Merrily stealing wi-fi molecules from the stratoscopic atmosphere about the home of Kennergy (Theory: emanating from across the street, a far and sad cry from the immediate wi-fi steal in Soho - missed in general like a lover gone untrustworthily bad) and having a vrai Cinderella moment as I am not at the Red Ball (You, do not confuse this with my savoury Red Dinner not yet happened) as the guest of the Shiney Happy Mag but am in grad student throes. Rather than in the strapless, complicated Nicole Miller dress I am in gradstudentwear suitable for studies, imbibing, procrastination, nimble walks amongst Nature. On that note we Parsons School of Détente enthusiasts are reading about what I am going to heretofore refer to only as The Sublime. You know - beauty, aesthetics. Usual hackneyed to smither kingdom come words. Last night watched neo-gypsy music at the Dungeon/SoundLab (The Feathers, from MA) and it was surprisingly not delving down into the Frost Zone in the joint. Saw Bandmate Scott there and I chastised him for falling down on the job of calling me nightly to remind Perfect Me to eat din-din and then we discussed not only our pending stagewear but our practice schedule.
This is a joke, a little epinw humour.
And I am afeared You do not recognize this as such as I feel our band totally rocks and does not need practice. I have designed the logo, the merch. We know what we're wearing on stage, our m.o. is in place. No matter that we have not practiced once. Rock & roll is so not about practice, it is attitude and forthright confidence. And good merch. So the neo-gypsies treacled away and you could definitely tell the wealthy/parent-fund-injected neo-gypsies from the typical struggling and leaving-wardrobe-to-chance neo-gypsies.

Neo-Love.

Minding my own business met up with girlies Liz and Cheryl at Hardware, Goldman's joint. There saw, firstly, the girlies and Mark and Kittie - ringside. Kittie was one of those at The Fainting of Hillary and we recapped. I'm shooting their daughter's wedding and said that I'm coining a new phrase "gripping the podium," sort of like driving the porcelain bus. You don't want to be seen doing either, if you catch my Perfect drift.
So, again minding my own business, Mark says (and he's the boss, the proprietor, the founder if you will) he wishes to buy me a cocktail and ever-obliging Scott the Bartender meanders over to listen to my wish/plan/order. I warble out Chardonnay, puh-leez. To that he says What . . . no scotch. Coming to my senses I said Of course. He says I have something new - Dewar's Green. I say What the hell. He then pours me a tumbler full of it in front of Mr. Goldman. Thanks for the $28 glassa scotcha, Mr. Goldman, I think to myself and join the girls.
Moments later Mark, Amy and Jeff saunter in from a dinner at Sinatra's. Amy is carrying a Kangol purse and to that I say Amy, when you die can I have that. She says she's buying me one and what colour. I marvel at her generosity then.
Back at Home Office Hovel and it's time to brainstorm as to how I'm going to squeeze many hours of grad school reading amongst a day of freelance gigs and the like and other social engagements. Who really has the time for this grad school thing, I wonder.

Wonderment of Love.

Saw The Death Grip Hillary image on Inside Edition and to ratchet up the drama they referred to it as "this scarey picture." This gets my grad student brain to thinking of what a picture v. image is and is that Beth Dearest I hear groaning in the background over there in the corner. Note to self: school's in session so get out the highlighter and start reading fercrissakes. Got a call from Thee Elliott Caplan today and will have to inform him that, according to JR, there is no Mechanism in place for EC to be my informal, Middling City advisor of sorts. We can still meet and discuss drawings and the like but to no grand offical end.
It should be noted here that I am listening at this moment, to construct a picture/a pixel-based image in Your mind of Me, to a 70s comp of Soul Train classics and am digging ever second of the grooving, falling backwards into a first-run beanbag chair that hasn't yet lost its tiny white internal beads of toxic plastique, when the Middling City still had its dramatic smoke-filled industry choking up the waterfront to the south, hope, post-60s style and tri-coloured bicentennial public offerings like garage doors, lampposts, bunting and Neil Diamond was still considered hip (although in My mind he still remains so). Next note to self: suggest to Marky Norris that he cover our fav ND song - Cherry Cherry.
Declined an on-cam interview last night for MC NBC affiliate, after requesting my pal Marc to do the shooting. Consulted with two wizened souls who helped me confirm my gut sensation that this was so not necessary. They wanted an eye-witness account of Hillary's faint and to that I said There were 120 others in the room, get one of them. They wanted to talk about the drama of surge of interest in The Scarey Picture and to that I said Nope. Which calls to mind when MTV showed up here and interviewed me and followed me about for a night, even mid-shoot, for the Goo Goo Dolls Behind the Music gig which ended up in a later edit of the show but not in its final, eliminated and not command z'd back in. But that moment did yield onscreen images made by Yours Truly and a little wrangle with ViaCom's Rights and Clearances team. Read between lines if you will.

