Arrived at the gig last night under the blaring lights of Middling City U's football stadium (too bad it does not rhyme with tedium but for the sake of poesie let us say that it sure fuckin' does) to hear the screeching intro by a local radio personality for American Idol John Stevens - or is that John Stephens. Let us say, again, for sake of poesie and argument, that Yours Truly does in fact not only know the correct spelling but might be able to recognize this fledgling celeb visually. So he, the American Idol of Middling Cityesque heritage, begins the theme song for the United States of America and the preamble to every sporting event in this fair land. Upon singing the phrase Rockets red glare four fizzylicious pyros shot up from the ground behind the singer. A great visual to be sure. But auditorially not such a good idea. There were more pyros, drowning out completely the song until its very end.
Yours Truly, intrepid and ever-quipping journalista, was up in the boxes, prowling. Found President John Simpson, entourage, three Tulane evacuees, a crock pot full of burbling orange something, salty snacks, and oso much more. Shot prez and the trio of students in a set-up GettingToKnowYou moment. Noted aloud that one of the students was outfitted with some academic reading should the sporty going get boring. Kennedy and I read the sport section in part aloud and lo, behold, the Middling City U Bulls still kind of suck a lot. They remain #115 out of 115 teams and, as I discussed with Laura this AM over brunch at her joint, if there were a way they could perform themselves off of that list we are fairly certain they could - or would.
On a less sporty note.
I was approached by a femme I know to join a group of artsy types who want to start an outdoorsy kind of club of sorts. I said sure, as long as it included sharpshooting as I freakin' rock at that, and maybe some snowshoeing. So there's a listserv sort of to and fro of messages and this list encircles some associated with the Greg Sterlace show, upon which I was married by ever-tanned attorney Ross Runfola to Bad Ronald - amongst other adventures. So I send out a reply to the query if RR would participate in this group that I imagined he is not much of an outdoorsman despite his George Hamilton tone. To this I got a très zanyrific reply allegedly penned by YT, basically professing some sort of undying love for RR. I would cut and paste but You get the idea. I group-replied that I will be pressing charges for sure unless there is a full retraction.
Oh, aren't these litigational times.
Just got another gig in Roch, perhaps one in Boston next mo.

Moving and grooving love.

Went to that Middling City theatre extravaganza many get all jazzed up about with a posse of girlies. We met up at the CEPA opening where I was harangued by Aaron and where I was (whewww) not recognized by one of my (former) stalkers as apparently I've successfully avoided him up to now and he doesn't know me with shorter hair (whew again). But the stalker did strike up banal conversation with one of the posse and when he asked her Where do I know you from I proffered up quick fiction that he might recognize her as her job is as a Kenmore (M.C. suburb known for hosting the hellacious private high school where Yours Truly, Loomis, and AEDM attended, amongst others, brutally racist cops, and a strident and long-running sex shoppe) traffic cop. Lauren looked at me with eyes awidened but somehow the stalker didn't grasp that or that we might all be trying to give him the ol' Slip. Onwards. Meandered along to the Hallwalls opening where I bumped into Leslie and Bernie of days of yore. Bernie once wanted to beat me up for some (here's that word coined by the mechanic, this logo-gem) misconfusion - really. We were near-teened folks in our 20s when spirits run high and quite erratic. After the near dust-up we became fast friends and engaged in very Bernie-esque adventures such as, for one, canoeing from Manhattan to Brooklyn. You know, things of that nature. So the Hallwalls situ was wide-open, dusky, full of odd chip dips. And now this is where the posse fell to bits as Laura called me on my cellie to say that everyone was upstairs at my pal Deanna's joint. So up I go. To then bump into several people I know, including a feuding newbie couple. I lost all the girlies. Then I got calls from all of them. You know, that happens. Let us call is The Party Scatter. But it is not a tragic thing, I liken it to a good abstract painting, a rarity. The deft layering of things to a fetching result. Laura and I created a little side project that never came to fruition. I really wanted to trip someone and I spotted a small gang of cops lurking in a doorway on dead-to-the-world Main Street, glancing (I thought) discreetly at them. Laura shouted OHNO. Whaaat, I asked. She said You can't trip cops. I said But I wasn'.... no use. Laura, Gestures Specialist, read the whole thing transpiring. I think Laura is missing her calling as a Border Patrolist.
Time to wrap things up here before I make my way out to Middling City U to shoot the president of it all entertaining displaced New Orleans, LA students in his private special catered box to watch the worst college football team in history.

