As I just wrote to Paula Wachowiak, all is good and right again for Greg Sterlace returns to his eponymous show.
After a sabbatical, a meltdown.
Annie and Michele and the other Sterlaces of sorts did a fine job but there's nothing like the tawdry black witticisms of Greg.
After the Bill Horvitz Trio gig at Hallwalls this week Joe Rozler commented that he'd just seen me on the Home of the Future site and I thought he meant the 4.13.07 appearance on Sam's b-day.
But nope, he meant a viewing of my contrib to the Five Minute Series, the humourous tale of the implosion of a relationship past. Very past, thankfully. Richard Wicka of HOTF told me that my vid is one of the toppermost viewed of the series.
For what that is worth. Too bad there are no royalties.
Out for drinks with Bill Horvitz, Steve Adams, and drummer Harris E was good, Kennedy and I took them to good ol' Gabriel's Gate where the winging molecules sit in the air between O molecules.
Tonight shooting an event at the Central Terminal, Ghost Train, and from the p.s.a. I cannot quite decipher what this will be: an ersatz train ride to the other side is promised. Then maps are given out. If anyone advises me to just lick the map I will decline.
Speaking of declines, as in of civ, the other day, 5.4, was the anniversary of a bigtime school shooting, probably one of the first–Kent State. The NYT has that little link where you can see what happened on the very day you are reading along online, the actual front page of that particular issue.

First observation is that paper layouts have drastically changed. There were many more stories on page numero uno that jumped.
So Kent State, as we all do know, was the shooting of students by State Troopers.
Two women co-eds dead, two men co-eds dead. Two were 19, two 20.
One thing Yours Truly did not know was that the Troopers claimed they began firing when they were sniped at from a grassy knoll.
No snipers.
No surprise.
As I said to a client this week at a meeting, as we began to speak about the war and the killing of the environment, It's not the time in so-called polite conversation to have such a talk and then pause and say Well, on a HAPPIER note, or some such thing. Stick to the talking points fercrissakes.

Full day of shooting yesterday, ending up at a country club in the Middling City exurbs where YT viewed the second awe-inspring toupée in the past month.
I ask You.
Are viewers meant to not notice that the hair is faux? Has anyone ever created a believable toupée. Why are wigs not humourous. Hell, even Britney's wig is not a hoot.

In the online music jibing quadrant of the internet system read today that fans are shocked and stunned that Britney lip-synchs, especially during her quarter-hour quote-unquote sets at a national music club chain.
As You may note, O Loyal epinw reader, YT has photographed this pop icon (who is, undoubtedly, still red hot in Japan) several times, and has always felt a great tinge of sadness and pity for the young girls (in make-up), clutching $50 programs, watching their pop star fav lip-synch the night away.
One pop rock mem worth a revisit is that of Britney popping up from underneath the stage of the MC Arena like a vampire lifting up from the earth.
In all my decades of music and spectacle watching and shooting and documenting have never seen, in ANY music genre, any art genre, a more odd sight than that very one.

On that lip-sunk note.
Sunk in Love, Love.

For the first time in human, art-making history Hallwalls has printed up a poster for Artists and Models with artist names on it.
I have to stumble down memory lane and recall the premier Artists and Models in downtown Middling City with films by Kevin Fix, fashion show by Steve Gallagher, and oso much more. It was a slammin' party and I got involved thereafter as artist and model. And at A&M #2 had work included in the Reject Show, of works rejected from Albright-Knox's WNY exhibition. Before it became the sprawling, incomprehensive series of shows that it is today.
Speaking of AKAG (and more A&M recollections to follow), was there for Kennedy's concert of Roscoe Mitchell and was hoping to catch a glimpse of the Francis Bacon installation. Not yet. That opens tomorrow but Yours Truly is missing the grand op for a gig.
YT needs to get hold of an old-fashioned opaque projector to make large-scale paintings once again, as I did for another A&M with a circus theme. Attendees could stick their heads through and become Saint Sebastian, Fat Lady, Snake Charmer, etc.
This year's transformational panels will feature all things nocturnal.
Dark, shady, street-loving, moon-blooming, and the like.
Last night, speaking of moon-blooms, went with Kennedy to hear and see Acid Mothers Temple at SoundLab, a rollicking 70s-infused rock band from Nippon/Japan.
The four men in the band are avid and two have heads of incredible hair-long, shaken all over the place for full rock effect.
The femme in the band is kind of Stevie Nicksing along with scarves, hands all curled up to the rock heavens, some warbling when needed, a wrist shakey instrument.
In the midst of the set I kept meandering to the front of the stage for a divergent rock perspective, in the throes and deep in the notes.
There was one rapturous guy doing what YT has termed an Esmerelda Dance-a rare male doing the Esmerelda Dance.
Also in the midst of the set I said into Kennedy's ear
There's a new trend in Tokyo, Male Gals, gyaru-o, boys who dress like girlies and wear makeup and go tanning. There was a New York mag sidebar outlining some of the products these gyaru-o fellas use, including something called Moving Rubber Grunge Mat (Love always Love those Japanese names) for $7 (that'd be about 15¥) which is super-stiff hair goop.
Recalling the hair goop of the 80s now, coming full circle back to the Artists & Models inception. Big hair, strong hair goop, shoulder pads (*cringe*) odd fashion twists like cloth gloves for some occasions. And oso much much more.

Artistmodelmusic Love, Love.

Apparently my stray cat pal, Extra, is an advocate, a practitioner of Santeria.
A few nights ago I made Kennedy and me some fab squid ink pasta and salmon and other special ingrediently mélange.
We did not finish it and Kennedy says You know how we eat leftover fish dishes, give it to Extra.
Extra nibbled out the fish bits.
Later I looked out to discover a beheaded bird near his food bowl.
He was very proud of his little killing spree, standing very tall in the sunshine.
I told him what a great hunter he is.
And I raised an eyebrow not at his Santeria practice but that just when you think you know someone, sometimes you like so do not.
I do recall that Santeria advocates killed and beheaded just like Extra did to speed Fidel along to good health.
Onwards.

Blooming spring, beheaded birds Love.

Al Gore came to these parts yesterday, first speaking to 5K students from high schools and the big U and then in the evening to that many grownups.
What differed from the movie, An Inconvenient Truth, was the ending.
Whereas the movie (like Iraq for Sale) piled on fact after fact after photo and photo and more factly matters about how We have really collectively and consistently been, in a nutshell, fucking up the Earth, the talk ended with some positivity and how We can change what has been mucked up–NOW.

Al was intro'd by big U prez John Simpson, Lieutenant Gov David Paterson, and U student Kelly Miller. Paterson, who Yours Truly got to meet and photograph for three days during the Empire State's Dem Convention, is a joking man and stated that Al Gore was going to make an important announcement during the talk, that he would be announcing ( mute mute ). He began frantically tapping the mic asking What is wrong with this microphone.
Sadly, Al did not announce his presidential run and in lieu of such stated that he is a Recovering politician and is on step 11.
He said He was the president of the United States and when laughter ensued he did a well-timed pause to say I don't see the humour in that.
Well, Al, YT would like to impart that it is nervous titters, not guffaws, because that presidency was like so yours, so popular vote YOURS.
Onwards.
So there was a positive, rah-rah ending and a deserved standing ovation.
All in all an all-around good Al time.

Later alligator attended and photographed Roscoe Mitchell and his rhythm section at Albright-Knox Art Gallery. Heading in to meet up with Kennedy, Annie, Erin, was rather shocked and pleased all at once that the venerable-yet-altered art joint had not sold off their small, blue glass figurines by Picasso. They were being shown somewhat prominently just off the sculpture garden (no longer a garden), past the Kiefer in a suitable showcase. They were not auctioned off.
Yet.
Off to points beyond on this workful, artful day, also another jazzful one as well.

Al Gore Love.

Minding my own business, as is always my wont, I meandered into an office.
Why, You ask.
As if You have no idea that much of what I do is appearing at office doors, talking, photographing, talking, leaving, but not before some more talking and photographing.
So there Yours Truly is, at an office door of a superstar prof, in midst of conference with a grad student.
Grad Student was being spoken and, having been out of Academe for a little while, my ears were a bit rusty.
I do still recall, howmeverr, how to pronounce Benjamin properly (benYUHmean) as opposed to Benji the Dog's full name.
phew.
So conference and bandying about over and YT had already started making images as the superstar spoke. And then I sunk more into invisibility. And then not when it was just the two of us. Results smashing, of course.
But in mid-pixelation started to talk Mac and mentioned digvid, being self-taught and all that hair-raising miasmic stuff, and then moved on to the online realm.
In about ten minutes I had gleaned so much new information from this man that my brain had the feeling of having spoken French all day and the evening is going to stretch along and maybe even one kir royale (alright, three) have been consumed (or are in mid-sip) and the brain is working very hard at this other lingua until running away from the language is necessary to regroup and such.
I told the superstar this, he was pleased that he had imparted so much in such a short time.
Then there is today.
Photo gigs and then the bleak, stripmalledtrek to The Clubhouse to pick up something I thought I needed for this Mac. Turns out No, not needed, but talked for a long time to a MacClerk about all sorts of things to do with a Mac and the internet system.
Is anything more exciting. I think not.
Saw Donny K at The Clubhouse and told him I'd received a request from afar to get six teeny-rockers into a Goo show down south. And then today a p.r. femme called to see if I'd like to review a show in Rochester tomorrow. The rock world, which never left the side of YT, is creeping closer.
Speaking of bandying about, met up with fellow Spree people to volley ideas about regarding the best that might ever happen or be acquired in these parts.
I do mean, of course, Spree's best of issue.
Everyone does a best issue.
It is as assured as playoffs in sports, blooms in the garden, glances between pedestrians.

