O Mighty Rock & Roll Power in the Universe/god please let my head soon feel it's part of my body and I'll never ask for another favour as long as I live.
(Yesterday's prayer after two meetings, a brunch date and six somewhat accidental gallons of coffee)

Met up later yesterday with a former lover and his wife of several years, also a friend. This would be the wealty technocrat who once said We can't get married, we're too much alike. To which I concurred and said Could you imagine the two of us trying to hang our art collection in the house - YIKES.
So we had dinner, some laughs and I sped off to shoot that twerpy Avril Lavigne and me and the Boy Collegues had to wait a good near hour and in the interim was much jostling about.
Dave puffing on his soggy cigar, wee baby shooter Marc (a mere 16! I said to him at Fleetwood Mac Jeeez, I thought you were from Rochester... and 21!), Lead Boy Colleague (in sandals. ?), Gary (who we now all refer to as PhotoGar (as in his AOL address), Charlie (ever-smiley), Ryan (who Lead Boy Colleague called to say Ummmm, you have a photo pass here and then he made it in 20 minutes flat... sans film so a-borrowin' he had to go), Pete and a few other occasionals. Two songs and we were out. Jesse from the venue offered us (as well as the tv guys) wristbands to stay and watch the show on the floor. His wristband offer was met with a deafening silence. Then one tv guy said Well, can I take it and use it for another show? Our collective thoughts exactly.
Inside the gig I turned to Charlie and said Look at this sea of little white faces. He added Little white girl faces. I dig looking at the signs that the girlies make spouting from their hearts their burgeoning rock and roll love.
These signs always feature bubble letters and sparkles.
Question: Can their be girlhoods without sparkles?
Answer: Was it a shock to you that the ol' Poopie Pope had Parkinson's, the affliction of my beloved Janet Reno?
Signs of love, sprinkled with sparkly farty effusions.

One word springs to mind when I think of last evening's Fleetwood Mac show:
t - h - o - r - a - z - i - n - e,
or whatever the hell it was that one of my former neighbors on Putnam Street (my special name for him = Hosey for the pantyhose he wore on his head, rather, a part of the hose on his head, sometimes - no lie! - with the cotton crotch floating on the back of his head as he made his way to and fro to and fro from his halfway home two doors down to the small mom and pop bodega where he walked back walked back walked back with a few candy bars balanced atop a can of Pepsi.) took every day.
Stevie Nicks displayed such anti-Stevie Nicks edgy freaky earth bitch energy and I noted, through Lead Boy Colleague's big ol' lens, that she was not even making the connection between her manicured hand and the tambourine. A ruse.
The others were doing their jobs. The crowd glass was half-full.
I had more fun and witnessed more stagely enthusiasm later at Mohawk Place watching banjo masters and folk soloists with Doug.
And, unlike Fleetwood Mac, those musicians did not make the press stand about half a mile away to shoot their likenesses, to steal their souls.
Off for more more more.