Historical and Sporty Love.

So I tell my dad about my recent vehicular woes, mostly because he noted I pulled up in a very different car from the usual. To be specific: a piece of poo Neon or is it Freeon, a car that is nearly impossible to see out of. A car that gets fab AM reception, however.
He hears the ins, outs, details and says he will call the repair shoppe on my behalf. I dial the number, hand him my cellie and he goes into his house. The screen door is open but the kitchen door is closed and I can hear his voice. Then I hear his voice get much much louder. And then louder still.
He comes out. In a nutshell (oh, let us say a nice crackly pecan shell) he says that they did the Evil Mechanic Flipflop, the Well you said X and we did Y. Which later becomes Well you said Y and we did X.
The EMF includes this important detail - rims were ordered and there was a choice. A mechanic asked me what type of rim I have/had on car and I said, in that nutshell, Ummm, Mis-TER what in hell, how would I know that. He asks for the VIN, which usually tells a shoppe Everything about a car, especially juicey for a dealer, which this is. So there is VIN confusion.
Oh, one more fact is that one of the mechanics last night kept saying misconfusion. I really thought he was joking. He said it a few more times and then Yours Truly had to give this word a spin. To use it in a sentence, EMF style:
Look, ma'am (grrrr) I don't know where this misconfusion came from. . .

Love, Misconfused.

Blogger has this neato newbie feature: type line number one of ruminations and quippifications and *ka-poof* it goes away forever. And I do mean forever. So Yours Truly has learned to toss off some (no, not cookies) cursorial thoughts before digging deep.
Mazzy Star's Among My Swan the disc du moment, specifically hovering along to Take Everything and duly note that there are songs that inspire different activities and this gem inspires drawing. Recently did a supersecret public drawing on a site and I do hope it was appreciated by some. One odd and recent day I had a hankering for my tagging and public artmaking self and She popped out quite surprisingly one eve and thusly the drawing, too. A one lined affair with some quick words of pometype thinking. Just had a delivery meeting with the sister of a recently-moved client and somehow we got to talking about the Middling City's Old First Ward (you know, in the esteemed and famed Cobblestone Districte, near the Ye Olde Elke Terminale Loftes) and, as it turns out, she knows the creepy baker, You know, the one who keeps paying other strange men to trespass onto my prop and cut down bushes as he believes that vermin crawl up the branches and wriggle their way into his building perhaps between bricks or from the rooftops, rapelling down the sides and kicking in little holes in the windows. At least that's what I gleaned from his creepo rambling, trying desperately to fade out before the sight of him in his wifebeater and baker cap sunk in too far.
It is a fine pre-fall night. Some flowers all blown out (like a lady's hair on a Friday night) but not the turtle heads who patiently waited their turns.
I end here and speed off into this fertile and pre-dark hour to points and adventures beyond, my head right now wrapped again in wishes for being on the Shiney Apple streets, wending, wending, wending.

Love Wish.

Blogging from a garden and, I tell you what (pronounced in my best Texarcana accent as such, for dramatic effect: AHH tee-EUL you what), that is a freakin' toppermost manner of doing such.
This late summer night there are murmurs from a nearby patio, a warmth in the air, and, if you zone into it, a deafening layer of insect noise.
This is the time to be jetting off to The Shiney Apple to make and do and then do some more. I have a slammin' b-day gift for Dorota and planned on hand delivery but, just in case, I will mail it tomorrow and cheesh I'd love to share what in hell it is but then there would be no big surprise. Laura, she informs me, is jetting over to the right side tomorrow morn and I got the JetBlue/early/queue/badcoffee/commuter pang.
Time to make time to make more art, to wrangle the late summer garden into control.
In case You are interested.
Ice pansies rock and this is the time to buy them and stick them in the dirt and then, in the sub-zero times just weeks away, they burgeon their heads out of the ice and tundric conditions to make flowery love to their environs.
I am being called upon to not only make photographic images but to do more public poetry, to co-host Greg's show again. I used Greg's show as finishing school in a way, which I have mentioned previously. One third of the night of taping is prepping for the taping. Second third is taping itself and all that lovable chaos that that entails. Third third is the watching of the net results whilst huddled together, camp stylee, muching on microwaved popcorn. There is lots of praise, self-deprecation, pats on back, guffaws so powerful popcorn threatens to be lodged deeply.
Today is primary day for my brand of voter.
I made my three picks in record time and realized had I waited for this day to make my voting digvid how freakin' fast it would have been - approximately three seconds.
I walked in and the bored ladies, some in bedroom slippers, asked You are a Democrat, aren't you. And off I sped into this moment.
The results of tonight's Middling Citycentric primary are sure to be low on surprise factor.

