S U R P R I S E.
Is what we all shouted, after a spell, after we were sure that EL was in the proverbial house!
Alan had mere seconds before stated as he zoomed by Ed and me that She knew.
She does not know, we repeated, and repeated.
She came home with Polly and Cheryl, after a few art jaunts.
It seemed to take forever for them to enter.
Yours Truly was stationed in the middle of the living room, with cam.
As soon as she was well inside the door KaPoof - I flashed at her a few times to capture the second of recognition.
A fab party in honour of her fiftieth.
Made, as is trad, her b-day book stuffed with her likeness, wishes from friends and colleagues.

Readying for an evening of gig.

Surprised Love.

Trixie (a.k.a. Jodi), who celebrated a Scorpio b-day yesterday (1 mo jubilant b-day wish to yoooou, LA Woman), sent Yours Truly this truly amazing likeness of her Halloween self.
Ah, that parade of alter egos.
For those not in the Trixie Know, she does not usually have such sky-high, rockabillyesque hair.
In our recent correspondence YT asked how many wigs were employed for such effect.
I guess 2.5.
I am awaiting the answer.
She also does not feature ink of that ilk.

There was yesterday, in select parts around these parts, a hail storm.
Not of golf ball proportions but enough to render some of the biways a mushy, murky morass. (Sly ref to the Middling City's Channel 7 parlance of yore, steeped in alliteration.)
Noted that the 33 suddenly was a slow-down and, inching up, spotted the culprit situ - an SUV had gone airborne and landed halfway onto a guardrail.
Emergency road flares and rubberneckers did their post-situ things.
YT, having been in her fair share of car-related fiascoes, does not have a temper flare, contribute road flares, nor rubberneck, sending instead good wishes at the scene as I pass by.

Costume, car, careful Love.

Poor Firefox has been a-crashing all the livelong day.
But now, after being offline for most of the aft, it seems oso much better.
Imagine the Firefox lead office guy charging through office stating Heads will roll, get this fixed, and pronto.

Today is Election Day.
Yours Truly votes, and You should vote.
Sometimes YT is amazed by those who do not vote, who sniffle it off, I don't know where to vote, I don't know the issues, I don't know the candidates, it makes no difference if I vote or not.
Well, as One who Halloweened as thee Al as in Gore this past one I can assure you that Al knows that each and every vote does count.
And in local elections there are no electoral colleges - popular votes are one vote times how many actually hauled their arses into the booths.
Vote.

Last night went with Kennedy et al to Melt-Banana, Japanese noise quartet at the subterranean venue de musique - SoundLab, or SLab, as YT lovingly shortens it.
Had a very nice conversation with Baumann, it had been a while.
The band rollicked for about an hour and YT was so moved to buy their baseball v. of their t's with intriguing art by Fly, who signs his drawings Fly-2K7.
Before this jaunt bon-vivanted a bit of the night away with Sparky and Jana, at one of the favoured haunts which was sporting a new accessory, a young sax player stationed in a corner.
He (inevitably) renditioned up a Billy Joel tune and naturally the table talk (which did include the very jovial and oso hilarious Mary) turned to all things Piano Man.
Helped the girls slurp up some of their entree juices.
I had come in with my furry poof hat which, if all hairs are tucked up, appears to be a strange double-platinum 'fro.
I told Mary that I was not dining as I'm a supermodel and had a big shoot today.
This as we all imbibed non-oak-aged chardonnay with gutsy gusto.

Vote for Love.

