The Middling City is awash in temperance of the weathery kind.
Bulbs are confused. People are confused. Scarves or not. Sunscreen or not.
Really or not.
Yesterday I had to make environmental ports of a newbie to the big U, a nouveau PhD in the communications department who postulates/theorizes/writes about this very type of online fascination.
I told him some fun facts about epinw, that I'm a long-time blogger via Blogger, and a few other (m)usings, including how there have been moments when a reader feels they must disguise the fact that they have done some epinw reading.
According to the blog theorist, Stefanone, this is all about Equity Theory.
A fun mathematic equation. You. You say. Me. YT says.
And if there is no parity there and then then the awkwards set in.
He's asked me to write a narrative about this experience, about the years. He asked the big Why. Because once I discovered blogging I knew that it would be a way to record the ongoing, sometimes odd, narratives around me. And gathering narratives becomes a hobby, when you become forensic with the world it is another place and keeps your hands in creation. We moved onwards to discuss MySpace & Facebook, and he demo'd Facebook, a Blade Runneresque way of discovery in a flash - the pet peeves and the like of others out in the world who've tossed together a summation of their personas. Stefanone mentioned the Machiavellian possibs of all this scanning, forecasting, e-learning of others.
It's just layering of narratives to be used in wise moderation.
Dig.
Was shooting gig numero threeo yesterday when I was spotted by a teen I have known, who I have enjoyed talking to. NANCY she shouted. So I sat with her whilst she took a break from her history homework. My parents are taking me to a therapist she blurted out. And then I missed suddenly the blurts of young girls, like those I taught at the summer camp that Maine-rich decade.
I asked her if she is crazy. She said no. And I think I know this girl enough to know that she might recognize if she were crazy. She does not feel it to be so. We discussed the differences between crazy and creative, and the feeling of not being with one's people. I talked to another child, request of the mom, about being a creative in a sometimes kookily straight world. That those people are out there and you have to keep on truckin' and writing or whatever that impulse is until those people are found. So I kept on talking about crazy v. not crazy with this teen child. One man's crazy is another man's creative.

Creative, crazed Love.

And so please tell Yours Truly why DSL is running like not running at all but standing still. Very still.

Today is Ignominious Day, the day the world lost one of its biggest peaceniks, a beautiful Libran man of art, John, who would be sixty-six at this time. And what would he make of this war ever dubbed anything but, disenfranchised voters, violence in so-called art including the evil rubbish spewed out by a studio and written and produced by anti-semitic Mr. Gibson, global warming, 9/11, his Sean's musical and stylistic change-ups, the loss of CBGB, the deaccessioning of antiquities by the short-sighted and so-called directorship of Albright-Knox Art Gallery in the Middling City, and oso much more.

As always, big WWJT questions.

It is fitting that today is an MC day that is bitter cold.
A day without news watching, a day of hunger, a day of working, a day of writing, a day of listening to recorded music and planning an art project for the coming year. And ordering a funereal bouquet for a girl of ten who mysteriously died in her sleep, whose wake happens on Sunday and for that YT ordered a girl-worthy splash of purple and pink flowers.

John's lovely and timeless words.

Chanting the Mantra peace on earth
We all been playing those mind games forever
Some kinda druid dudes lifting the veil
Doing the mind guerrilla
Some call it magic the search for the grail
Love is the answer and you know that for sure
Love is a flower you got to let it, you got to let it grow.

Love Love Love.

Sang along with Cat Power all down the soggy Main Middling City drag noting the smattering of holiday decs. Just had finished a gig at a residential place (making memento-worthy photox) with halls decked but, upon commenting to a femme in this joint working as a waitress, gleaned that not everyone has the same sensibilities of what is (emph on is) decorating.
This was tasteful botanicals, rich colors, emphasis on living and petite trees. There were no santas, twinkly little white lights, sheets of faux snow, overly-scented candles.
The waitress divulged to me and others on the waitstaff that her house is transformed during the holidays and I asked a multitude of questions, utterly fascinated that she even has holiday-themed canisters in her kitchen, and a holiday-themed bathroom.
Then, she continued, her and her husband, all hung over on New Year's Day, pack it all up whilst hungover.
She went on to illustrate for me her various collections.
I was oso curio curious.
And then I thought what in hell does Yours Truly collect.
I have collections of varied worth - both market-based and YT-based.
Cherry stems bent by others, wheatback pennies, bellybutton lint, men made of bottle caps from the 50s, various artwork by MC artists, and more things I just cannot think of at this time.
Onwards to very late dinner and more ruminations on curios, and rampant curiosity.

