In the middle of enjoying my self-made Salmon Wellington last evening I announced to Kennedy, Brucey, and Eva These are glorified Hot Pockets.
Pink Pockets, Brucey opined and offered.
The Hot Pink Pockets were served alongside a vegetable dish that I invented, whose ingredients are oso secret.
Dessert was not a danged thing that Yours Truly crafted for who had time to bake and make ice cream and gelato after a cocktail party and before cooking the pockets, I ask You.

Following, an email snippet from one of the editors of YT:

Kevin is a terrific reporter, asked very good questions, and we had a very nice chat. Nancy Pelosi did the photo shoot, and she's excellent, too.
Have a great Labor Day weekend (I will be laboring here, working on another grant due Sept. 15! That's the science biz.)

She sent it along as YT is in sooth the photog in question, but YT did send back to her editor that Nancy Pelosi, based on her smart wardrobe, would make a fine creative type, and photojournalist.
YT was about to make a sweeping generalization about photojournalists and journalists being snappy dressers as they are image makers with keen eyes and a nose for not only news but style, but that would not be a generalization but faux fact.
YT is thinking specifically of a few Middling City television cameramen who dress rather badly. Who are also crab-asses. Who think nothing of giving a still photog a shove when you are nearing their big clunky rig on tripod weighing as much as a small SUV.

YT received a very wonderful text today, from a pal whose wife was recently photographed by YT for his viewing pleasure. I suggested an ensemble purchased at VS, to give You an idea.
They were absolutely stunning.
He said They are breathtaking.

Ever pushing pixels into the realm of the sublime, for viewing pleasure and the like.

Like the sublime, Love.

Above is an image culled from Yours Truly's vast photo archive - analog and digital - from 1990.
This is inside Crash Club, at a private party for Paragon Advertising and, in keeping with an 80s cultural sub-context, there's a Japanese theme.
Think back, if You can, to that era and one of its oddball fashion statements: t-shirts emblazoned with kanji that stated whatever, sleeveless, red and black on white. YT did not own one, having really been to Nippon and having returned with more imaginative shirts from there than those contrivances.

So, there it is, Crash Club in 1990, a private party with a Japanese theme and impresario TonyB (dear friend) is in charge of not only the club but the party's entertainment.
Enter Justy (story's dear friend number two), as The Plum Maiden and performing such for the unsuspecting revelers.
If You look closely You will spot shoulderpadis gigantius, and even a classic Mall Claw.
Justy performed this (in quotes) Dance of the Plum Maiden in slo-mo and YT recalls pondering how long he'd be able to pull off this ersatz traditional dance which seemingly had no end in sight. It ended with a flourish and the onlookers applauded and more warm sake was sipped - and sushi snarfled - by all.

So fast forward to yesterday to Justy's Roast/Stag in East Aurora at Wallenweins Hotel, a biker hang. One with a television mounted up on high in a hole for viewing from the front porch.
YT was the only invited femme and for that I was most honoured.
Justy did say that YT was to be his sole femme groomsman but his pending mother-in-law nixed that ardently.
And there in a big kapoof went my chance to be a groomsman.
YT has been a pallbearer twice, but not a groomsman - yet.
Also in attendance were the following: SteveB, dad, stepdad, bro-in-law, two uncles, and a cousin-in-law who is veep of RBR/Ani's Domain.

As it was all billed as a Roast, YT brought along this photographic likeness which was, miraculously, found amid the millions of images in a record-setting time of nine minutes.
Justy was horrified, much to my surprise and delight.
For that this image may reappear, methinks, as the envelope encasing it went missing off the table on the patio, and there were some YT-made mutterings of a t-shirt to come via my favoured cafepress.com.
Details to follow.

Plum Love.

Last night, whilst leaving the BO Party (that's Best Of party, for Your edification) at Shea's with Annie, spotted a bombus fervidus on Ellicott Street in front of Washington Market, wrongfully situated not on Washington Street one block over.
The bombus fervidus exhibited a complete mortality response so Yours Truly scooped it up and carefully placed it into a Smart Water lid for safe keeping, for art's sake.
Sipped el cheapo champagne and St. Germain with Annie, Liz, Cheryl in Liz's garden, hearing late summer sounds.
YT did like so not slide down the Shea's banister after doing so at last year's BO party and scuffing a black streak onto her left derrierish zone. Damned docents I thought, fercrissakes, this Middling City landmark and all needs to have ultra-clean banisters.
YT, for the absolute record, has never met a banister that she did not only like, but slide down upon.
YT discovered that Band of Horses is having a western tour and YT is formulating a plan to jet out there to perhaps see them, and visit a nearby pal.
And photograph some flora and fauna out in the wild west.
It has been oso long since YT has sniffed in the air of the wild west.
YT loves westerns.
YT does not love western omelets.
And on that sunny, sonorous, and chunky note.

Love of art and the bombus fervidus, harbinger of Green.

Ever a fan of candy necklaces, as well as teaching youngsters how to transform them into friendly, sugar-coated weapons, was thrilled to see this specimen hanging at a gas station.
Perhaps in Amherst, where this image was made, communal candy weapons are oso trad.
In addition to sending off the latest piece to the Shiney Happy Mag, had a great photo shoot and did some fine multi-tasking.
During pedi, not only edited three gigs, but watched the tail-end of some Olympics spectacle involving men running in whispers of jerseys that hearkened back to the first Olympiads when runners ran nude and such, but then watched the beginning of a horrid Wesley Snipes movie that involved action in another foreign land although much more violent.
Death and crime as entertainment I am proud to say I do not understand.

Candy Necklaces, Love.

+ this just in.
One more from the good ol' hazmat drill

Mere days ago Yours Truly was minding her own business.
Actually, minding mine own business is on the diurnal, eternal, to-do list.
I was on an assignment for the BigU and on the docket was this: (paraphrased) Get images (well, of freakin' course) of hazmat drill.
This assignment was like, more or less, the one of yore where YT was on the faux-situ of the BigU's reactor and its drill.
When YT was squatting on the ground to get a photo id of a lady on a stretcher, with light blue eyeshadow rings around both eyes. Excuse me, excuse me until finally she, perhaps slightly exasperated as she was being dragged out or away from her Method Acting as she'd been out of the reactor, said I'm supposed to be DEAD.
So, there YT was on the job.
Directive was the building.
Drill. Building.
YT, with a nice nose for news, sniffed out where the action was, landing right outside a door of a lab.
This lab is where there was a spill.
And the emergency workers were quickly deducing that this spill or disaster or mix-up or melt-down was of the bio-hazard or chemical or cultural variety.
So.
Then.
That's.
When.
The.
Drama.
Started.
The Big U's director of said disasters of the hazmat variety, very clearly revved up about the proceedings, took note of me on my assignment and told me that I was not - NOT - to go inside the lab.
Up in cultural, debacled flames went my previsualizations of images of the firemen, the man in the Kevlar© suit attending to The Victim.
THIS IS A MATTER OF HOMELAND SECURITY, said Mr. Rev, pointing his tense finger at my chest, or at my cam.
I assured him that his pointing and behaviour was not necessary, that I'd been sent there by the very U where we stood.
He said he would take my digital images and I assured him that he would not.
And that I would not make another image of the proceedings in the hallway and would not go into the lab.
That I'd be waiting outdoors for The Victim to be carried to whomever would be waiting to spirit him away to god only knows where.
So this image shows the proceedings before the notion of state of Homeland Security and all was mentioned and then moments later YT photographed The Victim gurneyside.
The fire department had erected two portable scrubbing kiddy pools and, before The Victim arrived on the scene, they left with their pools and metal folding chairs.
I asked a fireman why.
They said that the victim had been tidied up inside the lab.
But the kiddy pools were for the firemen so I presume they got a sprinkle of the detoxing liquid during the drill.
I did ask another fireman what happens to the liquids inside the kiddy pools, of course thinking of Steve Kurtz and the scrubbed-off chems on College at Maryland on the Middling City's west side.
Blank stare.
So YT presumes that the liquid might just get dumped out onto the ground as there's no way to suck up the chems and all, at least during casual inspection.