Played off, bloomed up Love.

wow.
That is what I said, Perfectly like so not sotto voce to myself as I tooled around Target today for this purpose, to acquire more sunscreen.
This, Yours Truly adds, the very same week beloved President Al Gore visits this very region.
You draw the line.
Now You do not naysay, telling YT that SPF 70 is truly something like 35. Like how booze's alcohol content is a snippet of what is printed labelside.
Irregardless of the veracity in the tube, this is huge news for one like me, one who burns sitting near a window on a sunny day.
Al. Al Gore.
This will be the third time that YT has photographed his direct gazed countenance.
The first time he was the veep and appeared with Tipper, Bill & Hill.
That is the occasion at the mega-plex-sporto arena of the Middling City's downtown, the one that afterwards a glimpse of a dummy vehicle with literal dummies resembling the foursome was spotted heading off into another direction from the actual vehicle carrying themselves.
Ahh, the sights, the sites that have been seen.
The second time Al was running for his presidency and was dressed in a sharp, brown cashmere sweater, thanks to Naomi the Feminist.
This is numero trio.
Beforehand I am shooting man on the street shots of attendees, exactly as I did for the visit of His Holiness Dalai Lama–HHDL in media parlance.

Time to mix rhubarb into cardamom into orange into strawberries.
That, You see, is chemistry for good.

Good, chemical Love.

Org'd a viewing of Kenn Morgan photos with Sparky and Annie over at one of those Middling City churches now proselytizing pedestrians with Art as the highest of powers, Karpeles.
And so on that note meandered to put her highness, Cat Power, on the hi-fi.
Kenn made images of profiles of femmes with Roman noses, as they are classified usually and he created some magnum opusesque words of his own that were as admirable as the images - max cascade was one.
Jeez it's been a while since this Cat Power was played and Yours Truly wonders why it has not hit the platter sooner.
At today's high powered event was not only lured into promising a visit to another artist's exhibition in a few weeks, but into having some early box wine. Early as in the hour and early as in was probably vinted last month.
I noted to Annie that the box is meant to fit onto a refrigerator door, they are roughly the width of a jar of mayonnaise. Now, YT asks, with a spigot on one side how does a box wino pour sans lifting the entire package up and away.
The box denoted the contents featured real grape juice and alcohol content, 11%.
There was cheese. We girls were thrilled.
It is time to push pixels and disseminate happiness the world over.
Met with Liz Friday evening to discuss the pending momentous b-day numero fiftio of Cheryl and our celebratory gesture of dinner, Perfection, gifts, explosion of glad tidings.
This is a very busy birthday month for YT has several persons of interest who were born as Tauruses and Gemini: Kennedy (the lone Gem), Brucey, Cheryl, Jana.
YT overdoes the birth anniversaries of others, usually.
I say Hooray to them.
And, usually, one gets a special improv harmonica tune on the phone to usher in all good vibes.
The greens get more vibrant each day.

Vibrant green Love.

+ The latest incarnation of that cable access show, still confusedly called the Sterlace Show although the eponymousee departed after a mid-life meltdown, is out in the world. Viewable on their site whose URL escapes. It was taped 4.13.07, the exact anniversary (to day of week) of epinw and Blogger, Beckett were discussed. Me, Mish, Annie had a sing-off at the end, to which I dragged several rock classics to the table.

. . . and back again for a brief refueling of sorts before jetting off again.
As I told the Girlie Gang last night during our extended replay over at that cold (and, when they dial down the thermo as the hour gets trop late, frigid) Toro, 'tis the season when Yours Truly subsists on reception food. Cheese cubes (one of the three basic flavours depending upon mood-orange, beige, spicily-speckled), bottled water, carrot sticks, random finger foods.
Met the girls out after a 13-hour, intense day that completely rocked-in images, conversations, thoughts.
Called Vincenzo en route and asked him to guess how many hours since YT had brushed all the teeth.
12, he guessed.
13, I corrected.
Today was the inauguration of Hilbert's nouvelle president, Cynthia Zane, who has actually been on duty for about one year already. It is official. Well, nearly not so when her medalion with bas-relief Hilbert College icon went all missing and former SUNY Chancellor Bob Bennett stepped up to the plate, so to speak, and proffered up his own SUNY medallion. Wrong ribbon colour, wrong medallion color but it was something.
Photographed her later with vrai one.
To date have been hired to document three inaugurations - Muriel Moore Howard at Buffalo State College, John Barclay Simpson at UB, Cynthia Zane at Hilbert.

Literal Harold used one of my gaming images from Sicily and posted today about this Mario Puzzle Bobble.
I told him the image's visual provenance, if You will.
An espresso rest stop area, open-air, plane trees outside, sunny day.
A place in Siracusa.
By the water, but, then again, nearly everything in Sicily is near the water.
Off to points beyond.

Pointed Love.

My highly excellent tax lady, Valerie, just completed the package.
Pfhew.
As I am wont to write and say, she is as much a life coach as a tax preparator.
She told me that We had until today at minuit and she trudged through all the receipts and such and I just met her and her pal over at a diner to get the goods and pay her for her work and give her her special surprise, a giftcard for Target.
For who in hell cannot use a giftcard for same.
I ask You.
Due to the horrific happening in VA there are today and onwards memorial ceremonies the world over, especially at especially-empathetic collegiate places.
Yours Truly is photographing one such gathering tomorrow and I was trying to recall the last time I had to do something of this nature, another convocation of people from all walks and spiritualities.
Students will be wearing memorial pins in the colors of Virginia Tech.
This event inspired a whole bevy of very bad dreams and YT thinks a positive outcome would be that the world takes better notice and changes the overwhelmingly violent and brazenly disconnected culture around us.
Connect for real.
VF has their annual Green Issue out now and amid it is a primo quote by Prince Charles, how people are disconnected from Nature, they can witness beautiful Nature docs all they want, and turn them off.
Same tangential motto is that people are disconnected from Nature, and human nature.

*this just in.
Nancy,
I am writing briefly today to confirm that you have been selected to participate in NOCTURMINAL, the twentieth version of Hallwalls’ Artists & Models Affair at the Central Terminal June 2, 2007. - John Massier

This means that YT will be a featured artiste in this Hallwalls fundraising hoopla at Central Terminal.
And now to turn the home office hovel into a studio - quick.


Terminal Love.

Well, let Us get down to proverbial brass tacks, if You will.
As a Shiney Apple pal shares my adoration for one of Olmsted's best, South Park, and attendant Botanicus Gardenus, I was sending along a dig version of a Middling City News story about the century plant which is growing out its large stalk, right out from where a pane of glass has been removed for the occasion. I do believe that this same species did its own thing in the Shiney Apple and that when the huge bloom(s) appear there is a huge stinking stench emanating from the flowers or from the plant, which dies after its big burgeon.
So there I am on the MCNews site about to cut and paste when another newsy bit grabbed my eye. Ironically enough, the same Olmsted site was the sight of a gruesome discovery by some wayward teen boys - a beheaded and befooted goat, probably, some expert intoned, used for a Santeria ritual perhaps to say Hey, thanks to the spirit world. I think that this would include Spring in general.
Speaking of beasts.
Went to Dougie's soirée last night after meeting up with some of the Solid Gold Book Club girlies. It was a potluck turned general fete and then jamboree. We left as the jamboree was getting underway as we were hankering for more barside mischief and Erin had sustained a curious injury from Dougie's hedgehog. Whose name escapes me at this moment.
My pals in KY have or had a hedgehog and really I don't understand this type of pet that you can sort of hold in your arms but which renders petting a very tentative situ.
sidebar: Annie believed that Dougie had a wild boar as a pet and I marvelled at that until I realized that this was probably improbable in a quote-unquote urban domicile.
But what a grand idea. Pot-bellied pigs, so 2002. Wild boars, so Now.
sidebar2: Back in the dawning of Artvoice created some house ads, those ads that are made to fill up space when odd spaces between ads and copy are left. One I created used a dictionary image of a wild boar and the sloganific words stated Read Artvoice and avoid becoming one of these.
So there is Erin with strange welts on her ballerina arm. It was distressing to one and all, quite possibly most for Erin and secondmost for Dougie.
We left the party and found ourselves in Merlin's of all the forsaken joints of yore and now and the MC.
A doorperson said the cover was $3 each. I said How about you just let four girls in for free. He agreed to that and then Yours Truly felt some big responsibility to breeze right in and to the bar and order Something ... hearkening back to the girlie sojourn to Niagara Falls/Cracktown and the crab-assed owner of the joint that Jana had to review and all.
So we're in Merlin's, as were a speed metal band, a femme playing video poker, her pal the bartendress, some fans of the band.
At some point I went up to see which band this was. Did not recognize them from my WhatHasHappened days and so asked a guy standing to my right. Who are they, gesturing.
He said I am not sure, I work with the drummer's brother, I think they're called Serenity ... or something like that.
I reported this fun fact to the girlies.
We watched the bandmates, post-set, drag their sky-high amps out the front door out into the rainysnow and I mused on what an Olympiad feat it is for guys to work, practice, get gigs, drag their equipment to whermever, Perform, lather and rinse and repeat.
For the glory of free rock and roll hair spins.