Thee only bad thing about last evening's Steve Earle gig was his lame-o attempt at a combover. Shouldn't such a perfectionist with off-stage guitar tech with a Kentucky Waterfall to beat the band (a mullet to those of you in the Middling City), exemplary songwriting and just the proper mix of balladry and intersong political banter be able to swoop the last remnant of headtop hair in a better way? Just a thought. Trying to lure one of my boy colleagues, Marky, into the Earle fold, as he's missing something I know he'll be digging.
Approached stage from the left side and, as I made proper media ok's previously, attempted to take my spot in the mini-pit, next to the other guitarist's guitar tech (and I've never seen one work this hard, in addition to non-stop tuning of about 10 he slargled a Rolling Rock, smoked, jumped onstage to play guitar and for one song, a synthesizer), when I was stopped by a ball of security flesh.
Badass: Where do you think YOU are going?
Me: Over there (pointing at Steve Earle's beat-to-crap cowboy boots)
Badass: No, YOU are NOT.
Me: Well, the promoter said it was ok.
Badass: Well, he's right over here and I'll ask him.
Me: (internally) you do that, fattie.
Badass: Go right ahead.
So about half an hour into the show I ask him
Me: So what should I call you besides Badass?
Badass: Excuse me?
Me: WHAT SHOULD I CALL YOU BESIDES BADASS?
Badass: I'm a Dynamic Bouncing Technician. Nick.
(joy! at ever discovering hidden comic talent)
So it turns out this Nick/Badass is not only a security guy but a Harley tech, a body tech (masseur) as well as a former Teamster and pipe-fitter. I find him fascinating.
On the other side of me was a goofball Canadian (no Kentucky Waterfall/Hockey Hair) who holds blues concerts in his living room in Barrie, Ontario.
For someone who claims the role of promoter he didn't know a thang about shows.
He had that wide-eyed Canadian charm, that interesing sonic attack of all things vowel (and, as always, apologies to dear Canadian pal Georgie-san) but he didn't understand via my body language that at some point I was no longer interested in explaining the Middling City music scene to him when Steve Earle was in the room - and that, given a choice, I'd rather speak to a squat polymath who could fix my body, sweat my pipes and repair my Harley, should I ever acquire one in a foolish midlife purchasing frenzy.
Love.

Sort of an Ani swagger parade is how I'd describe the Ani cd just left in my possession by Lead Boy Colleague. Guess I paid scarce attention to the release of Evolve and I'm digging the moth illustration on the cover. Jazzy. Onwards.
Best music news of late is the appearance tomorrow night of Steve Earle. His sister Stacey has hunkered down on Middling City stages here and there and now it's time for the best Earle of all. A blow your head off and switchblade yer heart extravaganza to be sure.
Next night, that'd be Thursday to yous not always working within linear timetables, is Fleetwood Mac and I'm feeling fairly sure that that'll not be as adrenalizing as Earle, or their last MC gig when that whole hoopla surrounded them when they drug their collective asses out of near-obscurity to hit the highway. All, really, thanks to past prez Bill Clinton and his inaugural Don't Stop...
My new school, New School U's Parsons School O'Design, is so discombobulated as they've lost and resent a few forms which is a real head-scratcher.
I tell you what:
yesterday had to break into my residence not once but freakin' TWICE. Doorknob lock went all kaflooey and dragged a ladder to the back of the house, broke a second floor window, set off home alarm (never thinking to unalarm) and then jimmyed (when the hell do you get to use this excellent verb?) the door off its hinges while bleeding up and down the wall out of a finger. Very evenly spaced and I've already pointed this out to four, I think unimpressed, others. So also while I'm bleeding and jimmying I'm on the phone with a man from Total Safety:
Me: what do you mean you can't find me in your computers? I pay my bills to you every month.
Him: I'm sorry but I don't see you... can you get to your keypad? It's rather difficult to hear you.
Me: BECAUSE MY ALARM IS GOING OFF. I guess you can't help me, GOODBYE.
About an hour later, after the cops came and went, I realized that I have Brinks, not Total Safety.
So same thing happened - unbelievably! - three hours later after I thought I fixed the prob. Turned alarm off, no cops, no jimmying. New doorknob.
All's swell that ends swell.

