Swearing on the souls of the venerable and very dead founders of New School U (the corporate giant to the start-up Parsons School of Desirability), I was like so trying to do homework today in the wi-fi-rich teahouse. But. But what. I will so tell you what. There was a deep-throated - woopsies - let us say she was whisky-voiced, woman in the joint who boomed on and on and on and on about cancer, meditation, members of the Middling City U English Department Faculty of Yore who Yours Truly studied and partied her balls off with, and much much more. My ears and mind wandered. But, Beth Dearest and I have duly dually noted that the online seminar is so... off-kilter. There is no discussion as of yet despite the prodding efforts of, You guessed it correctly, Perfect Student Me. BTW and ink this on the calendar, there are thirteen shopping days until the day that I plunged into the world the day after the birthday of John Lennon. I count my b-day as a shop day as it's a dimanche fercrissakes and who the hell can't muster up some energy to shop on that day of non-rest, especially for such an important holiday. Supreme likes, should you need ideas: green, green tea, green, green tourmaline (ask the nice counter girlies at Me & Ro about my drooling over their exquisite green tourmaline ring), and world peace.
Oh, another distraction in the tea joint was a familiar disc playing up above so I asked Jennifer to refresh my memory. Over the Rhine. But of course. Then she tells me they have a new one, a double cd and it's for freakin' sale in the tea/jewelry/cd outlet. It is now mine and Blair would be oso proud of me as he manages them.

Love Outlet.

After the priest railed against gay marriage in a political way, preaching to the assumed choir about how Christians/Catholics/The Zealous do not need legislation to tell them that marriage is absolutely between a man and a woman, and a few other matters on the platform, a terrier ran from behind the altar, prancing and yipping all the way. A few congregants/wedding guests asked if I, the paid shooter, captured this Greenpeace-worthy, PETA-like activity. I did not, I said, as I was trying to catch the little beast more than capture it.
I gave the terrier mad props for attempting to fluster Father Blowhard.
Oh, and also, the groom's eight year old son nearly passed out on the oppressive altar. I later asked him how this happened, nearly. He showed me how his tie was tied so tightly that his lips had turned blue. And he nearly passed out again to illustrate.
In the midst of a love song, one that inspires couples to press their bodies together and to press their misty memories together, the dj boomed mid-song over the PA - THIS IS ONE OF THE WORLD'S MOST POPULAR LOVE SONGS. I mean really.
Just once I'd like to request a mic for my unfettered and sporadic epinw-style commentary throughout a wedding day. An example: Who the hell's idea was it to serve so MANY starches for dinner. & Uh, Father Blowhard, this one goes out to you, howzabout we stick to phantasmagoric ideals of a marital nature and keep the Republic out of this.

Dem dere Love.

Again listening, in obsessive fashion, to soundtrack from Lost in Translation x-specially track 5 that is Girls by Death in Vegas.
When life does not spring a Virgin Megastore in one's path one must make do, embrace the rehashing of a collection like a gallery on the skids without funding.
Last night, what small surrealisms in parts. After a solid night of working spun out of my Jetson Heliport in the most wee of hours and, as I had sipped mega-watt green tea all the night long, I was like so up to the task at hand for meeting Good W and his pals. Once I called him W and his response was that I was never to call him that again due to the alleged president's co-opting of the letter - I told him the right thing to do was to reclaim the, his, letter.
Four of us walked a few long blocks to the former offices of Middling City Orchestra, now housing several on its three stories. The MC Orchestra was one of my clients so to revisit this building and be able to meander into its nooks and crannies with abandon was a treat. Up in the attic (who the hell on the orchestra staff had to toil away the workday up in that hovel) one of the residents has a lovingly-organized display of death dolls from a graphic novel apparently. Rivalling anything I saw in the Satanists's home a while back, all black, intricate, ready for battling. It was at that point that Good W's pal Colleen told me of causing the jettisoning off of a young man on a water bed, as we looked down upon an air mattress resembling a water bed.
The residents shared stories of ghosts wandering this old home, about people drowning babies there when it was a home for unwed girls, about people slipping on the wooden stairs and feeling embracing arms about them. Not nearly as spooky as the shelves of death dolls.
Off now again to points beyond.

