Minding my own business, as is my eternal wont, I found myself in the Gallic presence of one documentary filmmaker and environmental activist (and longtime colleague of Bruce Jackson & Diane Christian) Jean Malaurié.
Yours Truly photographed him during a ceremonial gathering at the bigU where he received an honorary doctorate, and then later at a small event.
Somewhere in the workalot mix YT thinks documentary/film/sleddogs/Malaurié/Mallory/Nature and amid this formula there is some discombobulation.
Kennedy is a big fan of M, YT states to Bruce Jackson.
Ohh, he quizzically enthuses, raising his bushy eyebrows.
Oh yes, YT continued, a big fan, we've watched some of his films.
Well, much later, YT asks Kennedy for a little clarity. Or, rather, YT sauntered into a room pronouncing I MET MALAURIE.
Who, he asked.
Jean Malaurié, the filmmaker.
Never heard of him, he sputtered.
No, you KNOW, the dogsled movie, the igloo (Jackson had showed a snippet of said film at the bigU event), the little fire ...
I know Mallory, never heard of Malaurié.
Mystery solved.
Homonyms, oso tricky.
Anyhoo, this homonymic hominid is très involved with global warming issues, and the like. And double anyhoo, above is an image of Jean et moi.
And below is my image with Heady's new pup, a delightful lapdogesque two-toned working dog, Uma. A delight, as are the house's other creatures.

Time to motor south to Gowanda/North Collins to make some images of a drumming man, a drum corpsing man, to be most precise.

Love of Precision.

+ helpful reminder.
CEPA Auction tomorrow, featuring photo-based gems of all shapes and sizes (usually rectilinear), including:

So utterly back from the Perfect Shiney Apple respite, having accomplished all but one item on the ToDo list.
Saw, amongst several, exhibition of Yoko Ono work, new pieces with text, emphasis (as usual) on interactivity or small personal happenings.
One of the showfavs was one involving Polaroids - bien sur.
A gallery boy was stationed to assist lookers with documenting themselves as they stuck a portion of themselves through one of several holes in a huge piece of paper. Lookers were invited to pin one to an adjacent wall, or to keep.
Above are the flowers that Yoko had received for her reception, held the first night of my SA sojourn. Thought of attending the opening but I chose to see it Saturday instead to avoid the crush of humanity. I would have enjoyed being in her sphere but opted for a new and other day.
Art agenda included a stop at Honey Space, which has intrigued the h-e-double-hockey-sticks out of me since reading about it since its inception. Honey Space is on Eleventh Avenue across from the Piers and is in one of those Chelsea car places, a former Chelsea car place.

It is just what one wants in a squatteristic arts space: reeking of industry and rot, compelling, political, and with beautiful and cheering flower painting flags atop its means of ingress and egress.
As YT left the Whitney Biennial, feeling as if I'd paid money to look at some interesting installations, as well as heaps of scrap materials (but did find a new wardrobe fav, a Kiki Smith-designed Biennial t down in the shoppe), encountered a pesky series of barricades, throngs, and police up on rooftops and on their feet.
YT could not cross 72nd Street.
The pope, who nearly threatened a timely landing, was doing his own egressing, leaving the Townhousi Vaticani at 72nd @ Madison.
Half an hour or so later YT snapped the front and rear of papa's sleek vehicle, part of a monstrously loud motorcade. Not larger, YT noted, than that that had sped W off to god only knows whilst he was in the SA.
So, in honour of my parents, I raised my Leica in one hand, my fist in the other, shouting at the top of my enthusiastic lungs HIIIIIIIII PAPA.
Pictorial evidence below.
(NB: Jetting out on Sunday was delayed and then redelayed. Pilot said due to some VIP flights. Guess who. After a long while he said in his commander voce Look out of the left side and you'll see the Alitalia plane carrying the pope. He left. We left.)
Then, finally, I could continue my wending.
Supped at Gotham (cast of characters: Heady, Dana, DK, Jason with several dozens of extras milling and guffawing and the like in background as ever-watchful Robin in nice Betsey Johnson dress did her thing) and premier plat was, bien sur, Alfred's ***** seafood salad. Then on to his ****** duck, which Heady also ate. There was much passing of food, laughing. I decided we should order our next bottle of vino by number, asking tablemates if they would prefer the 3077 or the 2811. We did decide upon the 2811, a nice crisp white.
Onwards we cabbed to karaoke, as Dana had us booked into a chambre privé at 2nd and 2nd. Highlights: Heady's Celebrity Skin, DK's Werewolves of London.







