Poor Firefox has been a-crashing all the livelong day.
But now, after being offline for most of the aft, it seems oso much better.
Imagine the Firefox lead office guy charging through office stating Heads will roll, get this fixed, and pronto.

Today is Election Day.
Yours Truly votes, and You should vote.
Sometimes YT is amazed by those who do not vote, who sniffle it off, I don't know where to vote, I don't know the issues, I don't know the candidates, it makes no difference if I vote or not.
Well, as One who Halloweened as thee Al as in Gore this past one I can assure you that Al knows that each and every vote does count.
And in local elections there are no electoral colleges - popular votes are one vote times how many actually hauled their arses into the booths.
Vote.

Last night went with Kennedy et al to Melt-Banana, Japanese noise quartet at the subterranean venue de musique - SoundLab, or SLab, as YT lovingly shortens it.
Had a very nice conversation with Baumann, it had been a while.
The band rollicked for about an hour and YT was so moved to buy their baseball v. of their t's with intriguing art by Fly, who signs his drawings Fly-2K7.
Before this jaunt bon-vivanted a bit of the night away with Sparky and Jana, at one of the favoured haunts which was sporting a new accessory, a young sax player stationed in a corner.
He (inevitably) renditioned up a Billy Joel tune and naturally the table talk (which did include the very jovial and oso hilarious Mary) turned to all things Piano Man.
Helped the girls slurp up some of their entree juices.
I had come in with my furry poof hat which, if all hairs are tucked up, appears to be a strange double-platinum 'fro.
I told Mary that I was not dining as I'm a supermodel and had a big shoot today.
This as we all imbibed non-oak-aged chardonnay with gutsy gusto.

Vote for Love.

Something from a last-month New York mag article caught my imagination whilst waiting for some image files to load, an article entitled Has Money Ruined Art? by Jerry Saltz.
It's about how market, prices, sizes, egos are becoming mega-dollar-signed grand.
It's well-known that collectors and curators descend upon thesis show openings (perhaps not with checkbooks but with mental checklists of what might be a possible viable art career via a few works that are the culmination of 2 or so years - one hopes - of sweat, fret, and tears) to seek out the Next Big Art Stars.
In this article Saltz writes that the M.F.A. has become the new M.B.A. - one's possible ticket to big earnings; and the spendiest collectors vie for a spot in the tomes of art history.
Thoughts naturally meander towards the past Parsons situ, beginning in '02 (after the fateful Mardi Gras notification via email from famed and favoured JR) and trailed along its scheduled path to August of '05 - a complicated decision to go and a complicated decision to stay.
Ultimately, the decision for acquiring the M.F.A. was (and perhaps should always be) a gift to self, to have time to mull in the whys of the practice, to read theory and history and just basically line the photo basket with Ideas. And to push the art/aesthetic comfort zone into something different - new people, places, tools.
Change, teaching, connections, contacts are the goals.
Committed to giving a piece to CEPA for their upcoming Biennial Auction, which YT always considers an honor to be asked and participate.
Always make something new for this event.
Speaking of new, art, event have yet to fetch the small framed drawing from the Hallwalls Members' Show.
Months ago.
Several Middling City people have said that tomorrow the first flakes may fly here.
There are still leaves on trees, not all yet yellowed, reddened, and fallen.
Kennedy and I wrapped a few gardenly items with burlap and I could not help but think of Marion Faller's (a toppermost undergrad hero/mentor/influence) documentation of wrapped flora. As I said to Kennedy, This is not an exact science. At least not in the hearsay-strewn, inexact Book of Science of Yours Truly.

Inexact, wind-strewn Love.

Early this morning Yours Truly actually overheard someone use the phrase sticky wicket in a seemingly normal conversation.
YT was flailing away at laptoply matters. The woman who uttered the phrase sticky wicket was one of those irritating mothers who speaks to their children as if everything is a delightful debate, or as if their lives in that moment are entrancing television shows with the volume just a touch too loud.
I felt the need to text Sparky to ask that she please never use the phrase sticky wicket. Ever.
And this means You, too.
Sparky sent along a message that she would never utter that phrase.
I really could not ever imagine Sparky saying those words together in one sentence but the occasional bandying about of suggestive quips in the midst of an adrenalized day is a primo way of taking a microscopic vacation.
Onto another, blazing pet peeve.
Last night had a gig and observed many people eating the catered finger foods as that is my job fercrissakes, not only the documenting of such occasions, but avoiding getting people in throes of enjoying said food.
Between frames if You will observed the pet peeve matter, saw a woman not only licking a finger but all her fingers. Con brio. In public.
Her disgusted pal, at least I hope that he was disgusted, hastily (but not soon enough) handed her a paper napkin.
But she had already licked off all the beige cheesey dip matter.
At the evening's near tail end sat with Liz and discussed several other types of matter, including YT doing a piece on Steve Kurtz and his artistic/bacterial super-woes.
YT will be attending, if allowed, hearings and the like.
One of YT's several heroes is Dominick Dunne (who I just discussed about fifteen minutes ago with Lorne and his uncle, a snowbird with a fading tan, about how DD is one of my favoured writers amid one of my guilty pleasures - VF - in midst of discussing favoured periodicals), and YT will channel his various prowesses to tell that Big Kurtz Tale.
Onwards, time to climb another tall downtown Middling City building as it is a ferocious big blue sky day.

Ferocious Big Love.

Happy Beggars' Night to You.
Sometimes I recall meandering the streets as a child on Beggars' Night, not a very candy-lucrative night as the following, I recall.
This image was sent to Yours Truly this fine morning by Paul and Mark and YT informed them that they are now my MexiCali Heroes.
Today and tomorrow I may just wear my dental (under)world badge to allow me a presence on the concrete floor of the Middling City Convention Center - for a conventioneer costume, of course.
Tonight going to the big screen screening at Shea's of Nosferatu, the horror classique of '22, with Annie, Sparky, and meeting up with Deb et al in the Spotlight Lounge for vino, and cheese cubes.
Been listening to ChemBro's latest in the car and have to go on record as saying that I am not sure I share the wonderment of Justice's latest. But perhaps JW,Esq. can fill me in on the special inter-molecular raison d'diggin' it.

Time to wend up north to dispense happiness and pixels captured on plastique.

Northern Love.

Interior shot made at Vive on the Middling City's east side yesterday during a gig there. Was there once before and it's on Wyoming Avenue off of East Ferry.
Observed that thee charismatic Reverend Darius Pridgen now has a Subway in a corner of his huge space of worship.
At Vive the vibe is subdued, adults in sort of living room areas watching television as kids scramble through the hallways. It's a far cry from the very funded, colorful lobbies and common rooms at places like Ronald McDonald House, Gilda's Club, and the like.
Observed the unpacking of clothing donations, most surprised to see that a donor saw fit to include a tea length beaded black dress. Just what your average refuge lady needs as part of her survival wardrobe.

