Lost entire last post as I was not officially logged in to Blogger and that like so comfreakingly sucks. Speaking of Nancyisms was talking to Beth Dearest moments ago and described the current Middling City snow as snow globe style. At first she thought that I was quoting a certified meteorologist. But no.
Told several at Middling City's Main Event last night that my new and luxe hair colour, purple haze awash over what was, is grape flavoured. Several smelled, some licked. To no avail. To my delight.
The new cut rocks as does its creator, Jon, who last night was in his vertically striped tapestry jeans, outdazzling his lady friend's ensemble by x2, a peril of dating a man who is a dresser.
Stopped by Jon's place yesterday brandishing a gift for him and after a spate of visiting to basically demand or request that he make me look better, he agreeing as he was up to his elbows in multi-layered blonde hair of a girl named Teal. Then the haze. Then the cut. Then the visiting with the interesting cast of characters, half of whom are engaged in the rock realm.
Just came from Bandmate Scott's gig as (whatwazzit, Hymen, Hytymnestra, Heteros) Hymns. Bad name. Good times. Then Aaron Miller - two short pieces via a program called Max........ somethin somethin and I asked how much and he said how high, no, but it was high, like about $700 so no go. I axed about a bootleg but he said impossible as it bonds with all things secretive on one's laptop and to that I say O, Really.
Had a gig early early today for a fam celebrating their mom's 90th bday and she was beyond confused and I wondered why in hell they were doing this, to prove their love, their tenacity, to weaken hers, who really does know.
Oh, the day is over and I've lost my voice and my homework is not done and I would like a cold remedy and a respite and a re re re ... joinder, fresher, membrance.
All for now and over and out.

Out Loved.

Well thank the gods and saints (like Patrick) for All Wheel Drive - that's AWD in common and motorhead parlance - as it was like so needed today whilst parking in one sub190 parking lot this morn. Left the car teetering at a 45 or so degree angle as I left it to go shoot Match Day, the day that 100+ med students find out their fate, where they'll be residencing their next five years. Much hugging, gripping of envelopes, cell phones whipped out to tell news to folks off in afar. And, as is Match Day tradition, not one single person ventured forth to cut or taste the dual sheetcakes emblazoned with Middling City U Med School medallions and such. Not one fork hit those plasticky and pastiched cakes.
Beth Dearest emailed me today from her temp gig to inquire just what in hell this Saint Patrick Day is about and who he was. To that I gleefully replied He rid the Emerald Isle of SNAKES. He lifted up his walking stick/shelalaigh/rod/staff/weapon, dressed head to toe in green satin, wearing a hat in the style that the popes would later pilfer like oso many things, and, with a mighty heave of the stick into the air uttered these words, in an ancient Gaelic dialect:
OUT OUT DAMNED SNAKES, LET MY PEOPLE BE FREE.
The snakes, it should be noted, were in actuality those who had not one tiny shred of Christianity, for they were heathens, hooligans and heretics.
And Saint Patrick, after his ridding, headed over to an ancient saloon and ordered up some fine mead and then some shots of scotch from a nearby isle.
And, centuries later, Irish-Americans took up the wearing of the green satin and the slurping of the mead and such and the brandishing of weapons and the wearing of stupid headgear.
Any more questions.

Questionable Love.

File under Gee, How Shocking. Now is that technically under G, or S.
UPS has my indestructible new portfolio hostage somewhere on a truck, in transit and the burning question is When. And how.
Reese is traipsing all over New Zealand, undoubtedly drinking the local vinted products and have not received any e-correspondence as of yet.
A few days ago had a gig photographing a hardened, wizened lady cop who counsels her peers about work stress disorders and abuse of substances, prevalent as can be, as one might imagine.
During my shoot there were a gaggle of thick guy cops sitting in a boardroom and she pantomimed counsel as I shot away, conversation taking surprising revelatory and confidential turns. Fellow cops not in attendance spoken of by name. Lady cop describes cuffing some of her colleagues over the years and dropping them off, kicking and screaming, at Middling City Drunk Tank, the Hoozgow for Hyper-revelers. And all the while Yours Truly thinking Should I really be hearing this, apparently they do not know that I'll be blogging this momentarily.
And yesterday, whilst getting ingredients at Ye Olde Foode Shoppe literally ran into the attorney who wanted to haul me off to the Hoozgow for Bad Journalists regarding the famed Gripping the Podium Shot, and her hubby. I was looking at him and saw her over his shoulder and, when she spotted YT, she turned on her righteous heel and fled the scene. I proceeded onwards with my shoppeing.
So it's officially Kittie Season and the cats are roamiing and moaning and my dear little eunich, Extra, has nothing to do with all this melodrama. Sanguinely waiting for his next doling of wet food, Pounce brand treats, loving pats on his regal and near-feral head.

Feral Love.

The Middling City is covered with a thin layer of white hot spotlit snow, a sunny day for the saintly and self-imported Irish parade down one of the triad of main and parallel roadways. As I have homework and lost a full day to freelance maneuverings yesterday I passed up my bi-annual and favoured chance to capture likeness molecules of girls with guns for my ongoing series. And the new Woca, Holga's more ritzy cousin, is bereft. For you non-photogs the Woca is a Holga with a - get this - glass lens.
Talked to Beth Dearest moments ago and said that Yours Truly needs to get art into mainstream and not think of the "Program" where we are all art-directed, making the most and such.
Found out moments ago that there's a check from a mag in the Shiney Apple floating about in same. Can't recall which Shiney Apple address I may have given them so that's another Perfect mystery and the editor is remaking my check and remailing to boot.
Have been missing both Midtown East and SoHo sites and attendant and daily routines of where to eat, where to imbibe the caffeine, where to sit a spell, and more. And add to the list Portland, ME, which unexpectedly crept towards me today as a place to be missed. Thought of making a dramatic and somewhat faux narrative digvid piece about missing places, places that haunt, and why.
I am really supposed to be doing readings and homework and there is big emphasis on supposed.
So here I go, off to suppose and suppose some more.

Love suppose.

ps: thirty days until Sam's birthday.

Veritas rockus.
Hearing NYC live last night in the 30s-ish theatre in Crackville at Interpol gig was waking dream.
And for the first time ever in my unshockable rock demeanour, near-lifetime of hanging at gigs, backstage tales beyond belief of rockstar hijinx, fraternizing with boys of all rock genres, I shut my eyes during a show to let every molecule of this one song hit me like light therapy (and, speaking of capturing light, shot a few phonal images of the stage and one of them, I pointed out to Laura, resembled images of the WhiteSnake rock inferno a few years back = computerized lights ablaze like so many foam cushions sparked by pyros) and felt emotion well up. Momentary bon voyage to Perfect unshockable rock demeanour.
Proud to report that fellow Interpol people and I drained all scotch out of the Dome. Laura went to refresh and came back with the bad news so it was onto other items.
Had a hell of a time finding the right crack-addled boulevard and wended through the numbered streets and at one point we were approached by a youngish man with wild eyes holding onto a piece of paper like it was real important. Which way to the border, he queried. Like I knew. But I had a guess U-turn, make a left and look for Rainbrow Bridge signs like a pro. And onwards we drifted. Mid-gig I looked at ticket and fuckinlo, behold there was a clue - address.
After the gig Laura and I learned some fun facts about the practice of crack from a humourist manning the front podium of a sketchy gas station. First he pretended to know no english. Then he informs us he lives in Rocheter. Then he points out the copper scrubbing pads avail in shoppe are in high demand in the neighborhood as they're used for stuffing crack pipes. Then he pulls out some small glass "pens" from behind counter. "Pens"? Um, hell no. Crack pipes.
Poetic, life-enhancing, perfect set and encore from Interpol.

Love's Encore.

Latest brilliant thought in a lifetime of chain of them. Newly-sprung, shawl-toting Martha Stewart has her mag Everyday Food and just thought Fercrissakes I too can have a fine shiney oso informative mag = Everyday Chaos.
v1 n1.
Yours truly, offuckincourse, on cover, looking adorable yet mildly tortured.
This entire concept might be reminiscent of Reader's Digest's famed feature Drama in Real Life - a childhood fav, just another factor that made me so who I am.
There is an uncomfortable silence in an office building's elevator, lights blaringly and screamingly awake-driven as four (YT included) grownups stand around a large handcart packed with new reams of paper. There are two men and two women and the woman who is not YT comments Gee, look at all that newww paper. Inane elevator words. A few more seconds of silence and then I look over at the man not operating or about to resume operating the handcart and say You know, if I had lost my foot in that door I would have seen you again in court. A few seconds of silence. Then good old-fashioned laughter. For what happened? Well, I will tell you what. In a gesture of insane kindness I had thrust my right foot over the new reams of paper on the cart towards the shutting stainless steel doors so Skippy could join us. I did not think he appreciated my selfless, near-body-part-losing geture so I mentioned the litigational possibilites that hung in the air like all those fluorescent molecules making our brains sputter with all their miliseconds of bursts of light wave explosions.

Explosive Love.

