Worked on the novel last night into wee hours, amongst other tasks more Academy-based.
Minding my own business meandered into the midst of the launch party (after observing revelers on a fire escape, after blending in with three frenchies and a solo femme clutching an invite/directions) of a tshirt silkscreening guru, he in a light saffron robe and matching sandals, his wares or product or Work hanging from his lofty pipes - about 15 samples/works/wares in all. A woman photographed Perfect Me looking up at the ceiling/art/shirts and I thought You know, those men in Customs were SO right, I do look better with shorter hair, it suits things better, the Look... I'm here but not so here thing. And through this all, and a glass of mediocre pinot grigio, I was still clutching a whiteboard from the morning when I met Yong on the steps of The Academy to work on our collaborative web-design project.
Us: Hi, we're grad students at Parsons and we're...
Them: No.
Us: (trying another person, other strategy) Hi, would you like to be photographed holding this whiteboard with a special message of your own devising that we will digitally document and beam to the Earth's four corners.
Them: Fuck yeah.
Our yesterday victims included a french couple who I spoke with in their lingua franca, a heavy (as in large, as in serious) punker who used the whiteboard to send out major props to his very own band's gig, and an actor guy who used the whiteboard to draw a cartoon of himself.
So I'm still holding the fucking whiteboard as I'm looking up at the pipes and shirts of the launch party. The guru kept glancing at me (maybe because I was hanging off his robes to glean some guru wisdom, oracle style) and at the whiteboard perhaps thinking I was going to proffer up a score of sorts for the whole affair.
Score: 8.5

Scores of Love.

+
See today is birth anniversary of an early art prototype of Yours Truly. Wherever you are, happiness to you Greg Sader, sorry for nearly killing you with my vehicle that night and you missed your deadline.

Dark Side of the Moon of Yours Truly.

Point in the summer when the Division Bell between Empire State's left and right spheres is so great that there is an implosion into delightful, self-centered Art.
The Greatest Gig (not in the Sky, on plane) is that of meandering entropy-rich streets of Shiny Apple, unfettered. And this does not include anything mandatory, xeroxed or purposefully collaborative.

When Middling City becomes Pluto.

Went to a classical, vocal, Anglican mid-day concert at historic and under-scaffolding Grace Church to witness talents of OllieB, britboy met upon CDG-JFK flight.
Seating Plan: A/Yours Truly; B/as in Beth; and C/OllieB, 6'2" 20year old, bedimpled and chatteur par excellence.
Wandered into Grace's place about 15 late and made my way up the aisle and there was OllieB with three other britboys and two britgirls, singing like their lives depended upon it, like they were, like the wailing wall recently viewed, our transmitters, our hopes for something celestial.
Moved along to Marquet to read, etc. and it was there that I discovered that NYPost made an error grande - on their front page, for all the world to see, was their lead story about horsefaced Kerry's selection of running mate, sprayheaded Gephart. I had read about an hour earlier that, in truth, the r.m. was/is John Edwards, another man of sprayed proportions.
So this is a collector's item, which I pitched into trash as I left Marquet, which I several hours later came to regret and I sprinted out of the computer lab, out of Parsons's 5th Avenue digs, across the Ave to acquire another, and another, and another. To discover all were gone at what I've dubbed The Studio/the deli on the west side of the street. So I charged over to the lesser deli and purchased their last. This, I'm speculating, will pay my grad student debts. Or those of my heirs. Or theirs. If eBay's still around.
Back to digvid editing, walk to another french joint for coffee noir to go, to art, to lecture, to listening, to collaborative seminar, to meeting with JR, to more reading, to move through the streets, to think, to think, to move, to more.
Blooper Love.

Tortured I was mere moments ago by - count 'em - seven crash scenes so far, via Cronenberg movie CRASH, based on JG Ballard's novel. As You may recall Yours Truly was nearly exeunted by a drunk who decided to drive through the Middling City at a brisk 50 mph one night, and whizz through a light most sanguine.
If not for James Spader (aahh) the film is a complete visual fiasco, usual gray layerings that scream HiThisIsSo80s. Read the novel whilst in San Francisco and staying with an interesting assortment of people.
Movie last night, Time of the Wolf/ Temps du Loup, a Kennedy rec, was good. Visually arresting at moments and spare in terms of dialogue, the narrative moseys along at a deliberate pace. Wiping her just-kilt husband's blood from her cheek, Isabelle Huppert is still so Hot.
Gave JR his contraband, multi-packs of Marlboro Mediums. We have a meeting scheduled for tomorrow after the Collaborative Seminar, at which time I'll regale him with more travel tales, digvid shot in foreign lands, and oso much more.
All for now and over and out.
Medium Love.

