Joyeux Pugilanteux!
Happy Boxing Day!
Told that to a fellow restaurant regular/eater today who immediately put up his dukes.
I mean really.
Off to the annual Boxing Day fete at Matt's loft tonight, a candlelit affair with old-timers and creative types, picturesquely across the way from the wedding-tiered Niagara Mohawk building.
Six days until 2004 and the whiff of new promise(s), skangly-assed behaviour and attendant "hang-over" (and hopefully not police record), well-wishings and pro party-hops.
Shooting tomorrow includes a second wedding at a country club for a pair who hired me sight and portfolio unseen. Simply on the rec of one of their pals.
Now that is trust.
Trust and parties are the spice of life.
Mulled (not nulled) love.

Wondering if Mary Ramsey (yes mary ramsey... a palyndrome or howmever it's spelt) is in the Middling City to viola the night away on Electric Avenue, site of the tucked-away church I think named for Saint Stephen. Where I'd go C-Mas Eve to hear Mary and simultaneously marvel at the old lady's cotton candy hair with the inserted plastic poinsettia, annually. How did Mary play so angelically. How did that woman keep that plastic foliage anchored so solidly.
Trespassed on some man's property and he took note of me videotaping away as he drug his groceries from his 4x4 to his home. Stopping once in a while to marvel at the artsy type filming or whatever in hell she was doing on his soggy front lawn, aiming towards the mysterious sign, the half-dead grain elevators off in the distance.
As John Lennon says:
And so it is Christmas, and what have you done.
Difficult holiday love.

As I was reconfiguring my "work" "space" and located it, I slathered MAC's "Blade" upon all 10 of my fingernails. Oso smart, sassy, holiday fun.
Marty Boratin of DeathRanch fame has invited me once again to his C-Mas Eve soiree, an event that really puts the "hol" in holiday, as in there is an enormous amount of unspoken effort into primo snacks and ever-flowin' champagne, Marty in the kitchen, at the helm, at the oven making ever more amounts of canapes and little hot things, me helping him when I remember to between smokes, gargles of champagne, etc .
It is this rock & roll Norman Rockwell Experience that makes my holidays. Big old house, big roaring fireplace, big halfassed au naturel tree laden with collectibles, Marty/Mom cooking/sweating, a convocation of rock stars and rock types that are such an overall alternative to the family thing. Not that I don't love my family, but my family gathering on C-Mas does not include Jimmer "I'm a Brit" Phillips in the corner blathering about the Good Lord knows what while trying to pull girls onto his "Santa" lap, and Penny "Bad Penny" Ballard haranguing just about everyone and so much more.
Back to straightening up the space, working on the video, the art, the focus.
For the Love of G*D.

Allegedly, according to Liz/Editrix, the sighting of my piece which I gave her from the Conflagration series (large photo silkscreens of the twins and burning kitchen etc. on stainless steel), stopped new Albright-Knox Art Gallery director Gauchos in his tracks. Thinking this may be the work to shuttle off in slide format for the upcoming WNY show there.

Entitlement:
1. Had coffee with Jen for many hours yesterday. At one point I referred to her pending mother-in-law's home as the Folk Institute. It is one. Where at the tail end of parties people gather together, all hippie-like, and bust out things like hammered dulcimers, lutes, triangles.
Jen dubbed my joint the Alternative Institute, a worthy title. Former doctors' offices/surgery now a home (alternative space), in an alternative part of town (read: Historic Old First ward), filled with alternative music and art.

2. Last night Polly told me she's going to be an animal wrangler for a movie project being shot in and around the Middling City. A great title. We decided that I am a Wrangler of People as I'm damn good at wrangling people into situations that they'd never expect they'd be wrangled into. Examples provided upon request.

Definition love.

Holiday Distractions in this corner.
And in this corner... Nancy's DigVid Work-in-Progress.
WHO WILL WIN?