No love for death dolls.

THIS JUST IN:
I AM BACK ONLINE CHEZ MOI, AFTER ABOUT HALF AN HOUR WITH A FACELESS, NAMELESS TECHIE. CHECK UNCHECK CHECK CLOSE OUT OPEN UP CHECK UNCHECK AND VOI-FUCKIN-LA... ONLINE BRAINAL ACTIVITY UP AND RUNNING. YOU WANT MISERY. OFFLINE MY DSL. STOP.

Well cheese and crackers how the h-e-double-crisscrossed-hockey-weapons did it get to be thirsty Thursday already.
Yesterday's gig was at the home of the parents who brought one of the favoured ones of Yours Truly out into the world, Rio. Her parents, parents-in-law of Ron. So I show up and note most notably that there is a giant grill on the front Middling City lawn rivalling any of the suburbs. And, manning the grill, is Smoker Bob, in shorts, tan, cowboy hat, etc. So the food was insuredly good. John the CW Rocker was there and that was a bonus. Inside, a celebration of 50 years of marital union and guests manhandled programs and sang while Ron and I shot each other blood-curdling-oh-fuck-I-may-just-break-out-into-heathenistic-cackle looks.
You will be not too surprised to know that Yours Truly has once again painted herself into a grand corner and has oso many deadlines on her head that it might just implode like an old pumpkin.
And, speaking of pumpkins, one of my pumpkin-smashing students from last year's late-night seminar, taught from within my golden Forester, was inquiring if class will be in session this season. To which Yours Truly replied Do upraised pumpkins experience velocity and gravitas and gravity and elicit jubilation in equal measure.

Tutorials of Love.

Went to hardcore girlie wedding shower yesterday, sunny yesterday, for MaryB, in Deb's backyard. A real pleasure, a gathering of so many revelling babes and pals and throwdown party girlies. And somehow, despite its being an EstFest, there in the corner lurked Jack Daniels. I left before he was cracked. I left just after Sarah and I played London Bridge is Fallin' Down with our manicured toes (Sarah is 2.3 years old) and talked to nearly one and all. Got the lowdown on the re-opening of Royal Pheasant from Molly "Mad-In-Charge" Q, co-owner. The beets on the menu stay. The Rat Pack banquettes stay. Live lobsters? Staying. Gaggle of barflies? Not so sure.
Saw Festival Express and Janice Joplin's filmed performances gave me bona fide, 100% skin-keep goosebumps. The footage is unforgettable, the editing stellar. But where were the groupies, the boobies, I ask.
For what is R&R without a little r&r.
I rest my rollicking case.
Rolllllicking, documentary Love.

A fun fact.
The only thing Yours Truly can think of that I share with the US hook or by crook president is that we both like to assign nicknames to others.
Put that in your pipe.
Smoke it.
Inhale.
So, according to Beth, we have a School Assignment. I mean, really. School Assignment. Don't these people know I have work to do, money to make, magazines to read. And art to ponder and create.
In mere moments I'll be toodling over to the New School U site to see what is in store for me.
Had a whirlwind of visiting with gal pals this week. Lunch with sister Soups and then Laura. Plethora of drinks with Cheryl, Liz and Annie. To say that some of these minglings didn't devolve into, ramble willingly, into full-fledged revelry would be a complete and utter lie. I regaled Beth, in Harrisburg for the !happynewyeartojews!, with some of the details, always carefully and measuredly beginning with I was minding my own business when...
Trying to get her to the Middling City for another visit, this time hopefully without pyrotechnics of personal disaster.
Haunting phrase du jour/time:
at the end of the day.
Keith the Wired Instructor - as in the material learnt and not in his upper intake - said ...At the end of the day every day we PSD13 were instructees. JamMasterV even found a way to insert that phrase into a report she reported and when she said it, a cloud of irony over her head, we all silently chortled and glanced at each other. Behind me, in the tea house where I am stealing wi-fi molecules, a jewelry designer is listening to something, watching something, on her laptop.
That phrase came out of the micro-mini speakers moments ago.
Do not use this phrase.
I propose that there is no end to any day. Think more linearly, stop thinking 24 hours, 24 hours, 24 hours. Confuse day with night, dreams with wake.
Waking Love.

