Yup so I'm a communist so why not report me to HUAC. Living communally in SoHo means that outside the shower you are aware that maybe someone wants in but you are not so sure. And when you round the corner to fetch your Post Toasties there is a lanky boy in a towel. Shaving no less. Just drags me, kicking and not really screaming, to the Richmond Avenue days when I was den mom and lease holder and one of seven one summer. And one bath and it never felt like trouble to anyone.
After school (oh, and my stellar screenings of the short & sweet digvids) headed over to the Mac Clubhouse (where, once again, Final Cut workshop was usurped by one for... Motion) and then onwards to Angelica to see some Italian movie, I'm not scared, which featured Courtney Love (represented by a bedraggled Italian kidnapping victim in a pit near an abandoned house). And, as usual, nearly expired due to hypothermia in the theatre as they like to, despite seasons, keep the theatres at a nice, bracing 40º. Afterwards I spied an Italian wine bar and we proceeded to meet two new people, Megan and Dino (2 of the 3 co-owners). At some point, after some white sangria(s) I decided that I had to, just had to, danceresquely gambol down the long hardwood floor of the adjoining clothing store (a good 200') towards a giant, 3-way mirror. And then back towards my stool, the concrete bar, Beth, my sangria.
The manager of the store, a humourless gay guy who came in to order a ginger ale (barf) was not warmed by my self-introduction as fashion model. Nor my suggestion that he phone me if ever he needs a fashion model.

Amongst David's books, around the bend from my sleeping corner, I discovered a copy of Bukowski's Shakespeare Never Did This.
A snippet from it, which warmed the cockles of my tarpit heart:

3.
We were driven to a Paris hotel which was right across
the street from the French editor's office. There were
2 French editors: Rodin and Jardin. I sent down for 5
bottles of wine and Linda Lee and I went to bed and
started drinking. These 2 French editors were
publishing 4 of my books. After a bottle or 2 I picked
up the phone and called them. One of them answered.
"Listen, you son of a bitch, are you Jardin or are you
Rodin?" Whoever it was, I cussed him good for 5 or ten
minutes. Then I hung up and Linda Lee and I drank some
more. Then I phoned again: "Listen, you son of a
bitch, are you Jardin or are you Rodin? I demand to
know who I am talking to! Are you Jardin or are you
Rodin? Are you Rodin or are you Jardin? I demand to
know!" After a while we all went to sleep.

Time to tug on my kneesocks and part my hair, grab my protractor and head back to school.
Protracted Love.

I suppose there could be far worse things than having Queen's Bohemian Rhapsodywhirling through one's head first thing in the morning. Is this real life. Or is it just fen-tess-ee. Oh, I am so caught in a landslide.
Asked Dorota yesterday So is that MCCR (Mysterious Cat Carrier on the Roof) still out there, while turning towards the windows. Well yes, it is still there, down two floors. I imagine a cat skeleton in there, or that the wily cat, spotting the carrier, shimmied down the side of the building to escape the plastic cluthces its owner had in mind for it.
Last night, following a trek to Sweet Rhythm to shoot pianist Pete Malinverni, saw the most gorgeous thing which was digitally captured by Yours Truly: a hybrid and overly-manicured tree that resembled an overly-manicured poodle was lying on its expensive side in SoHo so I shot it. From the trunk out and through the expiring foliage are city lights, passing and changing. And then a few more shots of reflected and changing light on a somewhat static object. In hours is the first group critique since winter, all of us remaining in the MFA class of 2005 huddled together for 2 days to look and talk.
Time to capture and render and burn.
Captured, rendered and burnt love.