After a week(end) of reading about transgressive art, or, in common parlance, what might be deemed !shocking, have come to some interesting and deep conclusion.
Nothing, I repeat nothing, is shocking.
Still battling right now (on phone with a rep) with a clerical error on my mortgage payments and escrow overage.
One envelope + two tickets + one address = massive corporate chaos.
OK, now that's cleared up. Hip hip.
Back to the transgressive.
Thinking about the Chelsea art couple, dealers of all things artful, who said that they thought our MFA class's work is safe, not taking chances, is not messy. Harumph.
Transgressive is cliché right about now.
Thanks for your attention in this matter.
Had coffee yesterday with Laura who suggested wisely a trip of sorts to be inspired to make and do. Think this is a suggestion most sanguine and, as luck might have had it, super discount trips to gai Paris were noted in today's online digiworld.
Paris. Art. Dreams of photographing people walking through beams of sun (oops, first typed sin) at Grand Central.

Love Central.

Listening to classique roque radio where Fat Bottomed Girls via Queen still reigns supreme. So Interpol comes to Toxicville north of the Middling City this pending week and called Laura to see if she'd like to go as this is an Event.
About to embark on a gig capturing the high times and hijinx of the Theodore Roosevelt Inaugural Site's gala hoopla, replete with Mark Russell hamboning the night away and a TR impersonator in attendance. ! Can you shout out photo ops galore.
Thinking - I repeat thinking - of homework. Doing is another thing, another delicate facet yet to be wrangled with. Look, these deep grad student thoughts take time. Looking to dreams for divine art inspiration for the art-directed Parsons School of Desires career and so far I've produced one sorry dream whereby I was excited about going to see Sarah McLaughlan in concert in TO. Why.
Was having a conversation today and was informed that word on the street is the Hillary Clinton Pre-Faint org ladies are pondering suing Yours Truly. Puh-Leez. For fucksakes let's recap: no contract signing over rights, photog always owns rights sans contract, ethics decree I was in right to dispense with them as I wished. The End.
Shiney Happy Mag appeared yesterday with my Pulitzer-ready piece on those t.v. design shows - a triumph. Editrix changed one thing in first paragraph I don't really get but hey, it's HER domain/gig/trip.
Off to work, would love to regale You with more more more but someone has to pay the bills around here.

Here's Love.

Limbo. And I don't mean the archetypal party dance. I would explain but I'd rather not. Had a poem simmering for a long time and today it poured out onto my laptop in a fairly tight formation of ten syllables per line and fourteen lines and 104 words and that's all very important, significant even.
Just had to shoot the gig at Middling City U and amongst the players was one kum-bay-yah singer I know very well and she always turns up at kum-bay-yah moments far and wide.
Re-read the obit of Samuel Beckett, sparked by a Kennergy comment yesterday. Rolled around in a few good SBB quotations about his working process. One, when asked by a producer who Godot was. His answer: If I knew I would have said so.
Onwards to retrieving numerous articles from electronic bowels of hell.

Love is Hell.

Inquired to Middling City news editrix of Yours Truly if cannon balls were on agenda for tomorrow afternoon's photo op as I envision such sailing through the air, passing the trio of flags flapping in the breeze, maybe even still at half-mast for some reason but I argue, as only grad students can, that it should be always at half-state as there's always something to be aggrieving in the world, landing with soft kaflops in the loop in a snowbank alongside the curbs in the loop in suburbs just beyond national chain stores sinking silently into a former wetlands.
Tonight Justy et al in the band sort of named by Yours Truly hits the infamed stage of CBGBs and I am sad to miss it. As in the Shiney Apple just last week it seemed a bit of a stretch to be back mere hours later but it is where I would really dig being later later.
It was a week ago I got the last of the last airbuses out of JFK before the closing of that wi-fi and travel and mag-reading venue.
Today it's freelance org day and later meeting up with Brucey who had to make plans later as he's driving out to an exurb. A rather uncommon exurb but one which houses a Big House. Why there, I queried. After some hezzing it was revealed to meet up with a pal of his who's in the BH for a rather Coen Bros. reason: he told me and I burst out laughing. Brucey did not match my guffawed outburst or cinematic wonderment, wrapped instead in concern for Big Housee.
It's onward to working on freelance matters, thinking deep art and grad thoughts.
Happiest b-day to Ron who always asks that each of his pals do something self-loving rather than walloping him with cards, congrats, cellophane-wrapped treats. And he likes to know what we've all done.
3/3 Ron B-day Plan was this: drive to Starbucks drive-thru, order venti Americano in honour of the man who turned me on to my premier cuppa Starbucks coffee about - wow - 15 years ago.

Historical Love.

Beth Dearest and I are to be prepping Lecture Notes, that's right, fucking Lecture Notes, for our online class.
Raison d'etre anywhere but inside Land of Homework:
#1: It's online, there is no lecture.
#2: We are grad students, not instructors. By preparing Lecture Notes we are lightening his edificiary role in the name of pedagogical lessoning.
#3: I really have other things to do.
Like procrastinate.
I rest my case.
Kennedy handed me a snippet of Middling City News - letters page - from the 23rd when Yours Truly was on the right side of the state. When, in a rush of pique and defensiveness and such, two letter writers had their thoughts about Gripping the Podium Hillary and Yours Truly aired. One is pro, other con for a fair and balanced (just like Fox) purview. Said to Kennedy I should thank them as it keeps it all alive. But the anti HC Grip shot letter states wrongly that the org that asked me to pro bono owns the rights which is not the case. She meanders along in her letter stating what her club does. The pro letter sidles along my view that of course the public has a right to know and that includes seeing.
Soon my Globe cover shot will be available on cafepress.com and I know that each and every epinw reader will want, must have, will lust.
My former product line - CLeft Design models - are still up and can be found on the site and then via a search for cLeft Design.
If You simply type the word cleft I believe You will still yield beneficiary t's and such for an org that benefits those with dreaded cleft palate.
Onwards to homework.
Onwards to further pitstops, pratfalls, petulance.

Petulant Loves.

Quelle hazing ritual moderne.
Have freelance hackish writers regale screening committee with super details of none other than Empire State Building, post-marathon waiting, cattle prodding, souvenir lashes. All this to be 350 words for a company, Charlie'sAngels-like like the Digital City gig of infamy, that creates cell phone tours for wanderers who pay to have scripted Look Here's and Do This's beamed into their ears.
The first hour is spent in a DMV-like basement, painted French's Mustard Yellow, screaming colour, lined up and as a corner is rounded one might realize that for twix the prix one might circumnavigate this experience and head right on up to floor 2 if one pretends one is interested in seeing a movie about floating over the skyline or some such dirigible thing. Couldn't find the movie/observation deck ticket booth and then with the help of a nice young man I fina-fuckin-ly did. At the window I said Movie ticket please. Then I asked So this is for observationalizing deck, too, right. She said No. She called for her manager who came over and, when she heard the scenario, narrowed her eyes at me and said this ultra-friendly thing: You SAID you wanted the movie ticket ONLY, I was standing right there (gesturing), I HEARD you. (note to self: be afraid of workers who work in landmarks for they are manhandling 35K visitors a day and do not have fucking time for aberrations of any type. period) I start sobbing. No, I am kidding. I said Well I want both. After much huffing, puffing, glares of hatred I had my two tickets and completely took a right towards the observation elevator to 80 then to 86 for the sights. On line in the basement, pre-hate, I met a photog who was cluelessly heading up up and away to, she thought, get some fab shots of Christo's Curtains. I made some internal photog calculations of my own and deduced that this woman not only should not be called a photog of any sort but did not understand angles, the curve of the earth, etc. I suggested she might get into a high room of The Pierre, a swishy hotel on 5thAve I've crashed in before as it's on the southern tip of the park. She looked baffled and atop the landmark/hazing focus/ESB I could see but five tiny orange blips on the horizon = The Curtains! A snippet of. I am glad I did not bump into Esmerelda up there for my look of derision would have been undisguisable.
Began the plan, the trip, this literary foray by sitting in a middle seat, not my usual window/hublot and was in a snit until I began speaking to Rose, the newly-retired former Viet Nam nurse who lives in Cali. I asked her about nursely and otherly things about VN. We discussed our vitriol pertaining to the U.S. president.
About to meet Justy for our traditional night of binge revelry and he's got a head start. Gadzooks.
Tomorrow's agenda: collect self, see The Curtains, see some art, write about the Empire State Building and all its attendant charms. Wow, including the wall of art glass depicting the Eight Wonders of the World which include, bien sur, ESB as well as Hanging Gardens of Babylon, Rhodes's Giant and oso much more.
In the Shiney Apple I learn learn learn.

Learning Love.

To be filed under Holy Crap What Great Timing.
Arrived at Middling City U mere moments ago to shoot students getting special special special $20 tix to see (wretch) Rent. There was to be a Frenzy. I arrived at the designated time, 6PM,to discover a box office type (B.O.T.) announcing to a mild throng that all student tix were sold out. Most people would have spun on any ol' heel and left. But oh no, this is not journalism, turning on heels. I walked up to front of line and basically accosted two undergrads, insistent upon them being all happy and at the ticket window and then showing me their happy tix. And, as luck would have it in this Perfect world, they had purchased the last two tix for students E-Ver. Like, that is so lucky. I wanted them to be a bit more expressive, to be kicking up their heels like those of Yours Truly that were not spun upon but they had been waiting in line since three hours ago and were heading somewhere before the 8PM curtain. Frankly, I don't get it. Cornball songs about pretend life in NYC. All issued with issues and once I was somewhere and was horrified at several people singing along to the Rent soundtrack, one song more bombastic than the next.
File Me under Really Does Not Buy the Whole B'Way Frenzy Thing.

Love Thing.

What a diff a year makes.


