for particles of dust and shadows that are in the environment.
Your assignment: read that over, twice. Then have coffee. Or Oban.
Ron of KY wrote of trying to wrangle some Oban out of a KY situation and though I was lost in the nuances of it I admired his wherewithall to at least try some quality booze acquisition in that bourbon-soaked region of those collectively known to Yours Truly as Team B.
As the plume poppies continue to make a pergola without my assistance, and the bee balm lists after bee visits, and the moon flowers push up the brick house, I do my own thing.

Love Thing.

Nothing like a few grand Middling City gigs, late-night conversation with Academie Guru, a select PJHarvey song and a little class skipping to raise one's spirits and reinvigorate the head. Told JR it's been weeks, three, to be exact, since I fondled the digvid camera. And here I hear the voice of Kennedy, half-growling/half-groaning And this is art school. Yes, where is the art. So a break to find art, again.
Reading a book about experiencing art and just garbage picked a passage about John Cage and Robert Rauschengerg, specifically RR's White Canvases. Cage wrote that these paintings were Airports for particles of dust and shadows that are in the environment.
Your assignment: read that over, twice. Then have coffee. Or Oban.
Ron of KY wrote of trying to wrangle some Oban out of a KY situation and though I was lost in the nuances of it I admired his wherewithall to at least try some quality booze acquisition in that bourbon-soaked region of those collectively known to Yours Truly as Team B.
As the plume poppies continue to make a pergola without my assistance, and the bee balm lists after bee visits, and the moon flowers push up the brick house, I do my own thing.

Love Thing.

OK,
last post deleted.
Onwards.