Some little geezer walked in front of my shot and internally I was sniping Hey, down in front, yoo-freakin-hoo.
And that sniping would have been directed towards the very legendary Les Paul: O'Doul's guzzlin', double hearing aid-wearin', guitar and audio device devisin' guy who had to table hop throughout the Jazz Journalists Association awardshow that I shot for All About Jazz last night at the BBKing joint in the midst of Manhattan's version of Disney Land.
So AAJ wins best jazz website in the country and they have a plethora of shots by Yours Truly and they are as of yet not uploaded. So here is something I didn't comprehend until this moment's gleaning - jazz guys can be oso slacker guylike.
After awardshow went to see doc Bukowski. Bulbous and battered and belligerent Mr. B. Made some parallels between him and Creeley. Dukers with hearts of gold. Who believe in the old-fashioned institutions of the heart. Who wrangle words in seemingly simple trips and turns.
And Bukowski, it is revealed, hated Mickey Mouse more than any thing on this earth. And to that fact I chortled loud and clear in the theatre full of hanger-ons and hipsters. He hated that Mickey stood for nothing. That he had only three fingers. Bukowski's goal, it is said in the doc, was to kick the Disney out of our collective heads.

Disney-kickin' Love.

Eve, the woman who recently went postal on her roomie and whacked her in the head with a telephone, whose dog, Jazzy, who stinks to high heavens and who rubbed his face all over my khakis this morn, whose eyes look a little dark and such after the thorazine helpers that she was administered after her little visit to Bellevue's Psych Ward, asked if I knew of ANYone looking for a roomie. I stated that I knew of no one but would keep an eye out. An eye out. Like what does that mean.
In mere moments heading over to the BBKing Hall of Blues and Whatnot to shoot the Jazz Journalists Association jazz award show, a real early 4-7. JR and I decided that this, instead of being a din-din (as stated on all promo materials), is in fact a jazz brunch.
Shooting then burning a cd on the spot for the mag who has me sitting at their table before the shoot shoot shooting.
Note to self: hold off on the Oban, these are not Your People. Yet.
Holding Off on Love.

Back in the schoolgirl saddle and I forgot to purchase all brand new #2 pencils and such.
Six minutes to the next *ding-ding* thing so this must be snappy.
Arrived in the Shiny Apple yesterday with several bags and artwork in tow - the artwork has the dinstinction of having ridden on the lap of Captain JetBlue from Middling City to here. Well, nearly on his lap as it was behind his seat.
Immediately picked up by Justy who drove alongside the espressoway onwards to a primo brunch joint in Cobble Hill where we were met by Steve Bartoo and Jen and then I proceeded to turn the whole crew on to the concept of the Salty Dog = tequila and grapefruit juice and even our waitlady started knockin' them back on the job.
Suddenly I noted that the busser girl had an enormous hickey alongside her neck, upon which I commented immediately, of course. She turned on her teenaged heel and literally ran away and hid. I told the drunkard waitlady Hey, tell that busser kid I'm a blogger and I stated maybe over a month ago that the hickey is my pick for hot new spring accessory...
On this note I traipse back to Student Land.
Land o' Love.

Finally a call from recuperating Lead Boy Colleague, who phoned as I was about to be hit upon by the fat-headed, RayBanned Canadian border patrolman. I says to LBC, call back and then *poof* I was outta range for the next 8 freakin', unbearable, no-cell hours.
Patrolman: You an artist.
Yours Truly: Yes.
PM: What kind of art.
YT: Photographer.
PM: Have a CAMERA in there?
YT: Um, nope.
PM: What if something happens.
YT: (pause... thought of cleaning up salty tongue) Well then, I guess I'll just be out of luck then. No, I'll SKETCH something.
PM: Eww, I love beautiful, multi-talented women. Would you take my picture.
YT: Would your family buy it.
PM: No, probably not.
YT: Well then, Cliff, let me proceed along to exchange my dollars for doe-lerz and be on my way.

And then on way back:
YT: A box of crackers. (to query on American side from crimson-faced codger in the bigshot/security/First Line of Defense boof)
CFC: Crackers.
YT: Yes, crackers.
CFC: (pointing back to stopsign I apparently breezed through) That octogon is a stop sign, we don't want you sending any pedestrians to the (note article, we are back in the ol' USofA. To non-Middling City people - Canadians are articleless in ref to institutions. Example: We Don't want you sending any pedestrians to hospital.) hospital.
YT: (paint melt stare)
CFC: ID please. And open up the back window.
(time elapses)
CFC: Open up the back hatch.
(closing hatch he comes back to my window, hands me driver license)
And get yourself a CLASSY bumper sticker.
YT: Funny, that's what my father said.

*Thanks Rio and Ron for getting me so in trouble with the border authority.