Hair spun Love.

Happy Birthday to Sam.
Happy Birthday to epinw.

Today photographed a feeding frenzy of sorts for students at the big U, a way to thank them for being good customers of food services there. Photographed some with sky-high foodstuffs carefully balanced before the students had to walk about one hundred feet to a seating area. I imagine there was a spilling crisis at some point. Student carrying sky-high plate, student running for a bus, kapow.
Tomorrow I am shooting a house made of haybales. Yes, haybales.
And the Shiney Happy has asked me to review the pending Eastman show of Ansel, as in Adams.
Just perused the catalogue of workshops and travel possibs via Santa Fe Workshops and a few sound just fab, one week of cavorting somewhere exotic with the like-minded.
About to embark to appear on the Greg Sterlace Show, sans Greg.
But featuring pals Annie and Michele.
Greg has had a meltdown.
He always had me on as a co-host and it was often commented upon that I was able to quote unquote hold my own with him. We would usually end up conversing or shouting at each other and forgetting the guests onhand. Or we would kind of harangue the guests, if need be.
I will be talking about the aforementioned b-days. Of course.
Am I glad that that Imus character is expunged.
You bet your straw cowboy hat.
As in the one sitting on my printer, the one I was given by some nice people at a race, probably as they noted my SPF 8000 was wearing a bit thin.
Time to regroup, depart, offshoot.

Offshot Love.

so he goes
Shiney Apple DK just wrote to hear more about Sicily (apparently I did not provide enough big details and a few readers have inquired, there is another, trip-related blog in the works, Trinacria Tour) and to extend an open invite to languish in the happy, lofty vibes before the Big Move. In essence the Big E as in Eviction. Not Easy, and there is another slew of negative connotations now with that E. To ruminate completely.
She says she is awaiting a call from Mr. Fong. I know that feeling of waiting for phonecalls in the Shiney Apple - to find gigs, to find a place to rest one's weary head.
Just revisited an at-precipice moment, the one involving the overly-wrought mid-career photog who advertised a room for rent in her midtown east place. How she freaked when Yours Truly put a camera case on the bed. That is about the second I realized I needed to split *quick fast in a hurry* and call Dorota, the aforementioned DK (the other Perfect DK of this sphere).
An SOS was met with a Walton-worthy Come back home.
And the sad sidebar is that lofty days are coming to an end after over a decade as the building owner has decided to rent instead to a day spa and day care centre for caninus domesticus. She told me their shocking rent amount, what one could pay to purchase a modest Middling City home.
I told someone recently it seems like I've spent more time at the loft than at the building that I own, so much so that I know the quirks of the loft's wiring, dripping faucets and the like. Whereas the home office hovel remains a place for storage, occasional naps, wardrobe changes, and stray cat feeding.
Speaking of SCF, there is a newbie, a young female who seems in peril. I think the boys (and this excludes my precious darling Extra, as he is a ca(s)trati) have been hitting on her and she hunches at the door, ready to charge in.
Moments ago was editing a gig just shot at a smaller college in the region, a joint that is a pleasure to intertwine with, reconnecting with a femme who YT has known for a long time, who has joined their staff. I was just editing/flailing away and looked up to note that the cast of characters who were surrounding me when I began have all drifted away. That is intensity of purpose.

Today read two obits for Kurt Vonnegut, the more complete in the NYT.
Commented to Kennedy that KVJR (as Loomis and I lovingly always called him) and Woody Allen provided a glimpse into lovely, creative planets for young and impressionable teen writers and thinkers. That and an uncle named Billy (yes, as in Pilgrim) who played the harpsichord and was a priest and who absolutely lived the high life.
KVJR, just like Dr. Atkins, died from brain injury from a fall.
Never underestimate Balance.

Balanced Love, body/mind/spirit

... Born sour or does the problem go deeper.
Now that is a question.
Your homework assignment is to check out this educational, health-related vid via Internet Archive. Sound only is fine for flailing away. It is still educational.
At least fur keeps you warm.

The latest of Perfect, jazz-related post-gig feasts was another raging success with PB at the helm of the table, after full-blast trio of him and equally-imported rhythm section - Marino Pliakas and Michael Wertmüller. Told Michael and Marino, way late into the post-dessert musings, that the moment they created with a simple beat that spanned into for a terminal but interminal-in-moment moment made all sorts of blocked art ideas in the head of Yours Truly slip out. They were visibly pleased.
It was one of my most favoured PB gigs and I told him that the big triad of events in the month of my merry birth (nine days later, to be quite Perfectly pushing exactitude) in Chicago is not only inked in but looked forward to. An exhibition, a concert, a publishing party.
PB invited me to bend myself into his suitcase so I could mosey along on this full-blast tour. With all the yoga and pilates it could be quite possible. But then, of course, it is a real hazard with sub-zero temps happening out in outer space where planes fly.
Two shopping days until Sam's b-day and the anniversary of epinw.

Shop and rock on, Love.

+ this just in.
two jpegs arrived of YT with a whole shitload of flowing hair, just after a Phish show and before some other rock hoopla - cameras present in both instances, of course. I look forward to its re-emergence soon.

As most people Yours Truly knows, and this includes YT, have turned that vernal pagan-x'n holiday hybrid–a.k.a. Easter–into Imbibathon, all plans for Dyngus Day sort of fell by the wayside/fell out the window.
Entertained, with Kennedy, ICP (Instant Composers Pool, not International Center of ... not for ... Photography, nor Insane Clown Posse although YT has witnessed and photographed them onstage) on Saturday night after their incredible gig at Hallwalls in The Cavernous Church of Ani. A large black curtain was added to the Gothic skyward arch but the sound still booms around the room. This was duly noted by Bandmate Scott and I who sat on the second level peering down at the mass of watchers and this tentet from Holland.
After the show sped back to the EasyBake Oven etc. where the hunks of lamb legs were baking away.
Served 18 supper and it all began with Oyster Shooters (raw, in a citron vodka/lemon/soy concoction) with raw quail egg atop each and dainty thin scallions. Bandmate Scott broke out into a sweat as he helped me construct them ... Are these raw, is this raw, he queried. He did shoot one. They are sublime.
After that lobster and crab salad in a YT-created tarragon dressing. Then the legs of lamb, Tandoori chicken, Americana meatloaf, buttery green beans, rosemary roasted potatoes, a few salmon filets for a chocolate-loving vegetarian who does eat the fish. And on the table I had a butter lamb, a Middling City specialty.
This perplexed just about everyone at the table.
Susannah, ICP's manager, had an incident with her Oyster Shooter and I had a flash of having to rush to get the vacuum to dislodge the oyster from her gullet.
Off to a marathon big U day, including documentation of thee man who created Earth Day, Denis Hayes.
Earth Day, yes, is each and every day. But it is truly on the calendar on the fifteenth of this month. Two days after the festive celebration of the anniversary of the appearance of epinw.
Dig.
As YT was merrily wending her way through life yesterday received some frantic messages from editrix at the Shiney Happy, looking for some fun facts to add to the behemoth piece on this and that. Fhonecalls, fixed, filled, finished in a flash.
Onwards to there, there, there, there, and there, too.

There, Love.