Yesterday, whilst reading a cookbook as I sat in my car and figuring out my paella strategy for today, I inadvertently, upon the passenger side, let loose my car keys. After shooting a wedding in a small town, and then trying to get into the car, I realized the tragic turn of luck. Hitched a ride with wedding people to a country club, hobnobbing with their bitchy limo driver the entire way. He was driving a near-classic limo like a yacht.
Him: This family never tips me, I drive the aunts around, the mother of the groom around, and they are all loaded. No tips, I'm like a waitress, I work for minimum wage. GRRRR, etc.
Me: (thinking) get a-no-th-er j.o.b.
So I'm grabbing his big subliminal hint that for helping me I should grease his craggly palm. I did - for the rides to & fro and for hanging onto my cell phone as I shot more wedding moments, alerting my photographic self when AAA was en route. More kvetching from Mr. Limo. We arrived at my car and the guy in the towtruck said Your car doors are already open. Handed tip to Mr. Cranky. Had a stress smoke on way back to club. Accidentally melted a grand and gaping hole into an article of clothing in the back seat - glad the little ember didn't hit the old newspapers archived vehicularly. Imagine someone making an announcement during the wedding reception thusly:
Would the asshole who parked right next to the building please rush out to your vehicle, it's engulfed in flames!
Conflagration follows me.
As do high rockstar times and minor misdemeanors.

They found one! They found one!
Listening to NPR learnt that those wily rascals in Iraq located one of those trucks-cum-chem-labs that Colin Powell lectured about a while back to the UN, who didn't buy his tale for one second.
Haven't heard back yet from my French family, who I assured that I (and all my friends and acquaintances, as far as I know) completely agree with their princely prez.
Countdown to studenthood and this is your mission: please send me some cash (what you can muster), some pink pearl erasers, some ear plugs, some cd's of your choosing and other sundry office supplies. As well as giftcards to Starbucks. As Jason so wisely observed, NYC (believe this or not) is short on mom-n-pop coffee joints so it's Starbucks... not a bad thing. It was whilst sitting in a lower Man. *BX (a stone's toss from Ground Z) that I am, I think, addicted to the bean. Could be worse. I was waiting for Jason and Dorota to unsubmerge from Century 21 with bargoons galore as I sipped and sipped.
On the hi-fi is Flaming Lips' excellent cover of Shakira's Can't Get You Out of My Head = sublime.
Your homework assignment: purchase the Lips' ep Fight Test.
Over and out and over and over.
Love of springtime flailing prehistoric millipedes who offer up domestic *surprise*.

Pearl Jam Friday night so captured my imagination (post-soul stealing of them by Yours Truly) that I was inspired to purchase their hi-end 100% polyester soccer jersey-style concert t with large embroidered P and J on either side of a lightning bolt = BOSS.
They dedicated Given to Fly to Vinnie Gallo.
Last night's Dave Davies (puffy, badly dressed) gig left me feeling Am I missing something here? Approached the exit and saw two cronies who had the similar feeling - one of them felt like she was seeing a former superstar on a county fair stage.

My aunts are an endangered species, another went the way of the Great Plumed Spotted Heron, indigenous to the Middling City's Historic Old First Ward, this morn. My mother sat with the body of Vivian until the deathly authorities arrived. My mother asked if I'd read something and I said Nothing biblical, I'll read something I find or write, but, really, nothing biblical.
Tonight is Pearl Jam and a lovely named Tom of Epic sent me two tix for the pc extravaganza. Beforehand an appearance at an opening of my work et al and afterwards (here comes the best best part) an absinthe party.
Behold! The green fairy has arrived! I should be muttering uttering at about 11PM.
Green winged love.

Say what?
Ministry last night, as Security Paul pointed out, had turned on a row of Marshalls stacks - photog ear level. Got there with 20 minutes to go and Al (that would be Jourgenson) came onstage with a bottle of red wine in one hand and a cigar in the other. Shooting around his goofball monstrosity of a mic stand was a challenge to be sure but got some excellent, unguarded moments.
Was on the sidewalk in front of the venue, on a stretch of desolate Niagara Falls, NY Main Street, when suddenly there was a commotion and the promoter said Ohhh, our first ejection of the evening.
The ejection was a younger guy, face half bloody, shirt all mangled who was in a mild state of shock. Apparently he was minding his own business (hmmm) and then a security guy grabbed him by the throat and klocked him in the eye. As more mayhem was approaching in the form of screams and the sound of shoving people I looked at the promoter and the head of security and said Well, it's time for Nancy to check out.
Afterwards went to see a Baby Rock Star pal, Roger, in his second acoustic and post-Last Conservative gig at Mohawk Place. His former leader, TJ, apparently on the fast track to becoming a supreme lush announced that he was drunk again and was obviously a bit injured at Roger's solo endeavour - a primo one. Roger ran out of his material so did a few Dylan covers. Talked a while with MZ, Favored Baby Rock Star, and Tyler and Tyler and I hashed over our favored Patti Smith concert vignettes.
After enduring the ineptitude of JetBlue Productions this post-flight/rockstar night was purrr-fect.
Onwards to business.