Love's surprising factors.

Today was a day most grand, a day of observing great love amongst others, so much of that that it spilled outwards towards Yours Truly. Also a day of deep thinking, not too introspective, but cursory and fleeting landings on big quests, questions, and answers. Now listening to Roger Bryan & The Old Sweethearts's song Rocking Chair and still thinking this is on the digvid back burner, illustrating this as well as Sam's most favoured play.
Phoned the residence of Rio and Ron last night, armed with the mouth harp given to me by my dearly-departed grandfather who loved me best. Edgar, who would send me boxes of books and take great delight in my young intellect and humour. And homespun plays, performed in the cactus-ridden and bamboo-edged backyard of him and his Bunny, my maternal beacon, Victoria, in Smyrna outside of Atlanta back before - well before - it was Hotlanta.
I blasted out some bars and Ron said Why, HeLL-OHH, Mister Blinky. I played more. He conversed between bursts of neo-blues.
Today it was a wedding and I cannot say when in recent memory I've had a gig where I've been so overcome with praise and good vibes.
Time to gather up my post-work senses and forge onwards into this slivered moon night.

Slivers of Love.

This just in:
Moments ago received word from reliable source (i.e. parents) who attended art auction/benefit/shindig pour moi that my drawing made yesterday (deftly entitled Edges: Ohio Street, Tifft Farm Pond, Cargill Grain Elevator) (whewwww) went for a fetchingly respectable price. Love being a drawer, a dispenser of happiness.

Woe is education: first wacky low-rez MFA programs and now transponders in lieu of intra-student, inter-classroom exchanges. Had a gig this AM at Middling City U documenting a newfangled thing that is like a remote control but allows students sitting in mega-lecture halls to point them at receptors on walls and answer impromptu or lesser-promptu quizzes.
I happened to know a girl sitting in the front row, a would-be photog who would follow me around a bit at rock extravaganzas and the like and ask several questions. I always gave much time to the learning with questions, especially the girls and my wisest words were to just keep shooting pictures and to get business cards and pass them out like mad fiends. So this girl, Emilee, is sitting there and complaining bitterly about the remote answering device. She said Middling City U wants to pretend you're not just a number and then this. She showed me the back of the device (that the students had to pay for - $30 with a $20 mail-in rebate) and how the number on it was registered to her so if she or I went nuts and started pressing madly it would record that Emilee suddenly had answering anxiety or inappropriate transponder behaviour and pressed madly. The prof was a bit awkward (NB: he's the showman type of teacher, all big gestures and phrases he's got down from years of the same materials . . . basically, he's accustomed to being the genius in the room) when I asked to make some pictures of him before the lecture holding the dang thang. I did after his hemming, hawwing. There were a few areas of buzzing and tittering in the gigantic hall and I feared I'd lose his concentration and kept shooting, giving him a bit of direction. So I'm done, the lecture is underway and Professor Showman announces that he'll be showing some slides and the show begins. Some of the slides are quite old, bad, out of focus. Suddenly there's one up of a bog person. Cannot recall if I've blogged about the bog people, the people who were murdered and who were tossed into bogs and preserved quite well and are not hanging about in Pittsburgh's Hall of Oddities. So then there's another slide, one of the burbling tarpits in L.A. Suddenly my pal Emilee is waving her arms as if her transponder is shocking her and Professor Showman finally sees her in the darkness. Not knowing her name amongst the print-out list of perhaps hundreds of names, he offers up a very friendly Yes. . . and Emilee blurts out a tale.
I was just there, at the tarpits last week and I can report that they are still active and I watched two pigeons die an untimely death.
I can see the face of Professor Showman change a bit and then he blurts out a generic Well, thanks for sharing and moves along to the other side of the lecture hall, not wishing to share his stage with such spunk.
I thought about saying bye to Emilee but thought You know she just might, being so jaded with this scene, use this as an op to blurt out who in hell knows. So I planned my exit strategy and drifted away, drifted into the abstract embrace of deadlines and such.