Hung with Allen yesterday in studio and met Ian, vocalist for Deep Purple (SMOKE ON THE WAHH-UHH-TERR, FIE-ERR IN THE SKAHHHH), who was about to jet off with our pal Michael Jackson, Esq. (not perved, gloved one) to Russia, land of cabbage soup, fur hats, giant onion domes.
Then met a famed producer. All were hung over and had engaged in collegiate soda can bowling the night before. Perfectly, I was not, had not.
Ironically just delved into an article about the photojournalism racket and the likes of late Susan Sontag by a pal, Steve Wolgast, who works at NYT. Just used snippet of that and other choice thoughts to dispel the online queasiness a few classmates have experienced from being subjected to the work of Joel-Peter Witkin. Puh-leez, this is fucking art school. Where are the open minds, where is the think tank/stand around the cooler vibe, more scholarship money, the studio spaces, and more open minded behaviour.
And got a sweet call from Dorota moments ago and heard from Marky Norris and a few others about what happened one year ago. Good and bad, sweet and sour. And poor Beth Dearest witnessed it all.
Will be in the Shiney Apple mid-week to write a script for a poss gig and to eat good food and walk good walks and head to Film Forum and see select ones and think Shiney Apple Thoughts.

Thoughtful, Retrospective, Happier Love.

Sideline of Yours Truly. Putting together girls and attendants on their nupday. That would be yet another Perfect word to add to the epinw lexicon - nupday, n., wedding day. Dig.
So I'm tying sashes, sashaying from room to room solving minor crises like double-sided-taping Mom into her dress, clasping on necklaces, pinning on flowers, etc. when I do note at some point two jewelry boxes, white, somewhere. Remember this fact.
Depart and go to find the boys, who I don't usually have to help construct, at church demarcated as the place, the venue for The Magic, the Transfiguration. Boys are not in the room where boys hang when they're about to be transmogrified and I ask the woman whatever she is - deacon/beacon/harbinger/priest/priestess - Where. Oh, to find the rings, she says. They are missing and they have scattered to look at the apartment where I was just helping with gusseying and at boutique hotel. The rings, platinum, were stolen out of the groom's bag at the boutique hotel and this was a first in all these couple of decades of shooting nupdays. They had a radio-advertising jeweler drive frenetically to deliver some stand-ins in 20 minutes.
Will be pleased to report to Jon that his creation atop my head was met with rave reviews, as in reviews or revues that happen at all-night dance parties.
At the wedding there was much discussion of the Gripping the Podium shot and the groom had me recreate the shot with him standing in for Hill, a surprise for his nouvelle bride.
Perfect Enthusiasm, so beloved.

Beloved Love.

Apparently one of Hillary Clinton's Middling City interns quit her gig due to my "gripping the podium" image of the senator. One Laura of longness and leanness, who was once a friendly to Yours Truly, was calling for my head, wanted to sue the Buffalo News. I mean really. So Nicole, the aforementioned indentured servant/intern, quit, screaming of the first amendment all the way down the stairs. I sent her a jpeg of her, the other MC interns and Hill last night and today she sent me this small tale. She advises me to Let it all in one ear and out the other. Like so right on, Nicole.
Off to speak to suburban teens about the highlights, lowlights, shenanigans and pratfalls of being a journalist and artist.
Think I'll skip the part about grad school.
As Beth Dearest pointed out last night I do have a new skill - a more keen x-acto blade to slice through the requisite/hazinglike readings's flotsams, jetsoms to get to the juicey bits, to analyze them in a compelling manner and not in a wind-baggy one such as one X (one duplicitous prof) who tirelessly traipses on and on and on with the facts, wringing every ref, every possible allusion past and present - theoretical and novelistic - to a satsfying ending.
On that note I end, gather up my important docs and such scattered about the home of Kenergy and forge on to the suburbs, edification and elucidation on each shoulder.

Shouldering Love.

As is my wont, my annual quest to know, just simply know, who in hell Saint Valentine is, I did a little research for Your edification and can add some new Fun Facts to the puzzle that is Valentine on this puzzling holiday.
If you want to "see your future mate (tonight) in your dreams" go running now to your spice rack as, according to lore, pinning bay leaves to your pillow today will yield such results. The scent of bay leaves, according to aromatherapy, is said to have calming effects so if one is calm in dreaming and sees one's mate and it's not the one expected then perhaps this scented leaf on pillow helps.
Also.
As we know from past Valentine-related posts on epinw, Valentine the Man is a hodge-podge, a collage of perhaps a triad of men - all martyrs, all perhaps beheaded and here I propose that's where the expression to lose one's head in love comes from.
Also.
Valentine's Day, a patron saint day, is really honouring the Feast of Lupercalia, pagan love fest full of wine and more wine and champagne and fancy schmancy dinners and little nosegays and smooching and a chocolate truffle or two.
So, let us forget the gruesome end of the Valentines and stick to the pagan focus.
Happy Lupercal, kisses.
Everyone is loved and love is in the air, always, like wi-fi molecules, like air itself, like vibes of life.

Air Full of Love.

Helpful advice and note to Self:
when cutting atomic red chilis do not forget to wear gloves or you will for rest of evening feel a burning yearning earning deep inside them, as that bitch Diana Ross once sang.
So my Red Dinner happened and the food, clothes, desserts, beverages were all that. Happy to report that nothing spontaneously combusted, there are but a smattering of leftovers, nothing was broken and there were no punchouts. Just smiley heart-shaped high times with a crush of available favoured ones.
Turned many on to kir royales, what I lovingly refer to as the French version of a shot and a beer = a splash of cassis and a whole lot of champagne. Suddenly I realized that Brucey was addicting to them.
It is now with a procrastinating heart and heavy hands that signing off is imminent in order for me to turn all of my wavering attentions to readings, homework, deep grad student thought and posting. Exactly in that order.
Happy Eve of the Saint Day, the Saint who nobody really remembers, a possible amalgamation of several.

Eve Love.

Modernism's fascination with marginality.
Now you know you're in deep (mmm, just mis-typed deep as depp, You read between the subconscious lines) to the whole grad school miasmic mix of words when you read such a phrase and keep a straight and jargon-enhanced face.
Listen. Listen but good.
Run and do not walk to your grocery store or pharmacy or, if You are lucky and in the Shiney Apple, a freakin' true newstand, and pick up The Globe to see the next printish incarnation of Pre-Faint Hill, in a state of Gripping the Podium.
All aflutter with wonder if they've attached my image with a tale most sordid, I have my own conspiracy theory I cannot put on the web as I'm sure They will make my life more complicated.
Off to go practice out some more graduistic phrases aloud, maybe with some politico hand gestures to stun and such.

Such Love.

Much to my complete and utter astonish-freakin-ment the would-be musicians at the Church of the Evangelical Mindfuck next door are becoming - sit down - competent. Sundays can still mean a moaning vocalist and a drummer that needs some solid trepanning but some other nights competence sings through the church's cinder blocks.
Completely and utterly minding my own business, de rigeur in this Perfect landscape painting, I went to Jon's Joint, Salon for the Changes of Hair this week. Always an educational experience (allright, here I really must interject that Tolerance Hour is like so over and now my thoughts are going to lead me to anger management sessions and/or community service as an aftermath so on go the noise-reducing headphones), there I met a bona fide Middling City SWAT Team (do not confuse with Target Team, though their names are oso confusingly sim) Member, a man who I made tell me every tiny detail of using his battering ram. How much does it weigh? How long? Filled with? Two handles? One person device? etc. Answers: 80 lbs., 5 feet, concrete, yes, yes.
Enjoyed his stories of using said device. And then had to regale him with one of this lifetime's highlights, the FBI shooting range and such Perfect accuracy that the FBI men asked if Yours Truly had ever ever considered a career with the org. So the battering ram man is out of commission as his neck is all battering rammed.
Jon made my hair very different, very different indeed. Some say it's beautiful, some say it is shocking. Anyhoo, it is complex and I did say as he was painting my head You know, Jon, I do have a few more conservative clients. I think he heard You know, Jon, I do have a real love for the colour red, paint away.
Yesterday I encountered a shopping cart engineer whilst exiting a store. A tall gangly, glasses-wearing man with a beard and glasses, wearing a hat. From his colouring I could tell he is a natural redhead and he spotted me, whipped off his hat and said Some people are wanna-be's - I'm the real thing. I surprised him by asking What do you think, too radical. He thought not. I've been polling strangers who express an interest in my head. It is not only heart-warming, I think, but interesting to boot and I suddenly realize as Beth Dearest reads this she is, undoubtedly, slowly shaking her head and now I think how JW,Esq. is doing quite the opposite, a more vertical movement.
It's now time for me to sing along with Nico before I make my way out the door once mo.

Mo Love.