Blogging at an internet cafe on WB'way at Human Epicenter despite the fact that my skewel - PSD - offers me this at a greatly (read: FREE) reduced price. I was seduced by flowering bulbs, stretching ivy and this joint off all that.
Met for coffee one of my new schoolmates, Margaret, and had a grand time exchanging SoWhyAreYOUDoingThis tales and compared theoretical/practical notes on making art.
Met a few of the others before and after the Duane Michals chat-up at Parsons Monday night where I had Justy meet me for some erudition and then some macrobiotic fare and organic wine (Justin, looking up from dinner plate, sort of a punished look on face: Uhhh, Nance, why are we eating seaweed? Me: Because I was scouting out locations for food near Parsons. Justin: Oh).
Apparently insulted Michals, who I've seen before, in the Middling City, by asking him about (god fucking help me!) his EQUIPMENT, specifically, lighting.
This derailed his charming queenly self-musing and he said Oh... what do you want to know that for? Then I think he realized that not only was his talk underwritten by Canon (with reps in row #1) but that he was speaking to assembled students. My questions was Do you strive to shoot in available light and if not do you always try to light things to look like available light?
egads
So then after some verbal song and dance he said Four Toto (hot) lights with umbrellas.
Speaking of equipment went to Photo Mecca/B&H yesterday afternoon and wandered about in equipment reverie, stopping to talk to Mr. Lighting and I had this crashing realization:
If in NYC and looking for a beau all a person needs to do is wander into B&H with inquisition in one's mind and heart and voi-fuckin-la you'll have a steady. It's a theory anyway. I've been in there how many times and have had guys ask me out and not only that but to freelance for them, at them. I think there's a story in there, maybe even a haiku.
Well, back to my poetic enhanced NYC walking regimen before meeting up with Dorota.
Then back to Middling City via Hellways Airlines (Jet Blue).
Note to self: no matter how large the voucher USAir is always the way to go.
Love of travel,
Your favored and special Nancy.

Patti.
Smith.
Rocks.
And will forever be hipper than all of us.
Friday night was the Patti & Ralph Show with both of them doing their respective thing (her = activist music, him = marathon activism) in a gymnasium to a surprisingly not huge crowd. She was stupendous (and, thanks to Doug and I of Janet Reno Fan Club fame we got everyone sitting stupefied up and dancing, after I catapulted myself through a few people and misjudged the distance and leveled both Doug and I think a chair as well as Your Fav Nancy) although I realized at her gig last night she was totally saving her shamanistic powers for Saturday, last night, at Sphere, where, she said, she was to do her Legendary show.
Three hours of her and men in very great shoes/the band. Including Oliver, a young and handsome swain perhaps half her age, her Man.
Observations:
1. Stipe, as he's stated his own self, owes much of his art to Patti Smith.
2. PS spits like a champ with real punk rock verve.
3. PS has no fat cells within her body.
4. Backstage talking to her I was shocked/stunned that her eyes are Marty Feldman-esque.
5. Backstage talking to her I was realizing that she doesn't quite know what to do with herself offstage.
During her gig last night I shuttled myself down to the front, elevated side and was thankfully surrounded by rock star boys who said nothing to annoy me at this momentous affair but who I shared rock observations with. At the Friday gig I sat most of the time next to Baby Boy Colleague which was fun.
After last night Patti went and met others at The Butchies at Mohawk Place and they surprisingly rocked as lezbo couples danced about. I saw a girl I wanted to model for me at one point and realized that nope, she doesn't have enought X factor.
The Butchies' drummer directed the question What... do you have SARS at me when I had a sneezing fit after chomping down on some German blow-your-fuckin-head-off menthol/mint gum. I shouted NO, it's mint gum and she said Oh, I have that problem, let me see if it makes ME sneeze. So up to the stage I went and gave her a piece of this German stick of dynamite. She said I'm pretty keyed up so it might not work.
Chew.
Chew.
Chew.
Nothing. She asked her bandmates to confirm that she gets the mint sneezies and they said Yup. So back to rock. Eric dug them so much that Jen bought him a shirt, a wise rock apparel decision.
All for now and over and out.