YT did a little rendition of Cyndi Lauper's Girls Just Wanna Have Fun and, living in proximity of Lackawanna in this Middling City, chose to bite on the wannawanna aspect of the tune, in homage to that ditty You're Gonna Wanna Come to Lackawanna.
Lots of wannas.
Then I did a hiphopbitch tune whose title escapes me, for it was a wild card, chosen for its title. Heady stated she was in the fetal position with laughter as I sang my hiphop damnedest.
Made art, GPH was lovely as always. Everyone looked beautiful, and I smiled (as is my wont) at all the dogs.
Below, one trip image fav, entitled Bees on Eleventh.

Turn it up to Eleven, Love.

There was a serious trot to the terminal this fine new day, having had to park in one of the more remote long-term and long distance run lots at the Middling City's so-called international aeroport.
Shuttle buses whizzed by Yours Truly, empty, not looking for strays. YT toodled out a YooHooooo to no avail.
Better the exercise than the on-bus banter.
Onwards I trotted.
Was YT late.
No.
But one never knows when one might confront a ridiculously long line of befuddled newbies who still don't know about the shoes thing, the 3-ounce rules, and the like.
And, last night, it did suddenly occur to me that some residents of the MC might be making devout pilgrimages par avion to see the pope in the Shiney Apple.
On the JetBlue transporter the staffers were agitated, watching one of the on-seat screens, watching the papal progress as he boarded his own plane.
If he's in the air JFK will become a no-fly zone, they revealed.
Everyone within earshot became a little less cheerful.
And we're going on to Orlando - this will cut into our drinking time, the larger of the two attendants sniffed.
As people were still boarding the guy next to me pointed to his screen and moaned Look.
There was the pope making his way up the stairs to his pope-a-plane, as there was a montage of W at a podium, undoubtedly gushing as best he could about papa.
So, gladly, the pope zoomed up the coast and we did land ten minutes early and all is well and Perfect in Nancy's World.
Onwards into the Shiney Apple.

Updates to follow.

Rushed, rushing Love.

A new phenomenon was born yesterday, due in part to my fav gray square-toed loafies. As I hustled about in the food shoppe to get a few items to eat much later for din, noted that each and every time Yours Truly touched anything in the store I received a jolt. A larger jolt of near heart-stopping level when metal was touched.
I began to watch other shoppers to see if they, too, were getting shocked.
No, they were not.
My theory is that the loafers were creating static charges and, coupled with my frenetic energy du jour yesterday, it created tinglations.
Onwards.
In midst of many gigs this fine day and, grabbing food and working on laptop could not help but hear a loud-mouthed young woman next to my table reporting to her two pals about her Shiney Apple excursion recently.
The city, she regaled, was crowded that weekend because there was a convention of students in town. And, dig this, there's a Friday's on every corner and that is why she ate there. Additionally, she ate at Subway, and Olive Garden over there.
At this point I looked up to take a look at this gustatory and travel boob.
Now, YT admits that there may be a huge slice of the national pop who aims for these sorts of adventures.
YT is thrilled to report that she isn't exactly sure how to find any of the above in the SA.
Upcoming own adventure to include, bien sur, a stop at Alfred's stellar joint.
Seafood salad first plate.

Onwards to more workful matters.

Full of Love.