Such love.

Referent for You to glean what I have about blood bags. That they are not only disgusting and undoubtedly warm and squidgy but magnetic in their eye draw. This is image du semaine par Yours Truly in The Reporter. Wonder how many fries were abandoned as hapless readers looked at the blood bag whilst lunching, supping, noshing. Oh, right, I am no pussy. Note the amazing composition. This like so rocks. Don on.

Soaking up the wi-fi at the tea joint once again, Yours Truly their sole squatter.
This just in: heard from a photo pal moments ago that someone I know lost his leg a month ago due to a bad motorcycle twist and turn of fate.
Assessment: motorcycles = unfreakinnecessary.
Did a gig for an ad agency in Rochester about an hour ago, another hurricane-related photo op, this time with trucks . . . and cheese. Asked one of the drivers very diplomatically if the evacuees relocated to Atlanta knew to expect 38K pounds of cheese. Where were the crackers. The wine. Wished him a safe drive and noted that there were no silver naked ladies (cue Westerberg) on his mudflaps. Not a one.
The tea house girls are playing The Sundays and what a reeling and dragging back to the past this is right now.
Time to edit, to slice, dice, crop, invoice, muse.

Love's directive.

Yesterday, amongst other Middling City U gigs and affairs was sent to shoot a blood drive for those less sanguine post-catastrophe down there in the Gulfish areas, to discover that the drive for bloodletting was not happening. A quick scout-out of vicinity revealed no blood, no where. Quick call to editrix revealed it was a ruse, there was no blood, yet. Today was the blood drive, manned by a bunch of femmes from American Red Cross, a bunch of humourless ladies but, I suppose, when brandishing large needles and colorful bandages (gone are the days of buff-coloured plastic strips and HELLO to ribbony and gauzey multi-coloured choices . . . I was like so jealous) it is white coat appropriate.
I have shot other blood drives in my full-throttled and illustrious career and have always made it a real rule to not look at the bags, the plastic tubing draining the blood away from the bodies. In a fit of perversity I looked at one student's filling bag of A+ (I asked if he knew his type and he did) and felt my knees get all loose and carefree about staying afloat if You will. I said OOOO, I feel woozy. One of the humourless said I should sail over to the snack and juice station. I snapped out of it, those were mainstream snacks. And I recovered, self-realizing Hey, Perfect Nance, you are tough, deal with this, you are no pussy. And so I carried on, making more images of dramatic slices of reality - the grimaces, the plastic bags, the bandages, the good wishes, the concern, the editorializing of the slice of reality, the crafty angles to show face and not too much crotch or chest and personality more than prone donor.
Wow, Prone Donor - yet ANOTHER great band name.
Time to continue along this strange work day of portraits, blood, more images and paperwork.
But, always, there is time to give You a piece of this Perfect World, these odd and even days.

Odd, even Love.