Yesterday was the day that the drive is usually blocked at the home office hovel, blocked by over-eager pastry purchasers who, in their holiday frenzies, park just wherever. Had a fire engine blocking it at one point and beep-beeped and had firemen waving merrily. I was rushing out to the big U for an assignment and their really big red truck needed to move in a jiff.
Went to Michele's b-day soiree last night and gave her a remarkable bowl that looked like it had been fashioned from Pucci fabric.
Tonight is the ICP at Hallwalls and Kennedy and I have created a late-night feast for all ten of them, plus their manager, et al and et al.
Saw them in Amherst, Mass. a little over a year ago and enjoyed them v. much.
Only worry is that the easy-bake oven will not bake the lamb leg portions in the amount of time that it should, about 2.5 hours.
There are enough prepped courses before the main to keep everyone from resorting to cannibalism at table.
Dreaming of a convection oven, all that forced air shaving off baking times.
Finished the mammoth piece for the Shiney Happy Mag yesterday, a triumph.
Of course I chose to write about divergent and farflung places and spent many hours driving before note-taking, shooting, writing.
But that is done. Now for the lamb legs. And the rest of it.
Off to points beyond, the concert, the final push of the feast.
Tomorrow the pagan-christian hybrid holiday that really is a jumble of both - eggs, lambs, resurrections, lilies, jelly eggs, mysterious crypts, peeps, pig meat.

Hybrid Love.

Tomorrow night is what Yours Truly has dubbed Summit Meeting - gatherings with Polly/Liz/Cheryl and the designated joint is a Middling City Scene Newbie, a place with pretensions but nicely designed.
We decided there were too many weeks that'd go by and we would not connect so now these Summit Meetings, as Martha says, A good thing.
Drove out to the big U's Confusement Centre, a.k.a. Ellicott Complex, to not only get my fair share of daily confusion, but to enjoy the sight of meandering ducks.
One seasonally-thematic thing is that the Middling City is enjoying a new trad, a Dyngus Day parade from the B'Way Market to the Central Terminal. Thinking that paraders and maskers and marauders and revelers should probably dress like pussy willows (whilst also brandishing same) or as Polish sausages. Or maybe butter lambs.
Will be again, as is tradition, at the Lownies's Ukrainian Easter brunch and, as is also trad, will lop head off the butter lamb.
hot tip: the butter lamb features two peppercorn eyes, lopping head off yields a spicey, buttery spread for whatever one has designated a spreadee on the table.
Spring and itchy eyes are in the air, as is the scent of earth warming.
The crocii and daffodils are unleashing their magic and coming up next are the most beloved spring arrivistes of all - the hyacinths.
Ahhh, the hyacinths.


Pepper-eyed Love.

+
this just in.
Literal Harold, who You may recall collects hotel/resort/motel soaps, received his package from YT bearing same. He, safe to say, is t.h.r.i.l.l.e.d.
And You should note, all of Yous, that the 13th is, bien sur, the hap-slappy anniversary of the premier and Perfect blogpost of epinw - b-day of Sam.
Please do send gifts of all shapes and sizes to me. At once, for timely delivery.
I thank You in advance.
And also I proclaim that it is truly uly spring.
I have evidentiary allergies.

This is one images Yours Truly is especially happy with from the latest nuptials socially documented in early March, and, desite the big chill in the air, the couple agreed to pose outdoors at Glen Falls with Nature all nude.

Yesterday was the book clubbing and, as is our wont, there was some discussion of the book at hand (Fear of Flying, that early feminist book all concerned about liberation, and therapy), but more about life in general over several goblets of thematic beverages. Next book is Tristram Shandy, a college fav, and just ordered a new copy as mine from college was severely yellowed and annotated by my 18-year old hand. Along with some plans for t-shirt designs and ruminations that were so ... heavy in my undergraduate mind.
Soon or now is the year anniversary of the death of Mr. Ganey and then that of Mrs. Ganey. What a sad time that was, good to see the fam, but tragic when she passed one month after his. Same funeral home, same room, same cast of characters.

Celebrated the birth of my mother yesterday at a middling restaurant on Hertel Avenue. As I said to the parents, it seemed a bit dishevelled at the edges but the food was passable.
The lag of the jets (3 in total) has passed, thankfully, no more operating on 3 cylinders.

Onwards to edits galore.

Love galore.

Harry N. Konst, Esq. of the Sicilian trip just emailed the lot of us to inform that the day after we left Sicily Mount Etna blew some vulanized molecules into the crisp air.

CBS News RAW: The southeastern crater of Sicily's snow-covered Mt. Etna volcano belched lava, smoke and ash. Vulcanologists say this latest eruptive spell poses no danger to people.

When You witness how closely people live near the craters You do wonder.
Yours Truly has met her fair share of vulcanologists at the big U and have concluded thusly: Vulcanologists are a nutty bunch.
Do we trust their words, these magma weather people.

One of the more unforgettable Sicily images emblazoned is the hardened, antique lava flows that remain on the landscape - deep, black rock, in Euro parlance a few meters high/deep. The devastation possibilites of these wide paths of lava is there, right there, remaining from every flow.

Last night had a job for the big U and had to shuffle dozens upon dozens of awardees to and fro, a real work-out. I had an excellent suggestion to the event planners to efficiently keep groups of awardees (You see, they are categorically photographed, without getting into too many details) together - duct tape. They'd only be un-duct taped when they needed to be photographed - to heck with worries about delicate fabrics, documentation is more important. Left a cable behind at the locale (a pool-scented Holiday Inn in the suburbs) and had to return today to fetch it and discovered that the room so full of students last night was today full of evangels who were lunching ... books on Mother Theresa, paraphernalia on merch tables and confessions being heard in another, smaller banquet room.

In midst of another gig right now, in sub-midst of a break and need to head out to ghostful East Aurora soon. Exact locale is Roycroft, home of the best verandas in Western New York, in my non-humble op. A fine destination for sniffing their courtyard garden, enjoying a cocktail, maybe some light shopping.

Onwards to that crafty exurb of the Middling City.
After my absence the MC looks flat, dark. Where are the cactii, the vibrant flowers.
I ask. Coming, You reply.

Magmatic Love.

This is a very quick pick from the 600 or so Sicily images made during the past 9 or so days, made in the mountaintop city of Taormina, outside Saint Caterina Church near a shady piazza filled with gelato, people, taxis.
Inside, there are electric candles - plop in the Euros and screw in the candle's bulb of your choice. I suppose a good way to prevent fires, pesky wax drippings. I made images of these candles, as well as other churchly features like relics, and select marble floors.

Just finished several hours of judging a SUNY-wide photo contest for publications that promote various colleges and U's. Did so with boy colleague Marky Mulville of Middling City News fame, Deborah Parks of Canisius College. Claire Jones of Buffalo State College invited us to judge (I judged the newsletter category two years ago) and hosted our time together which we ended discussing the nature of students in this day and age of media saturation and the phenom of hellicopter parents.
The judging went swimmingly and we proffered up comments to the first and second place winners and the honorary mention.
One comment was written by Yours Truly - We enjoyed your images very much but would like to suggest that you pull back on the usage of PhotoShop filters.
Anyone in this racket, or who has ever played with that hyper-expansive software know the allures and massive pitfalls of using filters which, as I am wont to say, include the horrendous shower door filter.
Mulville and I stood in the sun afterwards discussing the diffs between Nikon and Canon, my adorable new Leica DLux2, cars, and other equipment matters.
Always good to talk shop, especially in the sun.
Onwards to deadlines both real and imagined.

Imaginary and real Love.

If only Yours Truly had figured out this neato little techno bonus trick earlier I would have saved several Euros.
Someone on the hotel staff was, obviously, looking at internet porn whilst we were all eating our ultimate (as in final, not as in best) dinner on this Sicilian tour.
So I sit down at machine ready to fire it up with my paid-for i.d. number for access with meter running when I see a lurid page open and ready.
Actually, the window is underneath this window and the url is www.archiviosex.net etc. etc.
(There was just now a colossal crash that came from the kitchen and/or dining room and then the traditional and subsequent roar of the crowd.
And now the sad sad sound of the sweeping up of glass.)
From here I zipped in the Yahoo url and then onwards to Blogger.
At one point the King, also referred to as The Godfather (the hotel proprietor who lurks about and does on occasion even sit in a carved, wooden chair resembling a throne in the lobby), hovered over me wondering what YT was up to.
We have caught suspicious eyes in the lobby, that King and I.
Today we bussed on over to Catania. Not to be confused with Calabria.
I did witness the parched and kind of mummified black hands, well, just bone, of a cardinal in a glass case. I was mesmerized. This viewing took place during a mid-day mass and so the lights in the showcase were on. A priest was singing quite well, a far far cry from the folkie-suffused warbling one usually hears from priests over there in the USofA.
Mass over. Lights in showcase off.
Show's over, leave.
Exeunt YT to the sunny sunny street and felt, as the day was moseying along, to walk at a Shiney Apple pace solo up a hillacious street toward a city wall or gate.
I did so at an alarmingly speedy pace, just breathing in the diesel fumes and feeling my face roasting in the sun.
I stopped for only the oddest of sights which included a traffic cop looking like he was holding a nice red lolly to direct the comings and goings around traffic.
I stopped also for a taste of grilled artichoke, 1 Euro.
Wended back to the less ghetto quarter and began looking for a motherly birthday gift as her birthday is the 28th, tomorrow, as we begin the 24-hour sojourn.
I could not find It.
In lieu of That I did find a Perfect pair of canvas cowboy boots which, despite my rule about buying European shoes, found themselves not only being purchased, but on my feet and walking out the store.
Amongst other stops stopped into an artist's studio and managed to be in there and made one single image of it and soaked up the trumpet-featured classical piece blaring from a hi-fi sans being noticed.
I later said to a few fellow tourmembers that I pondered making a citizen's arrest.
Dorota will get this joke.
But I will explain it to You.
There is a dearth of heart-stopping modern art in parts of Europe.
Onwards.
Mary and I co-hostessed a cocktail party for our fellows and it was fun.
Everyone felt our view was worth the shakedown extra Euros.
Onwards to the final night and the long trek back to Kennedy and the rest of the US.