Something from a last-month New York mag article caught my imagination whilst waiting for some image files to load, an article entitled Has Money Ruined Art? by Jerry Saltz.
It's about how market, prices, sizes, egos are becoming mega-dollar-signed grand.
It's well-known that collectors and curators descend upon thesis show openings (perhaps not with checkbooks but with mental checklists of what might be a possible viable art career via a few works that are the culmination of 2 or so years - one hopes - of sweat, fret, and tears) to seek out the Next Big Art Stars.
In this article Saltz writes that the M.F.A. has become the new M.B.A. - one's possible ticket to big earnings; and the spendiest collectors vie for a spot in the tomes of art history.
Thoughts naturally meander towards the past Parsons situ, beginning in '02 (after the fateful Mardi Gras notification via email from famed and favoured JR) and trailed along its scheduled path to August of '05 - a complicated decision to go and a complicated decision to stay.
Ultimately, the decision for acquiring the M.F.A. was (and perhaps should always be) a gift to self, to have time to mull in the whys of the practice, to read theory and history and just basically line the photo basket with Ideas. And to push the art/aesthetic comfort zone into something different - new people, places, tools.
Change, teaching, connections, contacts are the goals.
Committed to giving a piece to CEPA for their upcoming Biennial Auction, which YT always considers an honor to be asked and participate.
Always make something new for this event.
Speaking of new, art, event have yet to fetch the small framed drawing from the Hallwalls Members' Show.
Months ago.
Several Middling City people have said that tomorrow the first flakes may fly here.
There are still leaves on trees, not all yet yellowed, reddened, and fallen.
Kennedy and I wrapped a few gardenly items with burlap and I could not help but think of Marion Faller's (a toppermost undergrad hero/mentor/influence) documentation of wrapped flora. As I said to Kennedy, This is not an exact science. At least not in the hearsay-strewn, inexact Book of Science of Yours Truly.

Inexact, wind-strewn Love.

Early this morning Yours Truly actually overheard someone use the phrase sticky wicket in a seemingly normal conversation.
YT was flailing away at laptoply matters. The woman who uttered the phrase sticky wicket was one of those irritating mothers who speaks to their children as if everything is a delightful debate, or as if their lives in that moment are entrancing television shows with the volume just a touch too loud.
I felt the need to text Sparky to ask that she please never use the phrase sticky wicket. Ever.
And this means You, too.
Sparky sent along a message that she would never utter that phrase.
I really could not ever imagine Sparky saying those words together in one sentence but the occasional bandying about of suggestive quips in the midst of an adrenalized day is a primo way of taking a microscopic vacation.
Onto another, blazing pet peeve.
Last night had a gig and observed many people eating the catered finger foods as that is my job fercrissakes, not only the documenting of such occasions, but avoiding getting people in throes of enjoying said food.
Between frames if You will observed the pet peeve matter, saw a woman not only licking a finger but all her fingers. Con brio. In public.
Her disgusted pal, at least I hope that he was disgusted, hastily (but not soon enough) handed her a paper napkin.
But she had already licked off all the beige cheesey dip matter.
At the evening's near tail end sat with Liz and discussed several other types of matter, including YT doing a piece on Steve Kurtz and his artistic/bacterial super-woes.
YT will be attending, if allowed, hearings and the like.
One of YT's several heroes is Dominick Dunne (who I just discussed about fifteen minutes ago with Lorne and his uncle, a snowbird with a fading tan, about how DD is one of my favoured writers amid one of my guilty pleasures - VF - in midst of discussing favoured periodicals), and YT will channel his various prowesses to tell that Big Kurtz Tale.
Onwards, time to climb another tall downtown Middling City building as it is a ferocious big blue sky day.

Ferocious Big Love.

Happy Beggars' Night to You.
Sometimes I recall meandering the streets as a child on Beggars' Night, not a very candy-lucrative night as the following, I recall.
This image was sent to Yours Truly this fine morning by Paul and Mark and YT informed them that they are now my MexiCali Heroes.
Today and tomorrow I may just wear my dental (under)world badge to allow me a presence on the concrete floor of the Middling City Convention Center - for a conventioneer costume, of course.
Tonight going to the big screen screening at Shea's of Nosferatu, the horror classique of '22, with Annie, Sparky, and meeting up with Deb et al in the Spotlight Lounge for vino, and cheese cubes.
Been listening to ChemBro's latest in the car and have to go on record as saying that I am not sure I share the wonderment of Justice's latest. But perhaps JW,Esq. can fill me in on the special inter-molecular raison d'diggin' it.

Time to wend up north to dispense happiness and pixels captured on plastique.

Northern Love.

Interior shot made at Vive on the Middling City's east side yesterday during a gig there. Was there once before and it's on Wyoming Avenue off of East Ferry.
Observed that thee charismatic Reverend Darius Pridgen now has a Subway in a corner of his huge space of worship.
At Vive the vibe is subdued, adults in sort of living room areas watching television as kids scramble through the hallways. It's a far cry from the very funded, colorful lobbies and common rooms at places like Ronald McDonald House, Gilda's Club, and the like.
Observed the unpacking of clothing donations, most surprised to see that a donor saw fit to include a tea length beaded black dress. Just what your average refuge lady needs as part of her survival wardrobe.