Back in the Shiny Apple where, unlike anywhere else on ze planet, one can eat to one's heart's content around the stinkin' clock.
Have been reading The Rules of Engagement by Anita Brookner since procuring it from CDG yesterday, after le metro ride to airport, when I had to arouse Beth from her above-ground and bumpy slumber to say Beth, dearest, we are on the wrong track, we must go back two stops to catch B3. And on. I had noted there were too many butterfly bushes (which grow wildly in France) and not enough gypsy encampments.

Sojourn Fun Facts about Yours Truly:

* Number of multi-coloured shots imbibed by Yours Truly at the wedding of Inbal & Gideon in Tiberias, rolled out or carried out onto disco-ball-adorned (4 total) dance floor by the Tippler Sisters, twin shotgirls in fun fur cowgal hats.
= Indeterminate.

* Number of American Splendours puffed out over Sea of Galilea during aforementioned wedding.
= 4.

* Total number of feet of Yours Truly soaked in Sea of Galilea night of wedding.
= 2.

* Percentage of times Yours Truly successfully infiltrated AirFrance First Class lounge for coffee and wi-fi.
= 50%.

* Number of officious French bitches who gave Yours Truly one of her very own paintmelt stares over counter when attempting to infiltrate AirFrance VIP lounge.
= 1.

* Number of times Yours Truly misheard (due to 20 years of attending/shooting rock & roll extravaganzas) French waiter and believed he'd said I've ordered you gizzard for after your lunch (while lunching at Musée d'Orsay) instead of what questioning me as to what I'd like for dessert.
= 1.

* Number of times Beth thought I was joking about the gizzard/dessert mix-up.
= 1.

* Believing me to be Française, due to blatant savoir-faire, total number of Parisians asking Yours Truly for directions.
= 3.

* Total number of Francis Bacon paintings that blew head off of Perfect me, so to speak.
= 5, including favored one, ironically from Middling City's Albright-Knox Art Gallery (a piece that, to my Perfect memory, has never graced their walls).

* Number of kir royals slargled by Yours Truly.
= Not enough.

Into the cab jumps Mohammed (armed with handy Glock) with a half-drunk bottle of red wine, from the lights-a-blinkin' squadcar to our trundling vehicle. He passes off his handcuffs to Rafi, the cabbie, who I'm sitting next to.
Oh, note to self: Next time in Israel, specifically Jerusalem, when wanting to acquire the front seat next to driver do not holler S-H-O-T-G-U-N into the winding and shadowy street.
So Rafi, Mohammed, Yours Truly, Beth and Sandra go to see DisneyHolyLand - the place where myth and martyrs collide. Every spot pointed out I'd inquire, being the star journalistically-minded femme you know me and love me to be, Oh yeah, really, is that true... Shrine to the BlahBlahBlah... Is THAT true, is THAT the spot.
Did some digvid shooting at the wailing wall and of some adjoining wall with weeds gently blowing against a shocking array of disarray.
So Jerusalem was left behind as we made our way back to Tel Aviv, via Peugot 505 manned by the hairiest, smelliest human known to ourkind, Asher. Having a propensity to drive in other countries (illegally, non-illegally, public transportationally like the jeepney in Philippines, etc.), and beginning to suggest to Asher the Stank that I do some driving I began to think how I'd be sitting on the same seat that he'd been sweating and farting into for who the hell knows, so I declined, realizing I'd have to fumigate my self and dispose of my outfit soon after arrival.
Speaking of arrivals, my departure out of Tel Aviv airport was an utter fiasco as security could not comprehend the very quick pitstop of a travel to their land of DisneyHolyLands. I showed them travel itinerary, explaining planular fiasco at JFK. I showed wedding favour. I showed them email from the bride. After 1.5 hours it was decided that I was not, am not, a terrorist. Bags were x-rayed, many times, shoes and camera equipment were examined for explosive residues (and it was at that moment I was so relieved I'd not shot off the Glock the previous night), this very same laptop was examined and manhandled and re-examined. Thanks to my dear little canine pal Ollie, who, once upon a time, leapt off Kennedy's sofa so vehemently that she pulled wire and laptop and nearly the lap of Yours Truly, too, several feet away, resulting in an unsightly bulge near the MacLatch. This created much consternation for Tel Aviv security. I re-enacted, with graceful and over-baked hand gestures, the moment when Ollie leapt and the man fondling this laptop (which I will be having disinfected shortly) was not moved. At all. I was, near the end of my security infringement, led off by a femme to a partitioned room and I thought This is not the metal detector test, this is the biological detector test. But nope, no derobing happened.
Upstairs, searching for Marlboro Mediums for JR and for lunch medium, spotted one of my security pals. Her unsmiling misery made me oso glad I'm not in the security racket, and glad I was leaving Israel for gai Paris.
Where I am now.
Where I must go drink more café noir.
Where I must go see a show of Francis Bacon paintings.
And shoot more digvid.
And blow smoke, it's mandatory, into the ancient streets.
And then, when that list is accompli, jet off to the Shiny Apple for more more more.