Very ensconced in music and libraries and now shouting !basta! to the bridged-over heavens of Pittsburgh, Reese, who I met and instantly bonded with over my gift to him of a1917 class tie from Cornell duringst my famed Estate Sale as I moved from my rented Victorian to my short stint as Ghetto Ghirl (and he had a busted jaw, wired tight), is heading to NZ. New Zealand to you non-vino heads. Joined his newsgroup and the correspondences I expect to roll in shortly, probably tapering off as it so often happens once one is ensconced then there. Drove like mad to various Middling City emporiums and ginmills to insert my Perfect initials onto football pools far and wide and will be waiting waiting to hear the glad tidings. Pools are all random so in choosing willingly I did so based on my fav colour - green. That equals that one team. From PA, which brings Me back to musings on Reese, broke free from PA for NZ. Class is like so underway and got the post posted and realized once I cut through the various hazes and such and flowerations that the readings were actually not so bad. But please, do not quote me on that. Or else. The song that one of my favoured humans was married to in Vegas is now playing on my iTunes and forever this song will make me think of that scenario, a chapel in Vegas, the non-screech of a needle dragged across vinyl, for shame, the onion-rich breath of a preacher, the click of a few bursted frames of film by the resident photographer, the ghost of journalistic me working on my story a few years ago, witnessing several marriages, still emotional despite the plastic, the dust, the absentia, the desert calling beyond the Strip, but a click and whirr and purr of the voice of Kristin Hersh singing Beestung and You know who You are there is no need to name. To flame. To shame. To lame. To aim.
Godammit, words are so fucking fun and satisfying.

Satisfying, fun, fucking Love.

Merrily stealing wi-fi molecules from the stratoscopic atmosphere about the home of Kennergy (Theory: emanating from across the street, a far and sad cry from the immediate wi-fi steal in Soho - missed in general like a lover gone untrustworthily bad) and having a vrai Cinderella moment as I am not at the Red Ball (You, do not confuse this with my savoury Red Dinner not yet happened) as the guest of the Shiney Happy Mag but am in grad student throes. Rather than in the strapless, complicated Nicole Miller dress I am in gradstudentwear suitable for studies, imbibing, procrastination, nimble walks amongst Nature. On that note we Parsons School of Détente enthusiasts are reading about what I am going to heretofore refer to only as The Sublime. You know - beauty, aesthetics. Usual hackneyed to smither kingdom come words. Last night watched neo-gypsy music at the Dungeon/SoundLab (The Feathers, from MA) and it was surprisingly not delving down into the Frost Zone in the joint. Saw Bandmate Scott there and I chastised him for falling down on the job of calling me nightly to remind Perfect Me to eat din-din and then we discussed not only our pending stagewear but our practice schedule.
This is a joke, a little epinw humour.
And I am afeared You do not recognize this as such as I feel our band totally rocks and does not need practice. I have designed the logo, the merch. We know what we're wearing on stage, our m.o. is in place. No matter that we have not practiced once. Rock & roll is so not about practice, it is attitude and forthright confidence. And good merch. So the neo-gypsies treacled away and you could definitely tell the wealthy/parent-fund-injected neo-gypsies from the typical struggling and leaving-wardrobe-to-chance neo-gypsies.

Neo-Love.

Minding my own business met up with girlies Liz and Cheryl at Hardware, Goldman's joint. There saw, firstly, the girlies and Mark and Kittie - ringside. Kittie was one of those at The Fainting of Hillary and we recapped. I'm shooting their daughter's wedding and said that I'm coining a new phrase "gripping the podium," sort of like driving the porcelain bus. You don't want to be seen doing either, if you catch my Perfect drift.
So, again minding my own business, Mark says (and he's the boss, the proprietor, the founder if you will) he wishes to buy me a cocktail and ever-obliging Scott the Bartender meanders over to listen to my wish/plan/order. I warble out Chardonnay, puh-leez. To that he says What . . . no scotch. Coming to my senses I said Of course. He says I have something new - Dewar's Green. I say What the hell. He then pours me a tumbler full of it in front of Mr. Goldman. Thanks for the $28 glassa scotcha, Mr. Goldman, I think to myself and join the girls.
Moments later Mark, Amy and Jeff saunter in from a dinner at Sinatra's. Amy is carrying a Kangol purse and to that I say Amy, when you die can I have that. She says she's buying me one and what colour. I marvel at her generosity then.
Back at Home Office Hovel and it's time to brainstorm as to how I'm going to squeeze many hours of grad school reading amongst a day of freelance gigs and the like and other social engagements. Who really has the time for this grad school thing, I wonder.

Wonderment of Love.

Saw The Death Grip Hillary image on Inside Edition and to ratchet up the drama they referred to it as "this scarey picture." This gets my grad student brain to thinking of what a picture v. image is and is that Beth Dearest I hear groaning in the background over there in the corner. Note to self: school's in session so get out the highlighter and start reading fercrissakes. Got a call from Thee Elliott Caplan today and will have to inform him that, according to JR, there is no Mechanism in place for EC to be my informal, Middling City advisor of sorts. We can still meet and discuss drawings and the like but to no grand offical end.
It should be noted here that I am listening at this moment, to construct a picture/a pixel-based image in Your mind of Me, to a 70s comp of Soul Train classics and am digging ever second of the grooving, falling backwards into a first-run beanbag chair that hasn't yet lost its tiny white internal beads of toxic plastique, when the Middling City still had its dramatic smoke-filled industry choking up the waterfront to the south, hope, post-60s style and tri-coloured bicentennial public offerings like garage doors, lampposts, bunting and Neil Diamond was still considered hip (although in My mind he still remains so). Next note to self: suggest to Marky Norris that he cover our fav ND song - Cherry Cherry.
Declined an on-cam interview last night for MC NBC affiliate, after requesting my pal Marc to do the shooting. Consulted with two wizened souls who helped me confirm my gut sensation that this was so not necessary. They wanted an eye-witness account of Hillary's faint and to that I said There were 120 others in the room, get one of them. They wanted to talk about the drama of surge of interest in The Scarey Picture and to that I said Nope. Which calls to mind when MTV showed up here and interviewed me and followed me about for a night, even mid-shoot, for the Goo Goo Dolls Behind the Music gig which ended up in a later edit of the show but not in its final, eliminated and not command z'd back in. But that moment did yield onscreen images made by Yours Truly and a little wrangle with ViaCom's Rights and Clearances team. Read between lines if you will.

Love's Lines.

Mere and meager moments ago finished watching one Coen Bros. movie with George Clooney and Catherine Bodacious-Jones. What in hell was that called. Indecent Proposal Law and Order Sense and Sensibility Love is a Battlefield. A study of brown eyes - the dark bottomless pools v. the dark brown with the ember glow, ie. his v. hers. I found this movie to be as affrontive as that piece of shit Pretty Woman starring a younger and pre-Buddhistic Richard Gere and that big toothy woman, Julia Roberts. Despite the fact that I've met Richard and received some unwanted media attention after one of my tv cam buddies captured us walking nearly arm in arm at a fundraiser for one Louise Slaughter, I find this movie, Pretty Woman, as well as the former, to be abso-freakin-lutely the ultimate portrayals of women as opportunistic capitalist at the expense, literally, of men. Intolerable Cruelty, thar she blows.
Found two words on a private, post-haste wordquest this fine evening that I must share, that I am trying to resucitate and drag (kicking, screaming) into today's parlance. They are: nymphology (one who shoots for stars whilst pipe-dreamed) and staumrel (dim-witted one). As they said in grammar school, use them 3x and they are yours, yours, yours. I have given You something and do not say Perfect me never has as uttering this will render you a staumrel.

Love's Staumrel.

Where in the name of all the teeming and adrenalized photogods did the days go and, fercrissakes, I know You have missed Perfect me. But where the fuck to begin.
Firstly, premierment to my fellow Francophiles, this and thusly.
Marky Norris, former officemate and one of the favoured Middling City rockstars and the second person eVER to know I was toodling off to Parsons, opened for the pinstriped and skunky-haired Tommy Stinson, formerly of the Replacements.
And jeez didn't Mr. Stinson learn a thing, maybe three, from Paul Westerberg about The Crabbies. He bounds up onto the stage, but not before Michele noted that his handshake was limp, drab. Oh no, that was another. She pointed out that amongst the cognoscenti she had no idea who in blazes this Stinson was. There he was, in his cornball TO-ish bumper car shoes (he did compare and contrast the MC with TO, needlessly, foolishly) of patent leather. And, I will argue to my death, you can ALWAYS judge a man by what is on his feet. No exceptions. Not even You.
Stinson. Sucked. I told Marky that he truly stole the show in my non-humble opinion. And that says it all. Marky was out for the first time solo, no band (GirlPoop/Pope) in tow. Stinson. Crab. Gets up on stage and complains nearly immediately about the club's temp. About its chilliness. Renee twists some knobs. Then he's too warm. Then he's too chilly. And on. Suddenly he's annoyed that in the barroom there're a few conversations and he leaps off the stage and performs for a handful of people at the bar, stopping mid-strum to do a shot. Now that is so rock and roll. Made some images of that moment, real real keepers with the bar rimmed with suddenly-awake-and-thriving-in-rock's-gentle-glow fans and tipplers.
I that night bathed in said glow of My People, my rock and roll famille.
Then.
More more more and then I find myself with Kennergy looking at the lame-arsed Georgia O'Keefe show at MC's Albright-Knox Art Gallery. I mean really, my pal of yore Georgia Davidson (who turned Perfect me onto all things scotch) could have made better art. Adding insult to visual imagery were the mediocre digital prints hanging alongside said paintings.
Then.
Today, while minding my own business was at a thing, a bennie, for a pro-choice group featuring in the hotseat Hillary Clinton, former First Lady, former brunette, former maxi-dress wearer. I am a huge fan. I was shooting this for the pro-choice org and did the requisite meet & (no, not potatoes) greet moments and then the Talk. HC says OOOh, I am not 100%, I need to sit. She sits. Then she needs to remove her sweater under her suit. She leaves and comes back one layer less. She sits. Her voice is fading and drifting and you can see that her usual steely resolve is waning. Finally she says I cannot go on like this. Rain check. She has food poisoning or a flu, she says. She stands. She clings podium. I make an image of The Death Grip, her eyes all zonky. Then. SHE'S FALLING. CATCH HER. Down goes HC. I made no more images, believing in dignity but waiting to see if there was some such thing that would need to be doc'd - like when I (amongst the plethora) got the shot of the teen catapulted into the crowd at the outdoor gig which resulted in one very sad broken neck for real.
So HC is on the ground. Show's over. But not for Perfect me. Suddenly I am barraged with calls from media far, further and furthest. Conversations and consultations happened. The Death Grip image appears in various media now. By me. No images that are ruinatious and nothing making her look worse than at her next gig, at Canisius College about an hour later and howinhell did she make that anyhoo, after her collapse. So, she is not dead, not dying just yet and no animals were harmed in the making of those images as they were made and e-shipped off into the good night.