Astonishing is, Yours Truly thinks, how most would have described the excellent Al Gore Halloween costume worn by YT on Friday night for Heather and Jeremy's hopping fete.
Wore the usual out stumping khakis, woolen blue blazer, striped shirt, and rep tie. Latter compliments of Kennedy and his late father.
Wore a name badge which read Hello My Name is Al.
Sparky looked fab as Global Warming with blacked-out front tooth and black eye. When asked we would reply Because Al beats up on Global Warming.
Last night rushed over to a Halloween disco at StillWater after another work day marathon. Met Sparky there and whilst meandering to find our dance spot saw Jana, Dean, and later Siobhan. Also spotted requisite Elvis, a few Britneys (though one claimed that she was so not, and no, the other was not my pedi girl), a Little Bo Peep, a raquetball player, and, amongst others, an ill-behaved Dorothy.
Dorothy was beyond impaired and YT had a word with one of her handlers, suggesting that they get Dorothy home in a jiff as she was about to be unconscious - or barfing.
Despite all this apparent activity the disco vibe was not optimum.
The dance floor was faux cobblestone and carpeting in StillWater's narrow faux courtyard. Still a nice moment, a nice weekend distraction, a valiant effort.
As we were uncostumed, Sparky and I decided to tell people that we were robots and moved as such.
You see, costumes may be conceptual, far from the madding world of celebutante and porn-inspired duds.
Time to further make and due as my pixel-rich world is a full and lush one indeed.

Pixelated, robotic Love.

At last, an image of Beah from the event on the 24th.
This is a pre-event, a media meet & greet and book signing that happened in Center for the Arts.
Beah was running late and he came into the green room very quietly, then he spoke in a quiet voice about his story.
He emphasized at this pre-event and at the event itself that he chooses to always focus on the positive. So, for example, when he cannot sleep, which is most of the time, he uses that time to write. And when he was a student at Hunter, he studied.
His eyes are incredible, when you look into them they are reading the situ like a writer does, and emanate gentleness.
He signs his signature in grand, flowing letters and, when asked why he doesn't shorten it so that his signings could go more quickly, he stated Well, I began doing my signature like this and I want everyone's to be the same. What would they think if theirs was different from the earlier ones.
There was a quiet around the reception for him following this first event, and then at his talk in Alumni Arena.
He gravitates toward people of his own age and I thought that must be because he spends a lot of time around people who help manage things for him who are older.
He read from his book a lot and Yours Truly was most impressed by his focus, and his total recall memory.
Onwards.
Yesterday had an exchange, in one of the favoured nail joints whilst practicing good toe management between gigs, that could best be filed under Odd Name Selection.
Snippet of conversation most arresting.
(over whir of massage chair, bad 80s movie playing on a distant wall, swishing of water)
I remember you, you were here last time also working on your computer.
Yes, that's right, the morning that your boss (looking around) had car trouble, where is he.
We were slow so he went to the doctor.
What is your name, you didn't tell me last time.
Renée.
Renée, YT queried thusly.
No, Britney, the young lady's face settling into a most pleased expression.
Britney, YT repeated.
Thinking for a good thirty seconds what in hell would inspire a Viet Namese femme roughly Brit's age to appropriate her name, given all the chaos and all.
Onwards again.
One of the gigs of yesterThursday was making images at a dental convention.
One thing that YT found most curious is that a majority of the vendor booths featured prominently displayed bowls of candy. One even had a cotton candy machine.
Sure, there's the entire Drumming Up Business logic, but this is being carried out on their own.
Dentists, a ruthless bunch.

Whirling, ruthless, Love.

Happy United Nations Day to You,
Happy United Nations Day to You,
Happy United Nations Day to You-ooo,
Happy United Nations Day to You.

Appropriately, today former child soldier Ishmael Beah, of A Long Way Gone memoir/fame, comes to the Middling City, to speak at the Big U.
Yours Truly will be documenting his visit, making snap-happy images of Beah solo and with listeners.
Very much looking forward to this, and hearing his story live.
The NYT excerpted his book in their mag before the book's pub date, and it really is tear-inducing sad surrealism in real life.
Will be becoming beloved Al Gore for Halloween costume for the Friday night soirée of Heather, Jeremy et al. Sparky and I are creating a dual costume as she will be Global Warming. We conceptualized some excellent ways to personify this.
Al, on the other hand, is tough. YT needs a blue blazer, a Tennessee accent with deep resonant tones and inflection at the ends of most sentences.
And, to be truly in character, I will have to eat all bowls of dip on site.
So, cozy up with a good periodical about the state of the world, or a laptop, a nice free trade cuppa joe, and celebrate this fine fine day.