Onwards, Love.

Yesterday was a day most Perfect, back in Taormina.
Wending through tight alleys, making some images, looking up at the stoney mountain I traipsed up and was surprised by the lady in shadows, not our lady of sorrows.
Ate at Nino's joint, a fine trattoria near the sea, and he insisted or strongly suggested we have a familyesque and trad Sicilian feast for the four of us. Out came the courses of fresh fishes, locally-grown vegetables, a sweet pea pod each for a taste refresher, vino, an apertif. All again just Perfect-perfetto.
On way to Nino's directions were asked to see if in sooth numero 37 was just up ahead on Via Pirandello. It and it were.
I strongly suggested to a man getting on his very stylish Italian motorbike that he give me a ride up around the bend to my luncheon.
He handed me his helmet, put down the passengerial footpegs and off we zoomed. I had a few moments of that travel wonderment (always solo) whilst standing on a stone wall overlooking the sea and down at greenery still unfamiliar - cactii, lush bouganvillea (Liz can send in corrections), camellia, et al.
Onwards.
Today was Mount Etna day.
Picked up loads of little lava rocks and lest You do not catch the joke here, so Euro, so geological, lava rocks are light you see for the magma that bursts forth as lava catches air when it is arrabiata up in the sky and after it has scorched the earth. Dried to sponge candy perfection.
(Luca is meandering behind me, hands crossed behind him so officially as he makes his way from lobby to kitchen, disappearing, as Julie the Cat would always like to do, into the cucina).
Mount Etna air is so crisp and the fog wraps around your face when the weather shifts.
Men in a Jeep show up looking all muddy about the knees and you can see in the back of the Jeep that there are provisions. From their dazed conditions you reckon they have peered into the crater. Or have been lost for days.
We more adventurous journeyers forge onwards and wonder at the chestnut trees, the endless rocks, the flora just awakening.
Onwards again.
Another twisting and turning of the bus to another hillock farm and vineyard owned by a Baron, Emanuele Scammacca del Murgo, who insisted upon meeting me and then images were made of the two of us together. He presented me with one of his books, as You see, he is also a photog. We photogs seek each other out. We talk or gesticulate moments, gadgets, glass, ops, chips, and the like.
He signed my book For Nancy Emanuele.
His wine was the best here yet, Murgo is the label.
Onwards to the pool where a nice glass of Asti awaits me.
I have new Etro shades and I may contact them to see if the corp would like to become my corporate sponsor.

Murgo, Etro, vino Love.

postscript for Literal Harold.
have some rather odd images quite appropriate for VH1, will send upon return to Middling City.

postscript for LH and all You others.
no postcards sent out by YT, they are all too hideous. Really.
You know I dig that oldschool tradition, they are really all too ugly, not a trace of irony upon them.

Today Mary and I have given the group the slip.
We are off shortly to Taormina, the fav spot so far, a hilly city with sea and mountains in the distances.
The place where I wended up the stone steps.
Yesterday was the mainland, Calabria, where I decided to procure a present for me (the usual something to wear from Europa) and where we later bussed off to farm country where we served a lavish lunch of products made on the farm - vino, cheese, meats, etc. There were goats tied to trees, herbs minding their business.
One of our two buses, the one Yours Truly was on, got stuck coming and going on the tight and winding roadway that no one ever imagined would see the likes of a bus such as this Mercedes-Benz behemoth. All the neighbors were out on their terraces watching. The owner of the joint heard the ruckus and drove his car down to witness and to join in some helpful gesticulations.
The slip was necessary to have less of the school marm thing going on and to get back to more of the poesie.
There are two minutes left on this internet card so it is time to exit, right out the lobby, past Julie the hotelcat, out into the cloudy day and toss myself into a taxi.

Poetic, far-away Love.

And how is Sicily Trip going, You may ask.
And ask You may and shall.
Let Us put it this way.
Yours Truly just returned from historical out the wazoo Taormina with cohort Mary of LaTeeDa fame in a man named Nino's luxe automobile after giving our expensive tour group the slip (as well as the pesky intra-ear devices one of the guides called the whisper but which YT calls just plain annoying) and YT trekked to the highest point of the city basking in sunshine and wild plants and aloe vera and cactii as big as cars. We gave the slip as I am wont to do and that is when best photos and mems are made. After my trek to the top and making some images of a demi-grotto church and all and talking to some scientists in for a gathering of same, found Mary at bottom of stone steps (all 6 million or so of them) and wended about a different direction, toward the sea. It was several moments-miles later that we realized we might never see that piazza and designated time. Oh well and hell we both said and proceeded to further enjoy the sun and view and time.
Mary said let's hitch.
Four seconds later we were in Nino's luxe car, the three of us singing How Deep Is Your Love by the ever-famous Australian Brotherly Outfit the BeeGees.
Nino, seemingly like all extra-tour men we have met, owns a trattoria.
Trattoria Nino.
I mentioned the bus stop and that we would like to end up near the one about 10 minutes from our hotel - Sant Alphio Garden Hotel (run by a hardass, ever-beshaded quasi-mafioso who is about 4'7" and who shook me and Mary down for another 35Euros each to upgrade to a shared suite with balcony over sea after we saw our own respective and deplorably under-starred chambers). This was very kind of Nino and only about 2 minutes out of his way. This means that we not only gave the group the slip but saw several more momentous things and met yet another local ... and beat these groupies back to the hotel which I stated looks like something out of Vegas or Israel. Mary has redubbed it, more appropriately, Salvatore's Italian Gardens.
And so it is.
Time to have some Asti by the pool, under the palm trees.
Is it that warm.
Uhh, nope, but hell if I'll admit to that.

Seaside love, Love.

Above is from Spartacus, which starred Sparky as thee best-ever slave who emoted better than all the rest of her oppressed fellows.
Went with Mish, Annie, Jana, and Heather to witness Sparky's wonders and to see the ballet. Afterwards, the after-party with cheese cubes - thank goodness as Yours Truly was beyond a famished condition. At the party saw several desirables of the art and judicial spheres.
Talked to TMO yesterday to wish him a super 5-O. He was angry that Karen, his loving spouse, published a photo of him in the local journal of him from a Bar Mitzvah from several years ago. He is wearing a tiara in the shot. He said You know, the person that prints a picture of you is supposed to use a humiliating shot of you when you're 4 or 5, not 48. I could not stop laughing.

Tomorrow jet off to the Shiney Apple and then point beyond, Sicilia, with former Congressman John LaFalce, the rents, et al et al totalling about seventy. As I wrote to Dorota, it appears to be loads of couples but then discovered this past Thursday evening that Mary of LaTeeDas will be coming on this journey, filling in for a traveller who had to unmake travel plans. I also bring along the new sweet compact Leica which replaces the abused former fav mini dig cam which got its lens coating rubbed right off.
I look forward to seeing Mount Etna and the dogs that live near there, hounds. And some olive trees. And shores.
All for now, time to zip up the bag and spend q.t. with Kennedy.

Travelling Love.

As Holly Golightly would say Quel day.
Up and running at crack of the dawning hour to see the smattering of snow.
I do not complain about snow, never - notez bien.
Skipped out to Park School to document a great keynote talk by brain and learning researcher (and pal of Tom Wolfe's, a point that perked up my small ears) Dr. Mel Levine who, apparently, has been on some of those self-help or book-help television shows.
Then onwards to park in the Hallwalls lot and catch the above-ground subway where it's gratis at West Tupper. I heard the helpful ringing bells that are rung maniacally to warn potentially off-kilter drivers, I presume, who are on verge of driving/diving down into the tunnel. This does happen periodically and Yours Truly follows these tales with intent, much like the stories of the bodies that turn up in the East River.
So on the above-ground subway I was.
Standing. Eavesdropping.
I heard a man at the back of the stench-ridden car telling a rapt femme about Lackawanna, how Lackawanna is a District of the Middling City.
And then his thoughts drifted to Converse Chuck Taylors the colour of pollution, deep black. And then he rambled about Bethlehem Steel and inter-racial strife.
I was on this stinkbomb, lest You wonder, as I was forewarned by those at the big U that, due to the NCAA proceedings, parking was nil.
I arrived and shot the heck out of the annual Match Day, an annual fav, whereby med students discover (via envelopes and computer print-outs) where they'll be jettisoning off to for the following year (definitely) and beyond.
There are squeals of delight, some grimaces, many draft pints of beer.
I was at the podium awaiting the onslaught and helped thee Dr. Nancy Nielsen shuffle all the envelopes so that they were no longer alphabetical as all the matchees are asked to drop a dollar in a basket and then the final matchee collects all the dough.
It is serious business. Maybe not as serious as the matching at hand. But really.
Traditions exist on all planes of import.