Good Night Love.

Reported to online school to discover that - lo, behold - It really starts, the course on Beauty, in a few. And the premier week is all Hi, I am Perfect Nancy and these are my pet peeves.
Due to Hillary's Middling City visit Monday am unable to partake in Kristin Hersh's visit to Joe's Pub in Shiney Apple Sunday. Oh, velcro, sent along sad turn of events to Justy who is making it his birthday celebration of sorts. Missed her Middling City gig as 50 Foot Wave due to the odd sense that I had to get school work done and forwent that op. Then she was in the SA and that was sold out. I am destined to never witness her quipalicious skills in the flesh thus far.
It snows and it snows and I shovel and I shovel the drive so that Mr. Mailman does not turn into Mr. Mailman the Snark and stop delivering my mags, my bills, my written correspondences. And keeping at bay, doubly, the Middling City Narcs who report unshovelled walkways to the authorities and decreed by law it is that one must shovel a path of at least twenty inches and to that I say You pedestrians get a shovel's width. My own Perfect and individualized Rule of Thumb so to speak. Off now to visit with Deb and Sarah and then to points beyond.

Point of Love.

Note to self:
whenEVER you see vans driving about in the Middling City scream, call 911 and get license plate number. They are all wretched drivers. No exceptions.
As of Friday at 315PM more or less am driving new and hyper-improved Golden Forester. A big toy, a big safe toy, a big safe toy with hi-fi that plays at unsafe levels.
Heard from Thee Elliott Caplan who last corresponded from a car wash. It was cinematic, horrifying. Oh, other note to self:
no more shovelling. It sucks.
Off to points beyond.
Beth Dearest, if you're reading this, stay where you are =
Caribbean better than Nor'Easters.
Dig.

Dug Love.

Spoke with a (oh, here I'd like to say that today is an Easter as in Patti kind of jour) Shiney Apple pal last night who informed me that there were no degrees over there to the right. None. At least the Middling City has a few rattling about. Few. Far between, unlike the flakes that are congregating along my driveway. But did I mention I have a new and super-improved Golden Forester under my ass as of about twenty-four hours ago. Turned in the leased former Golden Forester and told William at the dealer's joint that I wanted more more and did not want to pay more more more. I said Look, Jerry Lundegaard, I don't give a phyling phlegm about klear-kote, none of those gadgetries. I want gold. I want manual trannie. I want same payments. I, in a nutshell, want a lot. And I sat there, in hat pulled over my eyebrows and down jacket pulled up to my chin and dykesville boots on my feet for hours negotiating until William whined But now we're not making ANY money on this car. Ummm, William, remind me to pencil in on my agenda to give a fuck about that some time. He had the car waiting just outside the door, seats set to 50 Kelvin and the moment my Perfect self hit that seat I knew it was it. It. We drove and we drove and we drove the backroads, chatting about all things vehicular. Taking high winding curves, stopping on a dime at a most inconvenient stop sign at the bottom of a hill, turning a U at a breathtaking clip. Best part is the cd changer and I've been driving the horrid blustery MC in a techno cloud. Just saw my pal Colleen at *BX who gave me a super-bonus shot of expresso (espresso in the MC) after our mutual sadness and musings on this ultimate Snapcase gig this fine evening at Snowplace. It is sold out. I will not be there as I am not shooting it and I could call Darryl and see if he wants any but really, shall I. Hmmm, now I am wondering. There are shiney bottles of tequila there to keep warm.

Warm ponderous love.

Amongst the many pop-cult things learnt from Mterm is the Ali G phenom, the trickster extraordinaire. And what reminds me of this snippet is that the Middling City was rused up a storm by an ersatz rap artiste who strode into town with entourage and more more more and took what could be manhandled from biz and vending folk. Allen was working on the project as sound engineer and want to get his poop on matters. What riled my own Perfect suspicions were that A told me how the artistes would have warm catered spreads at the studio all the dang time, even if they were no-shows. I thought that odd then but thought Gee willikers, these hi-rollers are saving so drastically they are catering the budget away. But now. But now things are revealed and all the minor hysteria surrounding the rap artistes come to the MC are blown sky high. Speaking of Sky High Gabriel's hair last night was so . . . that.
Wondering if perhaps I offended today as a client hired me to shoot a talent show manned by, of all freakin' things, dentists. She happened to marvel that there would be actual talent on the talent show stage, reputedly, reportedly.
I strongly suggested that perhaps it was the backstage usage of laughing gas that got all those creative and free-wheelin' juices a-flowin'.

Flowing Love.

Amongst other Virgin Mega things is the Neil Young non-rarities, the rough and tumble weeding versions of the biggest and baddest hitz. And subsequent Checker's throwbacks and beyond, involving Loomis, first drivings, poetry written in the warm haze of beer pitchers.
Stray cat Extra strutted in moments ago to warm his paws, give his claws a good wool rug workout and then sample some vanilla yogurt. Now he is outside, per his vocal request.
Sun shines in the Middling City as great rock and roll questions are pondered. What are the goals, the desires of this gig. Everyone's big question, the big Q of Yours Truly.
Planning and scheming, amongst other things on listy agenda, Red Dinner, annual feast of all things crimson and bought a new tome that has a few lusty, red dishes oso parfait.
Intense Laundry Time: about a year exactly ago X penned a lovenote to his concurrent and second-last X of his own about said Red Dinner, critiquing it so in a way that had my Perfect cheeks crimson. Not only lies about his sloppy concurrence but the lie of loving the Red Dinner. Rouge-related ruses all around and now how to extricate him finally and most expediently from all matters house. Once. For all. For best.

Rouged Love.

Somehow it got to be today, Monday, and haven't blogged since a few ago, much to the chagrin of a handful of the loyalest and toppermost of the poppermosts.
To be filed under G, as in Gee wasn't that interesting.
To balance Shiney Apple schoolhardiness with independence meandered into the ol' stomping grounds in midtown, as I previously mentioned, into MoMA. And other cinematic and art matters as well as gustatory retreats. Cue excellent summer memory, JW,Esq. - most notably a few vinos, a few heaps of heirloom tomato forms. Chelsea proved to be both provoking and passable. Excellent and reaffirming times with Dorota which, of course, involved bevvies of many genres, and smokes.
The week of schoolhardiness was truly a few days and a half with a smattering of interactions - and requisite lo-budg trips to salad bar for $4 lunch. JR informs me that the thesis I am to create is but 5K words, just longer than a typical mag ed piece and that the rest needs to be more. In comparing and contrasting notes with other grad students past and present haven't heard of a school as art directionalating as Parsons School of Delineations.
Time to unjumble that of art, school, work, change.

Jumbled Love (it's driving me mad, it's driving me crazy, crazy. Now that's mad Steve Miller props).

**This just so freakin' in.
Somebody decided to toss their body in front of the A train so there we sat. First the pa'd excuse was Congestion. Then the conductress sort of slipped and said A customer... then we riders so knew. We sat and we sat, sat, sat. I found an MTA employee aboard and queried thusly. So. Jumper. How long. It was then I went non-subterranean, finangled a ride from a car service with three girlies heading to PR and then they paid the driver but I tipped him and they got dropped first as they had minutes to spare and then he, very manly, circled about not knowing, just not not knowing, how to get me to Terminus JetBlueus. Finally, after my pointing out some key demarcations, that the plane I am to board in five minutes was pulling away shortly. So now, I am off. Again. Here ends this updating, informative communiqé.


Got the sOhO groove happening and actually sad to leave now. Sitting across from equally wi-fi'd Dorota who is doing some art things. Had a fab time with Fitzgerald (and some "authentic" paella that was shamed by the paella of Yours Truly, truly) and then somehow got separated from him and meandered off through the Bank Street area, one quadrant of the Shiney Apple I am so not familiarized with. Finally decided to locate a cab which got me oso much closer to the loft. There is something magical about the loft as it induces the best dreams ever. Spoke with Academie Guru last night who put It all into perspective and for that I am once again thankful. Had lunch today with Nancy Maier of Summer Camp fame and, amongst other things, she told me of her lofty climb atop Mt. Kilimanjaro and the descent through virtually each of the Earthly climates.
Time to head to the 6 to the 4 to the A to the AirTrain to the JetBlue to the Kennedy.

Love Travel.

*
This just in.
Currently blogging from the new, the uptight, the overly-staffed Museum of Modern Art. What a Vaticanlike vibe going on. You are not allowed to sit in the sculpture garden, à la Saint Peter's Place. You are chuted in and then if checking bags you are chuted again. I'm about to escalate upwards to catch some art. Profusion of security in dark jackets most noticeable thing thus far, besides the slight reminiscence of wandering through a large city airport. Communique over.