Last night's Buffalo Conversation 3 gig had an odd snare when a producer from the television station had had enough of seeing my illustriousness on camera, stating this thusly
YOU are in too many shots, move back to here (leading YT to an outer ring).
Fine.
Then, as luck would have it I was featured prominently in the next several shots. Much, I'm sure, to the chagrin of Mr. Producer.
Smoke may follow beauty but television cameras follow rascals.

Rascally Love.

PostScript:
I am more saddened by the loss of Ray Charles, a man who filled my ears with beautiful voice and music, than that of the 40th U.S. President who I protested and abhorred vehemently a few decades ago.

Ron and Rio (of KY fame) sent me this bumperwizer (along with two new musical choices. Presents are on the Things That Rock list. I need more presents. Thanks in advance.):

You say tomato.
I say Fuck YOU.

It immediately was slapped upon the car and now I have got to thinking. Say, for example, I'm at a gig and all dressed like a hotshot with the 50 pounds or so of photon-capturing equipment. Some client takes a gander at the bumperwizer. Are they offended. Do I care. Onwards.
As if I need further post-hippie, Niman-esque reasoning that WalMart equals the downfall of human civic planning and civil interaction the following happened to Yours Truly this past floral-enhanced weekend.
Bought the mower. Let teen gangmembers assemble it. Oops, they forgot to insert the oil into the engine, but I'm getting ahead of myself and my story. They take turns gleefully mowing down the grassy chaos that was my backyard until said mower is seized, over, kaput. Sunday I used my geometric knowledge and, making calculations, tipped the mower over and stuffed it into the automobile. En route to WalMart/EvilCorp began to notice a most pungent smell of petrol in vehicle. Way overpowering. Arrive at WM and wheel the mower to the outdoorsy section where they say Nope, head over to the Customer Service Desk. En route there one of the wheels wheels right off the mower, damned teen gangmembers. The greeter greets me with a smile (assuredly 100% dentures) and slaps a sticker onto the errant wheel, directing me to Customer Service whereupon I stand in line marvelling at the girth of the neck of the man in the super-extended wifebeater in front of me. My turn at last and the woman behind the counter asks Is there gaaaaas in that. In my best squeaky dumbass girlie voice I say I don't know (I reek, the mower is covered with gassy juices and there's gas on the lino). YOU CAN'T HAVE GAAAAS IN HERE, IS THERE GAS IN THERE. She runs from behind counter, opens gas cap and runs the 3-wheeled mower right out the front door, past the aged greeter. Many minutes later she returns, I get my money, I leave and head to a real store. Another corporate giant, for a re-con (as they say in the mower biz) machine and get indoctrinated into the sphere of those who KNOW small engines, mowing, oil pan dripping, mulching v. shooting. My prof was a man who saw in me his accolyte, a ballcap-wearin' butchy (ha.) type to impart all his mower wisdom and I soaked it all in, for the moment.

Mowing down Love.

You have no idea.
No, you have idea(s) but I'll fill you in on mine. Mine ideas post-nightout, trolling for serendipity like I troll my happenstances with all of You for blogposts. Yes, I've become one of those writers who elevates, who alienates, a few. For art's sake. Is the muse forever a shining golden figure with snacks for one and all. I think not.
Tonight's gig yielded this unfortunate, yet fascinating, result. A woman with mental derangement (perhaps sensing in her condition that her kindred spirit, RR/666 had expired) was lost for hours.
Cops were called, flashlights were lit.
And two hours later she was retrieved.
As I left said gig I noted some with cell phones at the ready and flashlights out at the ready and thought Perhaps I should inform them that Ms. Kook turned up in the Cosmic L&F (lost and found, getwithit) but then again this is like summer camp when some knew and some found out and some never found out until the next morning over waffles and it was a study in political interpersonal honing. Hone in or be lost on a suburban street corner for too long, missing out on festivities.
Onwards was girl-on-girl social interaction and deflecting the unwanted attentions of male arrivers.
In one week the plane for complicated, not plain, grad show and tell and do and say and talk about get withitness.
Note to self:
David Beckham is allegedly soooo hot, yet not for Perfect You. Give me Kennedy and his wanton fuzz any ol' day.
Hot Love.