Particular Love.

Minding my own business I was jettisoned from my plane seat due to ticket misprinting. This did not please Yours Truly as they wanted to move me to the rear of the plane, in a center seat... for an international flight of interminable hours. So I grumbled. Said Look, I need some sleep, etc.
Suddenly a new seating op opened up, a nice roomy one with a next door neighbor who was in Air France's 1,000,000 club. No lie. So he's angling to get bumped up. Then he is. Now I've got no neighbor and the flight, or so I thought, was leaving imminently. Nope. The entertainment system was kaput and suddenly some kid got sick and had to himself be jettisoned. Then they couldn't find the luggage of the family who was deplaning. This all equals 2 hours. Suddenly Perfect Me is approached by a nice crewperson who had heard my stellar grumbles and this femme moved me up to 1st class. But the next flight was missed so instead of Tel Aviv I'm in Paris. Where I've been wandering for 12 hours. So tomorrow CDG for another attempt at Israel for Inbal and Gideon's wedding.
Today Paris was sunny and in its summery heyday packed with gawkers and wanderers and lookers and bona fide citizens.
Headed for the George Pampelmousse Centre and got lost in some good, some bad, art there.
Onwards to dozing and jetting afterwards.

Doze of Love.

Rimbaud believed that the poet became a true visionary by a systematic 'deranging of the senses' and by absorbing all 'poisons.' William Blake coined the maxim, 'The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.'

On an overly school-imbued day like today Yours Truly might think of days of yore when poets and artists were just that. Were they grad students. No. Did they jet to and fro to do things. No. Were they required to be other than somewhat irresponsible creatives. Nope. Did they hunker down and make art. Yes. Did they enjoy the thickening joys of wormwood-enhanced Green Fairy juice. Yup.

Where does that leave Perfect Me on a day. Like today.
Full of poisons of the caffeine variety. Full of excess of ideas ilk.
Wending my way to that palace of wisdom.
In my mind it's a ring road, not a path, to Wisdom Palace, an approach, a leaving, another approaching and on.

Approach Love.

If anyone suggests to you that you MUST see (misogynistic) The Saddest Music in the World (starring Isabella Rosellini), don't just respectfully decline, vehemently do so - peppered with words of both slang and salty varieties. Wasted two hours last week doing so, well, it wasn't a complete wash as I used said time to update my contacts in my cell phones.
Arrived in Shiny Apple mere hours ago. And speaking of salty, a renowned woman with a salty tongue who shall not be named, former top administrator of Middling City Hospital for the Unwell, was alongside JetBlue Yours Truly. I have done work for her in the past, political and personal, years ago. I intended to say hello when I saw her terminally in the Middling City and, as I fall into Travel Coma before planes are rolling, didn't actually realize she was next to me until I awoke from the deepest of pre-liquid nap (read coffee) zoo snoozes with my head back at a 90º angle and mouth at Venus Fly Trap ready. Then we deplaned. Public transpo was sought. On the way to JFK a few days ago started talking to two teens who shared with me some of their top slang words that they've coined and that they're trying to get into the public sphere. I did alert them that I'd be stealing some of these words. I did not, however, tell them that I blog and that I'd be bloging on their words in the near future. First word: chillaxin'. Second great word: conversayshuh (short for conversation, a short conversation).
Three or four times used and they are so yours.
From Kennedy to Kennedy to Parsons to Kennedy to Kennedy.
My jubilant whirlwind.
Whirled Love.