And another thing.
Obama picked ten supporters to be with him backstage in Denver and YT was like so not chosen.
I was not chosen to dine with him, not for the convention.
Not only would YT have enjoyed making some images during the occasion, but YT has not been to Denver - yet.

Love of backstage past, and future.

Looking at a wedding image made behind the scenes before the proceedings got going, I noted in the background a bad piece of church art and, paying homage to conceptual photographer Uta Barth, decided to zip it out of its surroundings and call it art - all retextualized and fresh.
Besides stained glass windows, usually fairly interesting to look at, churches the world over seem to embrace bad art.
Yours Truly does indeed wonder why.
Look at this palette in the example, the composition.
Strictly Painting 101.

Last night went to Gary & Michele's grand opening for their B&B, on the Middling City's west side in a beautiful renovated home.
There is an onsite banister and YT had to give it a final polish, a try.
It slid nicely but has a complicated curve and what could be quite a painful ending - avoided.
Had the new kittie, Rumple, spayed for indeed she is a girl and now YT has no clear idea in hell why Rumple appeared to be spraying, or peeing out of her behind like a male.
Heady did the alterations and Rumple still likes me even after jetting her off to her medical appointment.
Time to ready for a wedding, a country club affair underneath these seasonal big fluffball clouds.

Fluffy Love.

“Somehow it’s dawning on me that I’m a more mature individual and I’m not a kid writing ‘Cherry, Cherry’ anymore,” Mr. Diamond said, referring to his first Top 10 hit, from 1966.

Yours Truly, who truly loves Neil more than ever before (Pandora Neil Diamond radio station today fired up with Song Sung Blue when Neil's hair was long and flowing and his clothing more hippie than Vegas), was just oso thrilled to read today's NYT quasi-review about what in hell Neil is up to: playing four nights at Madison Square Garden, making bundles of cash, and realizing that he is a grown man.
Some of his later fans do not get the Rick Rubin-produced release and they really need to spend more time with those songs for it's what Neil wanted to say.
I mean really.
There You are, ass in concert/stadium seat, being treated to a full-on Neil extravaganza.
His arms are up in the air, his baritone is booming, the flag might still be unfurling during America.

Rick Rubin, on the latest, led him back to stripped-down glory.
Meaning: Cherry Cherry (unarguably his best and one of the best songs ever written in these USofA) is not the work of a post-mid-career artist.

Looking at Neil's tour one thing is glaringly, sadly apparent.
Neil is bypassing the Middling City this tour.
Neil always came to the MC.
YT still loves Neil.

Love of the Solitary Man.

Oso enjoying this surreal Middling City weather.
Hail on Saturday night with zipping winds, mushy Sunday, mixed-bag Monday.
As I looked out the dreary official office à la BigU former wetlands campus, Yours Truly noted that the streaming waters resembled the encompassing waters of a carwash.
Instead of hula dancing strips of fabric, or spinning brushes, just beyond the waters was a view of Green.

sidebar of song: At the carwash Yeah, work and work ... keep those cars and limousines comin' ... work and work.

YT was wrapped in red tape whilst looking out the windows, tape that wound itself around my ankles and then, like a kudzu vine, it climbed up my neck and began wrapping there.
This was all about a Form B, something new from the Empire State for its consultants to report information that the Empire State should know of its own accord, as the writer of state checks.
If a database can be made public (thanks to Andrew Cuomo) of all the salaries of state employees, surely one could be devised to track the earnings of consultants/freelancers/contractors.
Just a thought.
And another thing, my new bumpersticker-ready slogan:
Red tape belongs on holiday packages.

This past weekend's fun times began in an airborn manner, literally.
Vino'd with Liz and Cheryl in Liz's garden (gardenia whiffs, memory of Victoria) and moved inside, sipping all the while.
Liz told us that her home was now sporting a new flop, a fancy TempurPedic mattress upstairs in the master/mistress chambers.
And, inspired by their advert about one being able to bounce upon the mattress's one side while not tipping over a wine glass on the other, Liz asked if we'd like to take the TempurPedic challenge - a bit like the NesTea plunge, YT believes.
Different action, same leap of faith.
So YT, being YT, positioned Cheryl's p&s cam atop a stack of books atop a vertical fan and set the timer and we three bounced merrily, not disturbing not one, not two, but THREE glasses of vino.
We made one, two images with the p&s with some minor adjustments made by YT of angle, placement of bedding.
Shot number three was perfection, save for the horizontal glass of vino that created a small puddle in the midwestern region of the flop.
Quick run for towels, headblower, the ginger lifting of mattress padding and voi-freakin'-là, no vino stank above the new foam aroma floating in the air.
And one great shot of the three of us to boot.
If Cheryl doesn't send the image soon YT will create her artist's rendering of the scene.

Scenic Love.

+ This just in.
Artistic rendering by YT.

I nearly thought I'd misheard the person on the (sprint v of the iPhone, which Yours Truly is finding still very irritating, like why doesn't it let me freakin' know who the caller on the ol' caller id is) cellie when he said that John Edwards (of $300 haircut fame, amongst other things) was stepping out on his dying wife to not only share his smarmy love, but to father a child.
Wow.
Just when You think you've just about imagined the depths that the human soul can plunge.
On a much lighter note, Elvis's peacock jumpsuit set a new higher Olympic-style bar by now being the most spendy thing that his skin ever rested upon.
YT still marvels at the gay French couple aboard the Lisa Marie (Elvis's plane parked at Graceland, who looked at the gold sink and muttered, together, Incroyable.)
YT more marveled at the king-sized bed, with its king-sized belt buckle across it.
Just spent most of this entire day in the car, and in churches.
A funeral.
A wedding.
Now onto vino in Liz's garden.
Incroyable indeed.

Indelible, always edible Love.

Here, for Your viewing pleasure to the max, is an image of Yours Truly made at historic, ghost-haunted (a ghost of headless variety, not like that dickless ghost - Peter Piccolo - who haunts 124 Elmwood Avenue where YT had her basement darkroom and who, like several others, was encountered/encumbered by PP on various occasions) Old Fort Niagara.
All sunny and brochured history in handy snippets. All the stone buildings assigned numbers.
Crabby soldiers in either British or French ensembles either ignoring, instructing, or crab-assing at the fort's visitors.
One fun fact gleaned the day of visit.
Only officers were able to have menu choices, with herbs grown inside the fort in gardens.
All others ate: peas, weak soup, salted pork.
A woman in the fort kitchen showed a sample of salted pork in a crock.
It was gray.
It did rather resemble the fondued duck that YT ate with niece and nephew at Melting Pot not too long ago.
We decided it's fundue, not fondue.
It was expensive, yet delicious, more complex than other fundues/fondues enjoyed in the past. It was in the G-Mall of the Middling City, a place as placeless as anything in Vegas. Anonymous, functional, delicious.
This image of YT shows me posing as a cowboy, inspired by the stockade fence.
The mercenaries onhand were oso similar to the cowboys of this great country's wild west and YT pays homage to these characters.
I am pretending to have a piece of hay, or a smoke of old historic twist in my mouth.
Below are images from a fortly window, its opening covered with not so muy authentico plexi, and an image of a lost Japanese tourist boy.
Inside YT encountered a French tourist girl who asked YT to make an image of her and as her camera's shutter was about to be deployed she splayed herself on an old historic chair.
Later YT would spot the girl approaching the ersatz trading post counter and hopping over it, setting off a screeching alarm.
YT did pet the wolf pelt onhand, on the counter, inside the historic old fort's first building, No. 12 in the brochure, for when does one ever have the chance to touch the pelt/fur of a wolf.