A view of some backwoods oil rig situ in the southwestern quadrant of our United States, You query.
No, Yours Truly replies in haste.
This is what YT tromped to congregate pixels over, the installation of the new and super-improved tower for WBFO. To apparently send their radio signals to outer space.
It took a while to find the mysterious and new service road that goes half a mile into wetlands that are much of Amherst, New York.
Alone, it was dusk, and YT did what any sensible woman/photog would do - jump on the ol' cellie to have human contact if all hell should break loose. It did not.
YT was wearing the wrong sort of boots. Yes, they kept the feet from getting all muddy, and yes, they were high enough to not get sucked off of my intrepid little feet.
But they had no heels so YT could not ask the team of radio tower installers if she might be able to ascend the little trapeze artist-like ladder to gain exciting access to the interior of the three-sided tower.
I did not even ask, knowing my heel-less boots would prove oso dangerous.
But I did dearly wish to add this derring-do to the ever-morphing c.v.
Moving on to less sluicey matters, more into the rock sphere, here is an image made last Thursday evening of the nephew's band, AmberWood.
They played at the annual Scotty Bowman teen hockey extravaganza at HSBC Arena.
Ever the proud, rock-loving auntie (who did have said nephew accompany her to several rock gigs and all-day fests since his tender age of six), there was much making of images as the band wailed away in quite a tight and formidable fashion.



Proud & Formidable Love.

Lisa Jarnot, Robert Duncan biographer and poet extraordinaire, has created a virtual patch of grape hyacinths for Yours Truly as she has - mere minutes ago, written to let me know that my hat (see wondrous green woolly chapeau above), part of her 100 Hats Project, is completed and en route.
YT blogged about this quite a while back.
Lisa vowed to knit 100 hats as a way to honour Iraqi civilians killed in the ongoing miasma.
On the other end, those who were interested sent images of dead Iraqis and, when she could, she knit these 100 hats. This project began when the war did and, as we all know (or should) there are far more than 100 war deaths, on both ends, in all camps, sects.
YT will wear it most proudly, poetically.
Speaking of grape hyacinths, saw the first one poking up in the chilly ground. Daffodils are doing their damnedest to show themselves in their groupings.
Yesterday was a frenzy of editing and creating an online way to share and sell images from certain gigs.
Afterwards had a pleasant gig at the BigU where, amongst others, saw The Clarksons. The event happened on the stage of Slee. YT was concerned at one moment that she might step off the stage and into a huge silver bowl of syrupy-thick strawberries alongside pound cake.
Had a few moments to spare between that gig and the next event on the docket, attending the concert of Brahms, Wagner (vog-ner to the cognoscenti), and, in the demi half, a minimalistic piece by John Adams.
Due to gigging saw the latter half but not before enjoying a flute of decent champagne in the basement of KMH with Heady.
The other girls descended during the intermission and then we made our way up to our line of balcony seating.
This was all in honour of the birth anniversary of Mish. After, a quick jaunt to Lagniappe's for truly excellent loaf and mashed sweet potatoes. A triumph.
Onwards to the odd backroom sitting room of Staples.
No, not the partial student office supply emporium in Union Square, but the Allentown bar next to better-accessorized Hardware.
More edits await.
More breaks into the soggy garden await.
Waiting on a stretch of truly warmed days when those explosive Spring molecules waft about.

Wafting Love.

Perhaps, and this is just a hap, the most brilliant thrilling moment of documenting the distinguished speaker event at the bigU starring thee Stephen Colbert was being whisked via campus police sedan over sidewalk and dale, on recto side of street, to the hotel receptions held in his honour.
There is an interesting sensation upon sighting a famous person for the premier time, a quick and human/humanizing assessment of their attributes and a quick compare to impressions of said person against all known images. In short: are they short. Are they tall. Are they looking different in any manner from an expected image of them.
Colbert matched expectation, probably even a wee bit more handsome than expected with mischievous dark eyes and eyebrows at the ready for a quick, ironical lift.
At the receptions he was glad to enjoy a Molson Canadian. He had had some requisite wings, gushing at the experience of it.
He and I did get a chance to talk Macs, he also uses a MacBook Pro. He told Yours Truly that he'd wanted to get some MacBook Airs from Steve J and mail them off to various folks to test that whole envelope concept. They declined the offer, bummed that he was not going to do some creative product placement on his Report.
All in all a workful, intense, creative, action-packed weekend that included Heady's b-day dance extravaganza with foodstuffs by Ringy, and dancefloor mayhem.
Yesterday had a gig and afterwards, with Annie, headed out to CuldeSacville for a CEPA auction-related reception that was most lovely, filled with gorgeous art and gorgeous art pals and collectors.
Onwards this lush warming day to deadlines galore.

Galorious spring Love.