Happy Labour Day to You, the day when all Americans tip minimum wage-earning countrymen and present them with small tokens of appreciation: items such as running socks, boxes of candies, a homecooked snack, a gift certificate to Starbucks (lest one is paying tribute to a barista there already).
Just off a multi-day labour-intensive bout of gigs and now to organizing and shipping and the like.
Amongst other intra-happenings was the apparent journalistic binge of a wedding guest yesterday who sidled alongside me and pounded me for about half an hour with probing and work-related questions. There's usually one of this manly type repped at each gathering - their attempt at engulfment fuelled by the sight of a woman carrying ooo-eee complicated electronics worth more than their cars, dressed well, at their social mercy (they believe). I suss out if they are a smart man or not and then enjoy watching their demeanours change as they realize that they are not talking to, sidling alongside, a complete nincompoop that they might flirt with a while.
So. Yesterday the wedding guest pre-toast decides to approach and I'm waiting for the usual banter to begin and it does. Are you . . . YES, I AM the official photographer. But then the banter plunges deeper as he is a smarter-than-most sharpshooter.
Do you feel like a voyeur at these things.
*Perfect thought bubble, edited, of course, tells this stranger how much I do enjoy a good round of voyeuristic watching.*
But the answer is: In a way, yes. I continue. But don't you feel like a voyeur, as well. I assume you don't know all these people in the room and even if you did don't you enjoy watching them, the interplay.
Yes, he answers, but do you feel like you're intruding.
*Thought bubble answer = I am being paid to be here, to intrude for pay.*
Answer: No, I think we are all in the same situation, all watching and I bet some people here are not that close to the bride and groom, that happens at all weddings, so they might feel as distant or watchful or voyeuristic, in a way, as I.
He's on a roll with the line of questions.
Do you feel like it's cookie cutter, that it's only a job, that it's formulaic.
*Thought bubble = Where's the little lady, go away, go away, where the F are the b&g to get this toast action started p.r.o.n.t.o.*
Answer: All gatherings have a similarity, there's a typology of people. Like, there are the men who are obviously uncomfortable in their ties, who never wear suits.
You can tell all that.
*Though bubble = what are you, fuckin' kidding me. This is the most obvious thing to mention.*
Answer: Yes, I nod to a man in that category. And then there are the people who obviously never go out with their partners/spouses, you can see how little they usually interact socially . . . at something like this they are awkwardly standing near each other.
And on this goes until he thanks Yours Truly for enduring his Larry Kinging.
&
Had an interesting conversation with the d.j. at the same wedding last night. He had a rather personal harrowing tale of the heart and we bandied about tales, anecdotes, advice until we ran off into separate directions, to our respective duties.
&
There were a few 10ish boys there with not a thought regarding what to do so Yours Truly, in camp counselor mode, directed them towards some good, hearty and healthy mischief such as: sliding down wide wooden banister, dipping fingers into the wedding cake's frosting (I provided a demo), and searching for the venue's secret passageways. And more. Somehow these kids had missed out on the possibilites for discreet good kid times, those heady adrenalized and unbelievably unfettered intra-happenings, not unlike those previously reported by Yours Truly.
Take this with You:
When life gives you happenings, grab onto your own mischief-laden intra-happenings.

Intra-Love.

Had The Raucous Girls over last night, ate and all under the pines as Extra lurked in the shadows and suddenly the Church of the Loud featured their pastor on mic for a shouting half an hour. They must have been having a vigil of sorts, no rockin' band, no shrieking singer.
In throes of marathon work weekend, the sort that makes you pine, speaking of pine, for some free moments or self-directed times.
Time to head back to the 'burbs after this Historic Old First Ward respite.
All for now and over and out.

Respite Love.

Welcome to Perfect Nancy's Cooking Show.
zippy logo and quickcuts of cuisinating heroine, smiling and alternately looking très serious, holding (à la Julia) a robust glass of white wine in one hand whilst stirring something with the other. Fans might note Perfect Nancy drinks left-handed.
Cut to commercial break. Show sponsors = Johnson & Johnson brand band-aids, Pier One, some shoe company and the biggest sponsor of all . . . the makers of Oban.
Back to Nance.
Salutation and description of what's to come in segment.
Background music alternates, Libra style, between heroine's eclectic music styles. Think Neil Diamond, White Stripes, a smattering of Bach, some dj pal's cd, etc.
Hostess says every dinner party needs some fresh flowers and camera pans to the newly-purchased zinnias bundled nearby. Two bundles, assorted colors.
Heroine gets up on a stool to reach two of the various selection of colorful vases. When reaching for third vase all hell breaks loose as it slips through the culinatious fingers, crashing to floor.
Cut to chefemme, smiling impishly. (NB: Dragon Boy made this adjective stick for life, unlike a primo Le Creuset. . . possible new sponsor)
Laughing all the while for camera's sake glass is cleaned up.
Then onwards to cutting and arranging of flowers, making of Brazilian soup, a slammin' in-season-fruited cobbler.
Toss in a few other commercial breaks.
Then a shot of hostgirl with glass aloft.
Cheers.

Love's good cheer.

My houseguests yesterday were all instructed to watch out for the grasshopper. And I meant it - I did not want to suddenly hear a sad and errant crunch.
So I constructed the Have-a-Heart-Trap:V.Gr.© to catch the critter (had a catch and release about five mins ago): a large colander and an l.p. (in plastic sleeve).
It went swimmingly, as I am wont to say. The grasshopper sat in a daze in the sun and I watched him, his bionic legs looking a little dehydrated but he was relieved. And then Extra meandered toward me, excited to see his favorite person squatted down and already at kittie-pet height. He nearly crushed the newly-released grasshopper and I had to push his oversized paws out of the way.
And, lest you wondered or could have possibly questioned this (and here I must mention this in my most enthusiastic tone) The White Stripes, gifted to me this summer by a fellow enthusiast, utterly rocks. Each and every twang, note, turn.
It is time to work along this work marathon as I have a new corporation to get off the ground. You remember - Have-a-Heart-Trap:V.Gr.©. Investors please contact me at once.
Further parting positivity comes from down there in the south, via an email received by the epinw fan club a few days ago.