Wolf in Love's clothing, Love.

Nature, ever full of surprises, made a nice double rainbow after a series of cloudburst rainstorms this past Saturday in and around the Middling City.
Yours Truly was making spectacular images of a wedding day and suddenly word spread like non-virtual, tree-destroying wildfire, that there was a full-arc rainbow not to be missed.
YT, after making this image over South Buffalo (SoBo to some), asked the wedding party in tuxes, in green dresses, to stand over there. Pointing, underneath the arc.
This wedding happened in the Botanicus Gardenus, lest You cannot identify this flagpole and walkway.
As the guests dined YT wandered about the various galleries of the BG, rubbing a palm over various species of fern.
Heard a couple's mutterings as they sat inside the little green cabana of living plants.

Last night met up with a bunch of former co-workies at Mothers, the first time there in quite a long while. We all recalled a visit to the verysame one summer a while back when rats were approaching our table as if to beg for scraps.

Taking niece and nephew out for dinner tonight, a joint I've been curious about for some time. The venue is incidental, it's all about the familial hobnob.

Spent a small portion of today earlier at Old Fort Niagara, as if there's a newer one on the scene. Drove up with Kennedy and meandered about the grass, the stones, cobblestones. Asked a British soldier if they ever fire off true blue cannonballs.
He answered in the negative.
No cannonballs but they pack a solid aural punch.
Same soldier later showed off some faux artifacts, explaining that charcoal Sweetened the breath, polished the teeth, but wore off enamel five times faster than regular toothpaste.
And no minty flavour.

Cannonballs of Love.

As promised, here is Diana, in her new home.
In lieu of the basement of Albright-Knox Art Gallery (shamefully not on view) she is in a sunny gallery of The Met.
Liz stated last night that the sculpture is where it belongs.
I do agree that now the piece is seen and enjoyed and studied by many each day.
Sadly, though, it's no longer in the provenance of the Middling City.

Here are a few more images from The Shiney Apple.





Both go along with my street images series made there.
One is manmade artifacts on the streets, the other shows Nature burgeoning forth in spite of the urban landscape.

Last night spent a lovely hour or so with old friends in Polly's garden: Polly was there, of course. It was a bon voyage party for Anna, who leaves for grad school in San Diego. Roadtrip.
As I left the party I took Anna by the shoulders and imparted this traveler's blessing imparted upon Yours Truly as I was on one of many cross-country journeys.
Drive fast, take chances.
Anna believed it to be the best advice she'd received all evening.
I do also oftentimes heed the advice of Brucey: Watch out for people with pointy teeth.

Off to document some nuptials.

Driving, chancy Love.

Watching Werner Herzog's (sidebar: I adore this doc-making, serious, somehow still with sense of humour buried down deep German. Does anyone on the earth call Werner schatz. I wonder.) short film in several chapters about the burning Kuwaiti oil fields in 1991.
This is at New Museum on Bowery. Somehow this new joint has escaped the art strategies of Yours Truly - until now.
A nice Jamaican man downstairs didn't hassle me about my bag.
A far far cry from what transpired yesterday at The Whitney.
Where a small lady in the jacket made an executive decision to send me to the check-in centre.
I said What.
This bag is not as large as that bag that you just let in, or that lady's purse over there by the elevator, or that bag. (me pointing)
She was impassive.
I said This is discriminatory, you're making a snap decision (I liked that I tossed that in, somehow it made me internally glad of heart and reminded me of RonE's kooky Snap Judgment public access show whereby individuals rated a movie based solely on its title - I was on the show once, with Pahts) based on the material of this bag (backpack material), and how I'm dressed (shorts).
We had an impasse on both our hands.
I continued to argue, she continued to shriek.
I walked away and went to the desk and asked to speak to the Head of Security.
After about three minutes he appeared.
I said There's a laptop, Leica, passport, wallet in here and you don't want to be responsible for it.
He said I'll lock it in my office.
I said Look, this bag is smaller than several bags already inside. I'm not a member of the Whitney (a nice touch, I thought, honest) but I've been here several times with this very bag - without a hassle. I'll keep it in front of me. Why not watch me and make sure I don't bang into anything (I was on a minor tear). Why not walk with me through the museum and I'll show you bags that are larger than this one.
The man said Enjoy yourself, as he walked along with me towards the front door.
I thought that Yours Truly was being kicked out of the ultra-venerable Whitney.
It took me several moments to realize that YT was not in fact being kicked out but being chaperoned over to the officious ass working the door.
He said She's going in.
I thrust my ticket at her and kept walking.
She was then reprimanded by her boss.
Inside Paul McCarthy, Buckminster Fuller filled YT up with ideas, sopping up creative energy like a starvation victim at an all-you-can-eat sushi event.
Yesterday: Louise Bourgeois at Guggenheim, frickin' Frick action, and oso much more.
This is the Shiney Apple's Restaurant Week and experimentally put stock, faith, future hunger, and instinct into choice of IndoChine for last night's repast.
I shall be back and for that I am certain they are like so glad.
The oil fields of Kuwait burn and burn and it is time to continue the went through the New Museum, part of the Shiney Apple's ever-transformative urbanity.

Urban(e) Love.

Completely, utterly minding my own business I was confronted by Diana.
A phalanx (and when does one really ever get to use that vocab word, properly) of Met guards were blocking off a gallery of Greco-Roman works.
It was a Met spectacle that Yours Truly had truly never seen before. The imploring voices and gestures, yes, of the guards.
But a phalanx.
Never.
So YT, being herself, had to take a gander at the guards blocking, shoulder to shoulder, entrance - about ten of them.
I made an image of them.
Then I looked over their shoulders to see the former Middling City visitor, Diana with her stag.
In the center of the gallery there she charismatically IS, a dark bronze amid a gang of marble figures.
A stand-out.
As I made these images (and You will YT forgive as my card reader is like so on the other side of the state and therefore they cannot be viewed at this present time) another Met man appeared, obviously of a title more long and grave than the guards.
He was in a suit, more creds on his lapel.
He was beseeching that I leave and I said I'm from the Middling City and the Albright-Knox sold this at Sotheby's to you. (sic: a private collector purchased the work and it's on loan to the Met).
You should not have sold it, the man in the nice suit stated.
I then told him that roughly 50% of the MC was up in arms, about the community gathering/shouting match.
I tried to glance and remember his names but didn't have a chance.
Onwards into the Shiney Apple, ever loaded with visuals and stunning quotes like this one, heard in an institute of fine art viewing.
Woman: (unawares in full-on tourist mode, yelling, gesturing like a madwoman)
DOUG COME HERE AND LOOK AT THIS - IT'S FAMOUS.
Doug: (turns around, walks toward madwoman) Mmmmm.

Mmmmm, Love.

One curious image from Northampton.
You can see that NMA also exhibits the white skies of the Middling City.
Looked down the side of this building to see if this was an entrance for men, or a washroom (heading to Canada so am speaking Canadian this fine a.m.).