Love's Lines.

Mere and meager moments ago finished watching one Coen Bros. movie with George Clooney and Catherine Bodacious-Jones. What in hell was that called. Indecent Proposal Law and Order Sense and Sensibility Love is a Battlefield. A study of brown eyes - the dark bottomless pools v. the dark brown with the ember glow, ie. his v. hers. I found this movie to be as affrontive as that piece of shit Pretty Woman starring a younger and pre-Buddhistic Richard Gere and that big toothy woman, Julia Roberts. Despite the fact that I've met Richard and received some unwanted media attention after one of my tv cam buddies captured us walking nearly arm in arm at a fundraiser for one Louise Slaughter, I find this movie, Pretty Woman, as well as the former, to be abso-freakin-lutely the ultimate portrayals of women as opportunistic capitalist at the expense, literally, of men. Intolerable Cruelty, thar she blows.
Found two words on a private, post-haste wordquest this fine evening that I must share, that I am trying to resucitate and drag (kicking, screaming) into today's parlance. They are: nymphology (one who shoots for stars whilst pipe-dreamed) and staumrel (dim-witted one). As they said in grammar school, use them 3x and they are yours, yours, yours. I have given You something and do not say Perfect me never has as uttering this will render you a staumrel.

Love's Staumrel.

Where in the name of all the teeming and adrenalized photogods did the days go and, fercrissakes, I know You have missed Perfect me. But where the fuck to begin.
Firstly, premierment to my fellow Francophiles, this and thusly.
Marky Norris, former officemate and one of the favoured Middling City rockstars and the second person eVER to know I was toodling off to Parsons, opened for the pinstriped and skunky-haired Tommy Stinson, formerly of the Replacements.
And jeez didn't Mr. Stinson learn a thing, maybe three, from Paul Westerberg about The Crabbies. He bounds up onto the stage, but not before Michele noted that his handshake was limp, drab. Oh no, that was another. She pointed out that amongst the cognoscenti she had no idea who in blazes this Stinson was. There he was, in his cornball TO-ish bumper car shoes (he did compare and contrast the MC with TO, needlessly, foolishly) of patent leather. And, I will argue to my death, you can ALWAYS judge a man by what is on his feet. No exceptions. Not even You.
Stinson. Sucked. I told Marky that he truly stole the show in my non-humble opinion. And that says it all. Marky was out for the first time solo, no band (GirlPoop/Pope) in tow. Stinson. Crab. Gets up on stage and complains nearly immediately about the club's temp. About its chilliness. Renee twists some knobs. Then he's too warm. Then he's too chilly. And on. Suddenly he's annoyed that in the barroom there're a few conversations and he leaps off the stage and performs for a handful of people at the bar, stopping mid-strum to do a shot. Now that is so rock and roll. Made some images of that moment, real real keepers with the bar rimmed with suddenly-awake-and-thriving-in-rock's-gentle-glow fans and tipplers.
I that night bathed in said glow of My People, my rock and roll famille.
Then.
More more more and then I find myself with Kennergy looking at the lame-arsed Georgia O'Keefe show at MC's Albright-Knox Art Gallery. I mean really, my pal of yore Georgia Davidson (who turned Perfect me onto all things scotch) could have made better art. Adding insult to visual imagery were the mediocre digital prints hanging alongside said paintings.
Then.
Today, while minding my own business was at a thing, a bennie, for a pro-choice group featuring in the hotseat Hillary Clinton, former First Lady, former brunette, former maxi-dress wearer. I am a huge fan. I was shooting this for the pro-choice org and did the requisite meet & (no, not potatoes) greet moments and then the Talk. HC says OOOh, I am not 100%, I need to sit. She sits. Then she needs to remove her sweater under her suit. She leaves and comes back one layer less. She sits. Her voice is fading and drifting and you can see that her usual steely resolve is waning. Finally she says I cannot go on like this. Rain check. She has food poisoning or a flu, she says. She stands. She clings podium. I make an image of The Death Grip, her eyes all zonky. Then. SHE'S FALLING. CATCH HER. Down goes HC. I made no more images, believing in dignity but waiting to see if there was some such thing that would need to be doc'd - like when I (amongst the plethora) got the shot of the teen catapulted into the crowd at the outdoor gig which resulted in one very sad broken neck for real.
So HC is on the ground. Show's over. But not for Perfect me. Suddenly I am barraged with calls from media far, further and furthest. Conversations and consultations happened. The Death Grip image appears in various media now. By me. No images that are ruinatious and nothing making her look worse than at her next gig, at Canisius College about an hour later and howinhell did she make that anyhoo, after her collapse. So, she is not dead, not dying just yet and no animals were harmed in the making of those images as they were made and e-shipped off into the good night.