Astonishing is, Yours Truly thinks, how most would have described the excellent Al Gore Halloween costume worn by YT on Friday night for Heather and Jeremy's hopping fete.
Wore the usual out stumping khakis, woolen blue blazer, striped shirt, and rep tie. Latter compliments of Kennedy and his late father.
Wore a name badge which read Hello My Name is Al.
Sparky looked fab as Global Warming with blacked-out front tooth and black eye. When asked we would reply Because Al beats up on Global Warming.
Last night rushed over to a Halloween disco at StillWater after another work day marathon. Met Sparky there and whilst meandering to find our dance spot saw Jana, Dean, and later Siobhan. Also spotted requisite Elvis, a few Britneys (though one claimed that she was so not, and no, the other was not my pedi girl), a Little Bo Peep, a raquetball player, and, amongst others, an ill-behaved Dorothy.
Dorothy was beyond impaired and YT had a word with one of her handlers, suggesting that they get Dorothy home in a jiff as she was about to be unconscious - or barfing.
Despite all this apparent activity the disco vibe was not optimum.
The dance floor was faux cobblestone and carpeting in StillWater's narrow faux courtyard. Still a nice moment, a nice weekend distraction, a valiant effort.
As we were uncostumed, Sparky and I decided to tell people that we were robots and moved as such.
You see, costumes may be conceptual, far from the madding world of celebutante and porn-inspired duds.
Time to further make and due as my pixel-rich world is a full and lush one indeed.

Pixelated, robotic Love.

At last, an image of Beah from the event on the 24th.
This is a pre-event, a media meet & greet and book signing that happened in Center for the Arts.
Beah was running late and he came into the green room very quietly, then he spoke in a quiet voice about his story.
He emphasized at this pre-event and at the event itself that he chooses to always focus on the positive. So, for example, when he cannot sleep, which is most of the time, he uses that time to write. And when he was a student at Hunter, he studied.
His eyes are incredible, when you look into them they are reading the situ like a writer does, and emanate gentleness.
He signs his signature in grand, flowing letters and, when asked why he doesn't shorten it so that his signings could go more quickly, he stated Well, I began doing my signature like this and I want everyone's to be the same. What would they think if theirs was different from the earlier ones.
There was a quiet around the reception for him following this first event, and then at his talk in Alumni Arena.
He gravitates toward people of his own age and I thought that must be because he spends a lot of time around people who help manage things for him who are older.
He read from his book a lot and Yours Truly was most impressed by his focus, and his total recall memory.
Onwards.
Yesterday had an exchange, in one of the favoured nail joints whilst practicing good toe management between gigs, that could best be filed under Odd Name Selection.
Snippet of conversation most arresting.
(over whir of massage chair, bad 80s movie playing on a distant wall, swishing of water)
I remember you, you were here last time also working on your computer.
Yes, that's right, the morning that your boss (looking around) had car trouble, where is he.
We were slow so he went to the doctor.
What is your name, you didn't tell me last time.
Renée.
Renée, YT queried thusly.
No, Britney, the young lady's face settling into a most pleased expression.
Britney, YT repeated.
Thinking for a good thirty seconds what in hell would inspire a Viet Namese femme roughly Brit's age to appropriate her name, given all the chaos and all.
Onwards again.
One of the gigs of yesterThursday was making images at a dental convention.
One thing that YT found most curious is that a majority of the vendor booths featured prominently displayed bowls of candy. One even had a cotton candy machine.
Sure, there's the entire Drumming Up Business logic, but this is being carried out on their own.
Dentists, a ruthless bunch.

Whirling, ruthless, Love.

Happy United Nations Day to You,
Happy United Nations Day to You,
Happy United Nations Day to You-ooo,
Happy United Nations Day to You.

Appropriately, today former child soldier Ishmael Beah, of A Long Way Gone memoir/fame, comes to the Middling City, to speak at the Big U.
Yours Truly will be documenting his visit, making snap-happy images of Beah solo and with listeners.
Very much looking forward to this, and hearing his story live.
The NYT excerpted his book in their mag before the book's pub date, and it really is tear-inducing sad surrealism in real life.
Will be becoming beloved Al Gore for Halloween costume for the Friday night soirée of Heather, Jeremy et al. Sparky and I are creating a dual costume as she will be Global Warming. We conceptualized some excellent ways to personify this.
Al, on the other hand, is tough. YT needs a blue blazer, a Tennessee accent with deep resonant tones and inflection at the ends of most sentences.
And, to be truly in character, I will have to eat all bowls of dip on site.
So, cozy up with a good periodical about the state of the world, or a laptop, a nice free trade cuppa joe, and celebrate this fine fine day.

Cuppa Love.

Yours Truly is naming today Interpol Day, & a Happy V-Day to Vincenzo.
As in Shiney Apple rock band, and not as in that international space and time agency.
When One loops One's interests to the html world One must remember to include the SA's triad of initials after the I-word to not land into a site most non-lyrical.
Today broke fast with Sparky in a joint in the shadow of Father Baker's Place, where we meandered afterwards to look at souvenirs, and light some candles.
I thought it'd also be a grand idea to look at some artful marble.
In FBP there was a throng of casually-dressed people facing the action as men began to pass baskets. I and Sparky tossed in some money before heading to the candle station where we paid more for the unscented white pillars of the community of well-wishers.
Down in the souvenir shop we saw some very curious items, besides the usual magnets, charms, and handcrafted objects.
Sparky and I parted ways down divergent aisles of goods and promised services and when we rejoined she queried thusly: Do you know what Jesus's favorite sport is.
To which I rattled off what I thought were some appropriate, athletic answers, assuming that the pacifistic Jesus indulged in sweating activities.
She led me to a far-off corner of the shoppe and pointed to a shelf where there - there - was a print of a presumed original watercolor depicting Jesus engaged in ... horseshoes.
There was Jesus, looking really tan and happy, very movie star, next to two older senior citizens, who looked to be American/German/French/Irish (they were white, not Mediterranean), engaged in the sport.
All three hold their horseshoes aloft, ready to throw.
∞

Catherine Parker has a new show up at InSite Gallery and zoomed over there on Friday night. Met her daughter Chris for the premier time. There saw several, including lovely Geri who asked me to stop over at her and Jimmie's place as well as stop over at TruTeas to meet a friend of hers from Rwanda, here on a grant, a femme who created an agency for orphans.
Catherine's work, as always, illuminates.
Already own three but thought of how to shoehorn another lovely one into the salon-style-hung mix.

Salon & Café Society Love.

Wrote to Literal Harold moments ago to state that Bien sur Yours Truly would like to head deep down south on a Wrestlemania junket to shoot images of faux tans/teeth/tits/bods, wrapped in satiny and baby-oiled goodness, for the sake of goodness and VH1 veracity.
Last night experienced an all-girl extravaganza for the birthday of YT, a blend of old and new pals, chez Cheryl and Ed and Flora.
Platters of dreamy cheeses, sushi, Liz's Greentinis (in honour of the favoured and life-infused green palette of choice), Veuve Cliquot, and white wines.
The girls outdid themselves with generous gifts, and bon vivantness.

The parents have officially relocated to Amherst, that Middling City suburb of surly cops in silver cars, strip malls, and a few neighborhoods sinking into wetlands asserting their wetness.
There was a little mix-up of information and so arrived at the home of yore a day after they'd moved, sitting in car in driveway of childhood, phoning the old number to hear the troubling, three-note tone that something is amiss and changed.
My parents have a new phone number, house, quadrant to call home.
Not one that features reclaiming wetlands.
Called the new number from memory and got a recorded message of a Steve (+ Polish last name) so left the following message: Mom, Dad, this is Nancy, is this your new number.
You see, the new house in Amherst was owned by a Polish fam and the man who did live in the house died. So, YT posits, this is the number of that man, the parents have not changed message on machine or on answering service. Who knows, perhaps that fancy-schmancy M.C. suburb offers its residents free answering service all the livelong day.
YT's father called minutes later.
Said Hey, did you just get my message.
He did not.
You did NOT just receive a message on answering machine from me.
Nope.
My sister also did not know that the parents had a new phone number already.
Or what that number is.
And now Steve the Polish man knows that my parents, in their Big Move, forgot a few details.
Add Yourself to that list.