Enjoyed some front porch coffee action with a bunch of girls and invited men, speaking of such. Strong coffee, some laughter, a few early bird Garden Walkers clutching their maps and meandering by. Lisa and Gina both told tales and Yours Truly suggested that they march right on down to that Story Corp wagon/Airstream if it's still there.
Went on a very micro-Garden Walk with Laura later in the afternoon after a gig in the 'burbs and before viewing one of the nephew's new bands.
Laura believes that every day in the MC in late spring and summer is Garden Walk and to a bit of that I concur.
But it is an amazing feat that tens of thousands converge around the splendors of the combo platter that is gardening - Art plus Nature.

Going to Buckethead later this evening out where the nephew just performed.
And tomorrow it's off to the lovely, crisp, and tasty Shiney Apple for another bite.

Time to speak more Canadian.
Maple-coated Love.

Un fromage nouveau pour Yours Truly – St. Agur.
Incroyable.
Had this and a fab din at Chez Albert in Amherst, MA.
St. Agur is one of those pungent cave dwellers that is supposedly hard to find.
Yesterday went to MASS MoCA for the premier time and up on the walls and filling the former industrial spaces that did remind ever so much of Dia:Beacon was work by Jenny Holzer (whom YT met several years ago after motoring to her home in Hoosack Falls, NY), Joseph Beuys, Anselm Kiefer.
Lots of digvid on display which did, perhaps in a flashing pass, get YT to thinking about making some digvids again.
Wandered about the lush campus of Smith after discovering that their art gallery was closed. Saw a sycamore that looked like it was 300 years old, same as the Middling City's elder statestree that is now infused with meds and ready for its next century, if all goes well and the aquifier doesn't dry up below it and a drunk doesn't slam a car into it.
Northampton continues to amuse and is quite a rich topic for the Shiney Happy – I am here and enjoying whilst also working on a travel piece.
Was delighted to find an instant photo machine (a real one, not a revised version) that spits out the eggbomb strip of four vertical images on the second floor of one of my favorite sub-destinations in N.
Of course stuffed in the dollars (that was the machine's sole update), sat upon the stool after strategizing the frames, and kapop and kachink ... images. Just magic, as always.

Always magical, Love.

In historic ol' Northampton where the lezbos outnumber regular ladies 2:1, or that is what is reported.
There is a plethora of ethnic restos here that would be most welcome in the Middling City: Tibetan, Argentinian, Thai, Mex, Tex-Mex, and oso much more. Several vegetarian choices to boot and fine bakeries. There are none of that genre of eating estabs in the MC.
I have been scouting out arts and cultural attractions and will be driving to Mass MoCA tomorrow - a mere hour away.
Very excited about that.
Many more details to follow, bien sur.

Bien sure, Love.

Yesterday evening's Accidental Frame, the latest in the series.
Must state pronto that the first tune on Pandora's Oldies/Bubblegum station, Looking through the Eyes of Love by Keith Partridge (David Cassidy, of course) is a real eye-opener.
This song, on their Mondrian-looking release, completely sucks.
I cannot recall playing this vinyl on my little powder blue-colored record player, and I must have at least 500 times. Maybe more.
The record collection, all the Partridge Family l.p.'s, and an Elton John, were kept in a drawer along with a bunch of 45's (they were not called 7-inches in those days) that were purchased at the Sample's record shop - 2 for $1.
Next band equally sucks, time for another Pandora station and voilà here 'tis, in a supersonic flash.

This Accidental Image was made walking back to car parked near the doomed-to-wrecking-ball Aud after a Roswell benefit. And all Middling City denizens know a Roswell bennie is for the cancer institute, not for Area 51 in NM.
Saw a splendid array of people, including Kimmie & Tony who tell me they're coming up on Anniversary #9.
Kimmie and I, bien sur, had to regale ourselves with snippets from the evening of her bachelorette party, that Yours Truly planned.
I made her wear a wreath of flowers, org'd a bunch of ladies to meet at Thursday at the Square, acquired a huge amount of drink tix (which were put to use), had dinner at the defunct joint below the Tralf that was once Harlan's, and then onwards to Chippewa Street, as is mandatory for all bachelorettes within Middling City limits.
I had a somewhat-hired driver of sorts (read: The Ex) and wouldn't allow Kimmie to go home when we noted that Tony wasn't yet home. So off we went to another joint nearby, a place we'd never have gone in other circumstances.

As I walked along the SS Little Rock's deck (where the RPCI event happened) I said to another that it'd be great to yell down to pedestrians enjoying the park below AHOY MATEY for when does one ever have this utter op.

Made some nice dusky images of that portion of the waterfront.

Found this neatly-painted little torpedo on the deck.
Found the mechanical scent of the boats was nausea-inducing, the identical scent of amusement parks as one meanders for the next thrill.
Engine fumes + greased parts + warm air = green face of YT.

Love of all shades of green.

Molly Jarboe, from her lovely opening at Hart Gallery last Friday, an equally balmy Middling City evening.

Had a light sup with Brucy and Laura at Fiddleheads, where the three of us had not been to in ages, before skipping across Allen to Molly's art gathering.
Molly's work is black & white and lives in the realm of dreams, imaginings, and remembrances. It feels personal, but also universal.
Here is an image of Molly and BobB, who Yours Truly has known for eons and whom YT also worked with at AV.

BobB was on photodoc duty for Molly, snapping away making crowdshots.
Here is an image YT had Bob make of YT, Molly et al, we are (l. to r.):


Lisa, Joelle, Girl of the Hour, Laura, YT.

Today made some ports out in OP and of course had to get lost. This time due to a curious detour for the road that I needed. I did find the destination after a quick u-turn and after passing some horses made the ports.
Hired to board the SS Little Rock shortly to document the soirée hosted by Roswell Park Cancer Institute. Time to reapply the SPF3000.

And, finally, Nance's Helpful Hint #33:
When driving along life's highways avoid getting too near the following vehicles to avoid bad surprises: Cadillacs, Buick sedans, minivans, and pedestrians pulling smallish RVs upon which are no side mirrors. YT was nearly hit today by 2 of the above 4 on today's several highway jaunts.

No, now finally.
Was quite surprised to hear that a young person, namely YT's nephew, prefers the likes of McCain to Obama. His opinion is based upon the idea of experience, or lack thereof. His auntie could not have disagreed more. Thank goodness he cannot put his op into action for a few years. YT would have worked a bit harder to change his 16-year old mind.

Taking part in Shoot the Day on Sunday. Planning on non-planning, drifting Zenlike form place to place ... before and after a gig. This is a worldwide photogfest and all the images will be uploaded to a site. Details to follow for sure.

For sure Love, Love is a sure sure bet.

Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the way blasted from my answering machine, sung by Rio, Ron, Ace, and Lily after they received Nance's Christmas in July package of fun items. And sponge candy for Rio.
Originating from the Middling City, she has a deep love of sponge candy whereas her children, born down south, find it abhorrent.
This non-sponge candy devotion is curious to those raised on it.
Hiked vertically into Devil's Hole, or, rather, down into Niagara County's gorge to look across at Devil's Hole, yesterday with Kennedy.
We fun and outdoorsy committee members who voted, discussed, and debated about the bests in and around the MC came up with Devil's Hole for best daytrip/hike.
We emphasized in our discussion that one could perish doing so.
The rocks can be quite mossy and slippery and there are a few moments where one is leaning towards the wall of the gorge to avoid falling down into what's left of the hike.
We hiked along the coast as those silly boats zoomed continuously up the rapids to give ticketholders a thrill. Backwards on the bow is a worker, speaking to the crowd about the dangers they are coming face to face with as the boat's youthful captain either stalls out the engine to let the boat drift a ways sideways, or to crash into waves for full, splashing effect.
You walk along the coast from the vertical ending to the whirlpool which is more impressively viewed from above.
Kennedy and I hired a limo a few winters ago to take some musicians to the Falls and to the whirlpool (along with a stop at the gorgeside resto in Lewiston that is not The Silo) and that view was quite spectacular, it slowly churning counter clockwise - a phenom.