Love of catlike curiosity.

Nephew and I motored out to the Middling City Cement Coliseum to first bypass that whole scene by mishap of coordinates and continue along until Yours Truly noted that there were no giant sporty lights on the horizon to left or ahead. So we continued along and passed the fairgrounds and then were heading into the hinterlands and then made a scenic left turn and wended along until we could make yet another left and then lo and behold we were on Abbott Road, the real road of choice for MCCC access. We parked and trekked along with thousands of others and thanks Dave Pietrowski for placing us on the 48 yard line behind the home bench.
Of course I sang both national anthems and no this is not an error as today was Canada Day which included their festive and more voluminous country tune. Due to Canada Day there was mention of Stephen Brereton, Canadian Consul Général as well as some Canadian national beauty queens-all three in front of the game-cam.
Fireworks, vertical flame shooter, singing, occasional beers, a bona fide American fun success story and going to these sporty things makes you not only want to sing anthems and such but just groove on the joys of organized enjoyment.
From there a complete swing back to art of another genre and made images for Michelle Gigante's annual dance theatrics and live music. This was the best one yet, it zipped along for an hour and her and Paul Todaro read from Sam's Unnamable. A real sonic, visual, poetic treat. Saw Annie Deck there and afterwards held court so to speak in a corner of the vaulted reception area and talked to Cam Miller and Yes, I said, I would still be interested in doing an arts installation at Trinity. And doing that I will dive into the visual language of those ancient tales told to keep people in order, like a veritable rule book, an attempt to keep the defense strong against the bad things, the devil, the opposing team.
Time to wend on over to edits.

Rule of Love.

See this. Evidence.
Of Yours Truly being oso sporty when the occasion calls for standing up and being effusive and mugging all sportylike when one's sports shooter pal wends his way up the aisle to document above. Hockey. Sabres v. Penguins.
The former won as YT sat in seat number eighteen, one of the luckiest numbers.
YT was also recently on the front page of local section of Middling City News. There were several calls and emails telling me that my likeness appeared.
MCN is, apparently, trying out a super-secret new feature. Where's Nance, much like that Waldo or Elvis phenom past. To this date the likeness has been in this journal three times this year. Me working, me shopping for a cap, me walking. Just me, me, me. Here and there.
And, for Your absolute amusement and budding collection.


Collectible, wandering Love.

Recently Yours Truly was hobnobbing with a Middling City homicide detective.
A thug.
An intimidating man who made it his sudden m.o. to fetch YT a small slice of pizza. Hot peppers or not he inquired. Hot peppers, I warbled, imperiously. My cohort, who shall be unnamed here, caught the thug lying to his little lady near the back corner of the bar by the peestops, pretending to be at a press conference or a holding tank or somewhere else quite loud, important and workful.
The homicide thug pointed out the latest arrival, a shoe shine man, one of those sorts who looks like a dusting of cocoa powder happened and, come to think of local lore, this idiomatic twist could resemble the dustings of yore that straggled onto homes in the vicinity of Bethlehem Steel Corp., all those benzene molecules and such nestling into lungs.
So there is the shoe shine man, all obsequiousness, on the floor doing his thing.
All of his front and near-front teeth are, it seems, a distant memory, and the thug starts to shout at the shoe shine man.
When'dja get out of jail. Still smoking crack.
And more along those lines.
It was oddly uncomfortable, the thug intimidating the slavish shiner and when me and palsy-walsy left I stated that that scenario in that venue, which shall also be left unnamed, was like visiting a movie set.
We were in the roles of writerly watchers, anecdote makers.
Time to see Dorothy, who deftly shapes the auburn hairs I make.

Idiomatic, thematic Love.