Always trying to remember all the details, Love.

Completely, utterly minding the business of Yours Truly for really Yours is too much extra-super-bonus business to mind, saw black smoke.
Thick, uh-oh-this-spells-disaster black smoke, pluming over Hamburg Street.
Slowing, nearly stopping, at the 190 overpass saw FLAMES.
So, did what any good photog worth their sweet pixels would do, cranked a left turn and headed toward the danger-center.
Ditched the car on S.Park Ave. @ Sidway and walked to the fire, cam on neck.
Met up with a wizened neighborhood granny who accompanied YT to the fire hoses.
Spotting the cam she asked You a reporter.
Yeah, I'm a reporter, YT replied.
You with t.v. granny asked.
No.
After a puff of her all-white cig she told me some big fam news:
My daughter is going to New York to meet Harry Potter, she won that contest.
On the radio, YT queried.
Yes, the radio, and that R.K. Rollins is going to sign her book.
That's exciting, YT gushed with zeal, happy for granny's daughter's big op.
Onwards.
Fire hoses already on the side street and a little boy's companions stated to me and all the adults in proximity that he was upset because his yard was on fire.
No, another girl corrected her, part of his house is on fire.
He had on a smudged white undershirt and did look anxious.
Others were anxious as well, all their stuff going up in flames as the neighborhood watched silently, all grieving for what was normal a few moments ago.
The air was wretched with the fumes of vinyl siding melting away, assuredly more toxic than whatever molecules float away from asbestos siding when that is scraped.
YT had an exterior painting gig aeons ago that involved scraping and painting siding which much into the job was discovered to be the a-word.
During the flameshoot noted the NASCAR Zubaz, pictured above, and was compelled to document this neighborly fashion.


Up in flames, Love.

Here we Solid Gold Bookers are - the posse - post-pole lecture.
Our inundation of spin, grab, and circumnavigation techniques via Chelsea, who Star lovingly called Teacher all night.
Destiny, me, et al (Cherry, Candy, Bubbles, Ginger, Roxie, and Lexus) still have some pole-given bruises, and a concurrent and newfound respect for the dancers of the world who employ a pole in their shows.
It all looks so easy, but let me tell You that a fireman spin out of a pirouette and into back slide to kitten crawl is oso challenging.
*sidenote: thanks to Chan Marshall for poesie this fine autumn day, a much-needed burst of words and summoning.
It should be noted that Teacher/Chelsea, a woman in the pole know, says we all now know more than several Middling City strippers, in terms of pole savvy.
It was a stupendous birthday fete, my SGB girls completely and utterly rock.
And for our next trick.

Just came from the ballet with Brucey, over at Rockwell, a Neglia affair.
I opted for this choice instead of my art event of sorts, a bennie up at Carnegie Art Center in North Tonawanda, where Jen Bullard and I shoved two coffin gurneys that we garbage picked into one of my earlier Subarus.
CAC is also where Yours Truly and Josh Marks and Theodore Pelton exhibited our fab Conflagration, a collaborative project.
The benefit features artist-made bookmarks and mine is entitled Spine Flowers as I photographed some gorgeous leather volumes with gold-leafed floral motifs. The photo is surrounded by Italian paper. Other side is another voluminous image, more abstracted, and also surrounded by Italian paper. And some great ribbon, two different patterns, coming out of the hole-punched toppermost.
Back to the ballet.
I saw Baba Yaga before and that previous set design seemed a bit better: I didn't quite get the hydraulic chicken feet below the large, Ozlike head.
Bruce's next door neighbor kid, Rory, was a goblin and a skeleton. Sparky was also a skeleton and evil stepmother. Bruce Fisher and Eric Clauss both had daughters in the show. Hard to tell who was who with the spooky costumes and all.
Reminded Bruce of the time we went with fam to see my niece, fellow b-day girl Katharine, in a school musical called Rats and the entire time I rooted for and beamed with pride at the wrong rat.
At ballet intermission the two moms in front of us were talking and Happy Jack's came up (like a bad helping of over-fried fried menu items).
I leaned forward (something that transpires daily in the MC - the friendly, mid-western conversation interruption) and said Did you say Happy Jack's, I was just there last Monday.
The mom said I couldn't believe how bad it was.
I concurred.
We compared some other notes.
What we ordered, what showed up at table, what was ingested, what was avoided.
After the ballet meandered into Burchfield-Penney Art Centre where there was some fab live percussing. And looked once again at Jack Drummer's excellent abstract works on rubber.
Time to late make and do.

Percussion, Love, percussion.

Perusing and musing upon the images above You wonder.
Monk, Lennon, Toshi, Yours Truly.

It is here duly notated and noted that Literal Harold made the image of YT, up in Ontario after we dined at Happy Jack's. A childhood memory for both of us. A place where it's difficult to order anything green, non-fried. We each ordered fancy cocktails, with promising names. In lieu of these promised bevvies with exotic ingredient, we received pineapple juice with probably whatever bottle was closest. Literal Harold's arrived in a hurricane glass, mine in ceramic pineapple. This image of YT was made down the road a piece alongside May Wah (or was it Mah Johng), where YT asked Do you feel in competition with next door. To which they politely answered No, we focus more on fresh foods here. We discovered this sign closer to a biker kind of bbq joint whose name escapes me, where they proffer up Feeb on Meck for a really good price, despite the loonie-to-dollar relationship.

What do we all have in common.
Well, let me tell You.
Lennon and Toshi celebrated the anniversary of their births on 10/9.
Monk and Yours Truly yesterday, 10/10.
Most fanciful fun, a cavalcade of messages and wishes via all genres of media for b-day wishes. A celebratory dinner with Kennedy, with the fam, and tonight with the Solid Gold Bookers posse to be followed by pole dancing class.
YT assigned to one and all pole dancing nomenclatures.
Tonight, at the privée 9 p.m. class, YT becomes Destiny.
Depending on the action there may be photos posted tomorrow post haste.
Post pole interplay.
Time for more pixel management and more.

Polling about Love.

Today is a day most somber, most fete-ful, football-rich, seeped in confusion for it is once again Columbus Day.
The day of our fair Republic's nascence - in the hearts and minds of opportunists, spice enthusiasts, revelers, the business-minded, and those embracing Big Change.
On this very day in 1492 (Columbus sailed the ocean blue on this day in '92, rah-rah) an Italian (but he actually might not be Italian) chanced upon what he believed to be an island, searching for India.
Or the West Indies.
Hence, when Christopher Columbus and crew saw those who were freaking out upon the rocky shores, he dubbed them Indians. And then became renowned for this big error/discovery.
Henceforth, this non-island was notated and on the proverbial map.
Which leads us to today, and today's newsy-bits.
There are several protests on this day by Native Americans for what ensued after the discovery of the non-India non-island.
Despite all this, and our heart-breaking involvement in an economy-razing, morale-sapping, evil and misguided war, the country is still Home, a Democracy.
Reading the Manchester Guardian last night (it is worth Your while to take a peek at the Europress musings on our fair land) read opining about one of the Republican candidates, Mitt Romney.
I believe that one big blotch hanging over this land, a complaint, is that in our Republic nobody but millionaires these days dare run for presidential thumbs-ups/nomination.
In this piece about Romney it is remarked upon that a large percentage of Republicans are those who consider themselves evangelical Christians.
It was also remarked upon that our beloved President John Kennedy had to defend himself and his catholicism in the 60s and vowed to keep church and state separate.
That was four decades ago.
Now religious beliefs seep into political contexts and this seems, in my most Perfectly humble op, a tragic mistake.
Let Us collectively regroup.
Onwards.
This past Friday Yours Truly engaged in one of those completely LOST situs that only YT can muster. En route to Marty and Susan's for a lovely evening gathering in honour of a pal who decided not to arrive from the Shiney Apple after all - Janine - became so lost (in part thanks to MapQuest who gave me a bum steer ... love those agri-refs that persist in our Republic's lingua) that I nearly abandoned the big plan for a little vino, a little from-back-porch-gazing and camaraderie with old pals.
Called Susan to see if she could help me figure out the miasma. Hamburg, town of, is in midst of ripping up their Main Street to create rotaries and now the Main Street is one-way. So, realizing I had mucked up a missed right turn could not employ a Perfect U. So made a very large circle.
Susan did not answer this call so tried Liz.
Whilst speaking to Liz somehow came upon one of the necessary streets.
One thing YT does possess is an astonishing memory for place, if I've been somewhere once I can recall how to get somewhere almost my scent/vibe.
So once I found this missing link I was able to connect to the next two pitch-black twists and turns to find ... Marty/Susan, Liz/Alan, Mark/Polly, Broady, Cheryl/Ed.
YaY.
Rest of weekend was work marathon, a cavalcade of conversation with people known and unknown, a stew of words if You will of topics farflung and farwide.