I am merrily chained to the laptop, editing like there is no tomorrow.
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, happy Ides of March.

Watch your back, Love.

Sloan last night was a rollicking throwdown.
My ticket was a holiday gift from Michele and the show was rescheduled due to some sort of border or licensing meltdown.
Me, Annie, Michele, Gary, the nephew, et about 7K other al, grooved to these Canadian boys this past summer at the Middling City's pro bono outdoor concert series, Thursday at the Square.
At one point during last night's concert I misheard Michele.
Another band, I queried.
No, she replied, The Other Man, seconds before they launched into her fav Sloan number.
Last night, pre-concert, supped with the fam at the downtown restaurant/boozehall Laughlin's and had to send back my few saladtop grilled shrimp as someone in the kitchen had forgotten the grilled part and I realized this halfway into one raw creature.
At some point between din and gig spoke with Sparky about her upcoming appearance as a slave in the Neglia production Spartacus.
We discussed at length earlier this week the controversial poster that featured the prominent ass of the company founder, Sergio Neglia. It appeared naked, completely devoid of dancerly tight.
In sooth the tights were so tight and flesh-coloured that they appeared invisible.
A protest of sorts ensued, the image was removed from a billboard and perhaps more.
Then it was someone's PhotoShop job to PhotoShop out the asscrack, to create a uni-cheek for Sergio.
Ahh, all is ass well in the Middling City, where the deaccession appears to be imminent despite protests, raucous meetings, threat of lawsuits, etc.
As You may recall, YT posted via Buffalo Rising online, a concise freakout about this tragic event.
What has been most shocking is the shortsightedness of those who wish these deftly-crafted items, 200 in all, to be scattered to the four winds, no longer a visual excitation for anyone traipsing through Albright-Knox Art Gallery.
The older should merge with the new and YT's thoughts immediately visits some of the finest galleries and musees in this human, hubris-filled world.
Where old and young pieces of all media mingle.
The gallery of RISD is a primo example of this style of curating and presentation.
My beloved Whitney always features the shows that visit as well as their wondrous collection which is there sans surprises. As I have written and stated many times.
You love that Kiki Smith/Jasper Johns/Whatever.
It is where you saw it last visit, same wall, waiting for you.
There is an article in today's NYT about the Albright-Knox sale.
The piece begins in a manner that makes the MC look most sad.

For a city that has lost so much unwillingly over the last several decades — industries, prestige, jobs and more than half its population — perhaps it was inevitable that a decision to allow anything of great value to leave here willingly would be met with howls of protest.

The AKAG ditches priceless objets for speculative newbies on the scene.
This prospecting amid an art market that has gone mad in favour of artists, yes, but prices soar and the curators at this mid-sized gallery clamor for pieces on the top-40 lists - so the collection resembles more and more a greatest hits compilation.

Toss in the unexpected priceless links between ideas and cultures.
To see examples of what's to be auctioned off viewers will have to daytrip or fewdaytrip to Cleveland, TO, Rochester.

Sad sad art day, Love.

As Kennedy so astutely noted, no one ever claims to have been purposely landing on the Middling City's ranging cable access station.
They were just noodling about.
So at this moment there is a handful of people who have reported that they saw the televisional likeness of Yours Truly on same electronic outpost.
Back story.
A few years back You may recall that YT blogged about the surreal circumstances of that breakup of about four years ago.
And Richard Wicka asked about three or so years ago if I'd participate in his five minute series whereby individuals sit in front of his vid cam and, with camera rollin' rollin', talk and tell.
My narrative was about the above. Following that humourous retelling Richard peppered me with about fifty questions ranging from serious to utterly ridiculous, fashioned to eke out responses galore.
One of these questions was What was the worst gift you have ever received.
Sans hesitation I replied that it was a Valentine's gift from the young man inferred to above. His odd forays into the realm of humour were usually painful, sometimes just plain annoying.
For Valentine's Day one year he thought it'd be fun and funny to purchase me a vibrator.
I found it to be an odd sentiment, choice, gift, message.
I was going to run a classified ad in the newspaper where I was working.
Unused vibrator for sale. $5.00 or best offer.
Then I did not.
Instead, YT left it on the bar at Nietzsche's one fine evening after a full night of roaming and shooting.
I left it running.
I moved away from it and enjoyed the reactions of men and women confronted with an odd bartop embellishment.

The End.

Not the end of Love, Love, ever.

Today.
Two boy colleagues sent me, and they do not know each other, Remember When emails.
One sent a beautiful black & white image of thee John, of Toppermost of the Poppermost fame.
The other sent two images of the likeness of Yours Truly from several years ago, me swaggering and loaded down with gear, making my way into a venue and from the looks of the situ it is the Middling City's downtown baseball centre/diamond.
So that would be one of the all-day fests that transpire there.
My hair was very long, as it's aiming to become again, and I think there's a pager - a pager - clipped to my belt loop.
There was an era, like around before when digital hit the mainstream, that we journalistos had pagers and YT knew, absolutely, the locale of each and every danged payphone in this Western New York.
And, lest you forgot, one could receive pages from parties that ended or began their phone numbers to be returned with a 911 meaning Jeez, call me like PRoNTo.
The latter sender, Chris Borkowski (he's himself + the dotcom if You wish to see his site), catapulted from MC artsy venues to a gig at the Guggenheim, as in that snaily viewing venue that, in this op, worked best for the overtakage of Matthew Barney.
Onwards.
The biggest and perhaps, no, def the best, news to hit this frigid village is that Albright-Knox Art Gallery is to show the work of Francis Bacon in May.
That is correct, Bacon.
This may be the verysame show YT saw in Paris a while back - popes, dogs, twisted countenances, and ever ever those lush topographies.
Just typing those last two words made me have a micro-pang for grad school and truly this reason has escaped just as quickly as my little fingers typed that all in a flash.

Flashes of Love.

Well can You say that Your day included, perfectly, as Mine did, a special proximity to a faux, life-sized skeleton.
I think not.
Yours Truly was called to make some ports of a femme at the big U and we meandered a bit after getting a feel for how best to illustrate her craft and craftiness.
Gallery, hallway, foyer, window port, monitors and then, o then, discovered that my pal Jeff Sherven has, for some reason, this skeleton in the check-out area for media equipment.
The photo subjet du jour deals not only with epidemiology but with media so this quite handily worked most parfait.
Stand in between the monitor and the skeleton, YT directed.
And I bet this phrase will just never be repeated ever again.
Now on the rock classique station is that wondrous sonic piece of art the Stones made with Keith's ragged vocals - Happy.
Today is one freakin' Happy Day.
Last night, whilst shopping for fresh fleurs (dig french, dig) spotted #61 - Max Afinogenov - of thee Buffalo Sabres, jaw clenched tightly, circling some roses, obviously in a state of flusterment. I nearly stepped in but amused myself greatly by watching his typical boy quagmire of which to give - the reds, the pinks, the non-roses. Then back to roses. He was in a flowery pickle, to be sure.
Boys/men attach too much to flowers, well, some anyhow. My most recent X always thought, or believed, erroneously, that I preferred to receive a delicious gourmet sandwich to some nice flowers. Not that that stopped the flower gifts but his belief was like so wrong.
Just like bats, I believe everyone has a good flower story - giving or receiving.
YT has her share, to be perfectly sure.

Happy Rosey Day.

'Tis nearly the wearin' o the green so therefore in the Middling City this means 'tis the runnin' o the tipplers. In essence Yours Truly means the annual Shamrock Run of course, the pesky race that wends its way throughout the historic Old First Ward, in plain view of the majestic grain elevators, the train tracks, the swill halls that remain.
This means that YT was dodging barricades and warmer-uppers en route to meeting in the suburb of Hamburg and am now in hiding with Blogger and NYT to amuse me until I am certain the coast will be clear, as military planners are wont to say.
Last night was a girlie meet-up with Jana at Ikea-ful Brodo which is never half full before adding Liz to the cast of characters, meeting her over at the nouvelle Scarlet on Virginia Alley.
This joint is confused, not confusing.
It is in the former Crash Club where crazed events and things transpired in the 90s and they have taken out all the mirrors, carpeting, brass railings and general architectural disguises to reveal a place with antique character - exposed bricks and beams.
The ol' b&b.
The owners or management were, apparently, not so sure if they wanted to make this a sports bar or an upscale dining venue so they aimed for a 50/50 aesthetical split.
There are sets prominent on the two-story wall with tastefully-arranged bottles of spirits placed just so, as well as some botanical embellishments.
Then there was the overwhelming scent of fish, obviously the exhausting of vapours was not thought out enough. It was strong enough that it made YT consider making an about-face and leaving as who wishes to subsume oneself in the wafting scent of fried foods and fishticuffs. We stayed. Liz came. We cocktailed. We left.
Will I return.
That is a question.
If it's on someone's to-do list and I am into seeing the to-doer yes.
Time to see if the runners, walkers, barricades, cops have left the scene.