It may be grad school but there are field trips. However, no bus, box lunch nor over-sized name badge in the shape of an animal. To see August Sander's spot-on portraits of types at The Met and then on to Metro Pictures to see (again for me) Cindy Sherman's self-clown-portraits. Barbara Gladstone next door had the day's greatest surprises, a sculpture show that skewed one's depth perception with work that delves in unexpectedly on itself, in cast steel and fiberglas. Anish Kapoor.
Boarded the 6 to 72 and right about 23 in came what was the day's first surprise, all 5'8" of her, about 55 and dressed for dancefloor success.
Paying little attention Yours Truly was thinking, thinking, thinking when I heard Her say to no one in particular, well, a seated no one, Let me sit down before I break my ass. I thought Ah, here's the 6 Train Oracle to greet me, guide me. But then.
She sat and then a few stops later I sat next to her. She was busy, reaching and sorting on her lap an extensive array of makeup that she was slathering (hold onto that word, make it last a good three seconds) colors all over her face. Red Nike swooshes on cheeks and forehead and chin. Then blended in. Eye liner, shadow and then... navy blue and silver sparkles tossed on top and underneath her eyes with abandon. Across from both of us were two 12 year old girls and a woman about the same age as the makeup lady whose faces at turns expressed humour, horror and then sorrow at the sad and careless/free exploitation of the sparkles.
She toddled off at 59, giving herself the sign of the ol' cross four times before detraining, perhaps to apply for a job at Scores, perhaps to meet her lover.
She left us plain faced riders feeling grateful we had not personally, mentally chosen to board the P or the I.
Painted Lady or the Insane trains.
Trained Love.

Cadillac need space to roll.
- The Roots, "The Seed"

This is what I prefer to see, a band (The Neighbors, band of adept guy rockers with ever-shifting cast of players save one Allen) that takes the time – the time! – to espouse the rock aesthetic and m.o. of Yours Truly. Just back from an Oban foray (see, Blogger is a left coast operation so blogging after midnight means that you may not be into a new day, but hours behind in a Cali last day) with two rock & roll pals in these SoHo parts.
And what a bar it was. If the lights were not all about resembling shortie condoms dangling in circles I may have sworn the theme was Ye Olde Wild West, via 1985. If you catch this drift. I had flashbacks to clubs full of bad haircuts, shoulder pads, and not a touch of irony anywhere except in an occasional snark rock classic.
There was a non-drinking couple so resolute and silent, staring straight ahead that I was certain that this couple was mis-directed, believing that they were in a train station, awaiting the late-night arrival of a handy train.
But caveat, riders.
The 1 had a random act of not kindness but the opposite, unnameable and unforseeable, yesterday as it wheeled to a Chelsea stop.
A pop, a spurt, a stiff.
Frail biological love.

Meandered over to the nearest French joint for turbo-powered coffee and an American Splendour (as Kennedy calls them) this AM, for another early-AM gander at the asphalt triangle that is Lt. Petrosino Square and to send me on my reading way.
Had a strong visual dream this AM that awoke me at 6.
My hand was holding a very simple and monochromatic bouquet which I kept waving slowly in front of me.
Perhaps inspired by my walk back to SoHo last evening when I stopped to buy lilies and lisianthus and these flowers hovered near my head all night, filling my head and mind with pollen molecules and perfumed flavour and scent crystals. Not to get too technical for You.
In mere moments it will be time to meander again slightly north, near the French joint of turbo-powered coffee, for the 6 up 3 to school, where I'll meet yet another new instructor who I'll be regaling with my hot plans of most ambitious and perhaps eccentric variety, for the summer's public art project. It involves the demi-heritage of Yours Truly (the Italian portion), badass attitude, making a place really lusher and the celebration of the Underdog.
All dogs is good dogs but the underdog gets my hardest bite.

Love bites.

+
this just in:
No Lollapalooza. Poor Perry. But really, Morrissey as a headliner in this day and age. Meat is murder... to concert tours. Too bad for Sonic Yoof and PJ Harvey, however, no chance of corrupting younger minds with their audio this time around.

Green Line Oracles, 6 Train up and then 6 Train down, first and last ride of the day.