There Yours Truly was and I can, perhaps, for the premier time, admit that I was not minding my own business.
I went to World's Largest Disco last night, having volunteered again to docudramaticize all the sub-happenings for Dave Pietrowski, knowing that YT wished to have a likeness captured via photons with celeb du soir, Danny Bonaduce. That kooky loose cannon filled in for snoozey Erik Estrada and Danny did not disappoint, first thing he did upon entering the VIP party was to march over to the top-40 dj in the house (Roger Christian) who earnestly slapped on "I Woke up in Love This Morning." Danny BonVivant asked Roger his name and he turned around in his faux Sabres jersey to reveal his name on the back - Roger. Well, Roger, Danny said in his spent-yet-distinctive voice, I always said that if I ever heard this song again I'd blow my brains out.
So there, song gone, Danny resumes standing alongside fans who shelt out $15 to have a Polaroid snap made of them, and him.
He wore a fire engine red suit with black shirt underneath and later, when he was upstairs doing more meet & greet & schmooze & smile I noted that his black shirt had fallen by the wayside and his hairy chest just hung there between the red lapels.
When he was on the mainstage with Dave Pietrowski he noted that many ladies in the house, probably braced by slutty polyester ensembles and scads of Grey Goose molecules and the like, had grabbed his nether regions. Not that he minded, he said.
When I had my likeness captured with him he held my shoulders oso tight as I asked if he'd liked the hockey game he had gone to with Dave P. the night before. He said he dug it, his first ever. I told him I'd just gone to my first game, too, thanks to Dave P. The man. The mover.
The usual mayhemish situs arose that one eyewitnesses at parties: polyester ass-grabs, dancefloor charisma and its yang ... the dancefloor wipeout, faux 'fro pickings, Sly Stone leanings, party train effusiveness, tentative shuffles, and Saturday Night Fever imaginings.
At some point it was time to give this annual 70s moment the slip before all the revelationized dancers became too too boogey-oogey-oogeyed.

Slippery poly-oly-ester Love.

As You know, Yours Truly is a Lore Lover, especially in these sobering, non-sober holiday times.
Who does not enjoy heartening and soul-bracing tales of scrappy determination and struggles, peppered perhaps with physical harm and confrontations with wild animals.
Or the ingesting of same.
Animals, not others of said scrappy determination.
Resulting, of course, in a party.
YT is attempting to parallel The Donner Party, always referred to as ill-fated, with The Pilgrims Party.
Both were groups who dug travel and adventure. One ended not very well, the other better. Both groups probably had to eat raccoons and other things gleaned from Nature.
Just completed a piece for Buffalo Rising Mag about intrepid Mark Goldman and his newest book, City on the Edge, with cover art by rising art star Julian Montague.
Met up with Julian and Cynnie last week and Julian says his artwork prices are soaring and I am wondering if I should get one now.
Great other art news is that recently I discovered two prints in my possession from circa 1842 are authentic and have value in the art market and it's time to have them properly framed.
Speaking of frames, the New Era Cap Co. gave each and every attendee yesterday a goodie bag and who on this Earth doesn't dig a goodie bag. I ask You.
Inside were several little favours, including a doll-sized New Era Cap in a glass box, on a wood base, tied with a black ribbon. It is a keepsake.
Here is the big question du jour and tomorrow jour.
Would you prefer to be an Indian or a Pilgrim.
Or is that indian or pilgrim.
Shopped and did not find yesterday paper party hats of indian headdresses and pilgrim chapeaux. Sorely disappointed. But not that I looked très hard.
Time to wend and write and do.

Indian Love of Nature Love.

Today has been one of those eclectic days and so far one of the biggest highlights has been seeing the inside of the former gun turret at the former Fed Reserve Bank on Delaware Avenue in the Middling City.
I was hired by my pal Dana Marciniak, now of New Era Cap Co., to document the hoopla surrounding the grand opening of their new h.q. and jumped from tour group to tour group and discovered this turret-related fun fact, provided by the co's project manager in brown blazer-no ballcap.
Moments later I met the retail head, standing amongst a whole lot of demi-spheres that will soon be topped off with caps of all colours, teams, affinities. To be truthful, Yours Truly had no inkling of the enormity of this whole cap phenom, or that New Era is as astronomically international as they are.
In the CEO office, where I was tempted to sit on his chair as I've done on a few other photo shoots, just to get a whiff of what it feels like to be a Captain of Industry, I did see a ballcap designed by a rap star whose name escapes me, featuring a real-live diamond accenting the New Era logo.
In mere moments YT is off to photograph gingerbread house construction.
My goal on that particular shoot is to offer my services as Taster of Shutters.
Off to Gingerbreadville.

Ginger, candied Love.
*in honour of the one side dish YT insists on making, when possible, for T-G, trying to cram culinary tradition down the throats of others. Ginger Candied Carrots. Love them. Make them.