Circled around, Love.

-my image made this past weekend at a sunny, suburban event.

Yours Truly is hard at work (not just in throes of pixel management and, as Literal Harold suggested oso wisely, this makes YT a pixie) coining a new phrase.
It goes something like this:

Remember the Bounce House.

Why, You query.
Well, in these troubling economic, and political times We should recall moments of great levity, bon vivantness, and healthy flusterments of fun.

And, if this is a distant memory, We might gaze upon the images of young people bouncing in a bounce house and, even if We ourselves, in our self-directedness, have never actually bounced in a bounce house, might imagine the hilarity of doing so.

A recap of this moment.
One crawls up an inflated ramp of sorts.
It is slippery.
The smell of the bounce house is related to the aroma of the mirror house at the Middling City's famed/feted/pilloried (depending on who is speaking) Albright-Knox Art Gallery with decades of footfall.
The bounce house reflects the world's primary colors and it is rather difficult to get up to speed, up to grand heights in mid-jump.
Even Philippe Halsman would have been challenged.
Everyone has fun, and is rather handicapped in the bounce house.
One cannot take the experience, or oneself, that seriously. For that wobbly moment.
So,
Remember the bounce house.

Primary, feted Love.

Just what in H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks were you just gazing at, You ask Yours Truly.
A detail shot from Liberty Building, one of the last remaining Lady Liberty Knobs, and YT is not talking body part(s).
The other image is looking down the side of Main Place Tower, where spiders have made their merry nests at what is for them Himalayan heights.

And the Middling City classic white sky image shows my thwartation, when the foisting of the digcam on the heaviest of Italian tripods could not yield a fine image of one of the Liberty statutes. Many attempts were made.
Now switching to Plan B on that one.
Had a guide of sorts for the rooftops and he would not join me out on the ledge for the latter image. I asked him to man a push-out window for YT, so I could finger grip something as I bent over to attempt the statuesque shot.
I said Now just hold the window like this so I can hang onto something.
Reached fingers around the metal frame as the guide began to close it on my fingers.
NO, I half-shouted, keep it open, like this.
Oh, was the suddenly getting-it reply and then I demi-arched over the side of the toppermost of the Libertine Building to not make the image I had previsualized.
In throes of writing a restaurant review of sorts for the Shiney Happy Mag and apparently I was causing some interest underneath my headphones, in the warm glow of my machine as a man hobbled up on crutches for the staff informed him that I am doing a piece on where he was to lunch.
He wanted to put in a plug for his fav menu item, the fish taco.
Now, in all the years that YT has dined out, and all over the world to boot, even patting myself on the back for eating crickets, balut (10-day old steamed ducklings in egg, whole), and snake, and horse, and whatever else is not springing to mind at this second, YT has never been able to wrap her mind around the concept of eating fish - in a taco shell. Never.
Tongue, alright.
Offal, maybe.
Fish. Maybe not.

Time to further wend and do.

Wending Love.

Yesterday photographed an area college's Homecoming, replete with game action, and a popcorn popper, and balloon-wielding boosters, before documenting all the Michael Moore activity at the big U.
Upon walking onto the stage he was visibly moved by the roar of the crowd and his ovation and for the first few moments seemed lost in his thoughts.
Then he rolled, and did his own roaring. For two and a half hours.
Moore signed every DVD, poster, book thrust in front of him, dispensed a lot of hugs, thanked everyone for their kind words.
As a photog many times you are expected to be there doing the gig but hanging back when needed - the best of us get this balance.
In the green room, not really green at all, asked thee Bruce Jackson to make an image of me and Moore and he gave me one of his big squeezes.
One obvious thing emanating from him is his love of women, he's a primo feminist.
At some point I thanked him, as millions of others have, for doing what he does.
I also added what I consider to be the highest compliment - Thanks for being born.
So at midnight, the last item signed, the last embrace ended, he posed with some of the big U staffers, including the public safety officers on duty, and left the big brick building, jetting back to the Shiney Apple, his other, sensible home.

Time to head to the next gig.
Shot the Yalem Memorial Race this fine a.m., momentous more than usual as the perp is locked up and getting the shit beaten out of him by his fellows.
Record turn-out, bag-piping, tearful moment of silence, and a big sun-hazed sky made for some fine fine making & doing.

Onwards.

Moore Love.

A funny thing happened on the top of Middling City's City Hall yesterday morning.
Yours Truly wished to make some snap-happy images from the observation deck so rode the rickety (absolutely no exaggeration, my fingers were already motioning over the numbers 9-1-1 just in case) elevators to the toppermost floor and then ascended the extra stairs to the pinnacle of this Art Deco marvel.
Once at deck level (it should be noted that the stairwell is painted that institutional colour that is sort of a pastel or icy light turquoise that nobody would ever, in their right mind, use in a house.
And the paint gave off that leaded vibe.
And, as most of the building is tragically unkempt, the question arises as to who in hell is sweeping these stairs and keeping this stairwell reasonably free from graffiti and such. And then thoughts ramble over to the trip to the tip of Empire State Building, how equally dismal that is, in a dismal Shiney Apple way that cannot rival this cross-state dismality.
*sidebar: Ascended the top of ESB for a try-out gig to write scripts for a co. that has those handy cellphone warbles about key things in cities. After the long lines, the badly-faded photos in showcases, the crabby staffers, the shake-down to try to get tourists to purchase packages to ascend AND see some hoaky 3-D movie, decided the ESB script of YT would be just non-glowing. So skipped that idea.
So up there, the big metal door with one-key locked situ is totally not allowing for stepping out onto the deck.
Spotted some open metal windows, open about one foot, enough to squeeze through to shoot through the thick plexi. As YT was stepping through the window and then noting the five-foot drop, glanced over to see, for the first time, one of those little casino-worthy surveillance cams.
I calculated.
Rickety elevator to floor - what was it, 28 - then steps, security thugs should be arriving in about fifteen minutes, if they're even truly manning these cams.
So finished up my photo matters at hand and then descended down and then another floors more.
Found an office and requested that YT stand at a window and make some happy images from a window in appropriate direction.
Was there thwarted by some locked doors.
Went down one more floor and found an incredible office with a very-bored secretary at a giant p.c. who did say Fine, about me stepping into a vacated executive suite (replete with empty shelves, a vintage vacuum, and more) to shoot through the windows. Maneuvered my cam around the splattered, aged pigeon poop to get some fantastic shots of the buildings.
Did this at several other downtown locations.
Script.
Hi, I'm here to photograph buildings over to the (east/west/north/south). Would you mind if I stationed myself at a window and shot away for a few minutes. Thanks.
More profuse thanks upon completion and slip out office door.
A grand day all in all.
Went to hear Literal Harold later very same day, as in yesterday, read from the serial killer tome.
Was fab.
Was in Cheektowaga.
Was in vintage 60s library under ultra-fluorescence.
Was oso appropriate.