To mildly put it Andrew WK last night, playing at Middling City College's Spring Fest, was r-i-p-e, just the way he wants to be. Dirty white t-shirt, dirty white jeans and new white sneaks. Shooting from the pit I kept smelling something and realized it was him. Other than the aromatic category he looked hot. I nearly missed his spit, or vice versa, and was at one point entangled in his mic cord. The other bands, The Used and a regional hip-hop operation, One World Tribe, were good but did not approach WK's hype machine. After their set I talked with WK's bass player and asked if they were working on the second cd. He sort of looked at me for a while and then said, Well, Andrew is playing all the instruments and doing all the vocals. I actually have two other band projects that I'm working with.
So this is merely a touring band. And one of the crew pointed out, as we stood stageside, that Andrew WK and pals were playing along to a DAT. I was dubious until he pointed out that there were ghostly keyboard parts happening and Andrew was center stage brandishing his mic in his manic salutatory, repetitive sign o'the cross manner.
Tonight is Patti Smith. This might be the only other rock star in front of which I might be starstruck. I really cannot recall who was the first so maybe this is false - SHE is the sole rock star that may leave me starstricken. PJ Harvey did not do so, though her Jimmy Choo shoes made me a bit jealous.
All for now and over and out.

Big news yesterday was that some Americanos discovered suicide jackets in Iraq and all I could think was What a great band name.
Fav Middling City band is imploding, or exploding, depending upon how one fixes one's gaze to musical matters - both the guitar star and drummer of Last Conservative stepped off, Roger for creative diffs and Jeff because he would prefer not to tour. Not tour and in a band? Kiss your self-respect and prospects au revoir.
Monday I jet back into the Broome Street galaxy of Dorota for a few moments to schmooze my schoolies at Parsons and to hear ol' craggly ass Duane Michals who exhibits an enormous amount of that special X factor that makes us photographers amongst the most special people who walk about: resourcefulness. Michals shits resourcefulness, pragmatism and that Can-Do-ness that is infectious. Geez, I hope not infectious with all this SARS paranoia. Not so far from the Middling City Toronto is QUARANTINED for god's freakin' sakes.
And a few weeks ago Laura asked me if I thought it was worth the risk to shoot up their for some rock and roll and I put on my most Disdainful/Fuck-the-Establishment posture and said, Of course.
Wait a second, I have not changed my mind.
SARS, SIDS, AIDS, SCABIES.
I am seeing a pattern, all these pestilences have s's, they make a snakey sound.
You can take the girl out of the English major but you can't take the English major out of the girl.
Power to the People, right on.
Speaking of such: I have waited my entire LIFE to see Patti Smith and I get to shoot her twice this week - time #1 with Nalph Rader at a patchouli fest and the following night at a proper joint.
Love.