Cuppa Love.

Yours Truly is naming today Interpol Day, & a Happy V-Day to Vincenzo.
As in Shiney Apple rock band, and not as in that international space and time agency.
When One loops One's interests to the html world One must remember to include the SA's triad of initials after the I-word to not land into a site most non-lyrical.
Today broke fast with Sparky in a joint in the shadow of Father Baker's Place, where we meandered afterwards to look at souvenirs, and light some candles.
I thought it'd also be a grand idea to look at some artful marble.
In FBP there was a throng of casually-dressed people facing the action as men began to pass baskets. I and Sparky tossed in some money before heading to the candle station where we paid more for the unscented white pillars of the community of well-wishers.
Down in the souvenir shop we saw some very curious items, besides the usual magnets, charms, and handcrafted objects.
Sparky and I parted ways down divergent aisles of goods and promised services and when we rejoined she queried thusly: Do you know what Jesus's favorite sport is.
To which I rattled off what I thought were some appropriate, athletic answers, assuming that the pacifistic Jesus indulged in sweating activities.
She led me to a far-off corner of the shoppe and pointed to a shelf where there - there - was a print of a presumed original watercolor depicting Jesus engaged in ... horseshoes.
There was Jesus, looking really tan and happy, very movie star, next to two older senior citizens, who looked to be American/German/French/Irish (they were white, not Mediterranean), engaged in the sport.
All three hold their horseshoes aloft, ready to throw.
∞

Catherine Parker has a new show up at InSite Gallery and zoomed over there on Friday night. Met her daughter Chris for the premier time. There saw several, including lovely Geri who asked me to stop over at her and Jimmie's place as well as stop over at TruTeas to meet a friend of hers from Rwanda, here on a grant, a femme who created an agency for orphans.
Catherine's work, as always, illuminates.
Already own three but thought of how to shoehorn another lovely one into the salon-style-hung mix.

Salon & Café Society Love.

Wrote to Literal Harold moments ago to state that Bien sur Yours Truly would like to head deep down south on a Wrestlemania junket to shoot images of faux tans/teeth/tits/bods, wrapped in satiny and baby-oiled goodness, for the sake of goodness and VH1 veracity.
Last night experienced an all-girl extravaganza for the birthday of YT, a blend of old and new pals, chez Cheryl and Ed and Flora.
Platters of dreamy cheeses, sushi, Liz's Greentinis (in honour of the favoured and life-infused green palette of choice), Veuve Cliquot, and white wines.
The girls outdid themselves with generous gifts, and bon vivantness.

The parents have officially relocated to Amherst, that Middling City suburb of surly cops in silver cars, strip malls, and a few neighborhoods sinking into wetlands asserting their wetness.
There was a little mix-up of information and so arrived at the home of yore a day after they'd moved, sitting in car in driveway of childhood, phoning the old number to hear the troubling, three-note tone that something is amiss and changed.
My parents have a new phone number, house, quadrant to call home.
Not one that features reclaiming wetlands.
Called the new number from memory and got a recorded message of a Steve (+ Polish last name) so left the following message: Mom, Dad, this is Nancy, is this your new number.
You see, the new house in Amherst was owned by a Polish fam and the man who did live in the house died. So, YT posits, this is the number of that man, the parents have not changed message on machine or on answering service. Who knows, perhaps that fancy-schmancy M.C. suburb offers its residents free answering service all the livelong day.
YT's father called minutes later.
Said Hey, did you just get my message.
He did not.
You did NOT just receive a message on answering machine from me.
Nope.
My sister also did not know that the parents had a new phone number already.
Or what that number is.
And now Steve the Polish man knows that my parents, in their Big Move, forgot a few details.
Add Yourself to that list.

Always trying to remember all the details, Love.