More buildings, more shooting now.

More now, Love.

Yours Truly planned one fine & fab First Annual Old First Ward Pub Stroll this past Friday night with 25 people meandering from joint to joint.
Highlights, pictured, top to bottom: the group on the prowl (Leica was on multi-burst shooting and didn't have the wherewithal to do anything but work with It); Paul and Harold in McCarthy's (note memorabilia behind); Molly and Lisa in adorable outfits with Dougie and Bob (in midst of dissecting his classical fish fry); Dougie, mid-jump & flash; Annie and Brucey mid-talk; and what I lovingly dubbed Team Pub Stroll.

Handed out maps and we walked from McCarthy's down South Street for a nice view of Industry, then up Louisiana and then across Miami Street which spooked even the guys but, as I pointed out, once we passed the little dog leg the next destination, McBride's, is in sight and all is swell. McBride's was wonderful with a patio with bar on that. From there a quick jaunt to Swannie House which is always good but they were in a state of discombobulation and had run out of a few basics, like Labatt, for those who drink beer. A delivery was en route, we were told, and it came. In cans. Had a helpful barmaid make the Team Pub Stroll image, instructing her to please stand on a bendy plastic chair to do so. Went the short distance to Malamute and, after sniffing the stale beer farts aroma in there, made executive decision that we were not staying. It's an alright joint if it is near-empty, with a side room. But that air. We attempted an extra-OFW meander to Cobblestone but it was teeming with disgruntled Sabres fans so back to McBride's it was.

Oso many more details to follow for life is one big sensual banquet.
As Oscar W. and many others through the ages have noted.

All You Can Eat, Love.

Yours Truly is merrily ensconced in Vagabond World.
Sort of a lesser Off Grid Moment, working on the laptop (with sanity-saving iTunes blaring a lovely soundtrack down into the ear canals) in a corner with a nice pot of tea in a cloud of wi-fi.
In actuality a near-Perfect moment.
If I could just erase the femme nearby who is an unblinking grad student here to charm the pants off her male prof, all would be Parfait.
She speaks loudly of writing poetry, cites thee Derrida with abandon.
She swings her tattooed foot in his direction.
His hands are off the table, on a folder.
This deconstructive body language whimpers the erotic dance between teacher & student. The give & take. The mind meld and the mind shield.
Just emailed Sparky a nice little reverie, a dance choreographed to Touch and Go's Would You ...?
Yesterday's talk to the yutes went very well.
There were twenty-two of them, three of us advisers. And three handlers.
At one point I suggested that we all trek outdoors so the students could make their first frame on their dispos-o-cams of themselves for identifying purposes.
It was as if I suggested we suddenly pass a loaded revolver around the room and take turns aiming at the old marble mantelpiece remaining in the beleaguered former grand home's sitting room.
We all went outside. The other adults made much of this. YT did not.
All went swimmingly and they got to stretch their collective legs.
I noted that the other instructive people did lots of direct talking whereas I asked them some questions.
Who in blazes wants to only be talked at, never asked a question.
It's a simple, human thing. We like to feel noticed, placed, respected, asked.
The ol' give & take once again.
I especially enjoyed talking to two girl pals who sat in the front row, they were very funny indeed.
They revealed that they didn't want to take their portraits just then as they hated the way their hair looked. I suggested that they do this later, at home.
They looked concerned about not following the directive and I suggested that they fake the taking of their portraits.
They dutifully stood in line. They made faux ports.
I said Nice job, ladies.
Afterwards met the fam at Tempo for a grand dinner.
Pal Paulie Jenkins helped me and Soups wine & dine the hell out of our parents, now married for a whopping forty-eight years.
We had superstar treatment and it was magnifique.
Time to wend to the suburbs to take the niece and nephew out shopping for some school items that will rock.

Rocking wardrobe Love.

Tomorrow at this very minute, 10 past Stoners' Time, Yours Truly will be imparting photo wisdom to Middling City youths, along with two other photogs.
I plan on showing them some work. Capital W.
As in art work and freelance work samples.
Kids, I shall say, sighing briefly, you can shoot anything. In any way. It's what's in here (thumping chest) that makes it real, gives it what Benjamin called an aura. Bluff your way through the landscape and make cheap shots and not only will you not feel something akin to passionate love, but your audience will know it, too.
Then I shall state my favoured statement of all time.
I rest my case.
And have a seat.
After that imparting, YT and her sister are taking the matching set of parents out for their 48th wedding anniversary. Not 50. As had been mistakenly believed to be this anniversary year as one mother of the pair mentioned 50 at some point and YT, being ever the party planner as well as diligent and thoughtful person, began planning a fete. It was only after nosing about a bit that it was discovered that there are two more years for that grand event.
But we are still heading toward one of the MC's fanciest, schmanciest joints for dinner which should be a treat.
Just finished documenting an event for the Big U and featured was a speaker, a reader of poems and essays who brought down the house in a moody manner.
One attendee said to another, on their way out.
Oh, you didn't miss a thing, all the readings were about Death.
Apparently attendee two had not been able to hear the hushed words.
Onwards.

Passionate, photographic Love.

Freeland would have been oso beaming at what Jon et al created last night at Artie's Town Ballroom in his honour, a veritable rock & roll throwdown and jubilant reunion cavalcade of good people from the club sphere.
Went to the big trib after the Big Orbit opening, with Annie.
Big O did some changing of the space for one of the installations and it made the space a bit claustrophobic. Also taking away from the ambiance was the x-l dumpster parked right by the steps.
Midway through our gallery stop Laura appeared with a balloon half full of red vino, and I hoped for her sake it was not that horrid yellow tail that has infested the wine world.
We motored on towards downtown and floated in the rock world for a long while.
TZ was there selling her Planet Love wares at the table that also featured Freeland's two books.
I was at the table to buy one of the books but got distracted by the sheer simplicity of the iconic Freeland shirt. But was sad that they did not have my size in black.
TZ sold me the shirt off her back, literally.
Here is the before and after.



She instructed me to launder the black shirt before wearing it.
Fercrissakes, Yours Truly stated, I've known you for decades, what's a little DNA between pals.
Seen, heard:
Carla (of course), TonyB (the emcee and on sax and on point) and Kimmie, Darien Hicks, Donny, Marcie, Paula + Greg (yes, +!), Kane w/Bud, Bud's Sue (who tells me Andre now goes by Booker (yikes), Lisa K, Jill, Marty (who pointed in the direction of Susan, not seen), Bob of DasBoot historical fame, Maria, Harvey (on date and +2), Erectronics, Paper Faces (who I saw a few times at thee premier Tralfamadore Cafe when on Main @ Fill), Industry of Life Divine (aka Industry of My Behind, featuring the Middling City's own Bono, Gary), and oso several more.

Triumphant, Tributary Love.