Arrived in a hurry to Carnegie Concert Spot to learn that the Kafka Fragments extravaganza was sold out, completely and 100%ly sold out thanks, in part, undoubtedly, to the fab NYT review. So called Beth to say Hey, skip this joint.
Meeting with JR art director to the stars in a little bit so there's time to wander to the French joint for a French lunch most French and Frenchalicious. Meeting later with Fitzgerald and keep reminding my Perfect self that I have not yet to date returned the call of my camp people regarding the informal camp (not campy) reunion in about a week.
Kennergy is repping me and him at the Shiney Happy Mag meeting later this fine evening at Liz's joint and I proposed that we collab on a brilliant piece about who can say. Regaled Beth last night with my April Fools prankish moments whereby I'd call editrix and pal Liz with a scheme, a dream, a fabrication. One I am still most humoured by. Involving a past gig and gallons of reserve label vino.
On agenda: digvid shooting fercrissakes. And Oban.

O, ban Love.

Not locating Patty Hearst I went to see a doc on Henry Darger, creator of somewhat-famed Vivian Girls who I knew about from Reed and Jef. In the day sort of a Mutt and Jeff situ. The boys, I might add I was there first-ever patron as their collaborative selves, turned me on to Darger and Reed gave me a drawing of me as a Vivian Girl of sorts. This transpired at Film Forum where I am a (former) card-carrying member. As I had misplaced my card and the joint is inept and cannot find its members online, I was forced - FORCED - to pay the average joe prix.
Still searching for Patty.
Here at Parsons early helping Beth set up her sculptural photo montage-alicious pieces which will be viewed and critted in about 10 minutes and counting. As usual in the world of production and such there is much scrambling for cords, cables, podiums, tables, and the like.
Fueled by an Americano. Seeing Laura later and Fitzgerald (hard at work writing in the voice and head of one Hell's Angel Founder, Sonny) on Thursday. Going to a Kafka-based opera at Carn Hall tomorrow night for a student ticket of $10. Those Carnegie Folks sure as shootin' know how to welcome students with wide open and understanding arms.

Arms full of Love.

Recurring word du jour. Irritating.
Well Editrix Liz received the masterpiece just aok and fine.
I expect the Pulitzer will be in the mail shortly.
I was just summoned to the front steps of Parsons School of De-No-Bagels for a smoke, a Coke, and a smile.
My critique went just fine. Some words here and there. I did not show one that I wish in retro that I had.
Off to hopefully conquer my lust to see the Patty Hearst docu-drama, Guerilla. It must be here somewhere.

Somewhere Love.

Yahoo squared.
The Shiney Happy Mag piece about the odd cable home decorating shows and attendant plastic hosts is complete, a masterpiece of twists and turn, unexpected adjective placements, fun facts galore. And photos to boot. And at 2600 words, nothing to sneeze at.
Had Kennedy help me with some photo illustrations and he waltzed into the moment, held the hammer just so in front of the t.v. screen and voi-fuckin-la! fini. That and a delightful portrait of my pal Jamie Johnson at her decorating helm, swatches as far as the eyes can see.
Currently just arrived in the Shiney Apple via the Fart Wagon/JetBlue and am about to embark on a brunch of relocated Middling Cityers... and salty dogs. That delicious concoction of grapefruit juice and vodka.

Salty, stinging love.

OK, no words from Annie but I trust the man whose arms I left her in is not an axe murderer but, come to think of it, he does have an odd scar on his chin, perhaps from axe grinding. Moving right along.

Perfectly situated in the midst of not only a fad, a phenom but a cultural force. Read this to read, brush up. Dig. Blog.

Email from Pahts somewhere in the bowels of MN who was once a Peace Corps Volunteer, in Thailand. You see where this is going. He was directly involved with an org in southern Thailand when there, a group that worked on keeping the fishing community there solvent while preserving eco-systems. An appeal. He asks on behalf of the org, Yadfon, for donations that can be mailed to:
St. Dominic Church/216 Spring Street North/Northfield, MN/55057. All funds, he says, wired to Yadfon at the end of January.
Here are are links to read about Yadfon and the director of Yadfon.

Another appeal is to contact Middling City Commoner Council to beg them to re-apportion funds for the lagging and sagging project to complete renovations at Ani's Church - also to be the HQ of Hallwalls. Polly, HW's Chieftain of Info, wrote a long and impassioned email to the MC's arts community to contact these erstwhile funders. A fiasco, to be sure. Touring through the church/concert hall to-be, Ed leading the way with hardcore flashlight as sole beacon of sight besides some warbling street light, I was overcome with (no, not the scent of pigeon turds) the thought that this was an empty building that hadn't progressed from the last flashlight tour I'd been on. Cold flashlight tour, I add.
Here are the people to contact, before this Tuesday. Like right now.
-Dominic Bonifacio Jr. - Niagara District - 851-5125 dbonifacio@city-buffalo.com
-Marc Coppola -Majority Leader- Delaware District- 851-5155 mcoppola@city-buffalo.com
-Brian C. Davis - Ellicott District - 851-4980 brdavis@city-buffalo.com
-David Franczyk - Fillmore District - Council Pres. - 851-4138 dfranczyk@city-buffalo.com
-Richard Fontana - Lovejoy District - 851-5151 rfontana@city-buffalo.com
-Joseph Golombek - North District - 851-5116 Fax: 851-5648
-(YIKES, ferreal)James Griffin - South District - 851-5169 jgriffin@city-buffalo.com
-Bonnie Russell - University District - 851-5165 brussell@city-buffalo.com
-Antoine Thompson - Masten District - 851-5145 athompson@city-buffalo.com


Compassionate Love.

Birthday. Sugar Cubes. The music of then discovery, of watching and not knowing (grilled tonight by a newbie to art matters of sorts on the matter of photography and the soul and I tolerated all to a point, until the champagne arrived), of Tokyo new - worms on a string - the theme music of this moment. Walks through the neighborhood Itabashiku the shops the faces every day the sun - she's painting huge books - this music of then and the memory of then and it's now. Today is her birthday and they're smoking cigars. I gave the name to his band's disc, Chain of Flowers, from this song, all a convoluted memory mess. - They lie in the bathtub - this winter night like a night so long ago, where is he now. I left Annie in the arms of a man I hardly know and it's all for the best I presume. The apartment of the now and the past all merged and I left, bereft and in search of my own memories.

Teetering, post-research (delighted I am in throes of research - vraiment), on brink of Shall I or Shalln't I regarding the usage or waiting of a certificate to use at the Shoe Addict Palace got a call from Deb. Amongst other things, in girlie fashion, we discussed the teeter. She gave me the shove I most needed and desired and now I'm blogging in slammin' realllllleather, patent, 4" heeled boots that, with great accuracy, could send you into the next hour.
Whilst researching gleaned this new Fun Fact:
Britney's husband, the faceless dancer, demands that she shop no more. I mean What the FUCK. Is this marriage, or, as PJ Harvey croons, Is this Desire. Ms. Disney Hootchie Mama needs some Johnny-Come-Lately to boss herself. Finger food for thought.
On that merry, pop culture-addled and research-infested note I end.

Shop ON, for Love.

ps: to the officious femme who meandered over my shoulder to ingest what I was up to moments earlier while in the Middling City U's Law Library - yeah, I be legit. I be so okay with my secret Okayness Card with password and all delegated to Yours Truly from a co-ed most helpful.

Despite the fact that I was shadowed for a long while by the man in the gold lamé jacket, I had a fine time at the biannual Kootsie Ball. I directed a small group of revelers to follow me towards the what I thought was an onion filled with go-go dancers in one of the Statler ballrooms to discover that, at the striking, it was filled with those cheeseball mylar balloons so prevalent at the checkout stations of grocery stores everywhere. Where were the go-go-goers.
Liz bought me a stiff scotch that sent all party wheels into turbo. The man in the gold jacket finally left me alone but kept lurking in the shadows, waiting for a moment when he might pounce. yipes.
Been making and receiving the requisite hi and happy new year to you messages, the touchstone of a new year being making contact to check in to see how is it, how was it, how will it be.
All for now and off to the resolution of making art.

Love Now.

Soul Train hits from '72 right now, a throwback to all the AM band songs from my kid room as I read novels or played Barbies. For this in the car in the Middling City it's AM 1400, same. Last night, en route to a Lackawanna-based restaurant specializing in what's so Island, looked to the left while waiting for a red light and there was a most perfect sight - something I've been looking for, a blend of industrial and living, a lit plant of some sort at the end of a street. Kind of like the wooden grain elevator that Catherine Parker brought me to one wintry afternoon, at the end of Koons Avenue along the tracks. Speaking of tracks, went with one Jim Fitzgerald of the Shiny Apple and Kennedy to the MC's fading Central Terminal where tracks are laid and trains don't stop. According to the footprints in the snow there are plenty of men who go into the terminal and when I stuck my head into an inky hole I heard water running running running. This is the joint where Spencer Tunick had several MC denizens drop their clothing and stand in the main lobby as if. So while Fitzgerald is admiring the decrepitude, a sheriff department helicopter flutters overhead and I start to thinking they're going to tell us to move along, get away from the expensive new chainlink surrounding the place. They hovered in ovals and then finally left. I have heard from a reliable source that they were looking for - and did ultimately locate - a missing person. Actually, a missing body at that point. The body had ingested a bunch of meds and meandered into the snow when it was ferocious. Helicopter brought back the September memory in Shiny Apple when Bush was in town and there was much surveilling and reshuffling of pedestrians.
In a short while it is a new year.
Happy. New. Year. Good bye to a year of tumult, change, challenge, newness.