Yeterday, amongst other things, photographed h.s. girls taking virtual reality rollercoaster rides. Yours Truly stood behind on a stepstool and became quite woozy as I photographed four sets of girls and was watching the action through the lens.
Woozy I tell You.
My lifelong ride-centric wooziness not dispelled by lens, years, or virtual reality.

The Book plods along. And its images made by YT.
Have been making images here, there, everywhere.

On Sunday YT participates in Shoot the Day, a worldwide photo event with photogs making images for a day wherever they happen to be. All these images will be posted onto PhotoSheleter's site. This is all inspired, obviously, by the Life project of yore.

Speaking of pop mags, Time's story about Steve Kurtz was fairly unimpressive and the photo was just terrible. They used a grabby title about Big Bro eating 'za at one's pad and the photo, it seems, was meant to look as sensationalistic as the words meant to be.
Sent off my own take on the Kurtz story (a much-needed look at him as Artist, and what his artwork is actually about) to the Shiney Happy.

Parties and trips on the soon horizon.

Vertical, horizontal Love.

Just wrote back to PB who tells me he's off the road after several months touring - even to Brasil, he writes.
Now he's back in his art studio and, undoubtedly, getting antsy for the road again from his h.q. in Germany.
He called me schatz and I had to Google that, not sure if that meant cat, shit, or what. It's dear. Nice.
Today in NYT is a nice Q&A with Patti Smith.
Can You imagine the following Q being lobbed to Patti:
You seem to cultivate a kind of wild-child mystique, even in your appearance. For instance, why don’t you use hair conditioner?
Patti's reply:
I do use conditioner!
The impudence. I mean really, to ask Patti such an inane question.
Looking forward to the biopic about her forthcoming.
Nice rainy Middling City day, nice and green and the bennie planned by Yours Truly et al (Solid Gold Bookers) - Paws for Charlie - is rain or shine.
And what MC denizen can't handle a little rain after the winters weathered.
Philly Pal emailed me after receiving my press releasing email number two to inquire if Charlie is a boy or dog. Did Charlie need a dog, or did the dog dig too much and need paw replacement surgery I think he was asking. Good question and for the record Charlie is a boy. A human boy.
Today we're up against another dog-related benefit, and the MC's annual Taste Of event downtown. The latter is a surprisingly expensive event teeming with people meandering whilst balancing tiny paper plates of food.
Wonder if they have those chianti slushies. A photog pal turned me onto the joys of the chianti slushie, a bevvie obviously to be consumed only at a large-scale event such as this.

This past Thursday was an interesting confluence of activity, culminating in a disastrous dinner at a new dinner joint with pretension co-owned by a longtime acquaintance, and a late-night, after-hours haircut.
Perhaps it was the overpriced and sour dining experience that YT was into the idea of a cut by a champagne-sipping stylist just off work, hunkered down at the same Italian marble bar. Heady and I paid up, left with our half glasses of vino and headed next door to the salon.
Will try the restaurant again some time but they've been open for over a month, those awkward kinks should be long smoothed-out by now.
In a nutshell: salad with minimalistic toppings, cold pork roulade, followed by scorched and cold foie gras that smelled of eau de wet dog.

Onwards.

Last night attended Cynnie's b-day party at Blair et Monique's and arrived with gift despite a directive to do otherwise. A bottle of Lillet, a fav of Laura. Thought Cynnie might enjoy this, she'd never had it before.
At Frontier Liquor on ever-struggling Grant Street where you can always spot a crackhead or two staring ferally at passersby, discovered that 50% of their windows had been boarded up.
Inside was the usual display maze.
At checkout asked the people working what had happened.
A guy fell asleep at the wheel and arced his car into the windows, taking out $11K's worth of bottles. The man, panicked, left his beau asleep in the vehicle and fled. The police arrived as Frontier's alarms were sounding and awakened the man.
Now Frontier has to redesign their facade as their orange-red bricks are three decades old and obsolete.

Onwards again and over and out for now.

Red-orange Love.

Working, of freakin' course, on The Book and yesterday found images alongside Niagara River on the tip of Grand Island, where Israel might have been located.
The above image shows an inlet of marshlike proportions, where egrets, cranes, heron hang out on rocks and wade up to their knees in muck.
Off on the hazy horizon the Middling City is visible.
Yeterday's final gig was of a singing troupe of note.
Like the singers who appeared on the Lawrence Welk show, they wear matching attire.
The troupe's collective sense of humour was quite hilarious.
We had a photo shoot in a rather humid auditorium of a regional small private college and by the end Yours Truly was ready for a gallon of water.
One of the troupe's male members attempted to - or rather, did - tell an off-colour joke to the chagrin of every single person in the room.
He forged on towards the punchline, and it involved an ethnic group, a sex toy, and chipped teeth.
The entire front row groaned as he began this horrid joke, assuredly they had been treated to his jokiness before.
Today made ports of an anesthesiologist, and one of my set-ups was with a machine used in the 40s. Four valves, color-coded: helium, nitrous oxide, and I forget the others.
This did not assuage my fear of being put to sleep - in the human, not canine, sense.
Onwards to Jamie Lembeck's memorial service, Canada, and points above, below, and beyond.

Never ever beyond Love.

During yesterday's second gig, a political portrait making session in the midst of the Middling City's Japanese Gardens tucked behind the Historical Society and alongside the lake that was troublingly chartreuse, spotted these clover nestled up in a tree.
Nature, ever full of surprises.

Heard from KennethJ last night, who is still living in Amsterdam, NL after eight years. He, he tells me, is now a father. No word if he's still making art and music - yet.
I do still enjoy the piece I purchased from him, part of my arm/hand collection.
Not to be confused with my tree collection.

Readying for the Hallwalls members's show, always a fun exhib to be part of, it a mishmash of pieces straddling the theme.
This year's theme is an anagram of Barack Obama's name - Karma Cab Boa.
I tried to make another, better anagram of his name to no result.
Not sure if I'll be doing drawing or pixelpushing for this, maybe former.

Time to push onwards editing the ports made yesterday of a politico who I greatly enjoy talking to, a challenger.

Pushing Pixels, Love.

Last night's surprise fete was a treat, the 30th of Robert, thrown by Steve.
Arrived with bottle of champ (bien sur) in bejeweled gift bag and helped three others get things shaped into a party as we debagged 30 candles, cups, plates, balloons, mardi gras-style necklace for Robert, and more.
Following Steve's written instructions, hidden in his apartment, constructed the punch: 1 bottle of Sierra Mist (that kiddie bevvie that Yours Truly had never tried, in part due to its horrific name), some cranberry juice, some orange juice.
So I stepped back and looked at it, a strange orange-pink, bubbling.
I asked the other pre-party helpers if there was any booze. We searched the cabinets and finally found a bottle of good vodka. I dumped maybe a third of it into the punch asking Moriah Did Steve intend this punch to be non-alcoholic.
When a couple arrived I basically insisted that they try the punch.
In part to see if they got a wanging punch of vodka.
They did not.
YT added more vodka.
We hid in the kitchen.
Robert noted that some chairs had been moved and asked upon entering with Steve Hey what's going on, those chairs weren't there.
But he was surprised.
Really, really surprised.
I told Robert his Retaliation Party could happen in March, for Steve's b-day.
When I arrived at the apartment saw Roy & Sionen, Norman & Steve as the latter also live in the same building.
Ahh, the joys of life in the intertwined/interwined Middling City community.
Time to hit a front porch for a coffee gathering before the day's gigs.