1.
Woman walking with purpose, belly out:
You got to be careful, he got the pills, she got the pills.
Not entirely sure who she was speaking to, too affixed on the Oracle.

2.
Yours truly, after a full night of grad school imbibing with colleagues old and newbie, watching three trackmen working on the quiet 4 Train tracks, flashlights out and down about 100' from where I am impatiently awaiting the 6. One man walks along and over the top of the third rail, without fear.

Deducement:
1.
You never do know what lurks in the pockets, the secret compartments, of others.
2.
You don't always need to fear the third rail. The reaper, yes, the third rail, no.

Love Oracles.

Stuttering and faltering, like a Middling City car engine mid-January, my memory caught up with a recent past happening, at this weekend's CT wedding.

This morning, as I was reading the required readings for grad school, and with my brain looking for a hale escape strategy, I recalled one of the weekend's most interesting conversations - a primo blend of fiction (via Yours Truly) and a man named Obediah (the non-fictive part of the blend).

I thought of his full name, something biblical, and how he introduced himself as Obie. Over a dozen years ago I met this guy who was then a kid in tow with his hippie parents working where I was working in Maine - at my third month of summer camp art teaching, at Samantha Smith Peace Camp after my usual art teaching gig for Summer Camp, Inc.

Obie then was a lanky teen with wild hair. Today he's a full-bodied guy but with more tamed hair, and a tiny wife.

He told me and some random gay male wedding guests a hilarious (well, we made it hilarious) tale about his do-gooder hippie mom who was at one point a Black Panther (is this possible) and how she dragged her brood off to the local prison to visit a woman incarcerated for life, a woman who killed (or possibly did not kill) her lezbo lover. The lezbo lover was beheaded and a gang of teens and 20-somethings somehow, the story gets a little convoluted here, pointed fingers at this woman. Who swears, I think the story goes, but then again I had had a heap of white wines (replete with sulfites), that she is INNOCENT.

Before the tiny wife joined our tell-tale circle I told the group that I, too, had been incarcerated before, for killing a man. Actually, I called it circumstantial homicide. Is there such a thing. I said I killed a man, but it was not my fault. They asked my method and I replied that it happened with a pair of shoelaces. In some confusing twists and turns of happenstance the man had bent over to do something with shoelaces and somehow I had caused his untimely death as I knocked into him, perhaps somewhat with purpose, resulting in his falling into oncoming traffic. Circumstantial homicide.

When the tiny wife joined our circle she was being caught up on the story that her hubbie was telling and then one of the gay men said She (pointing at Yours Truly) killed a man. I said That's right, I am a former convicted felon. The gay man, Tommy, chimed in But you were a juvie, you were only in for how long. The tiny wife's eyes widened unbelievably and, revelling in the feeling that those who have been rehabbed but yet still encounter the suspicious eyes of others, I went along with it, basically, to fuck with her and her suspicions, preconceptions of a Criminal, rehabbed or not, and her tidy littleness.

So now I think I have to contact the B&G (the groom, I delightedly found out, is a Bonesman) to see how to contact post-hippie-mommed Obie and say Hey, I met you way back when in the woods of Maine.

Maine Love.

One worm, a dead fly and a bunch of small spiders.

So said the uniformed man on all fours, muttering into his walkie-talkie, in the middle of Yale's Museum of Art, in the Asian/African sector - an inventory of their lower-order interlopers.
The smattering of Asian art in the house was non-impressive, especially not the silk scroll painting fading out from bad lighting. The Yalie curators might consider visiting the Asian art collection of Cleveland Museum of Art, as I reach for my imported and stylish art snob cap.
And the prints and photo section of the Yale Museum is open only after a rez is made. And I thought And this is the joint famed for its photographic offspring and faculties.
The African section featured a wall of masks that simply did not rival the collection of the Clarksons but one, Hook spirit mask, was mesmerizing with angular deep sensory organ recesses.
New Haven also offered up a shop that had such great shoe wares on its shelves that the choices were overwhelming and I was turned on to the Austrian shoe line Think! as well as CYDWOQ, created by an American architect.
Needless to say, I have samples of both lines's product. A triumph!
Within an hour of being in New Haven stumbled upon my art target, Skull and Bones's h.q., The Tomb. Too dark at night for filming but gathered up the camera, an Americano and my senses for some morning shooting.
Onwards now to Cubanesque food, Canadian film, art reading.
Sensory Love.

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.