Well. Well well well well.
No grotto could be found at the Middling City's answer to Hef's Joint. But what I did find was a MC version of Fabio, long golden silken tresses and all. At some point in the evening, whilst speaking to a fun gal at the bar I noted that Fabio had unloosed his mane and was supine on the marble floor, in front of the classical musicians whom no one could hear above the party din.
I spoke with Fabio. His name is Arthur. He is a jazz musician. Who dances while he's playing. Or that is at least what I thought his handler, standing alongside him, said.
With a gown on my body and short hairs on my head - as well as my Don't-Fuck-Wit-Me physique some in the throng who I know did not know Yours Truly. One client of mine of about six months or so back, post several martinis, said to me You look like a movie star. I wanted to say to her Yes, internally I so AM a movie star and have been for decades - only YOU see my true, exterior movie star. And I thank you.
No other party notables except that the white wine ran low to dry and then it was high time to move along to scotch fercrissakes.
Up in the attic/third floor rumpus area I asked pal Sam for a coin to feed the very naughtily racist bank to see if, in sooth, the eyeballs rolled back to white as Kennedy swore they would. And, by gum and by crackie, they freakin' did.
And Happy New Year to all my faithful epinw readers of the Jewish faith.

Faithful Love Forever Now.

Tonight would be the night that me and Kennedy get all gussied up and walk over to a black tie affair hosted by Rick the Sex Man. Owner of sundry boobie bars in the Middling City and in Vegas and god only knows where else. This man bought one of Hef's former rides and I imagine a replication of The Grotto somewhere in the basement. I told Kennedy I imagine losing him at the soiree, only to find him hours later, tux MIA and floating in The Grotto whilst grabbing onto a slippery, frothy bevvie and a slippery, frothy stripper.
Time will party tell.
Love's Tell.

Minding my own business, completely, I found myself in the basement of Middling City Historical Society (wow, what a somewhat elucidating shithole) during a charity art auction in which I was particating. In mere hours my wondrous tripartite piece of graphite drawings on paper would be on the ol' block.
But first, research. Hence the basement. Kennedy and I prowled the depths, gleaning information. We pondered over the model Middling City of Yore, from the way-early 19th Century.
The flats, now not so flat with buildings.
My neck of the Middling city just off the map at my craning feet.
I suddenly became much more inspired by the pioneer days room displays.
I was so inspired by higher learning that I jumped the rail and sat in the "pioneer" rocking chair, rocking slowly, wine in hand, pondering life in pioneer days as well as the state of this Middling City institution.
I checked out the boots in the next "room." I lifted up the bed warmer, clearly a ye olde replication, and pretended to warm the pioneer bed with the missing mattress.
I moved on to a display of photos of the Fishkill Dump where all that remained post-9/11 remain. All the lost art.
Moved on to art on the block, not the dump (yet) and did one purchase - #93 in the air - until it was time to take the learning elsewhere.

Love or Else.