Good Night Love.

Reported to online school to discover that - lo, behold - It really starts, the course on Beauty, in a few. And the premier week is all Hi, I am Perfect Nancy and these are my pet peeves.
Due to Hillary's Middling City visit Monday am unable to partake in Kristin Hersh's visit to Joe's Pub in Shiney Apple Sunday. Oh, velcro, sent along sad turn of events to Justy who is making it his birthday celebration of sorts. Missed her Middling City gig as 50 Foot Wave due to the odd sense that I had to get school work done and forwent that op. Then she was in the SA and that was sold out. I am destined to never witness her quipalicious skills in the flesh thus far.
It snows and it snows and I shovel and I shovel the drive so that Mr. Mailman does not turn into Mr. Mailman the Snark and stop delivering my mags, my bills, my written correspondences. And keeping at bay, doubly, the Middling City Narcs who report unshovelled walkways to the authorities and decreed by law it is that one must shovel a path of at least twenty inches and to that I say You pedestrians get a shovel's width. My own Perfect and individualized Rule of Thumb so to speak. Off now to visit with Deb and Sarah and then to points beyond.

Point of Love.

Note to self:
whenEVER you see vans driving about in the Middling City scream, call 911 and get license plate number. They are all wretched drivers. No exceptions.
As of Friday at 315PM more or less am driving new and hyper-improved Golden Forester. A big toy, a big safe toy, a big safe toy with hi-fi that plays at unsafe levels.
Heard from Thee Elliott Caplan who last corresponded from a car wash. It was cinematic, horrifying. Oh, other note to self:
no more shovelling. It sucks.
Off to points beyond.
Beth Dearest, if you're reading this, stay where you are =
Caribbean better than Nor'Easters.
Dig.

Dug Love.

Spoke with a (oh, here I'd like to say that today is an Easter as in Patti kind of jour) Shiney Apple pal last night who informed me that there were no degrees over there to the right. None. At least the Middling City has a few rattling about. Few. Far between, unlike the flakes that are congregating along my driveway. But did I mention I have a new and super-improved Golden Forester under my ass as of about twenty-four hours ago. Turned in the leased former Golden Forester and told William at the dealer's joint that I wanted more more and did not want to pay more more more. I said Look, Jerry Lundegaard, I don't give a phyling phlegm about klear-kote, none of those gadgetries. I want gold. I want manual trannie. I want same payments. I, in a nutshell, want a lot. And I sat there, in hat pulled over my eyebrows and down jacket pulled up to my chin and dykesville boots on my feet for hours negotiating until William whined But now we're not making ANY money on this car. Ummm, William, remind me to pencil in on my agenda to give a fuck about that some time. He had the car waiting just outside the door, seats set to 50 Kelvin and the moment my Perfect self hit that seat I knew it was it. It. We drove and we drove and we drove the backroads, chatting about all things vehicular. Taking high winding curves, stopping on a dime at a most inconvenient stop sign at the bottom of a hill, turning a U at a breathtaking clip. Best part is the cd changer and I've been driving the horrid blustery MC in a techno cloud. Just saw my pal Colleen at *BX who gave me a super-bonus shot of expresso (espresso in the MC) after our mutual sadness and musings on this ultimate Snapcase gig this fine evening at Snowplace. It is sold out. I will not be there as I am not shooting it and I could call Darryl and see if he wants any but really, shall I. Hmmm, now I am wondering. There are shiney bottles of tequila there to keep warm.

Warm ponderous love.

Amongst the many pop-cult things learnt from Mterm is the Ali G phenom, the trickster extraordinaire. And what reminds me of this snippet is that the Middling City was rused up a storm by an ersatz rap artiste who strode into town with entourage and more more more and took what could be manhandled from biz and vending folk. Allen was working on the project as sound engineer and want to get his poop on matters. What riled my own Perfect suspicions were that A told me how the artistes would have warm catered spreads at the studio all the dang time, even if they were no-shows. I thought that odd then but thought Gee willikers, these hi-rollers are saving so drastically they are catering the budget away. But now. But now things are revealed and all the minor hysteria surrounding the rap artistes come to the MC are blown sky high. Speaking of Sky High Gabriel's hair last night was so . . . that.
Wondering if perhaps I offended today as a client hired me to shoot a talent show manned by, of all freakin' things, dentists. She happened to marvel that there would be actual talent on the talent show stage, reputedly, reportedly.
I strongly suggested that perhaps it was the backstage usage of laughing gas that got all those creative and free-wheelin' juices a-flowin'.

Flowing Love.