Interwined Love.

+ this just in.
Merci beaucoup to NYT for writing up CocoRosie.
Create a Pandora station for same and You will be sans distress, swimming in a curious folkie galloping pool of musings.

Ta rah rah boom tee ay.
Sped off to Baird Point at the BigU's suburban campus to make some spectacular fireworks images last night, after Marty & Susan's exurban barbecue where, amongst others, spotted Bad Ronald, sundry musicians, a few dogs, an oenophile, a plowed field, children fascinated by firecrackers, serious fireworks exploding over a stand of trees beyond the field, and general revelry.
The BigU's spectacle, really that of the town of Amherst, draws thousands of watchers.
Annie and I saw a crescent of the various displays alongside the mighty Niagara and on various golf courses. The Indian's casino, ever cashing in on collective interests, allegedly blew off some f-works on their sovereign land alongside the cataracts, celebrating the development of the country that would go on to marginalize their entire culture, leading to the backlash of casinos and tax-free gas and cigs.
The Amherst spectacularity was wonderful and was only sullied by a curious mix of music that was booming from one point near the lake, deafening about 30% of the watchers.
Stepped over blanketeers to get various angles and this image is one of about a dozen of superkeepers.
Kennedy referred to this and a few others as being my Maxfield Parrish images.
I concurred, and here is an exemplary image for Your perusal and edification.

Compare, contrast, write a limerick or haiku in honour of both of these epinw images du jour.
Your post-holiday wrap-up homework assignment.
Oh, ate the year's first hotdog yesterday at M&S's, sans bun, of course.

Contrasting Love.

Nance's Rippin' Believe This or Not.
Outside, some ultra-locals are imbibing the day away.
Yours Truly spotted a couple of them hobbling back to their lair with a suitcase (as it's politely called up north of the Middling City) of Buds.
Now, they're way into their cups.
There is the crackling of a grill, the meager shade of a backyard vinyl umbrella.
YT just went outside to feed the cats, being the Official Old First Ward Cat Lady and all.
Now, here comes the Believe This or Not portion of this Perfect Indy-Day tale.
Loudly, the ultras are regaling each other with tales accidental, as in I was there and then suddenly a crash/boom/bang and then I was ... oneupmanship always happens in these circumspect circumstances, as We all know in this fair, Democratic and dwindling Superstar Power.
One of the ultras kept subbing the word hemorrhoid for hemorrhage, sans ironical lilt of any sort.
YT will, as Perfect luck has it, be in the Shiney Apple during Restaurant Week, that prix fixe fest for lunch or din.

Onwards to more present matters.

Jesse Helm is deceased, a hateful art hater and it's an interesting intellectual or, more precisely, metaphysical argument to bandy about just where he might be at this moment. If one believes in the afterlife. With all that negativity is he metaphysically south.
YT is about to launch a little slip of paper over to the ultras, with this hate/Helms talkpoint written upon it.

As indy-day motors on YT listens to one of her newbiefinds, Band of Horses, a delightful NWn indie band.

This image was spotted on in internet system today, paired with a story of the sale of Getty Images to a private investment group for over a bill.


Last night Jakob Dylan had his special aura, as did one of his bandmates, that roadblush upon them that makes the heart patter a bit and yearn for something ... bigger.
His gig was good, despite the people about who did not give a hoot (don't pollute) about the Dylan onstage, nor his bandmates - the ol' Gold Mountain Band, is that it.
I said to Annie that the show would have been oso much better in a small dark venue with a cool refreshing bevvie in hand.

Time to wend out to a weenie roast south of here and then f-works way north of here, for The Book. Ahh, The Book.

Bookish, Lovish Love.

It is Independence Day's Eve.
And bottle rockets have been blasting off in the Middling City's Historic Old First Ward for weeks.
And then there is the occasional explosion that sounds like perhaps a car has been bombed, or a building collapsed.
Happy to hear/see that the Livery on Jersey Street will be shelled and saved by Savarino. Now there's a potential headline for the MC News. Your Truly should probably proffer up her excellently Perfect alliteration.
Hoping to gather spectacular images of the BigU-sited f-works tomorrow night for The Big Book.
Time to fly off to map out the gallery where the Paws for Charlie bennie takes place on July 13th, a Sunday.
To make sure that the foodstuffs, the YT-created craft project, that the auction item tables, and La Marimba do not collide.
Afterwards, a fine all-girlie dindin extravaganza and then TATS for Dylan's kid's band. Have seen and photographed The Wallflowers a few times. They were harmless enough.
Read: dullsville.
But, as Mish says, that Jakob is easy on the eyes.
Plus open-air musique is oso jubilant.

Open, airy Love.

A True Confession.
To be filed under B, for Baking.
Yours Truly, avid this & that, including cook, cannot bake (usually) to save her Perfect self.
Well, certain things can be mustered/baked. And have been good.
But things involving yeast, doughs, seem to be a challenge to my terminally-degreed, photog, Type A, organized self.
Last night, for example, told Kennedy I'd try a new pizza dough (keyword: dough) and used some rice flour. And followed directions, for we all know that baking is just a thesaurus toss away from chemistry - as in the confusing world of chem class.
So, there was YT last night, following the Shiney Happy Mag Best Of meet-up at Hallwalls, whipping up a little dough (yeast product) for some gourmet pizza.
Or so YT thought.
No rising took place.
YT re-read the recipe via Epicurious.
Yup, 1 t salt, 2 c four, splash of this, and dash of whatever else.
Like I said, no rising.
Finally, just spread the play-doughish matter around the official peel and topped with primo ingredients and then jerked it, true gourmet style, atop the nicely-heated pizza stone.
Several moments later.
Lovely ingredients atop a sort of baked cookie dough yeasty crust.
No, there is one pizza dough recipe that YT has seemingly mastered - with olive oil, really like a nice focaccia dough.
Now YT wishes that she'd paid more attention to Pahts all those years ago whilst he was mastering all types of bread bakings.

Live and bakingly learn.

Yeasting, feasting Love.

Nature, Nature, Nature.
Here is some Nature in the center of the Middling City, in the winding-roaded Forest Lawn Cemetery, where Yours Truly learned to drive with Margie Maloney calmly (really) on the passenger side of things.
And where Yours Truly, during her salad days, would scout out lovely fresh flowers from a dumping area hidden near a hillock.
There is a photo of YT made during an Oscar Wilde in the 80s, to which YT brought in armloads of fresh flowers gleaned from FL.

In these FL images there are geese and ducks lolling around Mirror Lake.
Images were also made of a green heron resting on a nearby limb.
Someone yesterday told me that there are more heron sightings than usual, that they have moved more inland.
There was also a report of a heron dipping down to eat a coy out of a small backyard pond.
Now that takes not only aerial cojones, but deft imagining.

Deft, daring Love, Love.

To be doubly filed under Y.
For Yuck, and Yikes.
Made happy, memorial, and rolling images at this year's Ride for Roswell, as is the wont of Yours Truly.
Beginnings and ends, and the light rains rolled in twice.
After nearly every rider had crossed the Big Finish, went to the tent of a private client, not the BigU, which hosts R4R.
Walking with riding team to our designated team portrait site felt an arm gripping my upper arm, a gesture that instantly annoys, of course.
Turning, discovered the gripper was one of the Middling City (and its attendant suburbs) lead advertorial attorneys of a certain genre.
He informed me that he is still available for s.e.x.
This character has made such other strange verbal utterances to YT in the past.
YT believes it is just a matter of time before said attorney ends up in hot water for some such harassment elsewhere.
In the case of YT, a clipping email is probably in order. On second thought, this person should not have email access, so a printed note (sans return address, bien sur) is best.