Cheez and crackers. OK more consistent blogposts, more words of wisdom and freewheelin' revelry here... and there.
Again on borrowed time/computer as the new fucking modem is not working and perhaps it is the port of ethernet magic that is a-fried out but that will only be gleaned after a long and intense and recurrent SOS call to some techie person who hopefully I can comprehend - as in their accent. The last techie was a gruff older man so gruff the gruffness obscured the actual words he spake.
Last night we landed after 3.5 hours in car, Kennedy and I that is, in front of the storefront gallery where some jazz happened starring our pal Peter Brotzmann. He was out in front having his customary Starbucks Americano and dark smoke when I unfurled the window to toodle out the window Excuuuuse me, which way to Buffalo. He stared blankly, then away. I toodled again. Same response. So we meandered towards him across the near-barren street of half-baked and half-assed businesses and decrepit row houses until familiarity swam across his face. We talked. The show began. I shot. Intermission. As I was on a road trip and had not had venison jerky it was beer time. Lame-o gallery (with a name like Faulty Metaphors or some such thing) had none. Grabbed $10 out of my bag and wandered to the convenience store. Found there some choice greeting cards. One to send to an accident victim. Birdhouses on the front. I ask, what do birdhouses have to do with accidents. Next. To a wondrous friend. Image on front is a cat, wearing a hat, sitting in a basket. At his feet, a bird, apparently dead. Inside. Sentiment is about You are a fab acquaintance.
And this fucking store has no beer.
Really.
Asking about in line waiting to purchase the excellent cards I met a woman named Janice.
Janice, a mom just off of work, ended up offering me a ride to a pizza parlour where I could buy a six pack. Janice explained excitedly that this joint had a wall of beer and she knew of this despite the fact that she does not drink.
Her car was a purple sedan with 10 pine tree air freshners and on the back seat were eight bags of snaxx for her two teenaged kids.
I did not have my seatbelt on in case Janice turned out to be a nut and I had to dive and roll.
Janice drove me 1 mile. We got out of the car and walked into the pizza parlour together. Janice explaining all the way about how I should trust no one else in the gallery's neighborhood and, most importantly, I should tell NO ONE that I am from the Middling City, as they'd take advantage of my naivete.
So, Janice drives me back to the gallery and Peter is there to witness me exiting a purple sedan. He raises his two eyebrows. I tell him about my new pal, Janice. I show him the greeting cards. May send him the one with the cat and limpy bird.
Ended the night at some Indian restaurant where I was served my scotch and soda with a deathly blue glowing ice cube. Upon leaving I placed the faux glo-stik cube in the to-go box in front of Peter.
The waiter nervously ran up to say
That ice cube remains the property of the restaurant.

I remain Your Perfect correspondent to all things Me.

Corresponding Love.

Well Well Well.
No, not so well for the DSL modem which fried out.
So no internet system for me, yet.
Apparently the trouble is far deeper and darker than I can figure out.
So borrowed internet time for now.
But onwards.
And onwards right now to Pittsburgh to see Peter Brotzmann, sax artiste, for the night with Kennedy.
So more later so all for now.
School officially begins again Monday, fercrissakes. So new cyber pencils must be sharpened, then, fer sher.
Love for now.

Maintenant.
Thank god for iTunes, headphones, volume controls and earplugs as Yours Truly is once again loitering at JFK and my perfect self is hopelessly and helplessly surrounded by pizza gulping, child indulging gum-chomping young families. M'Aidez.

Yesterday.
Had a disconnected lunch with Dorota who is not abreast of any situations in the life of Yours Truly yet remains highly judgmental: not a joy.
Moved along to protest(s) at Union Square and filmed several moments of that special tension that is created when the morass of media, armed militia and protesters circle one another. One false move and the morass is chaos.
Bought a few fab tshirts as well as a set of dress-up Bushie magnets, like paper dolls, only way better.
Had to move along to B&H and that's when things got really interesting.
(The Mess We're In hit iTunes as I am telling You this story, most appropriate as it references helicopters in New York, sung by Thom Yorke on this Polly Jean song. Keep this in mind. Dig.)
Took L to 8th Avenue after being chuted into the Union Square stop, under watchful copful gazes.
At 8th Ave caught the C up to Penn Station.
Tried to get out to street but noted that all was taped and barricaded and guarded and then had to walk two blocks, including down another platform, to get O.U.T.
Once up on the street I saw how the world here had changed. Streets shut off, orange safety cones all about, cops and dopey-looking delegates in spangles and vests and hats and more barricades. Crossing the street I noted I was entering a zone where all were subject to search. A cop with baton was crossing one and all and right up behind him I asked into his left ear if he was our crossing guard. I was followed then for a block by three cops, until I got to B&H.
Escaping B&H I opted for a cab in lieu of the subject to search choice.
Later later later I digvid'd helicopters in the sky as there were many. I noted that the Fuji blimp featured prominently the letters N Y P D.
A real bummer to a fan of the Fuji.
Time to board, read, snooze, deplane.