So el grande Mercury Buckets to Dave Pietrowski for Sabres tix for tonight-premier time for Yours Truly, former diligent floor hockey and street hockey left wing.
Still have to contact Dave about the big huge f-up in the mag that mysteriously published an incorrect date for World's Largest Disco. Twice. Even in the title. I was, to say the least, mortified. As if there was not enough to be edited and done on the mag without mucking up an otherwise stellar piece which does, in sooth, state that the WLD happens the Saturday aft T-G, which any Tom, Dick & Harry would just know is not the titular date given. Egads again.
Saw Marky Mulville last night at gig out in the dark exurbs and he says he is iceside tonight, shooting the game, so I said I'd give him my coordinates so he could doc my sporty moment.
We were both at a gig sans cheese cubes, lots of crudites but, curiously, no cubes of solid milkfat in sight.
Moseyed afterwards to meatballs and vino for a well-balanced, nutritious evening.
Today garnered an advance copy of Mark Goldman's pending book of Middling City troubles, City on the Edge. Pub date = January.
Spoke to a Prometheus Books employee and, at some point, mentioned that YT had worked for them back in the day when they were in the MC, at the then-not-so-terrifying corner of East Amherst and Bailey Avenue. Back when YT slogged away as assistant to both directors of advertising and promotions, choking on secondhand smoke puffed out by nearly everyone in the basement office with orange shag carpeting which yielded a small crop of mushrooms after each and every rainfall.
YT took fresh air breaks, hanging/hiding out with either the acerbic (in attitude towards the joint, not YT) designer or the shipping and receiving guys where the titles were piled up awaiting loving eyes.

Lovingly-eyed Love.

Urban, vehicular fable.
Written, demi-appropriately, to near-vintage Roxy Music in a Shiney Apple-related memory jag. This is driving music in the far and away sense.
Fable:
And by fable Yours Truly means You read a parallel meaning, dig.
Yesterday, amongst a typical marathon day of several gigs far and wide, interspersed with necessary electronic linkage to the world-at-large, decided to try one of those small, vehicular gestures that can make all the proverbial difference.
The car had been pulling to the right, often. It got me to thinking that perhaps I should motor over to see ol' Mat Sims at the dealership to swap out cars - again.
But no.
For a mere 75¢ in quarters YT wrestled with a borrowed hose (three minutes and counting) and its attached air-o-meter, filling all four sporty tires.
To the brim.
The tires were at 20 p.s.i. and they prefer to be about 45 p.s.i. That is shop talk for pounds per square inch, whatever the hell that really means and, being a very busy freelancing woman on the g.o. go, who can really care.
That is another matter altogether, to be Googled or Wiki'd perhaps never.
So in lieu of frustration, possible substitution, YT invested a meager amount of time and money to meliorate. Problem solved.
This fable may be applied, in whole, to the concept of relationships and to friendships.
Thank you for Your attention in this matter.

Respectfully Submitted, Love.

Sitting alongside a window facing the Great Lake and watching (You see Yours Truly is a highly-evolved typist) the waves breaking over the breakwall but Dig This YT is not in the Middling City.
Chicago is eerily much like the MC in the genre of people who live here - open-faced, eager, and oftentimes quite spontaneously hilarious. On purpose.
Why-o-why am I Perfectly ensconced in a business centre facing a great lake in a great hotel.
Well, I will tell You.
I am here to see Art, lots of Art, and to hear free jazz by some pals, including Peter Broetzmann and Fred Lonberg-Holm. PB played last night in a gallery and interspersed were words by a poet, who charmingly leant against the wall where his work was hanging with lots of sand-blasted bricks.
Found inspiration in this sprawling place of six, maybe seven million people - depends who you ask.
Time to wend some more before flying back to the MC, where the Albright-Knox Art Gallery announced yesterday that they're unloosing all of their antiquities. A sad move, I believe, as there's no place for them to hang and be viewed and inspire just as the modernist pieces et al do.
Modern, modern, modern is the AKAG mission and m.o. so goodbye Old Masters and ancient artifacts and g.o. go to Sotheby's and points far beyond.
Artists get inspired by all of the above. Just not in the MC any more.

More more Modernist Love.

Auto-Portrait, for Your viewing pleasure.
Dem dere Dems did DYN-oh!-MITE, to quote Jimmy Walker.