Onwards.

Arose early this fine morn to deploy out into the world to make some more images of the BigU for the Big Book that is pending. And, hopefully, teeming with images that are inspiring.
One image this fine morn was one involving a heron hanging onto a branch, discreetly centermost of the frame that also included some water, some grass, some mysterious MC clouds.

Cloudy, rainy Love.

As Yours Truly (mais bien sur, still minding her very own beeswax after all this time, time squeezed of every last possibility like yesterday's lemon) firmly believes that all musical discs (as opposed to imagistic) should be judged by their Track 7's, she will zoom ahead to Coldplay's verysame, a tune entitled Viva La Vida.
Let us whirl it via iTunes.
Sounds a wee bit syncopatey, MOOGish, ahh, now the soothing voice of Chris.
Focusing now on strings, his lyrics.
Roll the dice, enemy eyes. O dear.
Held the key ... (YT is awful at picking up lyrics, a trait that has created much humour these many several years)
...
Noticed were what I wanted ... synthesized and multi-layered music.
Wicked and wild wind ... shadowed windows and sound of drums.
Alrighty, this will remain background musique for now to get to more important matters at hand.
Namely, the Big9/ToppermostsJudicious/Supremes voted 5-4 that our second amendment is to remain as is.
NYT featured an image of a protester holding this sentiment markered:
IF GUNS KILL PEOPLE DO PENS MISSPELL WORDS.
YT always appreciates a good slogan.

Sent in my moola to acquire a fine, limited-ed Obama superstar t.
They did not have a girl-cut t, and that is a demerit, in my Perfect and humble op.
OK, this Coldplay disc is really not wooing, yet.
Kennedy is quite happy to hear that Buckethead (GNR guitar god) is coming to the Middling City, to Club Infinity, where the prized Nephew has performed, where Freeland worked his dreamy rock wonders, where several others were captured by YT.
Tomorrow night hired to doc an onstage assemblage of rockstars during the downtown hoopla part of Homecoming Weekend.
We who have stayed in the MC already know its divergent and ragamuffin charms, but do enjoy basking in the affirmative attention of others from time to time.
All this as a new kitten rambles about outside the office door, the Natives build their large-scale gambling den in the midst of what should be a heritage district (assuredly leading to some struggling hardtimes for the remaining gin mills of yore who will be caught in this monstrosity's long, concrete shadow), and the storm clouds hover still.

Viva Luvva.

In quite possibly one of the worst headlines penned lately, Yours Truly just read on the epicurious site: Healthy Addictions: Granola Is the New Crack.
I will have to remember to tell that to the crack ho I saw staggering down the parking lane of Elmwood Avenue this past Saturday night as Annie and I decided to make our way north after not in fact seeing the swishy party that YT was not only invited to - but RSVP'd as an enthusiastic Oui to.
In my little FaceBook What'reYouUpTo YT mentioned that I wondered how long it'd take for me to become fluent in Japanese.
Whilst in Japan the first time YT did make a grand effort to learn some phraseology, some katakana, some hiragana, and could even write out first and last name - in katakana, a sound alphabet for mod/western words.
A handy thing when dropping off and picking up photo orders from the neighborhood photo lab.
So, Larry Deluxe read that YT wished to become fluent in Japanese and sent YT a handy list of phrases most moderne.
Mainly things relating to bodily, or gutteral matters.
In reply, YT sent him a YouTubed Domo Arigato Mister Roboto.
Really and truly a masterwork, when you consider it from a substantial, safe distance from the 80s that spawned it.
YT now wonders how we can get this number into the Solid Gold Bookers Rock Opera that we are considering writing/producing/performing at this year's Middling City Infringement Fest.
Our performative plate is oso full, but there is always room for a nice rendition of a Styx classic.

You're wondering who I am-machine or mannequin
With parts made in Japan, I am the modren man

Now, YT asks You. Is this not poetry.

Poetic, Modren Love.

The Middling City's eldest sycamore tree on Franklin near Virginia Street is ailing and maybe about to succumb to a fungus.
Yours Truly has made a few images of this tree over the years and owns a painting of the tree, purchased at one of the Paint the Town benefits for Buffalo and Erie County Historical Society years ago.
This was front-page MCNews news, as was a story about a femme who nearly perished after choking on a piece of kielbasa. I have to think that the reporter somehow relished this very MC fact. Not food, not a morsel of food, not a sandwich or sausage, but a kielbasa.
O so MC.
Thee eldest of all trees is in Delaware Park, a white oak, according to the same story. And I do believe it is the very tree where YT poses hundreds of bigU runners and walkers who are participating in Corporate Challenge.
Am I sincerely upset about the state of the second-oldest MC tree, You ask.
You bet your toppermost branches I am.

So, last night, amongst other activities, picked up Annie to bring her to a solstice fete on the west side, near the fabled Elmwood Village.
We were all gussied up and motored by. I thought things looked rather tame so we parked and then walked up to the property. Nothing. No swingin' high times.
Something, YT speculates, must have gone awry and things did not happen at all.
Looked at invite again, confirmed that we were in the correct city, on correct street, at appointed hour - to no party avail.
So off we continued to eat some fab Indian food and catch a little less than half of the gratis Sloan gig alongside the canal, at Gateway Park.
Soundman Mark let us stand under one of his protective tents and then Gary and Mish found us. Some high kicks, some shouts, some furious applause, some lightning, some torrential raindrops, some ending.
One encore song and then Sloan hit the highway; they were actually getting wet on the stage and YT did wonder if the band would be meeting a sparking, sputtering, electrical end. They did not.
This was the third time that I have seen Sloan with this trio of people. One time, one of the favs, had Nephew in tow.
That was also outdoors, at Thursday at the Square.

Square, electrical, tree Love.

Thought it was high time to share a recent favoured image, gleaned from an online image bank. I like how glowingly Obama appears alongside Kennedy. And this is, obviously, weeks before it was discovered that he has a brain tumor.
This was when the stumping gloves were on and both Obama and Clinton suspected they were the chosen nominee.
Technically, there could be a change in nominee. Until all delegates have pledged their support, and votes are tallied, there could be an unlikely change.
Hi refusal of public money for his campaign is honorable and the R's should also pledge to spare the public the financing of presidential campaigns. Obama has shown the power of online fundraising. And blah blah, an R pal said Oh, here he goes, showing his true colours already, changing his position and going against his (campaign financing) word. I wholeheartedly disagree.

Speaking of the high-flying world of finance, all is coming together for the benefit that I'm helping to coordinate - Paws for Charlie. I named the event, and You know what a fan I am of the homonym. So there You have it - Paws/Pause. Dig.
The event is 7.13.08 and money will be gathered together to purchase a companion dog for Charlie, a three-year old with autism, and will go toward funding programming for Buffalo Companion Animal Network.

Just ran to CEPA to finally pick up my Josh Marks piece. Unwrapped it and had forgotten what it looks like, how large it is. It will have to be shoehorned into the collection somehow. Back to the home office hovel spotted a resident of the Middling City's historic Old First Ward in a nearly-vintage NYNEX Premium Goods t-shirt, giveaways years ago. And, whilst marveling, thought There is no other MC neighborhood that has residents in these PG shirts. Recently, I spotted another resident in same. And I'm sure that these two separate individuals and PG shirt wearers are not sharing closet space.

Onwards.

Premium, Good Love.