Have a new visual in my head that I'm going to try to shoot this week. If I even explain one second it'll shoot away into the snow-encrusted landscape.
At last night's former job work holiday soiree ran into some of the Middling City men of rock and so we had to re-hash highlights from Robbie Goo's party. Including my splashy (as in I caused the collapse of someone's cocktail) and faulty non-leggy re-enactment of the stripper girl's lungings at innocent revelers.
After a collective leaving to go hear a band (missed by minutes, drats) noted that Laura was wearing her sexy boots, a real invitation to disaster/broken limbs this time of year.
Not wanting to be a smarty-pants I did not point down to my Kenneth Cole boots with sensible heel - height but solid-like = no spikiness.
And since when do I get the Victoria's Secret catalogue? Who thinks up items like triple-bow thongs. Did Gisele really like wearing it or is that smile a pang of embarassment.
Off to whisk JenB off for a coffee date before my art meet-up at the world renowned, Middling City-placed Albright-Knox Art Gallery.
Before further holiday hi-jinx. Another round to Holiday Distractions.
ding ding

Whilst some believe that the big J is the reason for the season, in my Perfect book it's Mayhem.

Robbie Goo had a C-Mas soiree at his Chamelon West recording studio so I stomped in after my engagement with members of Janet Reno Fan Club, to mingle amongst the rock stars and, apparently, a few fledgling strippers who I referred to all night as Santa's Naughtly Little Helpers.
How they helped:
by galvanizing groups of salivating men,
by stuffing their tongues down throats of unsuspecting girls,
by harassing Tommy, my muse.
!!important update: Tommy is "involved with" said stripper, harassment their metier!!!
And more.
JRFC member Doug and I located a bottle of Grey Goose vodka in one of Robbie's small kitchenettes, which we promptly opened and decanted into our large plastic tumblers.
Later, hearing some Barry White in one of the recording studios, I suggested that some good ol' fashioned bumping & grinding transpire. The smoke machine (or was it the new age smoking fountain/mesmerizing unit) had stopped puffing (like the smokers out in their tent) and the dj didn't keep up the b&g music so that Plan came to a non-sexy, grinding halt.
Snippets of earlier:
* had a conversation with Jim Ramer, the advisor/creative director who finally watched my video creation and made some strong and productive suggestions. The big JR quote:
Shorter, shorter, shorter, elongated photographs.
** spoke with vasectomied pal who suggested that I never get a vasectomy after a night of hard drinking. I vowed that I would not. Visuals from my medically-minded and employed sister's description of the procedure danced in my head.
All for now and now for all.

Minding my own business I purchased some new leghair removal technology. Basically a très butch mini belt sander. As I unpackaged it I was talking to Laura who instructed me to return it - IMMEDIATELY. I didn't heed her advice and, whilst talking to her, ran the thing over my legs in floating circular motions, like the sheet of paper said. No pain, I said. Well, half an hour later there was no hair on my legs and my skin cells (and maybe hair cells) - and a hot dull pain - were floating through the air of the room, setting everywhere. A forensic scientist's wet dream.
I met a hippie pal out for drinks later. When I told him about the belt sander he stared at me with pure incomprehension. Hippies and power tools do not mix.
Electric Love.

Look, if you're looking for a present for Perfect Me and are thinking Oh, gee, I bet she'd LOVE that Lennon busybook that came out I think you'd be onto something. It's kind of burdensome with its hoakiness of interactive envelopes that are to make us feel like we're snooping through John's undies drawer. Maybe I'd prefer that you send me $40 towards a plane ticket for my own special voyage back to Strawberry Fields, which, last time I was there, was disturbingly undisturbed under a few inches of snow. Where were the candles? The flowers? The glow of undying love. I kicked away the snow in the night despite my frozen and wet feet. Minding my own business, as is my wont, tonight and driving I had this amazing revelation:
thermal sleeves from javas to go when removed and inverted and slipped over hands become super-bitchin' superhero cuffs. I know, I was wearing two of them, hands secretly off the wheel and outstretched to practice the Michael Stipe-like gesture.
I just posted a rambunctious post for grad school. T(r)ying together some doodly essay I won't name by Barthes, my artwork and the practice of looking on the fly/tourism.
Pastel plaid is what I saw when I restarted my troubled iMac DV tonight. Then a plaid of grays and blacks. Then I shot it in the head to put it out of its misery. Actual fantasy: shooting a handgun at a television set in the ON position, à la 70s rock star.
Far-flung be-cuffed Love.