Deplaned and Delovely Love.

A fellow fan of the wi-fi molecule came to my e-motional rescue moments ago as I was supping in Rialto on wine wine and chop salad. The chef was on his wi-fi'd laptop at the bar as I meandered in. Spying wi-fi molecules hovering in the air like a pack of earnest hornets I said There's wi-fi here. To which he replied affirmatively. Then no luck on this very laptop. So he sat alongside me and together we figured the secret of getting me into the super-secret rialto network. Mind you, I am trying - trying - to write as a woman teeters at the edge of the bannister just outside the open door with her pal/date, drunk to a highly-decibeled degree and now she's doing a pantomime that has him in embarassed stitches.
I saw The Brown Bunny.
Review: eight thick inches of raw talent.
And searing Vinnie eyes, chin, nose, yum.
There are some trying moments but mainly not. It reminded me a bit of my grad student art, surprisingly in static contrast to a personality rich in non-static practice. Another love story. This one more psychological, deliberate, gestural. Ending is yeah chock full of the big... moment but it's a sad end, really, to a broken man's pathos path across the USofA.

+

Yesterday was truly a What the Fuck kind of day.
Began the day, nearly, by attending a funeral with Kennedy. And who the hell puts fun into a funeral like born agains. We arrived early. We sat in the back row. We looked damned fine.
The priest began to speak. That cookie cutter evangelical hands all aflutter evangelical banter. Hands a blend of rockstar, self-help guru and televised chef. Maybe a dash of qi gong practitioner. And the hair, a slick wave signifying the coast of the sea of galilea. I sang, probably much to the chagrin of the lady of a certain age in front of me with the fall rivalling any of the deep south. Kennedy would not sing, despite my raised eyebrows and voce.
So finally the high priest gets around to feting the dead man. And it ends. I am teetering on hysterics because of the lilt of the voice and hands.
And then.
And then.
He takes a turn.
(NB: man who is my waiter sees me writing up a storm merrily and brought bottle over to give me a glass on the ol' house - there is a god, apparently)
He says This is not usually done at funerals but oh what the HELL. or something to that effect.
Folks (I paraphrase) bow your heads. Well, now that your eyes are shut (they are, I quickly look about the new build church that has a slight reek of mildew) please raise your hand if you'd like to find the Lord - no one is looking but me and the Lord so raise your hand.
It is at this point I have both hands over my mouth and am trying to suppress probably the largest guffaw of my fucking laugh, rushing for the door, eyes streaming tears, thinking thank the fucking peeking Lord that laughter sounds like sobbing to the ears of the aggrieved. I charged 100' out into the parking lot and lowered my hands and the laugh filled the countryside where the new build church rests, down into the valley, down into the gorge, alarming not only fishermen but the trout.
Last night, following a gig supplemented by the lights and bear hug of Lead Boy Colleague, I saw a sight most gorgeous.
A laundromat was alight and encircled by firetrucks. The flourescent lights and giant picture windows left a giant lime green cube on the suburban landscape. Unforgettable.
I am out in moments into the Shiney Apple where I am bumping into Art and Ideas.
I am alive in ideas and Vinnie Gallo makes movies and I make videos.
Some head for the wilderness,
some for the shores,
some for the comfort of familiar arms.
I head towards Serendipity.

Towards Love.