By daylight, as opposed to full moonlight, the lawn is a study in multiple layers, perhaps referencing the rice paddies that fly up into one's face upon descending upon the seaweed-rimmed, paddy-dense, plastic gadget-dense, and arid-in-parts country of Japan.
How.
Three boys, one bored girlfriend (with charming speech impediment) of one of the boys, two lawnmowers and one inattentive, weed-pulling adult (Yours Truly).
In a move to eradicate the Rube Goldberg miasma of the X (who should move to Tex), a new mower was purchased. Hip hip.
The boys complained of the shin-high blades of grass cutting them like hundreds of knives.
A glance from YT, over weeds. No blood, fine, just boy whines.
A glance over at the teens/kids to discover the bored girlfriend with her hands around the neck of the teen gangmember she's "dating," my pal, Andrew.
Back to weeds.

Weeding out loves no longer lovelorn.
Shorning love choking out perennials.

Love weeds.

"saw your blog about dead bodies in NYC.  remind me to tell you about the east-river-dead-dog-wedding story."

This just in, from a true, dyed-in-the-soul epinw reader/fanatic.

But, fercrissakes. Cliff-hanging in this day and age is so two hundred years ago. If you are to write to Yours Truly give full details, details, details. Do not, I implore you, casually toss off some Oh, remind me sentence for another time. This does not fly in my Perfect World. Dig.

To the penner of the snippet, more.

More.
More.
More.

And know, to not cliffhang others, your whole tale will be forwarded onwards to your epinw teammates.

Cliffhung Love.

11 days to blast off.
11 days to grad school summer session.
11 days to marathon art making and thinking and doing.
All in the super-charged environs of the Shiny Apple - delightful distractions and all. Suddenly memory rewinds to one day, when the pressures of one day in particular were so great that I escaped our building, 66 Fifth Avenue, for a one-hour walk around Union Square - OFF THE GRID, unfettered, notebook-free.
Strains of DreamWeaver back, too.
For art's sake am reading Mary Roach's book Stiff and now have a deeper gleaning into understanding how J.P. Witkin procures his own for his own. Bodies, cadavers, stiffs, they're freakin' everywhere.
Had to shoot an autopsy/dissection last year for Middling City U and the stench of formaldehyde or embalming fluid hung in the air like a swarm of bees.
Knife Call meeting coming up, more making, more doing, with my new bandmates.
Who rocks.
You rock.
I rock.

Love rocks.

Logic will break your heart.
So goeth the title of the disc by The Stills purchased this gray-hung day, along with the nouveau Stereolab (their usual and unshocking textures) and other items so sundry, so necessary, so small - like Italian curly paperclips. A must. The Stills, to not be confused with The Chills, The Spills, nor The Schills.
But the true reason I was even audio hunting was to procure something by New Zealand band Stereogram. None of that and note Stereogram and Stereolab are but a few short letters away in the great ocean of rock music.
It is completely official, Jen + Jamal are a unit, a bliss-drippin' post-nup couple. She was supremely Jen-like in her tardiness for photos and when she finally emerged and came towards me in the woods my eyes nearly dropped salty waters as she was so beautiful. And Jamal looked pretty hot himself. When we photo finished they were married by the rotund minister who married the couple I shot the previous day. Ministeressa is smooth on the mid-wedding patter, a real Hey, folks it's a wedding, fercrissakes, let's be all joyfully giddy and never waver from the reason for the season: Luff. Jamal picked some love-related quotes, some shockingly and deliciously snarly. My fav by Kate Hepburn on how, as a woman to trade the adoration of many men for the contempt (or some such appropriate word) of one. Marriage. Punch line. Dig.
Jen came down the aisle deal and began sobbing. So Yours Truly began to basically jumping jack with camera gear to lighten her up. When she was halfway down I turned back towards Jamal and said Jamal, you made Jen cry.
Highlights include:
finding a clump of faux hair on a pathway and telling the bonfirees that it was Alan's pubic hair that Liz shorn, practicing my tennis serve in terry bathrobe and heals with glass of scotch nearby, mucho.
Onwards.
Logical Love.