Walk the fields. Smell the most wonderful air and squish your toes in some mud. You'll regret it if you don't. Be wild, in the wild . . . Scream 'I am Nancy and I win.'


Love's Winner.

A bientot placid setting.
Hello oddball Middling City.
Back from five or so day sojourn with Kennedy et al up there in the north next to a multi-bayed lake rimmed with rock and bass and tree life.
Was alarmed into abode and drifting away into Z-Land when *suddenly* there was a loud bang. I had my cellphone in the room and after my heart jumped out of my body and I listened for what might come next I knew I had to make a call. In lieu of 911 called my mother, who I knew would still be up reading.
I described the noise. Twice.
A LOUD BANG. Then I said Wait a minute, I want to be sure I don't hear anyone in the house.
My mother had me describe the sound and then offered this comforting question:
Do you think it was a shotgun blast.
Onwards.
Had to do some tech errands today and get a new surge protector as the dang-blamed thangs do not last for forever. I had a thought to replace its sealed lead battery but changed my mind once I saw the warning about electric shocks and the like.
Settling all sorts of client-tech problems or miasmas as well as feeding the lurking and feral cats. Are they responsible for the shotgun blast sound. I think not.
Could it be the nearby crackhouse.
Could it be the Rockin' for the Lord church.
Someone I spoke with today suggested weakly an earthquake.
Speaking of weather-related items, Karen informs me that her new home in LA (as in Louisiana, not the city of angelic rockstars) is not affected by that bitch Katrina.
And onwards again.

Love of mystery.

According to my epinw Blogger dashboard this is post 912 - meaning Sunday, when last I posted, I could have made a deal (grand, big, done) about the previous number.
But I did not.
In mere moments I will be in a car for a long while as today is the day Kennedy and I et al are heading north for a few. And therein lies the sad news for You for today. I believe wi-fi molecules will evade me this sojourn but You know intrepid Yours Truly - ever dousing-sticking my Perfect way towards technology, geekdom, access.
I will look.
I may blog.
Today for certain JR should have the final tiny slice of the thesis documentary pie in his mentor hands, widening the 3-ring (no, not circus) binder to add the slides I had made over at struggling Campos (mad props to their slides-from-jpegs capabilities - again, technology rocks) and a page of follow-along notes.
Wilderness. Naturally (literally, figuratively, sensationally) thoughts turn to other outdoorsy moments: encounters with wild animals, strange ways of cooking, unrelenting Nature and its practices.
Speaking of such, Brucey informed me I need to work harder. Harder, I asked, how so. In art matters he answered. Work harder - More Art Now.
Now.
Time to move along the northerly path of Fate, rimmed with wildflowers, berries and mushrooms that could be poison, whispers of scared small animals, an occasional danger-fueled and speeding car.

Love of the North.

Seems one of mine own photo bros. signed me up as a judge for a photo contest in November and the p.r. lady at the venue has been referring to it as not only a Low rent contest, but a low rent judging gig. Gives me pause.
Speaking of pauses.
This is the day that the lifeforce (just the fact that being happens) misconstrued as God in the minds of some and molded into varying righteous incarnations took a day of rest. Rest. Is for the wicked, as the saying might go. You see, this blogpost is mired in the quest - and recognition at the futility of such a quest - for accuracy. Idle hands doing idle things. Rest not on Your laurels. Rest not on the pause button and subsequent paperish accomplishments in the form of degrees and focuses.
On this day of rest Yours Truly mere moments ago channeled her former go-go self and worked the final nonrest-induced kinks in the back to Le Tigre's On the Verge.
John Irving, now there is a man. Handsome, lives in TO, writes like nobody's business.
His newest one, Until I Find You, has a prequote:

What we, or at any rate what I, refer to confidently as memory - meaning a moment, a scene, a fact that has been subjected to a fixative and thereby rescued from oblivion - is really a form of storytelling that goes on continually in the mind and often changes with the telling. Too many conflicting emotional interests are involved for life ever to be wholly acceptable, and possibly it is the work of the storyteller to rearrange things so that they conform to this end. In any case, in talking about the past we lie with every breath we draw.
-William Maxwell, So Long, See You Tomorrow.