Yours Truly is hosting an Old First Ward Pub Stroll this pending Friday with a nice, short tour of the best joints in this quadrant of the Middling City.
Invited those who are near & dear as well as those who just will get, or already do get, the OFW. And its attendant visuals, examples of extant industry.
Extant Industry ... another great band name.
While on the prowl for an obscure and oft-closed joint, spotted lights on this past week and headed indoors to scout out what the apparently new(er) owners have done to its charming interior, last being there when it had, no shock, pretenses of being a muy authentico Celtic gin mill. It did not last.
So I pulled open the heavy front door and discovered an aluminum window screen propped up in such a way that YT had to pick it up to avoid having it crash to the ground. I entered the barroom with the screen in my hand and most of the heads turned in my direction. A man near the back shouted The girl with the screen is here.
Now that is a classic MC moment.
I sat at the bar and talked to a femme next to me and asked what the name of the place is, as there is no sign in sight.
McBride's, she stated. That was for certain.
What is the address, YT queried.
That's where things fell apart, with several numbers helpfully shouted out.
One three-digit number was finally agreed upon.
But the most important thing is that I do know the historic corner upon which it stands proudly.
And it's added onto the Stroll if everyone is in agreement and wishes to cool their heals mid-way to the Swannie.
It should also be noted that YT had a mag gig quite some time ago when the Iraq War was a newer world event, making portraits of a femme soldier who grew up and went to school in Western New York and who was on leave, having just lost a close comrade in a terrible incident.
I went to her mother's home and met the soldier, who was obviously in a state of shock, her mother looked on proudly, worriedly.
Made images of her with her helmet that had been signed by her fallen friend, and inside and out her mother's bedecked home.
My favorite, and I think the image the mag used for their cover, was the soldier, Jeanna Marrano, on her mother's front lawn with her hand along a string of American flags, her in casual dress. Despite her shock she re-enlisted.
YT was surprised to see Marrano on the cover of MCNews this past week, now against the war, but still in It.

“Get out. Immediately. We should have got out years ago,” said Marrano, 28, a sergeant in the Army National Guard who spent a year near Baghdad patrolling the most dangerous highway in the country.

Watched an excellent movie last night with Kennedy, Sam Fuller's The Steel Helmet, about a small band of survivor characters amid the Korean War.
One character despairingly wonders why they cannot invent a bulletproof pot/helmet.
Of all the war movies and films viewed to date this low-budget movie creates an oppressive sense of terror in the field.
Hilly Kristal, inventor of CBGB, is dead. And like other important things that emerged in '73 (including Dark Side of the Moon), this is one.
Saw my nephew play his premier varsity football game today.
I asked my father what his title is.
Defense.
Not sure what sub-title.
They kicked ass, as they say in the sports world - 22 to Zip, as they also say in the wide world of sports.
Last night went to see a hexcellent play at New Phoenix, Thrill Me, with Sparky and Annie. After all 90 minutes of gripping action, told Richard Lambert and Bob Waterhouse that YT gives it 3 thumbs up.
I was not on the star system last night.
Tonight is Freeland's Tribute and I am like so going in rock & roll solidarity, bon vivantness, and good karma.

Tributary Love.

Forgot to post this image earlier, the image of the art runner handling the drawing by Yours Truly for Paint the Town.
The white gloves are always a charming touch, it makes every piece seem so precious.
Got an email from Literal Harold, images of himself basking in the Adriatic sun. He claims that some nice corporation actually sent gaming writers to Dubrovnic for a junket. I asked why YT is not also there. I did go to Vegas for that Bally/VH1 junket. The Adriatic Sea would have been nice, too.
Here is some artwork by LH (a This Just In):


Presently, the Middling City is awash in its superb annual autumnal light, art-inspiring light. Last night's dusky sky featured 9/11-worthy, gloomy black clouds, followed by some batten-down-hatches rain.

Worked on the HeadyVet Beast Project, as I am calling it, for her new digs on Delaware Avenue, photographing pets both domestic, casual, and exotic for the walls. Big decisions regarding edits as there are oso many. And framing, always a hot art topic.
A small selection of the results and then off to deadline points beyond.







Beastly Love.

While minding my own business, for I am certain Yours is quite enough for You to deal with - let alone me - and really none of my Perfect business to boot, found myself completely in Twilight Zone portion of Kenmore Avenue.
Looking for a school at Kenmore at Vulcan for a photo op yet all the street and all the numbers ran out.
Found a helpful Kenmore c.o.p. and asked her (I was nearly afraid to approach her car, lest there was hanky-panky of some sort happening in there ... or if she'd be angry I was infringing on her setting-up of either a sting operation or speed trap) just where in hell the rest of Kenmore Avenue is or was. She reminded Yours Truly that Kenmore rejoins itself about two blocks up north.
Then I spotted Lisa Ludwig, who was also searching for the school. And then we were informed by a teacher in sensible shoes that we were, in sooth, at the wrong school, that we had to push onwards further west.
There was the school, with helpful WalMart greeter type in day-glo vest and holding a small stop sign.
First-graders are teeming with hard-hitting questions, with interesting facts about their noses, and their families.
One kid claimed his papa can put a penny through the table.
He was one-upped by a classmate who claimed his father could put an EGG through the table.
YT was there to photograph John Simpson, UB President, who was reading to this inquisitive classful. They asked how much he makes. They asked if he has a wife. Then they wanted to know how old she is.
Last night was Paint the Town, the annual charity art-making and auctioning benefit for the Hysterical/Historical Society.
Harvey Siegel, Esq. purchased my excellent drawing from a nature-meets-industry view on Ganson Street.
Apparently Simon Pagani was in his office this fine a.m. and saw the piece and also dug it.
Time to careen out of here and get to next gig.
And then onto Shiney Happy Mag matters.

What matters. Love.

Loads of Those of Note will be at this year's Rockin' at the Knox, including Jen+Jamal, The Rifkins, and members of Solid Gold Bookers (prominently featured, somewhat, in The Shiney Happy Mag except they forgot a nice little photo caption listing everyone's names ... Yours Truly was, however, mentioned in the profile).
And oso many more.
As I discussed, and agreed, with Deb, Feist is a bigger personal draw than headlining Elvis Costello. Feist was in the marvelous TO band Broken Social Scene, as good a surprise as the Shiney Apple's Ambulance Ltd.
Speaking of the SA, DK is having a b-day today and is heading out for a sumptuous treat just not available in the Middling City, recently deemed the nation's second poorest city for real.
DK is heading out after her workday for grapefruit margaritas with complicated jalapeño salt.
Told her a while back our next restaurant foray must be a joint that actually received a mediocre review in NYT, Rayuela on the Lower East Side. I think I should like to head there for the descriptified interior which sounds luxe and natural, a tree central to its room.
Soon YT is heading out to make some drawings of grain elevators for the charity event for this poor city's Historical Society (read museum and social hall), Paint the Town, as is my wont.
Despite lifelong photographic tendencies, no photography for the event is allowed so drawing magic happens. I usually take a documentary photo of the finished and framed piece before it is on the block and hung somewhere unknown.
Speaking of unknown, Literal Harold is heading to a strange place on the Adriatic for work, he writes.
Dubrovnik, a Croatian city on a skinny tract of land.
Speaking of skinny tracts of land, the block party tossed together by The Kitchen in the SA sounds most appealing as it is not only gratis, but includes High Line, the former El turned into a green space.
Time to make, do, draw, draw upon my mused reserve.

Reservations for Love.