Where have I been.
On the other side of this great Empire state, wowing the masses with my brand new digital video skills. I filmed a gaggle of brides in Central Park in their flowy whiteness in the middle of the parkish snow. It reminded me of the joke about a polar bear in the midst of a blizzard when someone made a darkroom gaffe and had no details in something that was blown out. Photog humour, a laugh an f-stop minute.
So during aforementioned blizzard in NYC I sledded with Beth and Phillip for hours down the stairs (yes, stairs) near the fountain whose special name escapes me. There were groups of people watching us, probably thinking they were witnessing a taping of Jackass.
But then they'd see our glee, that we were able to stand afterwards, hadn't broken our limbs or necks and would ask for a turn. It was slightly bumpy down the first set of steps, then a quick skidding over the landing, then a catch of air as you careened down the second set of steps. We warmed ourselves in the boathouse next to the fireplace then headed back out for more. This time the steps nearby leading into a dark and icy tunnel. More whoops of joy, all captured by Beth's video option on her micro-Elph camera and after seeing the passable quality I thought Hmmm, why did I buy a Canon GL2 and not use the Olympus 5050?
So back in the Middling City where I'm rushing to meetings and errands and to pet the stray cat fellas and work on school projects from afar. For in four weeks we grad people are converging at Parsons for a marathon array, display and critique. For those of you who have never splayed yourself before a roomful of people let me say this: you are on trial, your ego balloon may be popped by surprising pins of criticism and at times you have flashes of the thought I'm an artist and I don't give a flying pixel what you have to say about this.
Onwards to art.
Love.

First it was the great blackout of the summer of 2003.
Now it's the mammoth blanketing of the winter of 2003.
Coincidence?
I think not.
Every season that I'm in NYC there seems to be a great catastrophe whilst I'm here.
Winter catastrophe in NYC is four inches of snow (cars immobile, people falling, general malaise and confusion, school buildings shut down all weekend... grrr) whereas in the Middling City four inches is barely noted, people plodding in their boots in their cars as breezily as if it were, osay, summer.
Two of my Parsons classmates have never seen real live actual true in-your-face snow. One is Phillip of Louisiana who realized that
1. snow means really cold
2. parkas are a necessity and that wearing a hood means less visibility and aurality
3. two pairs of socks don't cut the snowy mustard and one must purchase true klunko boots.
Speaking of my Middling City sturdy preparedness my own new Columbia high-tech boots are in the Middling City, approximately 400 miles away from my feet which are jonesing for them. Instead I have somewhat fashionable leather boots with traction and no warmth.
Moral:
Have boots, will travel.
Snowy love.

Okay, so I couldn't get the chromagenic scene transitions to work properly and the audio is a big gigantic question mark in my mind (but I get the theory of it being such an audiophile and such) and I'm not sure how to replicate and loop a sound, and there are no titles but my 20 minute long dig vid project is a triumph.
It's snazzy mental title, Untitled Gesture.
Oh,
how many of You can state with surety, alacrity and piety that you told the nation's poet laureate to break a tonsil before his reading this past evening.
I thought not.
After his humour-ridden and at times evocative reading (he said the best inspiration to write is jealousy and, as I watched him I mumbled internally, Baby Poet your words have been - can be - will be again better than these, of this career wordist) I wanted to say Hey... X... dug it but I couldn't recall if his first name was Billy, or Bobby.
Keythought: why do grown men go by boy names.
So I was whisked over to meet the Laureate Poet and as I shuffled away was when I gave him the sonic high-five to which he responded Break a lens. Now if you knew what recently happened to one of my beloved f5s you'd know how the thought of breaking any piece of photo equipment brings tears to both eyes, a shudder to the heart as well as requisite deficit of bank account.
A tonsil is fixable but a busted piece of photo equipment is not so.
Remind me if we ever find ourselves around a campfire or barfire to tell you about the time I had an architectural gig and whilst using my car as a ladder of sorts slipped and did all that was possible mid-air in gymnastic flair to save the camera from harm.
All for now and laureates for all.
Love.