Whilst wending this fine day bumped (visually) into Sue of ShoeFly fame, who handed me a flyer for her first-ever Stiletto Run. A .5K Stiletto Run to benefit Ovarian Cancer research this Saturday.
Yours Truly would just enjoy and love to engage in a Stiletto Run from Bidwell Parkway and Elmwood to the confines of ShoeFly but YT is ultra-overscheduled for that verysame day.
Here is a link to take you to Sue's Stiletto Run site.
The charity du jour - or, in actuality du mois - and members of SolidGoldBookers is Paws for Charlie.
YT designed the fetching logo and made the blog for the bennie.
Read it, love it, attend it.
How is that for primo adspeak.
Today I made the executive decision to use my old standby, VistaPrint, to create some nearly-free tix for P4C. 500 tix for approximately $16 - You can't beat that with a stick.
Someone a long time ago turned me on to VistaPrint so I do the same at twists and turns when I hear that someone needs something to promote themselves.
Today's Middling City News lead off with (yes, a sobering photo of the casket of Tim Russert) a sordid tale of yet another teacher who's jumped off the Sanity Wagon and is in - or was in - hottest pursuit of a teen. In this case it's a femme forgetting hubby and kids to lust after high school boy. Perhaps, like Diana, hunting for that X Factor of her own teen desire.
Found yet another kitten, but this one is a very new vintage.
Black and white.
Some motor oil on right side of his body.
Fed him, of course.
Named him, of course.
Heady gave me a cat carrier so I can trap the little newbie and bring him to City Creatures for some medical attention, adjustments, and removal of oil.
His name, You ask.
Castro, of course.

Feline, synonymic Love.

Moments ago, minding my own freelancer's business, received a nice email from Al. Al, apparently, is really not running. For president, or for health's sake.
Al is giving the big thumb's up to Obama.
YT, thrilled, gave a little bit more moola to the Obama campaign, despite the fact that I did not get the go-ahead to dine with Obama a few months back.
As I told CatherineP at our teadate this fine a.m., I should have been more failing-rust-bucket-town-edgy.
Today, about 1 p.m., Yours Truly witnessed a classic End of the World Sky with dark gray clouds to the north.
YT contacted her northerly contacts to learn if they'd been barraged by storms, hailballs, furballs, or a blizzard.
Amherst Contact wrote back that she had to park under an overpass to avoid golf balls falling from the sky, that the leaves out there were snapped off of trees.
That cars have divots.
The Middling City avoided this weather drama.
YT in a few hours will be hitting the stage of Irish Classical Theatre Company to read a portion of Ulysses as it is once again BloomsDay.
James Joyce, like Samuel Beckett, denounced the constrictions of Ireland and headed to more Liberal Lands.
The Middling City Mayor is calling for a Turn Your Back on the Pump Day to ... stick it to the man. To stick it to the conglomerates. To stick it to the local businessowner already hanging on by an overtaxed thread.

Still, Al, Love.

Very sad to hear that this afternoon Middling City native Tim Russert collapsed at his gig and passed away.
Was trolling through my mental archive to recall what images I made of him and they're coming in a bit more vividly - a wildly crowded reception for him when he was a Distinguished Speaker at the BigU.
Affable, flushed, lots of guffaws and slaps on the back, and stopped to sign every item that fans wanted autographed. Much like equally-affable, equally-shaped Michael Moore when he was at the BigU for his own Distinguished Speaker trip.
Watched the Steve Kurtz big screen release Strange Culture after yet another marathon day that included freelance gigs, a wake, a memorial service, a stop at a coffee joint mid-afternoon, the munching of an excellent maple cookie from Quaker Bonnet, and oso much more.
Before film watching dined at DiGiulio's and saw both Sandy and Deanna from the elementary days.
Pre-DiGiulio's motored out to Botanicus Gardenus to see their wonderful new exhibits in honour of The Everglades, and The Rainforest. More orchids at the viewing venue, more bromeliads, more big palms, more statuesque grasses. Just lovely. Afterwards, a brief look at the works of Roland Wise, another person no longer in this sphere photographed by YT at several arts events. He studied at Art Students League, where Brucey also gleaned some fun facts about making & doing.
Yours Truly began today with laptop working and then documentation of the high school graduation at the private school on the rolling and perfectly picturesque parcel.
After that ran for some healthbev and ran into Victor (also from elementary days) in Snyder - as I told him, I do not seem to ever go to Snyder and its juicebar without seeing Victor.
What is trad about high school graduations? Nearly same for the next level of graduating.
Apprehension, cockiness, flowers, parents and other relatives who are somewhat displaced. Some live music, school songs, incantations for all good wishes.
Today, as the headmaster sent out a love-packed adieu to the grads-in-making a large branch snapped off of a nearby tree with a huge crack.
Nature was adding itself to the program.

Nature, ever on the program, like it or not, notice it or not.
Today, I stopped to look at a departed bumble bee, fat, on its side.

Bombus Fervidus Love.

Yours Truly was minding her own freakin' business.
And she was at the inner-city gas station/deli/icecream stand/car wash to glean some over-priced, governmental and inter-nationally taxed and gouged out the wazoo gasoline.
At the pump in the shade YT looked up to see a man in his 60s at his own temporary pump.
High, he said.
YT, ever having problems with homonyms, having shot a plethora of rock concerts in her lifetime, heard Hi.
Hi, YT semi-shouted back at the man at his own temporary pump.
To his quizzical look.
Oh, he stated, kind of looking the direction of YT, I meant High, as in the prices.
Oh, YT stated, I thought you were saying Hi.
Glancing at his vanity plate, YT asked him if his name was indeed the name on the plate.
He did not see YT first looking at his plate before the question so he was amazed that YT quite possibly knew him.
Your plate, YT said, pointing.
There was a great degree of confusion at that inner-city gas emporium, the very same joint where YT was able to purchase sustenance after the October Surprise Storm: cheese, coffee (limited - only 1 tall/customer ... rations!), and water.

Tonight, as YT left a gig a chef pal and another asked What, You are leaving without some cheese, we have cheese put aside for you.
This type of conversational thread makes YT oso gleeful.
Nearby a dog snores.
Nearby another peony blooms and lets off an amazing scent ready for a good, deep sniff.

Good, deep Love.

Beginning of blogpost and Pandora spits out NYC by Interpol.
One of those serendipitous moments (today) that confirms I am living in Everything's Perfect in Nancy's World – the movie.
flashback moment: (heart aching, memory ridden of any negative spin on the following) Writing a brilliant term paper for intellectual property law course at Parsons in Shiney Apple sitting in (somewhat lame-assed) library at Parsons (in photo building, not the other across Fifth) as I had this very song on repeat, peat, and repeat for hours.
I have done this repeat of NYC on a few other occasions. Also with song Blue Thunder by Galaxie 500.
Today has been a most curious day, emotionally and visually.
A moving truck the size of Delaware – State of – was parked across the Kennedy driveway and had to shoehorn around it to leave to visit an ill pal of Yours Truly.
En route to visit spotted a woman in throes of meltdown running down Delaware Avenue S-curves, occasionally throwing her arms in the air and waving them (like she just don't care). She'd run a way, wave her arms for a bit.
Followed a fleet of emergency vehicles to lo and behold corner of Del and Forest where an accident had just transpired. And, whew!, YT was not involved.
Took long while to pass as everyone had to have a long look to analyze the situ, what in the media biz is called The Rubbernecking Effect.
Photographed Steve Kurtz at his show Seized at Hallwalls: toppermost and belowermost.


Federal agents left behind 30 pizza boxes for three days of seizing, snooping, and the like.
Wondered how none of those lemmings spoke up with a craving for Chinese, Greek, something less ... 2-D to eat.
Time to make and do, and wend and deliver bushels of pixel happiness.

Bushels of Love.