In the voice of one about to engage in !Meltdown! I said to famed filmmaker Jon Hand this: I am nooooot taking any more photos, as he was nearly dragging me by my right elbow towards the dancefloor where 50 or so did their best collective FunkyWhiteFolkGrooveThang, post-nuptials, mid-reception.
No. He wanted to dish on a Middling City luminary who shall be unnamed, who is of ill repute, &C, on a smoking balcony of the wedding reception factory where we found ourselves mere hours ago gainfully and freelancefully employed.
And, as we ran into a cigar sub-fete on said patio one of the puffers, remembering or recalling Yours Truly as an imbiber of stogeys, planted one in my hand. I proceeded to crumple the sad brown thing unintentionally and smoked it from the crack down.
The theme of this weekend is weddings. Unrelated song quote happening concurrently to this post: Aluminum tastes like fear. Compliments of Stipe and Smith, REM's New Adventures in Hi-Fi or whatever the helk it's called.
To date I have made images of perhaps 6,783 of them. And some of them confirm that people have love, real-live love, in their hearts. Today's was one of those, the look on the groom person's face was a study in intent desire, love, yes. The look that inspires this very - and temporal - thought: Hey, I'd like to have a look like that tossed my way from time to time.
The wedding of yesterday, I explained to one a week's worth of beautiful blogposts, and this was harvested from that one:
(Woman meanders up sun-drenched sidewalk of a church in toxic Niagara Falls, NY, a shamble of a building alongside some dismal, mustard-coloured housing projects. She is speaking loudly, nearly panicky, into a cell phone.)
This is YVONNE, when I left your house I had a LIT CIGARETTE IN MY HAND. Did I put it out.
This got my artful mind to thinking of a home in the toxic Niagara Falls area bursting into flames, aluminum (tastes like fear) siding melting off of the sides faster than you can mumble unfortunate fire. No, really, unfortunate fire.
Love's Fire.

Chomped on some jerky, bison/beef jerky, as I left the Middling City behind me for a few days of roadtripping with Kennedy. Sucked on the sinewy meat product until but a clump of protein-rich mass was in my mouth, then time to unroll/download the window for a ptewee out into the highway wind.
On this trip met a girl named Phoebe who showed me how to suck (no, not sinewy masses) the nectar out of honeysuckle. A miracle. At this advanced and garden-centric age to not know that the central thread may be pulled to unleash a drop of bee-left nectar.
Last night, post vino with Laura at the Goldman Joint, discovered my wedding outfit for Jen and Jamal's unity, part Diesel, part swooshy velvet.
Back to work marathon, Middling City gray sky, and the rest.
The Parsons School of Law co-profs landed me a B+. B as in boo, as in b.s., as in bitchy, as in but...
B+ Love.

To Whomever it is/was that designed the miasma, the horrific headache, of cul-de-sacs, pain-in-the-sacks and chaos of suburban "streets" with quaint names with twinnish names in Court formation bending off and bending off into oblivion.
Why.
Why not think in terms of the tried & true grid. Blocks. Streets with names of substance. Relevant to location.
Not Poofery Splendour Way, doglegged off of Poofery Splendour Court, for the love of Urban Planning.
Needless, I think, to say/write, I spent the better part of an HOUR this evening trying (stubbornly refusing to resort to the ol' cell phone appendage for a whine of assistance) to find a locale, a client's home. I meandered and re-meandered looking for a certain #36.
And then I realized this very important realization.
The planners of said sub-sub-sub-division, nestled into former wetlands near sinking Middling City U, decided it best to have all mailboxes on one side of the street/court/cul-de-sac to facilitate strongarmed and righthanded delivery.
So a mailbox offering up a #35 blocked the destination's mailbox. And so on.
Now a memory floats to the surface, like a fiber-based masterpiece in Dektol:
Fanny, the Poland Spring postmistress, who had perfected the art of delivery from her K-Car, leg stretched over the car's median hump to allow her the requisite right-armed delivery. Irascible, chain-smoking and intrepid Fanny.
Intrepid Postal Love.