Completely, utterly minding the business of Yours Truly for really Yours is too much extra-super-bonus business to mind, saw black smoke.
Thick, uh-oh-this-spells-disaster black smoke, pluming over Hamburg Street.
Slowing, nearly stopping, at the 190 overpass saw FLAMES.
So, did what any good photog worth their sweet pixels would do, cranked a left turn and headed toward the danger-center.
Ditched the car on S.Park Ave. @ Sidway and walked to the fire, cam on neck.
Met up with a wizened neighborhood granny who accompanied YT to the fire hoses.
Spotting the cam she asked You a reporter.
Yeah, I'm a reporter, YT replied.
You with t.v. granny asked.
No.
After a puff of her all-white cig she told me some big fam news:
My daughter is going to New York to meet Harry Potter, she won that contest.
On the radio, YT queried.
Yes, the radio, and that R.K. Rollins is going to sign her book.
That's exciting, YT gushed with zeal, happy for granny's daughter's big op.
Onwards.
Fire hoses already on the side street and a little boy's companions stated to me and all the adults in proximity that he was upset because his yard was on fire.
No, another girl corrected her, part of his house is on fire.
He had on a smudged white undershirt and did look anxious.
Others were anxious as well, all their stuff going up in flames as the neighborhood watched silently, all grieving for what was normal a few moments ago.
The air was wretched with the fumes of vinyl siding melting away, assuredly more toxic than whatever molecules float away from asbestos siding when that is scraped.
YT had an exterior painting gig aeons ago that involved scraping and painting siding which much into the job was discovered to be the a-word.
During the flameshoot noted the NASCAR Zubaz, pictured above, and was compelled to document this neighborly fashion.


Up in flames, Love.

Here we Solid Gold Bookers are - the posse - post-pole lecture.
Our inundation of spin, grab, and circumnavigation techniques via Chelsea, who Star lovingly called Teacher all night.
Destiny, me, et al (Cherry, Candy, Bubbles, Ginger, Roxie, and Lexus) still have some pole-given bruises, and a concurrent and newfound respect for the dancers of the world who employ a pole in their shows.
It all looks so easy, but let me tell You that a fireman spin out of a pirouette and into back slide to kitten crawl is oso challenging.
*sidenote: thanks to Chan Marshall for poesie this fine autumn day, a much-needed burst of words and summoning.
It should be noted that Teacher/Chelsea, a woman in the pole know, says we all now know more than several Middling City strippers, in terms of pole savvy.
It was a stupendous birthday fete, my SGB girls completely and utterly rock.
And for our next trick.

Just came from the ballet with Brucey, over at Rockwell, a Neglia affair.
I opted for this choice instead of my art event of sorts, a bennie up at Carnegie Art Center in North Tonawanda, where Jen Bullard and I shoved two coffin gurneys that we garbage picked into one of my earlier Subarus.
CAC is also where Yours Truly and Josh Marks and Theodore Pelton exhibited our fab Conflagration, a collaborative project.
The benefit features artist-made bookmarks and mine is entitled Spine Flowers as I photographed some gorgeous leather volumes with gold-leafed floral motifs. The photo is surrounded by Italian paper. Other side is another voluminous image, more abstracted, and also surrounded by Italian paper. And some great ribbon, two different patterns, coming out of the hole-punched toppermost.
Back to the ballet.
I saw Baba Yaga before and that previous set design seemed a bit better: I didn't quite get the hydraulic chicken feet below the large, Ozlike head.
Bruce's next door neighbor kid, Rory, was a goblin and a skeleton. Sparky was also a skeleton and evil stepmother. Bruce Fisher and Eric Clauss both had daughters in the show. Hard to tell who was who with the spooky costumes and all.
Reminded Bruce of the time we went with fam to see my niece, fellow b-day girl Katharine, in a school musical called Rats and the entire time I rooted for and beamed with pride at the wrong rat.
At ballet intermission the two moms in front of us were talking and Happy Jack's came up (like a bad helping of over-fried fried menu items).
I leaned forward (something that transpires daily in the MC - the friendly, mid-western conversation interruption) and said Did you say Happy Jack's, I was just there last Monday.
The mom said I couldn't believe how bad it was.
I concurred.
We compared some other notes.
What we ordered, what showed up at table, what was ingested, what was avoided.
After the ballet meandered into Burchfield-Penney Art Centre where there was some fab live percussing. And looked once again at Jack Drummer's excellent abstract works on rubber.
Time to late make and do.

Percussion, Love, percussion.