Minding my own business I was at my last Dyngus Day stop at the Adam Miskiewicziczicziewiczskiiewcz Library and then Krupnik started flowing like the waters out of squirt guns.
Also minding my own business I was talking in a corner to CG when a guy started squirting me in the face and I began swatting him hard in the ass and environs. Turns out he's an off-duty cop and shows us his piece. Just then an acquaintance who works at City Hall moseys over and the off-duty cop starts patronizing the little City Hall guy and then I point out the off-duty guy's piece in his belt, next to his Dyngus-worthy squirt gun. The little City Hall man says this, to the amazement of CG and I:
What are you fucking nuts, you're off-duty, drunk and carrying a gun? (he's moving aside the jacket of the off-duty cop to see his name emblazoned as he's dialing his cell phone)
CG and I are watching over the minor anti-Dyngus melee (well I did offer up the Hey, HOLD ON A MINUTE HERE GUYS, THIS IS DYNGUS DAY) to no avail so then the off-duty cop runs out after the man making the call to the other authorities and I wander out, too to make sure that the little City Hall guy doesn't get his ass whooped.
Despite that legal entanglement all was delightful chaos with pussy willows brandished, krupnik gulped and water pistols asquirted and new pals and enemies made.
Holiday love and mayhem.

OK, so my Good Friday greeting card scheme never panned out.
Happy Good Friday!
-or-
Remember! No Meat! Good Friday! (the tri-fold)
failed to capture the collective Christian imagination.
Living in the vicinity of a Middling City Polish bakery one cannot forget annually that from 1-3PM the hardcore and zealous do not speak! Do not shop! Do not a thing!
Then they queue up outside the bakery door, somber, like the joy has been drained from their forms, so long a line that they block my driveway and, invariably, I'm in a special super rush and one of the somber has left a shitty American sedan in my drive and I must get out and push through the line to yell this special annual Good Friday greeting in my best and richest Episcopalean Church Choir/Diocese-trained alto:
Whomever is in my driveway will roast in the conflagration of Hades for all of Eternity much like they've eaten a Middling City Sahlen's hotdog - displeasing God and his cohorts all the while.
Off to write poetry, nay, to fine tune my pomes, for a marathon poetry reading in 9 days or so.
The Resurrection of Baby Poet.
Post of words from my irreverent post.

Monday = Dyngus Day... yahoo.
Dyngus Day is when it's absolutely okay to whack complete strangers/men usually with pussy willow branches. And in turn these strangers squirt all the ladies in the house with super soakers (actually most joints allow none of those any more) or squirt guns. Recalling a few years back when I loaded my squirt gun with cheapo vodka and fired into the mouths of strangers and new acquaintances.
Yesterday went with Lead Boy Colleague to Middling City's famed Broadway Market and for a Wednesday avant Easter it was fairly crowded with those tooling around to buy their butter lambs, fat sausages, plants, buckets of candies, pre-decorated eggs. Shot from the hip which is always a gas - wide angle at the ready, everything preset and then the funnest thing of all, floating invisible amongst the unsuspects.
Bought $7.50 worth of pussy willow branches which is a heavy armload of them - three bunches. The hardcore vendor/carnie/haggler wouldn't cut me a break. After leaving the B'Way Market, and back on the sad east side street I wound up and gave Lead Boy Colleague a good whack on the behind area, sending those tiny gray kittens shooting all over the place.
After that we went to GiGi's Soul Food joint, my idea. Note to self: GiGi's makes the best tuna fish sandwiches in the world.
Soul Love.

Fired off, armed with caffeinated recollections (exhumed from as far back as fourth grade) and très dusty Compact French Dictionary, an Easter card to ma famille Française. They might write back that I've made a hopeless hash of their mother tongue, that I might think of practicing a bit before tossing malapropisms across the universe. They wrote to me and I responded via the French Yahoo site link: I chose a template incorporating an odd face made from a coconut with a ribbon about the head. I think it was an Aunt Jemima-esque Easter coconut and it'd never fly in the USofA.
I assured my French family that I agree(d) with Chirac, as do most of the people I know.
Mais maintenant la guerre pour pétrole est fini.
(But now the war for oil is over.)
Joyeuses Paques.
And Happy Passover to you, too.
Joyeux Paques is like Aloha... means both Happy Easter and Happy Passover.
Off to newsy deadlines.
Paques of Love, incorporated from lush and lusty France.