The convergence of two Perfect worlds is happening in the not-too-distant future: Johnny Depp will star in the re-do of Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory and I cannot think of anyone more perfect to play WW. A little pirate swagger, a dash Benny & Joon Chaplin, Chocolat mystery and Viper Room rockstar danger - how parfait.
What part of Hi I have cash money and want to give some of it to you media moguls to help me with a few things on a video did they not understand.
Called at 11 in the AM with query and now it's nigh 3PM and no return call.
Money, help, video, hello.
So apparently the errant mom across the street sort of set fire to her home as I looked out and noted five fire trucks and that many children out in front of the house, wrapped in blankets.
And it wasn't a leftover ember from holiday pyros chez moi.

Audio blogging is a new poss these days so one day You will return to epinw to see a little icon and, upon depressing it, you will see the Quicktime logo and then you'll hear a recorded message from Yours Truly.
Oh, why am'nt I doing this now. All-purpose because.
Was invited last night to a party and drove by the address left on voicemail by one of the partyplanning brothers. Saw some crack house action next to the house and there were few and far between cars on the block so moved along. Last night was a night of meandering and classic rock star loss of time. Watched some short movies by kine-kook Maya Deren this AM and read an online response to my online response to a post by one of my grappling classmates on the concept of manipulating models. As the sole journalist in the class of 15 I have no qualms about flexing my imagistic muscle of a differing take. Everyone needs a little art direction from time to time and that's that. Did a gig for a politico and his family and he, in front of his wife, said If X leaves me I'd like to marry you. I was perplexed. Flattered yet perplexed.
A few of my blogly brethren have been persecuted for blogging, losing jobs and being told to omit posts as they were deemed too interpersonal for public perusing. epinw is heavily edited and contains barely at times a semblance of the whole gigantic big picture, people are never named and I sure as shootin' don't post with any incrimination.
I have been too distracted by my new musical acquisitions to begin grad school reading so perhaps I should put the newbies away: Kill Bill s/t, Lost in Translation s/t, Beth Orton's Pass in Time, the nouvelle Pink and Love is Hell Pt. 1 by good ol' poet Ryan Adams.
Visions of sugarplums and endless digital video editing hours are dancing, moshing in my head.
Pre-holiday Love.

Fun Fact about Yours Ever So Truly:
I have never, in my pre-adult and adult span of years, seen Thanksgiving sans the hangover filter. But I have moved away from the pre-adult move of showing up at the fam dinner just in time for dessert, eyes a-sloshin'.
So there I was last night, partying like a rock star with the Middling City rock stars, after pronouncing my arrival (through the music joint's side door down the alleyway where I ran into a gaggle of pal smokers) by lobbing an ice cube from cocktail #1 at Marky Sparky Norris's beloved shiny red guitar. Two rows of Middling City rock stars turned in choreographed surprise to see Perfect Fan Me grinning. Onwards.
Had a great conversation with Roger Bryan who, at my and several others' urging, got out of Last Conservative to forge full steam solo ahead. Now he's got a band, The Old Sweethearts, and he rushed out to his automobile to get me a copy of their forthcoming ep - it's genius.
I told him last night I'm sure several tell you this Roger but get the band together and get the hell out of the Middling City - asap and often.
Kaslosh Kaslosh, sippin' on the venti Americano (Donny Kutzbach's pro recommendation) and moving along the getting-dinner-ready path.
Giblets and gravious love.

Boys listen.
When it comes to their rock careers and success (big money) they listen. To me. Maybe like Ozzy listening to Sharon/v.o.r. (voice of reason).
I have seen the old, the new, the mew-mew and you smell the dewy-eyed (to quote an old prof) attentiveness in the faces of the seeking, of the deserving. I talk, they listen. It's not about fucking. It's about their rock success. I opine. Those I am behind I'll do anything - for politicallty or visually... and that's known. Tonight. Roger. New cd. A copy. A listen. A word to another who is on the p.r. track. Words of encouragement. Always, always, always the softest heart spot for musicians.
I am struggling. I am full of musician-paid scotch and it's time to say bye.
Roger, you are a star. !
You are a star so pure that it is both a shaming and enflaming to the true.
Rock on Roger, baby rock star.
This new cd rocks.
I am in awe.
Love.