Perusing and musing upon the images above You wonder.
Monk, Lennon, Toshi, Yours Truly.

It is here duly notated and noted that Literal Harold made the image of YT, up in Ontario after we dined at Happy Jack's. A childhood memory for both of us. A place where it's difficult to order anything green, non-fried. We each ordered fancy cocktails, with promising names. In lieu of these promised bevvies with exotic ingredient, we received pineapple juice with probably whatever bottle was closest. Literal Harold's arrived in a hurricane glass, mine in ceramic pineapple. This image of YT was made down the road a piece alongside May Wah (or was it Mah Johng), where YT asked Do you feel in competition with next door. To which they politely answered No, we focus more on fresh foods here. We discovered this sign closer to a biker kind of bbq joint whose name escapes me, where they proffer up Feeb on Meck for a really good price, despite the loonie-to-dollar relationship.

What do we all have in common.
Well, let me tell You.
Lennon and Toshi celebrated the anniversary of their births on 10/9.
Monk and Yours Truly yesterday, 10/10.
Most fanciful fun, a cavalcade of messages and wishes via all genres of media for b-day wishes. A celebratory dinner with Kennedy, with the fam, and tonight with the Solid Gold Bookers posse to be followed by pole dancing class.
YT assigned to one and all pole dancing nomenclatures.
Tonight, at the privée 9 p.m. class, YT becomes Destiny.
Depending on the action there may be photos posted tomorrow post haste.
Post pole interplay.
Time for more pixel management and more.

Polling about Love.

Today is a day most somber, most fete-ful, football-rich, seeped in confusion for it is once again Columbus Day.
The day of our fair Republic's nascence - in the hearts and minds of opportunists, spice enthusiasts, revelers, the business-minded, and those embracing Big Change.
On this very day in 1492 (Columbus sailed the ocean blue on this day in '92, rah-rah) an Italian (but he actually might not be Italian) chanced upon what he believed to be an island, searching for India.
Or the West Indies.
Hence, when Christopher Columbus and crew saw those who were freaking out upon the rocky shores, he dubbed them Indians. And then became renowned for this big error/discovery.
Henceforth, this non-island was notated and on the proverbial map.
Which leads us to today, and today's newsy-bits.
There are several protests on this day by Native Americans for what ensued after the discovery of the non-India non-island.
Despite all this, and our heart-breaking involvement in an economy-razing, morale-sapping, evil and misguided war, the country is still Home, a Democracy.
Reading the Manchester Guardian last night (it is worth Your while to take a peek at the Europress musings on our fair land) read opining about one of the Republican candidates, Mitt Romney.
I believe that one big blotch hanging over this land, a complaint, is that in our Republic nobody but millionaires these days dare run for presidential thumbs-ups/nomination.
In this piece about Romney it is remarked upon that a large percentage of Republicans are those who consider themselves evangelical Christians.
It was also remarked upon that our beloved President John Kennedy had to defend himself and his catholicism in the 60s and vowed to keep church and state separate.
That was four decades ago.
Now religious beliefs seep into political contexts and this seems, in my most Perfectly humble op, a tragic mistake.
Let Us collectively regroup.
Onwards.
This past Friday Yours Truly engaged in one of those completely LOST situs that only YT can muster. En route to Marty and Susan's for a lovely evening gathering in honour of a pal who decided not to arrive from the Shiney Apple after all - Janine - became so lost (in part thanks to MapQuest who gave me a bum steer ... love those agri-refs that persist in our Republic's lingua) that I nearly abandoned the big plan for a little vino, a little from-back-porch-gazing and camaraderie with old pals.
Called Susan to see if she could help me figure out the miasma. Hamburg, town of, is in midst of ripping up their Main Street to create rotaries and now the Main Street is one-way. So, realizing I had mucked up a missed right turn could not employ a Perfect U. So made a very large circle.
Susan did not answer this call so tried Liz.
Whilst speaking to Liz somehow came upon one of the necessary streets.
One thing YT does possess is an astonishing memory for place, if I've been somewhere once I can recall how to get somewhere almost my scent/vibe.
So once I found this missing link I was able to connect to the next two pitch-black twists and turns to find ... Marty/Susan, Liz/Alan, Mark/Polly, Broady, Cheryl/Ed.
YaY.
Rest of weekend was work marathon, a cavalcade of conversation with people known and unknown, a stew of words if You will of topics farflung and farwide.