Scenic, hideout Love.

Was informed today by one whose op I rather treasure in parts that today We are to wear pink as a sign of solidarnosc for Anna Nicole.
Her fav colour was pink, You see.
I was not wearing pink earlier, nor now, although I looked at a pink sweater (subconsciously) and chose to wear purple instead.
I found her curious.
Did I think she was like Marilyn, as she blathered.
Only in the faux blondeness, the exuberant sexuality, the selling themselves to men in a rather gross manner, becoming a caricature.
Marilyn was more of a talent, in my non-humble op.
Heard from JW,Esq. who has informed me that for a Cali pal's b-day soirée where one and all were asked to come as a rock star or behave as one, he chose to dress an none other than Ozzy.
As not in and Harriet but thee Ozzy, one of the most kind-hearted rockers of all.
When JW,Esq. sends along a jpeg of himself in his costume (which was described in great detail and it had all the Ozzy bells & whistles) it will be appearing on epinw.
I did warn him of this.
Perhaps it will not arrive.
Off to points beyond and that is how all weekends should begin after a day of slogging and editing and the like.

Like editing, Love.

That very yumbalicious Jonny Lang performs at The Native American Money Sucking Pavilion tomorrow night.
First photographed that lanky blues man when he was about seventeen and glad to see his cheekbones have only improved with age.
Dined with Literal Harold last night at Republic on the square, as in Union.
Dorota breezed in for a quick Hello and marveled at how the joint was hiding some work being done on the ceiling above the kitchen and bar areas with red construction paper affixed with duct tape. It seemed so Middling City.
After goodbyes meandered into the Barnes and Noble over there to pick up Tiffany's pick for the book club, Fear of Flying, apparently most famed for coining phrase zipless fuck. I am like so not impressed with this book, which reads like a screeching proto-feminist tract that rails on about analysis and being liberated.
This book was published during the most seminal of years, '73, when Dark Side of the Moon emerged on the rock scene.
Always glad to be reading a tome for moiself and scanning ahead it seems it becomes a bit more of a narrative but as I was reading it in LaGuardia whilst waiting and then spotting someone who shall not be named who I know I did tuck it away, realizing it's just not the sort of book you want just everyone to know that you're reading.
Would Erica Jong state, back in the 70s or in these wartimes, that that makes me oso unliberated.
Geez, I really do not give a jot.
So, away the book is tucked, the flight was miraculously on time and Yours Truly is lightly humming the praises of both Delta and USAir, kind of leaving jetBlue alone for a while.

Lang Love.

Whilst dining last night in the Shiney Apple spotted Savion Glover, that tapdancing sensation. And, really, if he wanted to not be spotted he'd have a hell of a time with all those enchanting dreads and all.
Had a spectacular day of wending and wending and looking and watching. And, of course, thinking.
Found myself amongst the clothing of dead Nan Kempner, the socialite who wrote a book about entertaining, a sort of gossipy cookbook. The Met now owns her clothes. Laura and I marvelled at some items, chortled at others, mainly the 80s-era brandishments.
Why were we all so excited about such brandishments - the complicated collars, wrapping coats. I told Laura that I had a gray coat I was especially proud of back Then - a wrap coat that required scads of patience to get all affixed into place with its Japonaise, kimono-inspired wrapping on the inside.
The tour guide gave her quippicisms to the gaggle of ladies following her, marvelling at the cuts and fabrics (Yours Truly was truly aghast at the jacket lined with ... squirrel) and such and concluded with a controlled Q&A. She did proffer up the fact that Nan Kempner (who was about seven feet tall and from the looks of her clothing weighed about eighty pounds) has three children and her daughter, an artist, lives in the Village and is overweight. I said aloud, somewhat loud enough for the tour guide all dressed in orange and short of stature and also peculiar of stature so that she did resemble an Oompa-Loompa could hear - Geez, that isn't very kind.
Onwards now to more more more.
Before planing and deplaning once again.

Art starry Love.

Back in the Shiney Apple, spice snots streaming down my merry face.
For Yours Truly is happily seated in the front window (perhaps the nice girls behind counter will tap me on shoulder and say You know, every time you come here you eat a half bottle of our nuclear El Yucateco green hot sauce and scare pedestrians with your snot face, could you be so kind as to relocate to this more distant, less public table.) of Cubano Cafe Habana which has unfortunately painted over their colourful murals and have gone very minimalist.
Jumped off the J/Z on the Bowery and rushed over to Prince @ Elizabeth.

A funny, short tale, a YT highlight.
So there I am, post-asscrack of dawn, fumbling with the self-checker for USAir, having booked online via grand expedia.com for same.
Nothing. No getting of me on docket, no recognition of flight number.
I stand in line. A man calls to me I'll help you with the machine. I'm warbling I tried that already. Grimace, grimace. Man shouts Come down here and I'll help you and if it doesn't work HE (gesturing to man behind counter) will help you.
I shuffle down there. I say Well, maybe it's because it was booked online.
Swipe credit card. Nothing. Grumble.
I pull out my print-out of itinerary.
He takes a quick look.
Well, he says, the trouble is you're on Delta.
Oh.
Problem Solved.
So, for Your Enlightening, Delta is a good Choice B, C, or A for jetting from the Middling City to Shiney Apple.

Over and out.

Elizabeth@Prince Love.

So today is like the Super Bowl.
But it's about movies, not football thugs.
And, really, not wanting to be a giant party pooper, but I'm not into the Oscars.
My pal Karen cringes as she reads this.
And my mind zooms back to some Oscar Night parties I attended that were fun, to a point.
Now, mind you, I am an ultra-proud card-carrying member of Film Forum and watch more movies classique than the average public popcorn muncher (pet peeve numero uno), but this whole commercialized, let's gossip about rich folk thing really doesn't inspire.
I suppose I might like to see who is tripping along the red carpet.
And I will read which movie captured the hearts and souls of the Academy voters.
Only saw two of the movies, The Queen and Departed.
And as Yours Truly wrote the word Departed I queried internally thusly Is it really Departure.
I rest my Oscar-ambivalent case.

Last night met up with Brucey and parked in Allentown and trekked to the Saarinen-made Kleinhans Music Hall to be supportive of our wine and beer-pouring pal, Paul Safy, young crooner on the rise.
He sang with the Middling City Orchestra, three showy tunes, and did an amazing job.
I both beamed like a proud relative and worried that he'd fall on the cord, or fall of the stage. I was, let Us say, a proud wreck.
Saw him afterwards and we exchanged shouted greetings as he signed copies of his cd for those who just discovered his rich barritone.
And when he's all famous and shit YT can state He sang Happy Birthday to YT way back when.

Way back, cinematic Love.

What did Yours Truly photograph on this fine Middling City day.
Well, YT will tell you.
A bot war.
You know, as in (ro)bot, war.
Made by young met at the U, guys who were either resembling lumberjacks in plaid shirts, huge of stature, or resembling little thin branches that lumberjacks would send crashing to the ground.
The branch guys involved in this bot war were the ones, YT noted, who manned the remote controls of the bots.
There was a plexi cage, a roof of chix wire, a small door. All this elevated.
It rather reminded me of the cock rings in the Philippines with its ring of shouting watchers, the door, and the feeling of a minor, imminent doom.
Poked around the crowd and made images from outside the door and then leaning into the bot war ring when there were adjustments being made - until a concerned citizen type said it was time to get the hell out.
These bots were impressive, not quite Mark Pauline in that they did not shoot out fire, but they were heavy, metal, and caused great damage.
Back to cock fights. Talked my way into one cock ring and did not feel that if a cock with 4-inch blade flopped my way that I'd be cut to ribbons.
Made images at end of all rounds that one sweltering day when the cock owners and handlers butchered the cocks who had lost.
Runner-ups are gone, as in roost in sky gone.
Speaking of destruction,
there is a jungle rot thing happening on one of YT's fingers, something I squirted Bactine on for a few days. Well now it's angrier. So now it's being swabbed with something more serious.
The medically-minded sister got rather hysterical upon hearing about the jungle rot, at one point suggesting, dig this, that it could, just Could, be a flesh-eating spider bite.
She got hysterical after I mentioned the swollen lymph node.
After she hystericed I suggested that that only means that my body is working to get rid of the, well, whatever it is.
Promised her that if this ebola thing is worse on sunday I will, promise, no fingers crossed, head to some authority on such matters.
Perhaps the zoo. Maybe botanical gardens.
Hospital.
Santa Ria practioner.
I just do not know.