Love changes, train changes.

Perusing a magazine that gives nature mad props mere moments ago I learnt a few fun facts that I must now share with You:
1. wolves/dogs have 25% more sniffing cells than humans - mag said sniffing cells, I did not.
2. wolves travel in packs that number approximately, according to my calcs, 15 members.
3. writing for nature mad prop mags reads sort of treacly.

In direct contrast to the hard-hitting piece I'm in throes of writing for the Shiny Happy Mag - You know, the one on televised Let-us-decorate-all-swoony-shows. Whilst on an errand ran into a person I know who shall not forthwith be named. She asked about my writing. Funny you should ask, I began. I tell her theme. She confesses that she is one of the bazillions who are addicted to these shows. As she tells me this fun fact a man next to her reveals that his wife is of these masses. Now they are part of The Story.

This is what art is: you begin, make, art becomes what it wishes to be and suddenly you are along on its ride as you ride it to the deadline's sundowny and rosey finish line.

Lines around Love.

Let us discuss something Perfectly timely and necessary to boot.
It is that time, that time that crushes us, when we must think of our resolution, our plan of attack, our modus operandi, for the new year.
This is not some frivolous gesture but, I propose, a chance to secretly or not so secretly indulge a desire to acquire a skill, a new thing, a new outlook.
So last year Yours Truly opted for this rez:
TRAVEL MORE.
And, ferfucksakes, I did.
Now. This year.
MAKE MORE ART.
Art can easily slip to the bottom of the to-do pile and Yours Truly is a Happiest Yours Truly when art is slipping forth with not only abandon but with regularity.
MORE ART.
Managed to squeeze much time in for the onslaught of travelling others, in keeping with the theme of wind in the hair, etc.
Turned Justy on to the favoured near-airport joint, Jim's. A place of bad coffee by the jug, truckers lugging small shaving kits and towels, the domain of the silver naked lady (this should conjure Westerberg).
Regarding new(er) music bought some Stevie to put my money where my heart is. And Le Tigre who found themselves on a mixCD by another and now it spins merrily.
And more.
And now time to work upon the next installation of wise words emanating forth from Yours Truly for the Shiny Happy Mag.

Magpies of Love.

Yesterday, conjured up the spirit of Sam Super B to blog.
Today back to the Perfect style that You know and You so enjoy.

How It Happened, According to Yours Truly.
There was a woman who met a man and they fooled around enough so that in time there was a pending baby and it was a problem but the woman was born without Original Sin and nobody understands that. Or any of this story's facts, for that matter, as they're mixed with fable and the default styles of translation and the retelling until the original is worn, less crisp.
So there's a meandering along and then labour pains. Water breaks while the woman is riding side saddle on the back of a donkey who is not pleased, who is being beaten along with a stick. The month is October and it is the Middle East.
They stop and out pops a baby and the baby, according to a prophecy, is the saviour of all people. There is a mysterious omen in the sky, a star with a tail, and word spreads, apparently, that something surreal/shattering has happened. Three kings find the couple months later - December - and they bring along camels, not the cigarettes, and gifts for the baby, like a shower of sorts. According to Kennedy the names of this trio are known and the names might have upwards of five syllables each.
Zoom ahead many years, to now, for example.
This birth is a baby is a man who is a founder of a philosophy that is interpreted for a long time and it, the philosophy, becomes a religion that becomes a far-reaching corporate interest whose h.q. is its own city within Rome, Italy.
This island of reinterpretation is within high walls and is full of breathtaking wealth and influence and its leader, the Pope, writes encyclicals that pronounce beliefs, interpreted belief, to its followers - and beyond. Missionaries, like door-to-door evangels, like Hispanic evangels who amplify their shouts of passionate belief out into a quiet neighborhood without regard, take it upon their believing shoulders to spread their reinterpretations.
According to lore the Pope knows the end of the world's date.
All the Popes have known this fact, revealed to the children of Fatima in visions, who smelled roses when the spirit of the Original Sinless woman appeared to them.
From a stable and a manger to a walled city, this is what transpired over thousands of years. What began as Buddha-like logic and love of peace has become a movement that has ripened beyond taste, use, intention of the founder.
This is Christmas, a time of rampant spending to show love for one another when, in fact, good deeds and aid and love should not only suffice but happen at all times.
And the music. Holiday music for this anniversary of the discovery of the Libran child Prince of Peace, light of lights, should be much better and possibly the only good one out there is by aforementioned Lennon.
Thus spaketh Perfect Me on this Holiday Matter.

Love Matters.

Most heart ache of ached, the season that has to be dig this experienced sans the other after all that time and now kapoof nothing not a card not a thing and what was all of that, a decade of wondering, of this and of that wasted, lost in a moment of honest reveal. A new season of wondering and waiting and new activity and not knowing the what is of the new but hoping and loving in a new light in a new way and what is the new locus. Thinking I don't trust I don't know but I do want to but what is it what is this what is this this season this place and time. This time of meaning full of things for others for other times and things that you do not have that you do not feel but that you do want and what would you do yes what would you do to have this that you want all the time all the place all the person now.

Love What.

'Tis the season to get cranky
FA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA...
'Tis the season to get tipsy
FA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA...
Don we nowsville our peppy apparel
FA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA...
Then we'll watch some blazing yule log
FA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LAAAAAAH.

Just got off phone with thee Elliott Caplan who says, and I really really don't think he's blowing smoke up my arse, that he digs my digvids that I dumped on him via a nice, tidy dvd.
Tomorrow afternoon we meet up in the Middling City suburbs to talk shop. Then call it a wrap. Not rap. This is so shop talk.
Out of towners are descending upon the Middling City in droves, all looking for high times and misdemeanours and squeezing them in right now to the miasmic schedule is mandatory. Justy et al will be looking to score some jubilance this evening and I am hoping beyond reasonable hope that he et al are not thinking It's Pink Flamingo Time. But, then again, holiday time is the only time Yours Truly darkens that rotting doorstep.
Until then, until later, Yours Truly remains Your Favored, Perfect Nancy.

Love's Sweet Remains.

post script, post haste:
Jesus H. Christ (the season's reason) forgot to freakin' mention that I sent off the paper. The PAPER. The brilliant essay on what completely rocks about the photographs of Gillian Wearing, Brit photog of my certain age. Sent it e-off to the instructress who I'm sure is shopping it around to various scholarly pubs.
As in pages full of brilliance, not ginjoints, ferfucksakes.

Sure does not seem like just yesterday and there are no misty tears to swab away but holy guacamole the nephew becomes thirteen today. There is an infamous Polaroid of me holding brand new him in my leather jacket and we're studying each other, really looking. My Sharpied caption reads Jacob's first sniff of black leather.
I talked to him when he was in his mother so I believe he knew my voice right off. Helloooo, this is your Auntie speaking, I'd pronounce as if I were speaking down into the Grandest Canyon. His mother/sole sistah did not mind but my father sure did when he witnessed the pronouncing once, claiming I'd deafen his forthcoming grandchild.
The nephew was born (the night he came out my friend TMO and I showed up drunk as can be about 2AM after spendiing the evening at nearby Icon, a concert I shot, I believe it may have been Pigface... or KMFDM. But we unsuccessfully tried to convince the near-asleep security man at the side door that we should be allowed to meander up to the maternity level for a quick hello.) with a keen sense of awareness and humour and I always have loved him more than just about anyone I know or have met or am sure to meet.
Since the age of six I dragged his nephew ass off to concerts so that he could experience music (and Yours Truly) firsthand and to see the underbelly, the workings of something and understand it, have a place in it. I felt as a kid that we family members toodled off and attended things, many cultural things, but we were skimming along as spectators - there was no sense of Knowing. So the nephew knows rock shows - the bands he's met, the security guys, the promoters, the merch girlies, the other backstage stragglers.
He is not a jock but a PlayStation addict, a karate kicker, a musician who plays piano, guitar and trombone. These past few years I've been pushing the rock concept at him. What a horrible rock stage auntie I would be.
Thirteen, the precipice and very start of what is exciting, heavy, transformative about It.
To that beloved kid, to You, I say rock on - faster, stronger, with more humourous abandon.

More More Love.

Once again Parsons School of Disorg just gave us practically no notice for a fab op. Last big no notice fiasco was one day's notice that all-time fav photog, Joel Peter Witkin, was speaking at school. Now it's Hey, on Monday there's a deadline to have work about NYC submitted for consideration for purchase by a corporation - 300 dpi tiffs AND 8x10 work prints of each digital file needed. Ummmm, HELLLLLLLOOOO. It's not only Friday but the semester's end AND I happen to be cross-state over here in the Middling City. As Tony the Tiger would say Guhh-reat.

Onwards.

So, Hillary was the one resplendent in topographical black leather coat and powder blue silk scarf. Eye shadow to match. Black pointy-toed boots. No gloves. Her assistants, as usual, in same. SS men handsome as usual and in black topcoats, ever muttering into their shirt cuffs.
I was in green down jacket, green Columbia hat with whimsical frills. The important hat. No gloves. Derek of Middling City News in complicated shades. Various other news types in bulky jackets. We were a scene. A photo op in ourselves.
Time to shoot the holiday card. And think about steaming email to the school. I am so like multi-tasking right now.