Circled around, Love.

-my image made this past weekend at a sunny, suburban event.

Yours Truly is hard at work (not just in throes of pixel management and, as Literal Harold suggested oso wisely, this makes YT a pixie) coining a new phrase.
It goes something like this:

Remember the Bounce House.

Why, You query.
Well, in these troubling economic, and political times We should recall moments of great levity, bon vivantness, and healthy flusterments of fun.

And, if this is a distant memory, We might gaze upon the images of young people bouncing in a bounce house and, even if We ourselves, in our self-directedness, have never actually bounced in a bounce house, might imagine the hilarity of doing so.

A recap of this moment.
One crawls up an inflated ramp of sorts.
It is slippery.
The smell of the bounce house is related to the aroma of the mirror house at the Middling City's famed/feted/pilloried (depending on who is speaking) Albright-Knox Art Gallery with decades of footfall.
The bounce house reflects the world's primary colors and it is rather difficult to get up to speed, up to grand heights in mid-jump.
Even Philippe Halsman would have been challenged.
Everyone has fun, and is rather handicapped in the bounce house.
One cannot take the experience, or oneself, that seriously. For that wobbly moment.
So,
Remember the bounce house.

Primary, feted Love.

Just what in H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks were you just gazing at, You ask Yours Truly.
A detail shot from Liberty Building, one of the last remaining Lady Liberty Knobs, and YT is not talking body part(s).
The other image is looking down the side of Main Place Tower, where spiders have made their merry nests at what is for them Himalayan heights.

And the Middling City classic white sky image shows my thwartation, when the foisting of the digcam on the heaviest of Italian tripods could not yield a fine image of one of the Liberty statutes. Many attempts were made.
Now switching to Plan B on that one.
Had a guide of sorts for the rooftops and he would not join me out on the ledge for the latter image. I asked him to man a push-out window for YT, so I could finger grip something as I bent over to attempt the statuesque shot.
I said Now just hold the window like this so I can hang onto something.
Reached fingers around the metal frame as the guide began to close it on my fingers.
NO, I half-shouted, keep it open, like this.
Oh, was the suddenly getting-it reply and then I demi-arched over the side of the toppermost of the Libertine Building to not make the image I had previsualized.
In throes of writing a restaurant review of sorts for the Shiney Happy Mag and apparently I was causing some interest underneath my headphones, in the warm glow of my machine as a man hobbled up on crutches for the staff informed him that I am doing a piece on where he was to lunch.
He wanted to put in a plug for his fav menu item, the fish taco.
Now, in all the years that YT has dined out, and all over the world to boot, even patting myself on the back for eating crickets, balut (10-day old steamed ducklings in egg, whole), and snake, and horse, and whatever else is not springing to mind at this second, YT has never been able to wrap her mind around the concept of eating fish - in a taco shell. Never.
Tongue, alright.
Offal, maybe.
Fish. Maybe not.

Time to further wend and do.

Wending Love.

Yesterday photographed an area college's Homecoming, replete with game action, and a popcorn popper, and balloon-wielding boosters, before documenting all the Michael Moore activity at the big U.
Upon walking onto the stage he was visibly moved by the roar of the crowd and his ovation and for the first few moments seemed lost in his thoughts.
Then he rolled, and did his own roaring. For two and a half hours.
Moore signed every DVD, poster, book thrust in front of him, dispensed a lot of hugs, thanked everyone for their kind words.
As a photog many times you are expected to be there doing the gig but hanging back when needed - the best of us get this balance.
In the green room, not really green at all, asked thee Bruce Jackson to make an image of me and Moore and he gave me one of his big squeezes.
One obvious thing emanating from him is his love of women, he's a primo feminist.
At some point I thanked him, as millions of others have, for doing what he does.
I also added what I consider to be the highest compliment - Thanks for being born.
So at midnight, the last item signed, the last embrace ended, he posed with some of the big U staffers, including the public safety officers on duty, and left the big brick building, jetting back to the Shiney Apple, his other, sensible home.

Time to head to the next gig.
Shot the Yalem Memorial Race this fine a.m., momentous more than usual as the perp is locked up and getting the shit beaten out of him by his fellows.
Record turn-out, bag-piping, tearful moment of silence, and a big sun-hazed sky made for some fine fine making & doing.