Nephew who Yours Truly brought to all-day rock festivals (Warped Tour, EdgeFest) just texted - moments ago - a cryptic
Holy Crap bat man youll never guess what just happened.
To which his godmother/spiritual & fashion adviser replied
What love?
To which he much later replied (after an attempt to reach him directly on his cell, despite it being a school day and all, and some musings and worries about what in heck had transpired in his sixteen year old universe prompting a text to his dear rock & roll auntie)
We are playing at the hsbc next thursday.
To which I replied to the effect of YT being so utterly proud of him, and wanting to photograph the entire thing, but of course.
Nephew's band, Amber Wood, won a classique battle of the bands and now gets a slot performing in front of multitudes.
And now, me being me, thoughts run to their merch. YT recalls their rather unsplendiferous t's in xl only. Girls need girl t's. And stickers, where are the stickers and the like.
Read the NYT review of the Scorcese Stones movie, Shine a Light, much space given over to describing their physicality, of the gushingness that effuses from the fandom raging in Scorcese.

As you scrutinize the aging bodies of the Rolling Stones in Martin Scorsese’s rip-roaring concert documentary “Shine a Light,” there is ample evidence that rock ’n’ roll may hold the secret of eternal vitality, if not eternal beauty.

YT has to wonder why she was not in her oso usually Perfect state of mind, and skipped attending an Imax preview of same film with Annie this past Tuesday, at the invite of Deb at the former employing publication. We were off to attend an Arts & Letters alum event hosted by the big U and YT supposes there was overlapping, that there was the ever possibility of just seeing in on another screen.
This was faulty judgment.
There were Middling City rock & roll luminaries traipsing off to the suburban screening and I imagine that the cultural, residual effects would have been far greater than the good wine and needing-work cheese that we engaged in. There was good conversation, and we did look at the Sam Francis exhib and several other works on paper. Anderson Gallery was the viewing and sipping venue, always a treat, for their collection is deep-reaching.
Time to wend toward Wyatt Design to pick up my CEPA auction piece for public viewing starting today.
View the works online here.

Love on the block.

Realized I had not yet translated the little Leica's memory card molecules into visual treats for You, images made at TriMania '08.
An event that is demi-revelry, demi-workout, what with all the traipsing and stairs and such.
Images evoke Cheryl and Yours Truly whilst on the dance floor, multitasking madly making images, making bold dance moves, making pals. And, in case of YT, making sure that Annie's personal belongings did not get kicked under the d.j. riser or worse.
Another image evokes Joanna Angie, Buffalo Art Studio foundress, in throes of what YT calls Hostess Syndrome, in midst of party frenzy there is still the hyper-awareness of all things good, bad, near-catastrophic, near-dumping, and more. She is shown reaching underneath d.j. area to hit a switch to move some air around via an overhead fan. YT shouted Joanna, Joanna but she was off on another situ-fixing mission.
Other image shows some of my posse wending from a point A of sorts to a point B, or perhaps C, of sorts. Despite my ever-helpful, Perfect p.s.a.-like pointers, some of the girls wore shoes that overruled sensible in favour of fashion. Hence they suffered TriMania Foot worse than YT.
Other image shows Dave Derner's studio, and his way noteworthy 8x10 glossie of thee OJ back in his heady Middling City days of yore, before the drugs morphed him into a Bad Man. Derner says he garbage picked this and oso many more. Derner will not say where, fercrissakes.
Onwards to sun-drenched matters at hand.
And the search for ever more crocii continues.

Little purple, white, yellow crocus Love.

Laptoppermost vocab word du jour is restasis, dry eyes due to a state of nonblinkingness for hours whilst editing on la machine.
Carpal tunnel.
Check.
Restasis.
Check.
Caffeine jangles.
Check.
Just added Cat Power Station to the newly-beloved Pandora. As I wrote to a pallie last week, what in H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks took Yours Truly so long to get my Pandora shit together.
One of the editrices requested a B.D. (that'd be Big Delivery) of pixel magic today, yes, today, so YT is in throes of burning/id'ing/invoicing before zooming out to the former wetlands that is now the Big U.
Stephen Colbert rolls into these parts on Friday and YT gets to document his nearly every move, including the moments he meets and greets his biggest fans for express lane conversation and decs of love and such.