Tossed Do You Realize by Flaming Lips on the hi-fi for wordy inspiration. I want to see them again soon and bask in their superstardom.
Tonight I'm returning again again a-fuckin-gain to the suburbs to see famous photog Joel Meyerowitz give a slide show & tell at an extra-Middling City college.
This past Saturday night went to an art op following a freelance gig and upon entering several people scooted up to pronounce that an SNL castmember (don't watch it so I don't know if she's current or not but crikey I better do some online prodding so I can write a snappy and quippy and informative kapshin) was IN THE HOUSE = Molly Shannon.... Shannan.... Schannihn?
The one who was shot for the cover of RS a few years ago with fellow SNL castmembers and I'll never forget the following month an astute RS reader noted that nobody bothered to airbrush Molly's stretch marks. I was so curious I looked back and thought What stretch marks?
Talked to her and she was small and wrinkly and very nice.
At thee very same opening met someone much more significant for the likes of me: the current director of Visual Studies Workshop (Scott David Laird) who I chatted with for a long time, drinking much of his booze he had imported for one of the Brooklyn artists strutting his visual stuff. It was the sugary crap that the uninformed drink - bourbon. But it was a better one and it was passable. Especially that I was too busy schmoozing to really allow my honed tastebuds a true embrace.
I asked Don't you know that single malt scotch is better? He insisted he did. Then what do you like? I asked, suspecting that he lied.
Oban was on his top three list and now I not only think he's worth schmoozing for art reasons but for other, nearly more important matters.
Over and out to the 'burbs for erudition.

Tossed Do You Realize by Flaming Lips on the hi-fi for wordy inspiration. I want to see them again soon and bask in their superstardom.
Tonight I'm returning again again a-fuckin-gain to the suburbs to see famous photog Joel Meyerowitz give a slide show & tell at an extra-Middling City college.
This past Saturday night went to an art op following a freelance gig and upon entering several people scooted up to pronounce that an SNL castmember (don't watch it so I don't know if she's current or not but crikey I better do some online prodding so I can write a snappy and quippy and informative kapshin) was IN THE HOUSE = Molly Shannon.... Shannan.... Schannihn?
The one who was shot for the cover of RS a few years ago with fellow SNL castmembers and I'll never forget the following month an astute RS reader noted that nobody bothered to airbrush Molly's stretch marks. I was so curious I looked back and thought What stretch marks?
Talked to her and she was small and wrinkly and very nice.
At thee very same opening met someone much more significant for the likes of me: the current director of Visual Studies Workshop who I chatted with for a long time, drinking much of his booze he had imported for one of the Brooklyn artists strutting his visual stuff. It was the sugary crap that the uninformed drink - bourbon. But it was a better one and it was passable. Especially that I was too busy schmoozing to really allow my honed tastebuds a true embrace.
I asked Don't you know that single malt scotch is better? He insisted he did. Then what do you like? I asked, suspecting that he lied.
Oban was on his top three list and now I not only think he's worth schmoozing for art reasons but for other, nearly more important matters.
Over and out to the 'burbs for erudition.

Minding my own business at an art op last evening I was approached by a burly boy grad student who wanted, he said, to give me a video tape. Why do I get a present, I asked, and how many of these tapes are you giving away? He said 50. I said Well let me shoot you handing the tape to me. Then he handed me the tape, saying There are instructions inside the tape that you have to follow.
What, I asked, like get naked and run down a busy street?
Smirking all the while he handed it to me as he slid it open revealing that he was putting a 'subtle curse' on me, à la The Ring. How... unoriginal.
Well I didn't watch the video at midnight, I have as much subtle curse upon my head as the next photog and HOLYSHIT, I just made Dorota-style coffee that might just eat the enamel off of my teeth.
Onwards to weekend photo and swilling ops.