Because I care.
Because I am a culinary genius who can follow the Silver Palate agenda.
Because I want to help spread this tradition that I've made into a tradition and everyone sort of humours me that they dig this.
Because who the hell can have enough side dishes.
Et voilà:
Ginger Candied Carrots
(Sweet and spicy - a good way to prepare carrots any time of the year.)
12 medium-sized carrots, peeled and cut into 1-inch lengths
4 tablespoons sweet butter, melted
1/4 cup brown sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon caraway seeds

1. Place carrot pieces in a saucepan and add cold water to cover. Cook carrots until tender, 25 to 30 minutes.
2. Melt butter in a small saucepan. Add brown sugar, ginger and caraway seeds. Mix and set aside.
3. When carrots are done, drain and return to the pot. Pour butter mixture over them and cook over low heat for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally.
4. Transfer to a serving dish and serve immediately.
= 6 portions.

Everyone will love you.
Maybe not but they will not tell you.
But I will love you for your efforts.
GCC Love.

Yesterday, while shooting the Jets/Jaguars game at the Meadowlands a star from the Sopranos bit me on the ass and I didn't know who he was. Then a celeb made infamous from the Dave Letterman Show bit me on the ass and I didn't know who he was. Then various football players did the same. I can barely sit straight today with all that ass-biting and all.
I shot and shot and shot and only once came close to being stampeded by a rather scrappy Jet... I would have fared pretty well as he wasn't as gigantic as some of the lumpier players.
I skipped out back to the press lounge during intermission for some steaming hot coffee and then to make calls. I was watching the bank of television sets up ahead and realized that quarter 3 was underway so elevatored and tunneled my way back to the field.
Back to my non-sporty portion of my life.
Serious Love.

Ferfucksake let us, collective snarky Americans, stop being all tenderheaded about JFK, who had his rockstar brains exeunted by a sniper forty years ago, when Yours Truly was only just over a month old, en route to becoming already a brilliant yet sinister presence on the highways, biways, electronic forums, cafés and parties that this great land has to offer.
A quote from the Cleveland Plain Dealer today:
"We're not going to solve it," he says, "and that's what makes it a great conspiracy."
The end. What more else is there to say. Listening to Jesus and Mary Chain, the dark brothers of Scotland, for their wisdom on the matter (to paraphrase: I'd like to die just like JFK, I'd like to die on a sunny day) before I head out into this Middling City sunny day to create an ultra-fab image for a cover of a mag and then return to my frenetic smarty-pants grad student work before I get picked up in the middle of the night by Lead Boy Colleague to head out of town on an NFL junket sweet and short and full of breathtaking pixels, it is hoped, of overpaid and overgrown men bashing the crap out of each other. Hello gladiators.
Sportsy Love.

My aislemate and I were having a helluva time in #8 (A - me - and B - him), en route to the Middling City evening. First, the headphones. Whose jack was whose? Whose snack was whose? Then he was in the jack for headphones of the woman in C. I said Gees, yet more confusion here in aisle 8. At least he had a sense of humour, and did not fart during his nap.
I bid adieu to Parsons pals, Parsons the building and all that is good and educational in Manhattan. And, despite my capturing challenges yesterday in the computer lab, all went swimmingly with shoots, equipment, attitude, etc.
So on the plane, where I had expected, even planned, to stay awakened and all jittered out on Diet Coke, I began to read a short essay assigned by the Instructress for this week. Who needs sleeping pills when there's Michel Foucault? I ask you. One paragraph, two, three, stifled yawn, up to seven and mind wandered far away, sat out on the left wing and watched the city lights below. When I saw the chapter 8 then that's where things got all nappy. Ate mediocre JFK sushi, believe it, and then saw Marcel Thimot of the concert promoters monopoly fame, who was also nursing the throbbings of a headache. I ask you, once again, what percentage of airportees are sober, tipsy, loaded and hungover. I venture a guess: 10%/15%/65% & 35%. Shit, that's more than 100% but you catch my drift.
Bach on the hi-fi, a stack of mail, just-fed plump stray cats, the swingin' Hispanic evangelists next door going full-throttle, odd overhead lights, unfamiliar spaces. Welcome Home to the Middling City Baby Poet.