Deck the halls with art, decs of Love, to boot.

Went to the triennial TriMania last night with members of Solid Gold Bookers, the event that fills up TriMain building with people and art. A warehouse that was formerly filled with windshield wipers, and pallets, and workers putting together wiper blades, and Hallwalls.
It's an event of serendipity, as everyone is traipsing up and down stairs, up and down the slowest elevator in the land. Last TriMania I employed the freight elevator to much speedier effect. Best portion was dancing to an imported d.j., a yawn-stifling femme from the Shiney Apple who mixed up some nice international drumbeats.
Just planned the next art foray to the very same S.A. to make and see, interspersed with various errands, and reconnectings. The one Me and Ro solid gold necklack, the tree-imaged ingot, needs a new cotton thread laced around the neck of Yours Truly quick fast in a hurry.
Time to wend out to a ladies blogger brunch.
A roomful of photogs is a much different full room than that of writers.
Given a choice I might pick the former, as it's a more robust energy with an ingrained democracy of shared information and a generalized, rumpled joie de vivre.
The brunch happens at the Middling City's famed Art Emporium so it will be a fine op to pop back into the digvid projections of Steinkamp - especially her Jimmy Carter vertical flowers projections.
Image toppermost is the ceiling of Saint Adelbert's Basilica, shot to show the windowly art.

Windows to Love.

++
This Just In.
After a few reflective moments, a few imPerfect barking dogs this fine a.m., and TriMania fellows complaining of their own barking dogs, YT coined the phrase - TriMania Foot. This is a post-reveling - and dancing - condition affecting the lowermost portion of one's person after hours upon concrete flooring, and racing up and down stairs most of an evening.

There was Yours Truly, ever minding mine own beeswax, as is my wont.
I knocked on the door of the photo portraitee in question and heard a Come in.
There before YT was this pup, a yorki-poo, one of those newfangled canine inventions, or amalgamations if You will.
YT quickly deposited both cam and laptop bag onto a nearby chair and got down to puppy business, rumpling this pup's ears, tossing her little pup toys.
It has been a delightful cavalcade of ports lately.
It is now time for YT to motor out to a gig, an event just off of the circular highways and biways that make nearly all a tidy twenty minute commute.
Began watching final act - number 5 - of Spike Lee's When the Levee Breaks, as it's being shown as part of the Whitney Biennial I thought I'd give this most important doc its viewing due.

Time to make, do, drive, and oso much more.
Fluffy, puppy Love.

A visual round-up of the lily-rich and squirtgun-rich holidays in the Middling City as of late. I speak, of course, of Easter and Dyngus Day, in particular.
Wended toward Broadway Market last Friday and, amongst images made, were of foodstuffs for sale - and Stella's Coat. Not Stella McCartney, presumably.
Went with parents last Friday to the Market and at one point walked through a wall of fish sea scent. And hyacinth scent, to balance. People walked about eating Polish food, and on the way out there was a table noted trying to save St. Adalbert Basilica - so we sped over there for a look and some images, in case it is closed forever and ever before Yours Truly gets a chance to document its craftworks.
Dyngus Day, of course, was a raucous, Mardi Gras-like festive assembly of MC people up for some dancing, mingling, squirting, swatting, and sausage eating.
Began DD at Central Terminal, meeting up with some of the Solid Gold Bookers. There saw a bunny couple dancing to Those Idiots, who also turned up at the next party on the agenda, Adam Mickey's.
Adam Mickey's is the best DD party around, with barroom out of the 50s, and back room jammed with dancers, live music, Polish buffet, and general mayhem.
Met a sassy kid there, Alicia, who tried desperately to get me to let her use my beloved squirtcam. To no effect.
The group shot is YT plus members of SGB (plus someone's beau) before we called it a proverbial, Perfect night.

Time to wend out to work and more pixels.
Perfect Pixel Love.