At it again, Yours Truly, Martha Stewart of Middling City's Old First Ward.
Repotting plants - with hot inner-city agri-tips - for neighbor juvenile delinquent.
Potato salad recipe dispensing to Dorota, calling whilst SoHo grocery shopping (no small feat), replete with firm instruction to blend the secret blend of condiments and sundry spices while all is HOT.
And, finally, a quick parfait pedicure while watching Kurosawa's Dreams and burning cd's for freelance gigs and drawing this conclusion:
I don't give a wet soba noodle about all of his Dreams. Some, yes. Some are deserving of an efficient FF.
FF Love.

Golden urban goddess... or oompa loompa.
The question posed by Yours Truly to a gay couple making their way into the sushi joint I happened to be leaving with dear Laura, who had just dolloped some insta-tan crap into my hand, which I promptly slathered on my face.
The jury, so to speak, is still out.
And, JW,Esq., if you are reading this, I may need your services, despite the fact that you're the high-test corporate attorney that you are, well, in between bouts of music fests and the like.
Beth and I delved into some role-reversal this fine evening that went something like this:
Beth: Oh, I am so hungry.
YT: Fercrissakes, eat something.
Beth: But I don't know what to eat...
YT: Guacamole, it has all the food groups - lemon, avocado, cucumber for dipping and salt. It's perfect.
Off I go to make others happy via my photo vision.
Visionary Love.

Apparently, according to a strange man who called my rez, my image Street Lock Lady won honorable mention in the ASMP National Photo Contest. This same day that that venerable Middling City org, Albright-Knox Art Gallery jettisoned me from their WNY ranks. The good, the bad. The yay, the nay. The heyYEAH, the fuck you.
Promised Marlene that I'd head over to the ER as I think the bug that flew into my left ear is nesting there but I am not sure. Rich at the most recent gig's venue fetched a flashlight and gave a look.
To ER or not to ER.
But first a vino date with Liz and Cheryl.
First things first.
First and thirst for love.

One of the weekend's highlights, to be filed under s - as in stealth - was hanging with a certain cadre of jazz guys post-gig and then the sighting of a, now, what is the correct term, little(r) person. It was the gathering of Imperial Courts, the annual Middling City Coronation Ball. And I was not there to document it, as I had for 15 years, but to get glances of be-tiarad and tuxed-out and leathered-out attendees, post haste. As I had my Olympus 5050 in my hands (a stealthy bit of equipment) I suddenly thought it a great idea to follow the little(r) person about. Through the lobby, into elevator, even up to her room's door. All stealthy. The images are a study in patience, composure, littleness.
That same evening talked with Scott V about being in a laptop band and we are going to give it a whirl.
Have a great name, a name I discovered on the pages of the 12-page West Side Times, in the Crime Blotter section: Knife Call
A good band name = half the ol' battle. And this is a primo one.
What exactly is a laptop band (really, I prefer MAC band) and what does one sound like.
Today I meet up with Pam, a Middling City rez, to discuss, hash, rehash the comings and goings of our recent Parsons School of Law class. And oh, so much more.
Knife Call Love.

Happy freelance day to you, too.
Just returned from one and am about to embark on another until god only can say for sure. The season of mai flurries to bring juin checks.
A bunch of white men in suits with a PET camera, had two of them looking at Yours Truly through the scanning bed hole. What people will do for a camera, how they will bend.
Listening to a mix made for another and, quite truly, it rocks, what with all my favs and all. And somehow PJ Harvey made it on not once, not twice, but thrice.
Showed newest of digvids to JR yesterday, as we talked art and other technie matters for what seemed two hours. Safely, I can state he dug the new ones, all looped and short and beautiful. The work made in the Middling City definitely has a different palette, flavor. Thinking I prefer those made over there, 400 miles to my immediate left.
Ron sent me a late-nite email telling me of his complicated, recent journey and, at one point, he mentions wild boars that root for truffles. Only a snippet of epinw readers will know my fondness for Rooting for Truffles, the game.
Restless, after jetting back to the Middling City, headed out to a tried and true music joint (where the doorman gave me the icy shoulder for not being a regular as of late but this meant I didn't reek of his cheapassed cologne the rest of the night. Brute. Hai Karate. Stetson. Jean Nate for men) for some talk, laugh, smoke, drink.
Vice Love.