Flesh-Eating Love.

First off, my nouveau poly-carbon shovel just completely kicks ass and worked wonders on the horrid sno-cone-esque quote-unquote snow that lingers.
Today is that day that some folks in the Middling City roam about with smudges on their foreheads, something that always takes me slightly aback–not aback to any past, or roots, or scholastic endeavour.
I did ask Leah Rico today, who I bumped into, if she'd like me to provide her forehead with a smudge, whilst looking about for some dust or whatnot. She declined.
Last night met up with some of the bookclub girls at DiGiulio's for a wine and cheese fest, avoiding the melee that is the MC's version of Mardi Gras.
I pronounced to no one in particular, but was surrounded in a small subdining room by others heaping salad plates with cheeses, that Yours Truly was in cheese heaven.
Is there a better thing to eat than cheese.
I think not.
I tried to tell the wine rep onhand how much I was rather into loathing New York State wines, and absolutely the one he was holding aloft.
Ever being the good sport, succumbed to his wish that I try it.
My head was overcome with the sweet and chemical scent of concord.
He pointed to the reject bucket and in it went. From glass, not from mouth.
Things picked up after that.
We girls sat in the restaurant's circular booth and ended up inviting the wine rep and his beleaguered wife to join us. He told some jokes. She shook her head. He made disparaging comments about her. She reacted as I'm sure she has for decades, a quiet recession followed by a gulp of vino.
Got a few notes of thanks for my Red Dinner, one celebrant referring to it as a Blood bath due to all the red beverages.
Speaking of celebratory red colours, one thing I so dug about Japan in the spring were the red bibs placed on statuary around temples. Red = celebrate.
Just read in NYT that Vegas's MGM Grand had to do a big re-do of their building's entryway from the giant head of a lion as all the Asians refused to enter the head of an animal. Bad luck. Lion demo'd. All is swell.
Speaking of that desert community, received today a box and in that box a silver, serious-looking attaché case. Question mark.
Inside is a serious poker kit with chips, dice, cards.
This is a post-junket gesture from those nice people at Midway Games, a thanks for just being YT.
YT who grooved on all things Midway Games for a few.

Grooving on Love.

PB-related p.s.
Peter sent me an email with a slammin poster for BrötFest, happening in Nippon next month, it ebellished with a PB likeness by YT.
See here.

Was there a more odd news day than this one.
I think not.
Bald Britney, for starters, got a little pink and red lips tattoo on her wrist.
What a bad tattoo choice, this just proves she really is white trash at heart.
And, as all gals know, there is the revenge/trauma diet as well as the revenge/trauma hair adjustment.
Oh and then the story about how the formerly-plump Anna got embalmed.
And has James Brown been buried yet.
And has his ensemble been changed - again.
Last night met Little Laura out for a quick jaunt and visit and we suddenly became aware that there was a man lurking nearby, hanging onto our words.
We sort of talked to him, a transplanted southerner in shock about the weather.
I mean really.
Who even pays attention to the weather.
Forge onwards, get some nice accessories, pay your heating bill, get over the complaining crap.
Today had a gig at the Middling City Museum of Science and Yours Truly was most thrilled to note that the leadership of the sad joint did not see a need to replace the ridiculous nametags for the stuffed mammals in one of the (YT thinks) endangered halls of actual artful installation.
One bright spot was the MCMS had their stuffed polar bear in a place of prominence.
As well as some stuffed caninus lupi.
Made some images of the endangered halls as YT imagines that the ineptitude over there is spreading like ice crystals on a cold MC window.

Weather or not, Love.

When the Whip Comes Down, Stones song classique about working It on the mean streets, was emanating from that Middling City rock & roll station that embraces not only their steadfast playlist con brio but attendant rock philosophies - machismo, and blue-collarism, for example.
97 Rock, in common parlance, was blaring a bit as Yours Truly was wending about the MC's downtown en route to a Dorothy visit - that quippalicious femme fatale who chops hairs collectively for a living. YT stomped and stomped some more along the Pergo© floor to de-snow and rounded the corner to note that everyone in the floofparlour had disengaged from conversation and was looking up directly - or in mirrors - to see just what in h.e.l.l. was calamitying around the corner. Voi-freakin-là! Moi!

sidebar: (the haircut script)
YT: Hi, Dorothy, it's Nancy.
D: Hi, Nancy.
YT: I woke up today and I hate my hair, can you squeeze me in.
D: Yeah, sure, no problem Nancy, how is 1 p.m.?
YT: Yay! See you then, thanks!

As I listened to Mick's emphatic embrace of the song's phrases I was struck that as a frontman he must like so believe in these repetitive words, as an actor might with a part, to pull off the whole damned presentation. Refrains. Hand gestures. Hip thursts. More refraining.
This all, YT went on to further conclude, is a fine musical thesis to carry into any rock performance or karaoke session. Karaoke might be on agenda soon with some pals who take the big K real seriouslike.
What kills a karaoke presentation worse than just not believing in the lyrics (as Mick must or any other primo frontman/gal), or worser yetter, one's own veracity/profusion/rock&rollness?
Breaking down into a fit of laughter.
That's what.
In a midwestern town YT had a barroom in her grips during a tune. But suddenly the spell was broken, I began to hate the selection and then chortled through the second half of the song, leaving the elevated stage in a somewhat-authentic cloud of disgrace.
I did just regale Kennedy last night with my most triumphant karaoke tale.
I was in Japan, in a private karaoke room with a group.
Table, banquette seating. Killer hi-fi (any ol' joint in Japan has such), killer amenities for such a gathering (read drinks).
YT brought down the high-rise with a sparkling and searing rendition of ABBA's Dancing Queen.
FF to another, later Japan karaoke incident. And I do mean incident.
I had scoped out during the day while making images a few bars.
Later, after some official business, grabbed two artists and made our way to this bar, which I later dubbed Danger Bar as it was festooned with DANGER ZONE plastic tape (in English, assuredly a prized, kitsch touch).
We three sang into the cordless mic for hours and hours, at one point YT getting on top of the bar and strutting along to an early Madonna tune.
Well, when it was time to leave we were saddled with the heftiest of bills.
Not understanding that this particular joint charged per song.
So we scraped together the Y(en) and split.

Moral: know when Art and freedom of expression are just that.

Free, expressed Love.

For Your edification, the annual Valentine-related blogpost about Valentine.
We have all heard that this gushy, red-infused day is named for two martyrs and is celebrated a day before the ancient pagan holiday of Lupercal.
Lupercal was celebrated by shepherds, word has it, who ran naked through streets, whacking the crap out of anyone on the streets with shaggy horns.
Another entry about Lupercal mentions human sacrifice that gave way to the sacrifice of two male goats and a dog and the rubbing of blood on young, selected Luperci's faces.
To this I say a big Yikes and thank goodness that nowadays it is all overwroughtly about cards, chocolate, flowers.
At a post office today talking to a non-postal employee, discussed the day.
He bought his Love some chocolate-covered molasses treats.
For my near and dear I tossed together my annual Red Dinner, a Bacchanalian of sorts with all-red foods, red drinks, guests in crimson.
This all transpired this past Saturday night and the floor still has a few wine-red spots, party tattoos, if You will.
Happiest of Lupercal/Valentine wishes to You.
May you run naked in Your mind through warm streets, pelted by chocolate kisses, Your path strewn with red rose petals.
Today the Middling City is frigid, began the day in a chaotic manner I'd best forget.
Onwards to happy, Lupercal times.

Red Red Wine, and Love.
As Neil, that great harbinger of all things passionate, might intone.

An appropriate, seasonal Middling City tale.
When one grows up in the MC one has accoutrements that are both sporty and wintry.
One might find in one's holdings things such as snowshoes, x-c skiis, hockey sticks (2), hockey balls for warm and cold weather, gaitors, and the like.
Attempting to try out new snowshoes headed down to what is termed the South Towns, a.k.a. Ski Country, to strap them on and give them a whirl but was thwarted by seasonal white-outs along the way - on Routes 219 and 20A specifically.
Left the former for the latter and was looking at one giant wall of snow, not unlike the venerable Wall of Sound so popularized by Phil Spector of gunplay fame.
Turned back, if You will, abandoning the snowshoe plan, returning to the Middling City which was all sun. This all happened on Our national sporty holiday, Super Bowl Sunday. A holiday like most other USofA holidays, focusing on food, gathering, and cheer(ing).
Writing an informative piece for the Shiney Happy Mag about area diners, the best around which, unsurprisingly, have unsurprising menus that creatively re-assemble house ingredients and serve up coffee both tepid and strong.
Have two more on the list but one of these, in the MC's so-called Cobblestone District, has rather odd hours that are sometimes disregarded.
The other on the list of remaining sites is the east side diner of note, Gigi's, serving soul food in a real diner setting peppered with 8x10 glossies of notables who have darkened the doorstep.
Off to points beyond for documentation and oso much more.

Diner documentation Love.