Zoom Your eyes into the small, white vertical rectangle to see the Middling City's Saint-to-be, Father Nelson Baker.
Of Basilica fame at the top of the hillock in Lackawanna.
This is yet another image from the Irish Parade and Yours Truly, ever a Father Baker fan (who has named a succession of cars Nelson in his Lucky honour), was most heartened to see his likeness make the long line of floats and the like.
However.
It is rather a shame and shambles that the float could not have been a bit more, how shall YT say, well put together.
Suggestions.
Wash the truck. Polish the truck. Add sparkles around the Father Baker poster. Have the children on the wagon dressed identically and doing a Father Baker dance.
And oso many more.
Onwards to deadline fun.

Foggy, soggy Love.

The pawn shop has three balls as its mercantile symbol and nobody, apparently and amazingly, knows from whence this icon through the Ages emanates.
If You Google, and who on a daily basis does not, you might glean that pawnbrokers the world over have a saying.
Two to one, you won't get your stuff back.
This is pawnshop humour.
Yours Truly, as is a theme of late, made images of Brown's Pawn Shop on Seneca Street, a mere stone's throw from that green and red baseball amphitheater - You know, where 190-destined and those turning onto Seneca sometimes meet in bumper-to-bumper combat.
Brown's is Middling City history, and there was a recent article about their demise, due, the owners stated, to different times.
YT wandered in there one day not too long ago out of curiosity and asked to see some wares. There were wares on view, wares just out of view, and wares in safes.
YT had made it to the second tier in the short visit and saw an unusual ring that was shaped as a bee with an amethyst body.
It was not spectacular enough to purchase but it does pop up into the recent memory bank from time to time.
The floor was worn wood, the cases were burnished oak, from years of leaning on both sides.
Supposedly a businessman from OH has purchased the triad of balls and so YT felt it was necessary to document them before they are gone. The day that they are not on the red building will be jarring.
After a marathon day yesterday when I was required to wear both writer and photog caps, met up with the Solid Gold Bookers to elucidate over Flannery O'Connor's Wise Blood. Both Annie and I had vintage copies, with yellowing pages and 70s covers.
As it was Saint Patrick Day there was some Gaelic fare, some whiskey, some other accoutrements that just say Irish.
Two parades, two Irish meals, it is now time to move thoughts ahead to all things spring, verdant, lily.

Lily white Love.

Photographed the Niagara Falls Annual Easter Egg Hunt at Hyde Park this fine morn, and Yours Truly pictured it in the snow and would-be grass. But nope, the children of Niagara Falls hunted for eggs on asphalt.
Got some shots of children and their loot, as well as the Niagara Falls Mayor gladhanding the E.Bunny.
Afterwards, intuited my way to Bada Bean coffeehouse to edit and sip whilst talking to Niman. I had been hunting for my own veritable easter egg, a functional diner, a tall tall order in NFNY.
There, off to the right was Bada Bean.
I'm heading into a place on Main near Pine, I instructed Niman, in case I turn up in chopped up bits on railroad tracks, the last place I was was Bada Bean. Bada Bean.
Niman said I will tell everyone that Nancy J. was a good person, a good writer, and a good photographer - I'll work on the eulogy.
That's Perfect, Yours Truly stated, and rang off.
Bada Bean was Perfect as well, with hefty wi-fi, good coffee, a decoupaged table with thee Lois Gibbs upon the tabletop, and a friendly owner who, after some conversation, told YT that she'd sold her Harley to purchase the gorgeous coffee maker from Venice.
The joint will be closing soon, she says, as the good people of NFNY prefer to get coffee from chains, she says.
I ate a salad there, it was excellent. Others came in, everyone was sad to hear that they would be closing their doors.
She is in the former La Casa Cardenas, or was it Gardenas, where KateK first took me after a gig for Castellani, and then YT went with Liz, and a few dates.
It was renowned for very racy, figurative murals, one with a thermostat right in the crotchal region of an Aztec warrior carrying a maiden.
The Bada Bean lady informed me that Elvis Costello, the day of his Rockin' at the Knox gig, was driving himself around and about and also intuited his way into there. She added that several bands of international fame come in when they're around.
After that headed back to the Ol' Sod, the OFW, to photograph Jerry Adams, who marched with Congressman Higgins - see happy marchphoto above.
Higgins introduced me to Adams mid-march and YT asked how long he was in town and if he'd be hitting McCarthy's. Answers: not long, and maybe.
Watched (and got teary-eyed, as is my parade wont), with Niman, CourtneyG and her pal Marty. And M's dog, Chloe. Who really howled at all the firetrucks.
Made more images of men with guns, men in skirts, floats galore, and more happy and important pups.