Image from Windfall, up there in the wilds of Canada, where trees grow symmetrically.
No far more earth(l)y images from last night's Mulligan's Reunion, at DiGiulio's in what was once the VIP zone of the club.
Supped with Sparky at the near-deserted Mode, filling our tanks, so to speak, for hours of hustle and bustle.
Met up with the others there, making a pitstop at Kennedy's to drop some bags, flotsam. Upon arrival noted the cars parked everywhere but, as the parking goddess always shines upon Yours Truly, came up with a spot mere feet from the awning, the tent, the fete.
At the entryway sat Mike Militello of Mulligan's Legendary Fame, who hugged and kissed me and said he wondered if and when I'd be arriving. He did not charge me the entry fee which warmed my heart. Amongst the other Hall of Famers was d.j. Charlie Anzalone who said he'd also wondered if YT would be there and, when he saw me, yelled my name loudly as he spun out the name brands and the more obscure.
Now my mine meanders over to that dance hall hit Last Night a DJ Saved My Life and I'm not so sure that's officially oso disco but did not hear that last night.
Danced non-stop, well, except for a few breaks for refreshment and talked ever so briefly with Donny behind one of the bars.
Saw several grammar school pals - Carla, Sandy, Victor, Mark, Lisa, Deanna. Deanna owns the joint with her mother, Joanne, so of course she was there.
We all still look like we did in our 8th grade class portrait, made long-style, b&w on the demesne of 66. I reminded Sandy that we'd all just been mooned by a guy in a speeding vehicle so all had very smug looks on our pubescent little faces.
Danced and danced some more until I noted to Sparky that I was beginning to feel as if we were in a dance-a-thon, our book club girlie pals had all left hours before, and it was time to hit the road.
Today is Labor Day, so that is what is primarily on my Perfect agenda.

Laboring, Love.

Damien Hirst's For the Love of God sold for $100 million dollars U.S. - even the NYS mega millions winner could not have afforded that solo: the glitzy skull sold to a group of investors, including the artist.
Not selling for that amount, actually not selling at all, was the piece made by Yours Truly for the Hallwalls memberific show, which You may recall.
John Massier mentions it in this week's Hallwalls and Elsewhere and mercury buckets to Pam for letting me know it was onsite.
If You should like to purchase, just let YT know. It comes ready-to-proudly-display. And it's a keeper.
So jumped back into the saddle/office chair/work-ready Subaru immediately and worked yesterday and today shoot a holiday weekend wedding which will either have a very relaxed vibe or be untilthewheelsfalloff raucous.
Afterwards heading to the Mulligan's Reunion at DiGiulio's and I did promise Deanna I'd provide girls in tube tops and a cloud of disco fun.
I do hope that the air is not rich with the scent of Jovan musk.
Time to move forward into this Middling City day, sunny and full of industrious energy.
Love Autumn.

Wow/HolyGuac/GadZooks for since Yours Truly crept into the Canadian wilds, Blogger offers digvid posting, and how oso much easier my late-in-life-salad-days of Parsons could have been when posting to the internet those few years ago meant Sorenson 3 conversions, several messy steps, the holding of breath, and meager results.
But I digress or, rather, offshoot, when the matter at hand is this.
I have been away.
You have missed me, creeping along the internet–famished–for my Perfect takes on this world, and Yours.
One premier order of business is that YT hit upon Ryan Adams's wondrous, hermetically-Perfect pop tune Nuclear and it is so right for this weekend, as it's about the waning summer. And beyond.
His newest is good, not quite living up to the cover.
So, there YT was in Canada sans wireless or plug-in devices of any sort.
Cooking haut cuisinely on a gas stove under propane-fueled lights that give off a hiss and a light fume.
Mice romp wildly in the kitchen all night and one night, as I cooked, a smallish dark bat circled about the cabin, coming into the kitchen in a delicate arc at hip level. At one point its little wing brushed near my ear but bats don't really mean to scare people, they are far too busy and concerned with their foremost matter at hand - the decimation of the insect population and for that we should embrace them, figuratively.
At my request and behest there was a kayak, two, actually, and this created a delicious daily diversion.
It was all those campy years ago that YT fell in love with kayaking, the ability to skim low on the water and sit, when desired, in the midst of a loon's point of view of a lake. And sitting amid the gentleness of lotus flowers in bloom is always a highlight.
Yesterday I headed out solo with a backpack holding a decade-old CD player and played Coldplay's Rush of Blood as I kayaked out into whitecaps under a late afternoon sun. Heading in a straight line for I was not sure what.
Thought I'd paddle until the CD was completed but I had reached the straight line's shore end before the end. So I drifted as I listened to the final three tunes on the disc before hitting play once again and heading back to the cabin in about half the amount of tunes, singing whenever I knew the lyrics.
Kennedy watched for me on the shore, on a rock, thinking I could have been enveloped by the water.
There was only a brief flash of fear about the water, when I began to think of how powerful and relentless water is, and about the near-drowning ages ago.
There were no sightings of moose, or bears, though we all did look. A total of eight eyes saw nothing but elegant wild birds, including partridge and one kingfisher.
And a persistent woodpecker.
I did see, besides lotus, a very gorgeous orange wildflower I have to look up.
I picked up one perfect white granite square for a souvenir.
And did take a few images with the little Leica which continues to impress YT with its smart design.
There were a few short hikes with some random chomps of black bugs - the horse flies, the black flies, the moose flies.
Finished the Solid Gold Booker last choice, Middlesex, which was super. It won a big Pulitzer fercrisskes. Then started and mid-way into Hunger, a Nobel winner, fercrissakes, in '20.
I blog from the highway.
As other deep woods wildness crosses my mind again I will send those images forth, as well as a scan or two from the sketchbook (I think of the Toles correspondence), and some of the Leican shots.

Returning, Love.

As Yours Truly frantically burns DVDs and CDs blogging happens.
Freelance gigs piled up mere seconds before the imminent leaving of the Middling City for Wilds of Canada.
Yesterday's gigs included one at a nursing home, a place of multi-colored tile floors that stretch seemingly endlessly down corridors that then dead-end abruptly.
Was buzzed into a side door as YT has a kind face and I did not look dangerous.
And had several heavy bags that scream photog, or maybe even pharmaceutical rep - with samples.
After being buzzed in was wandering, and wandering, and wandering some more.
I did, as is not my wont at moments when I am in the flow of discovery, ask for directions and received some fairly terrible directions. One bad set of directions had me landing in a classroom of people watching an educational vid.
One by one all heads turned in my direction. Until the instructress asked where in hell I'd like to really be.
I shall soon catalogue all moments where YT has entered a door and all activities have ceased.
One that springs to mind includes a public bathhouse in Japan, Itabashi-Ku, to be Perfectly exact.
So I was sent on my way with a finger pointed in another erroneous correct approximation of where I'd find the person I was searching for.
I should like to point out that this building is not equipped with security cams, just a lot of lino.
So then I dead-ended at a chapel in a corner space and heard the strains of a solo voice singing their proverbial heart out and if YT had to guess it would be one of the residents with a purpose.
I did finally find my subject.
Onwards.
Time to deliver the goods, as we say in the photo business.
My Empire comes to a quiet halt as I now wend up north.
Not knowing if blogging magique will take place in the next five or so days but here is a visual I would like to leave You with:
parents are moving and so is their long-forgotten archive, including a sub-archive of my very-forgotten papers from high school and college - with memorabilia.
One item in latter was a folio of 70s Olympic kiddie gymnast sensation Nadia Comaneci photographs and press clippings from when I was a gymnast back in the pre-day.
One of the clips was a small vertical image of Nadia with comedian extraordinaire Flip Wilson.