On the subject of lies, or changing and fictive and un-fixed (in photo sense as being unfixed and impermanent) moments.
That I will ever get to Tattoo Don's with one former kid neighbor who I saw at last night's nuptials, that he can get me in somehow some Monday or Tuesday night to get the small post-degree self-gift. This will never happen.

&

Going away with Kennedy et al for a spell and was looking for a mid-sized sketch book to go along with the excellent new graphite. Find a fab Italian leather book I've had and flipped through. To the non-cognoscenti: when choosing a sketch book size and page color and tooth are important as well as what is already in the book, as people flip through without asking, with abandon. So you look to see what the pages are holding. So this book I recall drawing and liking outcomes and ripping out a few pages. But amongst the waiting blank space was a small note from the X - about permanence and such, tucked up into a corner in that odd and small hand. It is too ironic to discard and now the book beckons to overcome such fallacy.


Fallacious Love.

At the end of a longassed day of working matters found myself with a decent glass of a faux-oaked chardonnay on the beach and realized the last time a beachy coast saw me was in November for Jordan's Bat Mitzvah when TMO got me that swingin' ocean-viewed room in Myrtle Beach and the morn aft I took, after some excellent digivd shooting for art's sake, the nap to end all naps as the cops (there for a convention of questionable purpose) stormed the hotel after Yours Truly checked out. Last night it was a Canadian beach, a thinning and limited public access beach on the lake rimmed with bays of various names - and landed Americans.
It was the 50th b-day party of Mark Griffis. The night before Hunter S. Thompson's ashes and boney remains are to be shot into the sky via a giant red-fisted cannon and with pyros and beloveds.
Upon seeing Mark I gave him fifty hard whacks with my hand and a hard pinch afterwards, a tradition, a bruising and let's-face-facts tradition.
In post-school flux figuring and making calculations as to the next phase and step and plan.
Time to rush about and then shoot what Kimmie last night dubbed a day of someone's new beginnings - a wedding.

Love of new beginnings.

One installation shot of Endmatter, thesis show.
This past Monday and Tuesday enjoyed sneaking up on the looped digvids, sort of still awed by technology, how my edited clips and their pixels became this grand display. It plays and plays from nine to five until August 24th.
Uploaded this +19 to a site to have digslides made to send to JR today to add to the packet to document the joys and the culmination of school.
Time to work on finishing up the building shooting project and deliver this bundle of joy to Liz at the Shiney Happy Mag for the annual Secrets of Allentown hushhush walking tour.
Last night dined under the stars at Cheryl and Ed's on the occasion of the visit of Kat and Nick and their new kid - Emma, a sociable baby. Brought a SAfrican white which was great but, considring that Dave Matthews emanates from there, what else could be.
Time to work on this gray matter Middling City day.

Endmatter Love.

Firstly, I must thank one of You, the inner-circled, Perfect fanbase, for referring to me as Master of Fucking Awesomeness.
That is the spirit, as they say.
Today awoke in Soho after a fabulosic dinner at Barmarché with Dorota and Jason and some much-needed sleep and some odd dreams and an early morning remembrance of the video for Big Electric Cat (Adrian Belew) that I saw at the tenderheaded age of whenever at Danceateria, seated on a comfy armchair alongside my pal Ruth Klein. I not only had a strong vision of the animated drawings of the vid but of Ruth's 80s, assymetric hair and a curious eyeliner line she made, dragging the kohlpencil across to her temple.
Just working on my ultimate Parsons hoop, getting the binder of documentation together. This means along with classmates the frantic assembly of images on slides, on cd, on dvd, of installation shots, of smooth copies of thesis and a few other items. I was working on getting digital images together, actually on the final of 20 all sized to perfection when a poltergeistic moment happened in the computer lab: a flickering in unison of all the screens in the room (about 15), a strange whirring noise, then a silent and awful kapoof and my screen went all dark after the open applications quit by themselves.
Technie Kimberly came into the room. Ooops, she said, I thought you three were just clearing out your lockers.
Communication is not ever a central issue at Parsons School of Demystification.
Time to finish, time to play in the Shiney Apple before returning to that Middling City.

Finishing Love.