Love's Tasks.

The Church of the High Decibels is rocking out for the lord or for whomever they rock for over there, to the west. And here I sit, WBLK blaring out the R&B luvvin' brother (as V always described it) beats and the earplugs crammed in to their hilts. Made an executive decision mere moments ago that next purchase will be at the Mac/Geek Clubhouse - an Airport station so that I may be online over there, far away, to the southernmost corner of the pad to avoid insanity and the like. Homework beckons and home is not cooperating. So there.
Have to post thoughts most brilliant for online class about Aztecs, Freud, Discontents, Civilization, and more.
Tomorrow have a quick gig for the Shiny Happy Mag shooting that Hillary femme, at a ribbon cutting event for the Middling City's new Artspace, a joint that will house artists for living and for working.
Hillary, assuredly, will be the one in black pant suit and tasteful silk scarf held in place with a brooch. Yours Truly will be the one in workaday gear and sensible shoes.
Met with carcrash doc, McGrath, who looked at my films of shoulder, hot off the press. I was marked a tough customer as the xray tech wanted me to take off the Me and Ro necklace. To which I refused. I cannot take this off. It was very expensive. I barked. Really barked. It will interfere with the xray. It's of my shoulder, I barked some more. Yes, I know, techie said. It was a standoff there in the xray suite, the smell of photo chems most familiar wafting through the air. And the xrays were made and the necklace did not show its golden power. I rest my bejewelled case.
Dropped off a dvd for the enrapturing of Elliott Caplan.
Now waiting to hear another Nay or Yeah-You-Rock from another man in charge.

Charged Love.

Have the most brilliant of concepts. Look, this is not your average, run-of-the-grad-student-mill concepts - this is high concept. Going to write a paper that will bring tears to the eyes of all who read it. Well, that may be only two people (me, instructress), but damn, it'll fucking rock. Goes something like this: identity and faux identity in Mexican food items in Mex-American restaurants, and in modern photography. Brilliant. And I'm thinking it may be expanded into a book of sorts, maybe a novel. Along the process-oriented lines of Sophie Calle.
Well, that's all I can say for sure for now.

Academy of Love.

Primitivism. Us and Them. And I'm not talking the song by Pink Floyd. That's what Yours Truly read about last night whilst catching up on Parsons School of Dementia readings for the online thing. There was ref to the ethnographic writings of a few but the essay's writer never quoted them at length. A real bummer as it involved the prurient regarding of native peoples.
Beth the Great is not only great but a Genius as she has come up with a fab idea for my lodging in the Shiny Apple next month. Eureka I say to that and it'd mean, if all goes swell, a sublet of sorts from a classmate for the time being there.
So last night I read about the Aztecs. Sure, like everyone else, I knew about the rippings of hearts from living captives. But they were a friendly bunch to boot. If they killed you in battle they believed, well, belief is a nice consolation anyway, that the soul of the killt sped off to a heaven of lilies or flowers or some such flowery scenario. Those who just slipped away were, they also believed, sent to a much more boring place. Probably the usual celestial snooze-o-rama with angels with harps and clouds and do-gooders. All I know is I'd like to spend said afterlife with those of the rock or photo pantheon. Keith Richards naturally jumps into mind.
All for now and over and out, waiting word from JR, Mentor whether he thinks I should pawn my digvid camera - or not.

Knots of Love.

Sent words most imploring to Parsons School of Dilly-dallying this fine evening basically outlining ways I might get myself into her primo graces and glean an A or B to boot. I can be your personal chef for a while, I can shine all your shoes in your closet and out, I can walk your dog(s), I can write a book that you can sign your name to, etc.
Have no shred of guilt or shame or regret that I basically parked my ass at Kennedy's dining room table for what seemed weeks to make 20 digvids. And some, as I wrote somewhere, some time, are fucking Whitney Biennial-worthy. But we'll see what JR Art Mentor/Personal Art Designer, thinks and says about that. Talked to thee Elliott Caplan who will be watching some of my work with me this upcoming week. And then coffee and I said So what, you'll either tell me Keep up the GOOD WORK or What the fuck were you thinking. He said Oh, I never say the former, usually it's the latter. One conversation with him had my head on fire.
Speaking of fire, delivered a wedding today to one social worker type, in a building with the Middling City's elevator elder statesman. It creaked, it moaned and finally got me to floor number three. She opened the door after I buzzed (here begins Fake Plastic Trees and I'm catapulted back into my usual strong mem associated with this little, perfect tune) and there's a buzzer as the pitiful decrepit building is visited by the MC's crackheads and psychotics, to stare wondrously sans speaking at the Pentecostal-like flame arching over my forehead. I then, after said delivery, delivered myself to the doors of Jon's salon where I am always guaranteed to feel some love. Some coffee, some smokes, some laughs, some rock and roll banter and, all buoyed up, I made my way back into the chilly MC streets.

Streets Paved with Love.

Passed a taste test haranguer today as I had to return to the Mac Clubhouse to buy the correct dvd's (note to self = dashes and plus signs are of utter import when buying overpriced pieces of plastic to stuff into the overpriced pieces of plastic, i.e. PowerBook) and he either said Rock ON! - or Saigon!. Given his ethnicity I am not too sure which it was.
Last night's gig had a fateful ending. Merrily the singers onstage were a-singing and there were jazz hands in abundance and simpering and galumphing. Sudden-fuckin-ly the lights went kapoof and 32 actors, 1 photog, 1 director, 4 high school earnest ones, 1 priest (I think), 1 lighting tech, 1 mediocre band, 1 badass ghost, 5 random spectators probably related to high school earnests, et al were plunged into pure and inky darkness. Cell phones were whipped open to provide comforting light dots in the theatre/deconsecrated church. Well about 20 minutes of darkness, with the actors still onstage making the best of it and proffering up all songs they could muster forth about darkness and the like, it was time to s.p.l.i.t. It was when I rushed to my awaiting automobile that I discovered that I had pulled up at a rakish angle in my usual blustery rock star fashion and had I pulled up another centimetre I would have been over a brink. So the last time I did a gig for these singers and dancers and actors there was a fire/fire drill. Last night the entire town of Lewiston went dark. I told Brendan, the man who hires me, and the stage manager that I take full responsibility for these natural happenstances of doom. Which leads me to thinking that soon the Middling City will face another ice boom or did they pass legislation that ice booms are passé. So many Middling City facts, so little time.

Time 4 Love.

Busted out a minor version of my Perfect Paint Melt Stare today as a groupie/girlfriend of an ensemble member of the UB student variety tapped me on my rootin' tootin' shootin' shoulder to query Ummm, do you mind. Pointing to her piece of guano mini digvid recorder as she stood against a pole whilst Yours Truly documented all the jubilant holiday cheer before me and one hundred mid-day music lovers and other hangers-on. She so owned that square foot of lino, never thought perhaps of panning and wanted to warn all media hacks in the house to get the fuck outta her way.
I blog currently from the measle-down, scaled-down version of SoHo's famed MAC/geek clubhouse, in a mall. I am on errands. You do not want to get in my way when I am on errands for I:
1. do not care for errands, generally speaking.
2. loathe malls and their piped-in joviality.
3. do not care to mingle with maxed-out holiday shoppers but crapskis I have business to attend to with these nice MAC folks.
4. I am in a hurry people, not on the usual 20 mph Middling City rate of speed.
Well, that amount of mall-based surliness should suffice for now.
I leave you - breathless, feckleless, Perfectless.
I am an Americano'd streak on this horizon.

Horizontal Love.

Recently there was a blaze (word used in honour of ol' newscoot Irv Weinstein on the Middling City's Channel 7 Eyewitness News) and a building went kapoof. Was at Jon's Joint when I wandered over there and could not recall what had been there. Was it a building. A lot. Then, some steps. Then I recalled that I had not only passed this building bajillions of times but had traipsed up these steps for a job working for a former born again junkie. Former junkie, current born again. A real micro-managing, sexist, religionist ass named Dom. As in Perignon. As in Corleone. Etc.
So the steps, so the memory.
Another revelation, of a digital and less personal sort.
Working on the computer for what seems aeons lately have been sorting through not only occurent miasmas but have taken frequent sideroads whilst rendering digvid files to discover something so fab I must share it, shout it from the virtual rooftop.
Within the little package of Titanium Platinum there is a juicey bit that allows one to design one's very own cd/dvd doo-dad-rich labels. And even more... like case covers. I mean really. If You knew about this and did not tell I am like so furious.
Spoke with Justy today while he and Mattie were not hard at work at the mag. Decided that well maybe perhaps Bandmate Scott and I should make a biztrip out of NYC next week to suss out Knife Fight, Justy's band. To see if they might be suitable for our amazing double bill. Knife Call and Knife Fight: Battle of the Knives.
Saw that movie everyone raves on about. Sideways. Unexpected wacky character behaviour. Unexpected act of raging violence that had my face all sweating and hiding from an afeared mem of the X post-face-bash, with face dripping middle to bottom in fresh out of the veins blood. What a night that was. I wrapped his face, moaned in mama bear rage, put him in car and sought out the villain and believe I would have mowed down said villain and, thankfully, he was not still out on the streets and the two of us met TerryO out that night and I drank to assuage my rage and all until the newly-busted-nose X had to drive home as my head laid out the window for air and for understanding and hey let's give peace a chance.

Love's Chance.

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.