Oh this is such a day for the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
And here they are at 60dB and suddenly I am more at peace with the Middling City where the urban chief (ie mayorissimo) reports to patronage duty at the asscrack of dawn, offering condolences to the owners of the blazen pizza joint on the MC's west side. I can report on the pizza joint thusly. It was a disco kind of joint, chock full of mirrors so that when your drunken face was at the chest-high counter ordering up a slice or so there you were, all Picassoed out, sliced out yourself. And, oh, the disco balls. And pinball machines. A saucey isle in the midst of what was once working class, now crack cultured. All about the fades, the petit larceny, the pockets of attempts at cuh-lean living rather than leaving. So, the mayor reports in to say gee whiz and sorry. Off again to the Shiney Apple tomorrow and the making and doing of art and fine french coffee and the like. Into the eye of the hurricaine as this week happens to be the one in which most of my SA pals have been inspired to avoid: the target-rich RNC. Thought JetBlue would be offering up Hey Dem, Come Fly With Us discounts but nogo. Hope to digvid in peace, far from the madding crowds never to see eye to eye. But, then again, one does never know what forces forces one into the midst of protest and dissent. Some arresting news: JW,Esq. reports he's off to Burning Man in a customized orange fuzzy hoodie. In lieu of glo-stix, should I ever find myself there, I'd probably lean more towards masked rogue and mischief - less fluffy hoodie, more flakey hood.
Contrasted Love.

If the evil insect rushing about overhead divebombs my glass of Oban things will get ugly. Oh, wait, it'll presumably be dead and drownt. So things must get ugly now. (Imagine clapping of hands, as if Yours Truly hears a distant and gleeful folk melody which inspires such maneuvering.) (sidenote: it is with minor sadness that I report Justin believes/knows that I have within my body a voice not so VH1-ready. This evidently evident post-drunk Chinese midget night of songs for a dollar.) And I am not, repeat, not, speaking of the insouciant and diabolical evangels next door fond of marathon praising the high powers to the beat of a drummer I'd like to send off to remedial drumming camp.
Implorement du jour.
O, high power, if there is indeed one, please let there be a remedial drumming camp and let it not only be far far away but require the inept and tireless drummer of next door to be enrolled and away for aeons.
Invited straycat Extra in for a dose of petting and conversation until he got carried away with night-addled claws beseeching spaces in my skin. And the nouveau primitif thing is as off the mark as Mr. Inept searching for a beat.
Hanging - in the proverbial time passing sense - is unfamiliar to me right now in the realm of the Middling City. More familiar with how to make & do in the Shiny Apple, it is a challenge here and now.
Despite the Republicans heading there soon soon soon.
Watched a moment of Kerry in '71, in uniform, in C-Span schedule, and glad to have done so to witness the historical doc in its state, not spun upon by spinners far and wide.
Fleet boat veracity or not, this choice is the better choice.
And, as my favoured wife beater states:
The only bush I trust is my own.

Bushels of Love.

Mark these words.
I will never - like so ever - participate or watch the Olympics, cold or hot, unless the sport of Jarts is admitted to the playbill. And once I hear this sport of danger is part of sporting matters then I will train like Charles Dickens (sipping Noni juice, practicing yoga and meditation, doing extra cardio workouts) to make the grade. Speaking of grades. Me and other members of the roster of sporting student life members of Parsons School of Disintegration have compared and contrasted our grade reports. What I lovingly refer to as our Approval Ratings. I rated fairly well, except for the obvious snag. Onwards.
Back to jarts. A memory. Jarting about one fine summer evening I nearly impaled the teacup poodle of my pal Sheryl. It was then that I duly noted, even in the midst of a wild yet geeksome youth, that this was really a fabulous and exhilerating game wrenched from the conceptualists of hell.
So many interesting things reported to me as of late. Like injuries sustained from dogs. Like dreams of sharing drugs with higher-ups in the political realm. Like fantasies of others that are far from what might be respectable. And so much more. I cannot even name a name, even though I suspect that some of these shards might be sent onwards to Yours Truly in hopes that they appear on this illustrious, ever informative page.
One last item.
Erin called to invite me to a Vinnie Gallo/Sean Lennon gig ce soir. I faltered. A gig in the Middling City. An invite in the Shiny Apple. What was a girl to do. No. The answer. But a sweet consolation is that I will watch the celluloid blowjob with Erin next week in the form of Brown Bunny. And to see if Vinnie has once again eked out quiet and swimmingly contra mainstream art as I suspect or if he has completely gone nutty bumpers.