Vintage Love.

in any event, i think we need to try the Enlightened Dictator model. i have been pushing for it. i feel like i could be named the Dictator of America and the whole world would be such a better place. i would do all the good things we need to do to make this world work better. more money for education. higher fuel efficiency standards so we reduce dependence on foreign oil. more money for the arts. fewer tax breaks for oil companies. i had this discussion recently with a friend and of course another famous political quote came up.... absolute power corrupts absolutely. and then we debated whether I would be corrupted. i said i wouldn't. really. she doubted me.

Before Yours Truly blogs right on about this quote above, penned by an ever-faithful epinw reader (but close scrutinization of all things epinw and you might recall one castmember in particular), I discuss the evening's soundtrack. It shifted radically since the last gig du jour from old-time rock and roll to Barry White. Is it pre-election musings. I think so. Let us think about Love, the eternal, worldly constant.
All things are fair in matters of Love and war, it has been said.
YT would prefer not to discuss Love and war in the same breath.

The quote above reveals a few things.
*aside. I have been thinking that we should reinstate the custom of curtseys and bows. The bow is a very nice way of regarding and greeting and leaving others in Japan, I dig it. Ladies would curtsey, gentlemen bow - of course.
And, I just emailed the quotee above this addition to the so-called platform, in addition to a special new, silent way of greeting with jazz hands.
Firstly, that YT knows some hard-hitting dreamers and schemers.
Secondly, that the world-at-large is seemingly going to h.e.l.l. in a very troubling and yet vainglorious handbasket.
There will be a savage, Victorian hanging, if Sadam's appeal does not go well.
Capital punishment is wrong, always as wrong as domestic violence, female genital mutilation, child pornography, the fiasco of the Iraq Invasion, and shoving one's spiritual beliefs onto others in the name of spotty, nebulous Justice.

Tomorrow is Voting Day. Vote.

Vote, Love, Vote.

Aside & disclaimer:
Hips and Makers by one and only rockchick Kristin Hersh blares to comp for The Church of Pathetic Sonic Profferings.
I think their drummer might be grasping the concept of A Beat (goes on) but the yelling on the mic thing should stop, it is like so contrapuntal and obviously ghetto. It really destroys - on a regular basis - the masquerade that this is crafty urban pioneerism.
The screeching will abate – after several more hours, peppered with occasional prayerful respites.
You see all civic help or interest on such matters flies away as politicoes and police realize the noise emanates from a church, a church of God-fearing, God-screaming Hispanics. Longtime homeowners be damned.
Baited JW,Esq. with questions about his costume of a few days ago.
And the details that followed were up to his impressive party boy standards.
He was a naughty schoolboy, replete with lollipop, knickers, beanie.
In his words he was A la angus young of AC/DC.
He also added a super bonus, obviously knowing this was epinw fodder, informative history of identity-shifts and costume mongering in San Fran.
He then, as the night progressed, according to his report, began to inject the notion of rep/page shenanigans and even used the word cornholing. You fill in the blanks.
Soundtrack shift to Interpol as it's quick becoming more an Interpol kind of night and I've just been contacted to go out and play (again) and an executive decision must be made.
I share now some details dispelling the notion that YT is truly uly Perfect.
Once I had a roomie who brought to the table, so to speak, a vintage microwave. I recall it had a hole in its door and we ironically put a DYMO label on the rift stating something ironic. Maybe it said Run. Or Uh-Oh. I just don't recall. I hated the thing and never used it. Roomie, on the other hand, popped popcorn in it.
So, minding my own business, I was looking for something usefully necessary in Target and chanced upon some microwaves. Somehow Laura sprung to mind and I will not explain. But there I was, suddenly inspecting their shining exteriors, comparing their prices, their respective radioactivity levels. On the toppermost shelf, about fifteen feet up in the air, I noted some real loser klunker microwaves marked down to a mere pittance, $23 to be exact. I found some nice young man and he excavated it and I bought the thing. I am still rather afraid of it. I leave the room when it's on and it's only been on a few times. And one of those times, like today, was a raging fiasco. Working like a madwoman I thought Oh, veggie burger. I cranked the machine up to five minutes, left the room. Maybe four minutes later there was a whiff of smoke. There was the sad, little veggie burger with a big scorch mark at its center. It wasn't quite like Hiroshima, where only the shadows remained. Maybe a few minutes later, but there was a whole lot of scorch on the plate, a whole lot of chokingly pungent smoke. I hate microwaves. Why is it here. They are evil and make me think of chef Harry Kelly who once stated Slow cookin' is good cookin.'
I have one other domestic tale of disorder involving a sweater, a washing machine, and dashed dreams of wearing it that very same night. And subsequent triumph of returning the little potholder of a former sweater and exchanging it for some very ultimate boots.