Onwards.

Moore Love.

A funny thing happened on the top of Middling City's City Hall yesterday morning.
Yours Truly wished to make some snap-happy images from the observation deck so rode the rickety (absolutely no exaggeration, my fingers were already motioning over the numbers 9-1-1 just in case) elevators to the toppermost floor and then ascended the extra stairs to the pinnacle of this Art Deco marvel.
Once at deck level (it should be noted that the stairwell is painted that institutional colour that is sort of a pastel or icy light turquoise that nobody would ever, in their right mind, use in a house.
And the paint gave off that leaded vibe.
And, as most of the building is tragically unkempt, the question arises as to who in hell is sweeping these stairs and keeping this stairwell reasonably free from graffiti and such. And then thoughts ramble over to the trip to the tip of Empire State Building, how equally dismal that is, in a dismal Shiney Apple way that cannot rival this cross-state dismality.
*sidebar: Ascended the top of ESB for a try-out gig to write scripts for a co. that has those handy cellphone warbles about key things in cities. After the long lines, the badly-faded photos in showcases, the crabby staffers, the shake-down to try to get tourists to purchase packages to ascend AND see some hoaky 3-D movie, decided the ESB script of YT would be just non-glowing. So skipped that idea.
So up there, the big metal door with one-key locked situ is totally not allowing for stepping out onto the deck.
Spotted some open metal windows, open about one foot, enough to squeeze through to shoot through the thick plexi. As YT was stepping through the window and then noting the five-foot drop, glanced over to see, for the first time, one of those little casino-worthy surveillance cams.
I calculated.
Rickety elevator to floor - what was it, 28 - then steps, security thugs should be arriving in about fifteen minutes, if they're even truly manning these cams.
So finished up my photo matters at hand and then descended down and then another floors more.
Found an office and requested that YT stand at a window and make some happy images from a window in appropriate direction.
Was there thwarted by some locked doors.
Went down one more floor and found an incredible office with a very-bored secretary at a giant p.c. who did say Fine, about me stepping into a vacated executive suite (replete with empty shelves, a vintage vacuum, and more) to shoot through the windows. Maneuvered my cam around the splattered, aged pigeon poop to get some fantastic shots of the buildings.
Did this at several other downtown locations.
Script.
Hi, I'm here to photograph buildings over to the (east/west/north/south). Would you mind if I stationed myself at a window and shot away for a few minutes. Thanks.
More profuse thanks upon completion and slip out office door.
A grand day all in all.
Went to hear Literal Harold later very same day, as in yesterday, read from the serial killer tome.
Was fab.
Was in Cheektowaga.
Was in vintage 60s library under ultra-fluorescence.
Was oso appropriate.

More buildings, more shooting now.

More now, Love.

Yours Truly planned one fine & fab First Annual Old First Ward Pub Stroll this past Friday night with 25 people meandering from joint to joint.
Highlights, pictured, top to bottom: the group on the prowl (Leica was on multi-burst shooting and didn't have the wherewithal to do anything but work with It); Paul and Harold in McCarthy's (note memorabilia behind); Molly and Lisa in adorable outfits with Dougie and Bob (in midst of dissecting his classical fish fry); Dougie, mid-jump & flash; Annie and Brucey mid-talk; and what I lovingly dubbed Team Pub Stroll.

Handed out maps and we walked from McCarthy's down South Street for a nice view of Industry, then up Louisiana and then across Miami Street which spooked even the guys but, as I pointed out, once we passed the little dog leg the next destination, McBride's, is in sight and all is swell. McBride's was wonderful with a patio with bar on that. From there a quick jaunt to Swannie House which is always good but they were in a state of discombobulation and had run out of a few basics, like Labatt, for those who drink beer. A delivery was en route, we were told, and it came. In cans. Had a helpful barmaid make the Team Pub Stroll image, instructing her to please stand on a bendy plastic chair to do so. Went the short distance to Malamute and, after sniffing the stale beer farts aroma in there, made executive decision that we were not staying. It's an alright joint if it is near-empty, with a side room. But that air. We attempted an extra-OFW meander to Cobblestone but it was teeming with disgruntled Sabres fans so back to McBride's it was.

Oso many more details to follow for life is one big sensual banquet.
As Oscar W. and many others through the ages have noted.

All You Can Eat, Love.