Love bumpers in the night.

In addition to the wise Lead Boy Colleague words here a snippet from Sam, opened unto in the most serendipitous manner, from From an Abandoned Work as Interpol sends out decibels from a world without sun, safety net, assurances and routine.
Sam says:
...I might be sprawling in the sun now sucking my pipe and patting the bottoms of the third generation, looked up to and respected, wondering what there was for dinner, instead of stravaging the same old roads in all weathers, I was never much of a one for new ground.
There is sun and now I must be going to forage for visions then images then pixels then further fame.
I leave you.

Left of Love.

Remarkably, just as I thought there was no way I could possible feel more rancour towards insurance companies this transpired. Or, more accurately, continues to transpire. Geico is like a leech on my back, between my shoulder blades and I cannot get it off. I called them to say, hmmmm... months ago, You are no longer my insurance co., I have another, we are done, thanks for the memories. So then they report that I have no insurance to the authorities, which is not the case. Calls are made to new insurance co and to the leeches. Now I have here a letter from the State stating Hi asshole you have no insurance and we are about to not only take away yer license but your patience.
Heard from JR, who I had presumed dead. Well no, and let this be a lesson to You, that even mentors need breaks. JR was hiding out, having a proverbial breather.
I am off now to shoot giants in kilts tossing heavy objects in a controlled environment - ie the Scottish Festival and Highland Games. Then onwards to a wedding.
From plaid skirts to synchronized nylon dresses.
Just another Perfect Day.

Love of Perfection.

On the L&I Express reached the Shiny Apple in what seemed to be mere hours despite a pitstop at a pie joint called Bingham's. Pies of all colors and Yours Truly exclaimed Beautiful. Had a massive turkey cobb salad, extra bacon, giving props to my roadtrip fav, salty and sinewy jerkey. When there's no time to arrest travel for jerkey strips, bacon must suffice. And that's my hot travel tip du jour.
Meeting in several hours with Thomas Werner to show and tell - stills and video. Bought a blazing firewire external DVD burner to discover that my rissa-rassa startup disc is stuffed to the rafters so it's burning off tiffs, jpegs and the like.
It's going to rain in the Shiny Apple so out will come the $3 umbrella and the digvid camera to capture and render drops dropping like so many dropper drips.
From the highbeams of angels to drops of water in the urban centre of the universe.
Finished a few articles about Vincent's Brown Bunny this morning, reading that is. My journalism pen is resting at the moment. He, with assistance from filmmaker Kenneth Anger (creator of Lucifer Rising, just turned on to me via Kennedy, the soundtrack, not images but I did read about them and they do seem alligned with my minimalism) foisted a curse upon a critic who shall not be named. But, more shockingly, pretty (and balding) boy Gallo admits to not having read a book, ever. That is just something one should so not admit in this non-voting and non-reading apathetic age. And from a man who is an obsessive non-delegator.

Delegations of Love.

With the assistance of Kennedy delivered an artwork so metaphorical, musty and engigmatic to Tom the Auto Guru. Whereupon he grabbed power tool and installed in a most appropriate Zen-like fashion, pell-mell to hell with measurements and the like. And there it is for all the customers to see: disembodied head floating over a Mt. Fuji-like mountain as a red and passionate cloud roils over the head. It is a sight.
Afterwards a French, vraiment, joint nearby and then on to do some filming of angels' high beams in the Basilica, resting point of Rt. Rev. Fr. Nelson Baker. Dead soon-to-be-saint, en route to canonization and resting amid a grotto in Lackawanna. Filmed the marble and passages of light and bursts of shadow and am thinking, previsualizing, a fast clippy loop of high beams and light beams. Titleism, the first step in my conceptual art practice. Title. Idea. Execution. Edit. And freakin' voilà.
Conceptual Love.