Onwards to more work.
And then more work.
And then.

Then Love.

An elf, Yours Truly queried thusly.
No, my teddy bear, the barista answered.
And so began my day of mis-guessing the Halloween costumes of others yesterday.
Are you supposed to be a doctor, I asked a tall, handsome fellow in scrubs.
No, he answered, I'm a medical parts specialist and I have to take part in some open heart surgery in about an hour.
There were more people in scrubs at the movie theatre last night (but I was like so over the guessing) when Kennedy and I went to see the new Scorsese movie that rather rocked.
Laura did not like the movie but I am betting that it had something to do with the odd old comedian with whom she attended the screening.
There were a few moments I confused the two whiteboys in the lead roles - Leonardo and that Matt D. I wished for more more more Marky Mark screentime. Now there's a superstar. And he does get the final, surprise twist at the ending.
Soundtrack was fab as it included not only a John Lennon song sung by himself, but a Pink Floyd cover. Or at least YT thought it was a cover. It was Roger Waters with The Band. Most shocking.
Time to wend and wend some more after hours of editing, pixel pushing as I am wont to say.

Wont Love.

I've never been one to dig descending into the basement.
Well, not since I printed art down in the darkroom amongst the doom, gloom, spider webs.
In the basement is where all the terrifying mechanicals hang, all the things that mysteriously work, do not go bump (one hopes) in day or night, and where there all sorts of things that can go completely wrong.
Like the sump pump.
Speaking of such, as well as the descending aversion, Yours Truly has been skipping down the stairs at a few moments to see if the duct tape is holding, if the lifetime-warrantied sump pump is still working, and to marvel at my woman of the new milennium pluck.
Brucey called this morning as I was en route to the John Edwards (yes, as in former running mate of the John Kerry, spouse of ketchup heiress) gig at the big U to ask if the above problem (the sump pump, not the loss of the Johns) had been fixed.
Uhhh, YEAH, I kind of snarked, DAYS ago.
John Edwards punched out fun facts. And I noted that he is a big-time Blinker.
YT also found herself today going through what was a Being John Malkovich door out of the undergrad library at the big U to walk out onto a roof to photograph some solar panels.
Can You say you walked on a rooftop laden with solar panels.
I thought not.
I came back in the BJM door and asked someone nearby if I was very tan as the Middling City sun beat down upon me and about a thousand panels converting sun molecules into power molecules.
It's like what happens in the basements of the world - best left to experts.
Ours is just to consume, pay, shoot.

Being Love.

Minding my own business, or at least attempting to with a plethora of distractions and a pending meeting and such the sump pump continued to buzz louder and louder at intervals. Until it would not stop its buzzing and closer inspection revealed a burning electrical smell and a burning hot sump pump that had finally given up its ghost.
Laughingly, I called two immediate plumbing options - TonyC and Seneca Plumbing. TonyC was unavailable and Seneca told me they could give me a hand with the sump pump fiasco in December but by then the house would have floated away.
So during the meeting Seneca did call back (shock) and said I had to measure the sump pump - how many hoses, how wide the hose(s), etc.
Measurements happened and I rushed over there.
I spotted a man floating in space holding a toilet seat and told him the woes at hand. He said I do not work here. But, I warbled, you LOOK like you are working, nodding toward the seat.
An x-biker did help and I told him this.
One hose, 4 and three quarters, as high as my leg.
He looked somewhat dazed.
I looked over their handy sump pump display nearby and discovered the leg-sized sump pump is basically a piece of unsuitable crap meant for the occasional sump pumper, not an everyday user.
The new sump pump is three-quarter horse power and I asked the x-biker how fast, were it a motorcycle, the thing would run.
Oh, are you a biker, he queried. This is how Yours Truly learned of his x-status.
No, I said most emphatically. You.
He said Yes and mumbled something when I asked if he'd been in a club.
Oh, is this a SECRET, YT pushed.
He showed off a small tattoo on his arm while saying Chosen Few and answered that this sump pump soon to be in my possession could run seventeen m.p.h.
Not bad, YT thought.
So x-biker hooks up, after my description, a length of p.v.c. pipe about four feet up into the air. After I'd told him a flexible hose is what had been there.
I thought to myself Well, he must know this will work.
I hint at the unfortunate circumstances to follow.
I make a little bed of bricks for the new pump in the well, I put it in atop. I cut some flex host from p.v.c. to p.v.c. that leads to the sewer pipe and plug it in and then witness an enourmous tsunami of brown water shooting out all over the area.
I unplug.
I run for the duct tape.
I tape like there's no sump pump tomorrow and wait and wait for the little 17 m.p.h. machine to work its magic.
Water streams out about three feet from a few spots so I get busy with the duct tape and cover and recover the spots.
Now, when I have a spare hour, I will figure out how to connect these pipes in a more orderly fashion with more pipe, some clamps, some goop, some other do-dads still unknown to YT at this juncture.
This sump pump has a lifetime warranty.
This just oozes confidence that this pump, unlike the other, will not let off periodic troubling noises and smells.
Time to gussy up and head to gig du jour, leaving the plumbing world and all its cares behind. For now.