Flipped on Love.

There Yours Truly was, having a fine IP (in poetry) moment as a favoured song played on the car's hi-fi as I was viewing up ahead what was interpreted to be a slice of something oso bittersweet - a fellow Middling City driver earning a rare speeding ticket on the 33, meaning YT would have to hand over her maligned crown for same.
In sooth it was a cop lazing down the 33 with all his bells and whistles going full throttle, perhaps transporting a VIP, an MIA, an MVP, or a DOA.
Whoah, something totally crazy happening currently on hi-fi in house.
Placed one of the new discs into carousel, pushed play, and voi-freakin-là - no music from CD but from some wack pop rock radio show.
Okey-dokes, all is Perfect once again.
What has transpired in the last several days is just a parade, a cavalcade, if You will, of matters summery, sporty, saucy.
Went to a AAAAAAAAAAA baseball match with Jana, the MC's own Bisons, who were spanked, as they say in the sports sphere.
Believe this or not but I stuck my hand into one of those novelty over-sized finger pointer foam hands for the premier time. It belonged to a kid sitting in front of us. What I found shocking was that I was not able to stick my own little pointer up into the foam hand's pointer man. I found this to be a design flaw.
Those around YT found this foamy discovery quite amazing, it was not unlike when YT silenced a diner/bar/gambling den with the statement Gee, this is my first corndog.
Silence.
So then the balls started popping into the stands, a kid was wacked in the face, his father fled (with kid), and then I realized the added superbonus of having a novelty oversized foam item on one's person.
Next night was another item to be ticked off on the Summer To-Do List: Float in a swimming pool.
We Solid Gold Bookers met at Jeremy's parents's place in Kenmore amid a lovely glowing garden and splashed and conjured up some Esther Williams-worthy watery routines.
Next night was Bills pre-season madness with Sparky as we wended our way into the football zone, me procuring rockstar parking in a flash. Then the healthful hike to the stadium, the rare MC R2W (reason to walk).
Then wended about inside the stadium to find the numbers that matched our tix and merrily we discovered we had entrée to Jim Kelly Club, avoiding the multitudes and headed towards a friendly bartender for some cocktails. Then we made a dinner decision, then another cocktail decision. Then we carefully balanced ourselves out the ushered door to our very excellent seats.
Our asses his the seats just as intermission was happening.
Then we watched the mid-game festivities, and the Jills, bien sur.
Then some romping by the Bills.
Then an injury.
Then we did the wave eight times.
They (NB: YT did not write we) did not win. But they did look good in their outfits.
All for now and back to rainy MC day matters.

Love of Rain for flowers and focus.

There Yours Truly was, minding mine own photo beeswax when suddenly I found myself Perfectly ensconced up in the bell tower of the Middling City's east side Saint Ann's Church on B'Way. And then later in Black Rock's Saint Francis Xavier on East Street, just a small stone's toss from where Creeley lived in his fire house and where KC had his photo studio on the ground floor.
Fabricated an idea and pitched it at Catherine Parker (who YT collaborated with several years ago on a grain elevator show) about doing an art show, collection of work on the doomed and architecturally magnificent churches in the city.
Saint Ann's is lush and Gothic and has a complex carved altar rimmed with little white lights (see illustrative image), much like the altar of the performance venue in the Shiney Apple where VisionFest happens.
It took Martin Ederer, the man who met us at the churches, keys in hand, several flips of several switches to light up the altar.
One of the most arresting things in St. Ann's is a carved pelican, in nest with three fledglings (see other image), Martin told us a symbol of selflessness as pelicans will make themselves bleed to feed their young if there is a shortage of food.
You do the metaphor.
So then gazing up at the pipe organ, 99.9% sold off in the 60s by a misguided priest, went up into the choir loft where YT picked up a paper from 1955, the sports section and we speculated it was a bored chorister on a Sunday catching up on hard news.
Then Martin asked if YT is afraid of heights.
Then I did one of my famed and classique hai-karate kicks to emphasize that the answer was a big, fearless, and thundering No.
He and I basically crawled up many rickety and uneven wooden stairs amid the limestone blocks which smelled so lush, like the rapids of the mighty Niagara.
Up in bell tower looked at the six bells, the largest of which weighs 3800 pounds. Wanted to hear the hour chime and was up there for 11 of them, watching the mechanism of the 150-year old clock do its thing. Then took a stroll around the clock tower, making images of the skyline from a nice alternative angle.
Onwards to Black Rock, where YT was getting led into the wrong church. A woman sweeping and her Hillary Duff-listening kid were taking me down an alleyway to a side door so I could make some images. There was a car just like Catherine's parked in front. Then Martin appeared and said only Wrong church. I thanked my helpers and moved along then to the right one where YT met a man who has worked there for 22 years as choirmaster and organist, there composing a very somber tune for their closing on the 26th of this month.
More to come–curios, doc of works by forgotten craftsmen, backroom flora.

Fearless Love.

A mere stone's throw from the Middling City in any direction and about a half hour drive leads to agrarian sights and sounds - bonus photo destinations, distractions, passing narratives.
Yesterday Kennedy and I made my second, his first, foray to that excellent garden joint in the suburbs and had to pass the backside of the Erie County Fairgrounds where Yours Truly spotted a black goat being groomed for, assumedly, his chance for the blue ribbon.
Speaking of blue ribbons and such Sparky and I bought some Mega Gazillions tix and never even checked the numbers.
At the garden spot picked up more perennials, as is my wont, including doppelganger coneflowers (piggy-backed flowers, very surreal) and some scrubby, intriguing alpine plants that have morphed over eons into tough little flora that can make it amongst the mountain winds, sun, and goats.

Sidebar: As I have been editing and making & doing since the earliest hours of this day I have been e-educating myself with both quick perusals of my favoured online periodicals (NYT, Paper, mediabistro) and Flashback Alternatives.
Flashback Alternatives, if You are of same sonic inclinations, is an aural treat that can be streamed on oso many levels via different players for so many differing situs, and it makes YT pleased that coming of age happened in the fine and odd-sounding 80s. They are now playing, for example, one of those lush Smiths tunes that when you hear it once again you want to just go out and dance, eschewing, of course, most of the attendant wardrobe.
Those were odd, sartorial times.
To say the least.
I am thinking specifically of the very complicated Z.Cavaricci khakis, pointed elf shoes from TO, gloves, assymetrical hair.

This past Friday YT was on the monitor/audience-facing side of karaoke things as Jana has some sort of report to report for the MCNews about such matters.
Her and I went to Garden Park something-something where YT was determined to sing the best works of Seger.
Which I did.
With aplomb, YT might Perfectly add.
Jana does a subtle v. of that Tracy Chapman number, Give Me One Reason. Which she saw fit to trot out at the next joint, King's Court.
Although it was not Seger, Simon's Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover (it also being on the S's page, dig) was performed by YT, dedicated to Jana of course.
At that Garden Place there was some background dancing, some round-the-tables dancing. At King's Court there was a smattering of dance, some frightening (this in finger-arching-in-air quotes) artichoke dip, and a plethora of donuts (YT does not touch deep-fried molecules), and R&B tunes.
Saturday included me and Sparky location scouting for some dance spots and landing in Jesse's El Diablo Muy Authentico Gin Mille where we could not dance on the checkerboard floor as a duet from Chicago did a complex act with keyboard, costumes, stuffed animals, shadow puppets, and false eyelashes.
It was kind of like something you could see at the fair, or in a talent show, or on the stage of the Pyramid in the Shiney Apple.

Shining, staged Love.