I LOVE a parade.

Voilà an image that Yours Truly made during the '06 Empire State Democratic Convention, the multi-day, all-access pass event that took place in the Middling City's downtown.
This image, showing (as I write to my editors, from l. to r.) recently public undie-aired Eliot Spitzer, Bill, Denny Farrell, and new gov David Paterson.
This is during the speech of Hillary, and YT liked that Bill was so proud and so in the front row.
We can only wonder, cannot we, what Eliot has just whispered into Bill's ear.
Time to make and do ever more, before I head to the faux Wake with Annie, at that temple of Art Deco rock & roll magic, Town Ballroom, where Irish Classical is holding this interactive play.
Speaking of interactive, sent off my Artists & Models proposal for Unhinged, this year's incarnation v.21.
Look for further elucidations.

Lucid, puce Love, in Spring's honour.

Happy uppermost personal computer awareness day.
Had a delightful gig moments earlier at a public school documenting the youth of today learning about the machinations of our collective noodles.
And what did Yours Truly learn/glean from today.
That we have more sensors in our fingers than most other places on our bods. That is how we are hard-wired.
And more.
While at the school saw MarcO, videographer, whose nuptials YT documented a while back. He was at a t.v. station and left for greener, more doc pastures.
YT tried hard to stay away from his roving lens.
Heard that YT was on the news a few weeks back, despite me asking the t.v. cam man to avoid me completely.
So much for requests.
Speaking of so, so Eliot has stepped down and David Paterson is in, as of Monday.
A questions lingers and hovers over the day:
How good, or how much better, is s.e.x. when it costs oso much more.
And, pray tell, as I questioned Liz/Cheryl/Polly last evening, what is the diff between a seven-star gal, and a three-star gal, so to speak.
Very sad about Eliot.
He who lives in a glass politico suite, guarded by staties and officious ladies, should not toss about partisan rocks.

Unrighteous, partisan Love.

One less bar for my next Old First Ward Pub Stroll, some time in April.
This bulldozed structure was - repeat was - McBride's, at the corner of Chicago and Miami Streets.
This was a true tavern, dating back from the mid-19th C, reportedly built as a hotel and then in the speakeasy era it functioned as one of those.
I will recall with a chuckle always how more than one pub stroller, while wending down Miami Street, turned to ask, Are you sure about this, Nancy.
And I reassured with After that little dog leg you will see McBride's, our next stop.
Notez bien that in the photo, affixed to the stop sign is a Spitzer/Paterson bumper sticker.
Irony and icons just turn up in most pixel-rich moments.
Again, to reiterate.
McBride's is long gone.
There are other fabulous, moist brick buildings along Chicago that I hope do not meet the same sad end.
Another image for Your viewing pleasure, one from my ongoing Extreme Trees Series.




Deep-rooted OFW Love.

This image of Baird Point at winter dusk was made yesterday as the light was regally autumnal, golden, so at dusk there was that lovely convergence of gold and blue.
As my arms felt like lead after a mad shoveling spree I failed to blog about the certain joys of that winter task.
There is satisfaction in clearing the way for pedestrians, one's mailman, oneself, one's vehicle by tossing snow to and fro. I was about to liken it to the joys of tilling a garden but that is a real stretch of imagination.
Extra showed up for his lunch, myowing like a madman and again I had to explain that Yours Truly is NOT responsible for the precipitation. Come spring he will not praise me for the warm grass, or plentiful chirping of birds.
It is the season of greening, and asparagus, and corned beef.
Epicurious, lest You wonder, has a wondrous recipe for c.b. with a whiskey/marmalade marinade that YT has made several times - in March, bien sur.

Met with Louis d'AKAG today over a Zen lunch at TruTeas and all went well.
On the October docket: One rollerskating soirée that is open to the public, per my request, and their complementary desire.
Oso many details to follow.

Speaking of details, most shocked and sad to hear of a breaking news story regarding our Empire State's gov.

Onwards.
Onwards into the imminent gold meets blue.

Colorful, vernal Love.