Plumb Love.

Found myself at some point today standing within a soundproof box, if You will, a sort of portable recording room contraption, out on the muddy campus of Middling City U. Amongst others I was making some portraits of a guy who studies neurological and musical things that he explained well and I will merely paraphrase. He spoke of slip of the finger happenings, like slip of the tongue. He also studies people who cannot sing as well as those with passable karaoke voices by putting them into said booth and having them sing while they hear altered recordings of themselves singing. It was a bit over my head but I offered up my (imPerfect) voice for his study. He said Some people think they have a bad singing voice but really don't.
Oh, Yours Truly replied, believe You me, I heard mine is quite bad. I did not go on to tell him of that one night down at Winnie's with the drunk midget with YT warbling DreamWeaver. I didn't think it was all that bad. Justy had another op.
This researcher of bad singers and such says he'll email me if he needs another under-microscope volunteer.
Onwards then to a photo shoot in one of those dreaded, added-on hospitals which make no sense whatsoever as to which elevator leads to what floor and rooms seemingly numbered randomly by a dyslexic.
So I finally find the sinus/fungi guy in his strewn office and wished I had left a trail of popcorn for myself as I had joked to the helpful lady at the helful desk. Finally the correct door was discovered and I was like so out of this hospital and, while driving down the Avenue, spotted two guys messing around with red plastic sunglasses at the bus stop. I thought Oh, right, Halloween, how utterly silly of them to be putting on those archetypal wacky glasses probably with the mirrored googly eyes.
Wrong.
The one man lifted the red plastic sunglasses off the other guy's face and I nearly fainted behind the wheel, being all bloodsqueamed and all. There was a Perfect Japanese flag underneath where the right eye should have been peeping out. Swoon. Swoon. Onwards then.

Swooning, Love.

Off to points beyond.
Amongst others a shoot involving more cleaning up of fallen branches.
Spoke to Dorota last night, expecting her to have already landed out at the Suburban/Non-International Middling City Airport. She was still sitting out in the Far Rockaways, strapped in with somewhere to go.
The sound of chainsaws wafts about this fine morning and I'm watching a man out yonder with a much much bigger chainsaw than I have. It is gas powered, it is probably the Husqueverna of my dreams. Not that Yours Truly could even foist the thing more than a few inches off the ground.
Time to find the tree-related do-gooders.
Really, to reiterate, had You bought me a burro for my b-day I could be renting the little rascal out to help pay the utility bills, yes, but to also offer people the option of greater ease of branch-dragging-at a reasonable price.

Reasonably-priced Love.

+
This just in.
A small slew of email awaiting me post-mudpit/devastation image making.
One from PB telling when he'll be gigging in Chicago.
One from Literal Harold stating that he heard from some colleagues at some gaming convention in SF that the Navy Seal junket (that I desperately wanted to attend to blow shit up in the desert around Las Vegas) involved loads of shooting but only a demo of a bazooka, nobody was allowed to shoulder it.
One from Jana who sent along her review of that so-called wine bar we kind of junketed to in the Middling City's University Heights zone and how YT wished to display my pugilistic tendencies and go over to the ersatz wine bar all duded-out in sports crap and whack the crap out of a punching bag suspended, oddly, over some bottles.