Amongst other Virgin Mega things is the Neil Young non-rarities, the rough and tumble weeding versions of the biggest and baddest hitz. And subsequent Checker's throwbacks and beyond, involving Loomis, first drivings, poetry written in the warm haze of beer pitchers.
Stray cat Extra strutted in moments ago to warm his paws, give his claws a good wool rug workout and then sample some vanilla yogurt. Now he is outside, per his vocal request.
Sun shines in the Middling City as great rock and roll questions are pondered. What are the goals, the desires of this gig. Everyone's big question, the big Q of Yours Truly.
Planning and scheming, amongst other things on listy agenda, Red Dinner, annual feast of all things crimson and bought a new tome that has a few lusty, red dishes oso parfait.
Intense Laundry Time: about a year exactly ago X penned a lovenote to his concurrent and second-last X of his own about said Red Dinner, critiquing it so in a way that had my Perfect cheeks crimson. Not only lies about his sloppy concurrence but the lie of loving the Red Dinner. Rouge-related ruses all around and now how to extricate him finally and most expediently from all matters house. Once. For all. For best.

Rouged Love.

Somehow it got to be today, Monday, and haven't blogged since a few ago, much to the chagrin of a handful of the loyalest and toppermost of the poppermosts.
To be filed under G, as in Gee wasn't that interesting.
To balance Shiney Apple schoolhardiness with independence meandered into the ol' stomping grounds in midtown, as I previously mentioned, into MoMA. And other cinematic and art matters as well as gustatory retreats. Cue excellent summer memory, JW,Esq. - most notably a few vinos, a few heaps of heirloom tomato forms. Chelsea proved to be both provoking and passable. Excellent and reaffirming times with Dorota which, of course, involved bevvies of many genres, and smokes.
The week of schoolhardiness was truly a few days and a half with a smattering of interactions - and requisite lo-budg trips to salad bar for $4 lunch. JR informs me that the thesis I am to create is but 5K words, just longer than a typical mag ed piece and that the rest needs to be more. In comparing and contrasting notes with other grad students past and present haven't heard of a school as art directionalating as Parsons School of Delineations.
Time to unjumble that of art, school, work, change.

Jumbled Love (it's driving me mad, it's driving me crazy, crazy. Now that's mad Steve Miller props).

**This just so freakin' in.
Somebody decided to toss their body in front of the A train so there we sat. First the pa'd excuse was Congestion. Then the conductress sort of slipped and said A customer... then we riders so knew. We sat and we sat, sat, sat. I found an MTA employee aboard and queried thusly. So. Jumper. How long. It was then I went non-subterranean, finangled a ride from a car service with three girlies heading to PR and then they paid the driver but I tipped him and they got dropped first as they had minutes to spare and then he, very manly, circled about not knowing, just not not knowing, how to get me to Terminus JetBlueus. Finally, after my pointing out some key demarcations, that the plane I am to board in five minutes was pulling away shortly. So now, I am off. Again. Here ends this updating, informative communiqé.


Got the sOhO groove happening and actually sad to leave now. Sitting across from equally wi-fi'd Dorota who is doing some art things. Had a fab time with Fitzgerald (and some "authentic" paella that was shamed by the paella of Yours Truly, truly) and then somehow got separated from him and meandered off through the Bank Street area, one quadrant of the Shiney Apple I am so not familiarized with. Finally decided to locate a cab which got me oso much closer to the loft. There is something magical about the loft as it induces the best dreams ever. Spoke with Academie Guru last night who put It all into perspective and for that I am once again thankful. Had lunch today with Nancy Maier of Summer Camp fame and, amongst other things, she told me of her lofty climb atop Mt. Kilimanjaro and the descent through virtually each of the Earthly climates.
Time to head to the 6 to the 4 to the A to the AirTrain to the JetBlue to the Kennedy.

Love Travel.

*
This just in.
Currently blogging from the new, the uptight, the overly-staffed Museum of Modern Art. What a Vaticanlike vibe going on. You are not allowed to sit in the sculpture garden, à la Saint Peter's Place. You are chuted in and then if checking bags you are chuted again. I'm about to escalate upwards to catch some art. Profusion of security in dark jackets most noticeable thing thus far, besides the slight reminiscence of wandering through a large city airport. Communique over.


Arrived in a hurry to Carnegie Concert Spot to learn that the Kafka Fragments extravaganza was sold out, completely and 100%ly sold out thanks, in part, undoubtedly, to the fab NYT review. So called Beth to say Hey, skip this joint.
Meeting with JR art director to the stars in a little bit so there's time to wander to the French joint for a French lunch most French and Frenchalicious. Meeting later with Fitzgerald and keep reminding my Perfect self that I have not yet to date returned the call of my camp people regarding the informal camp (not campy) reunion in about a week.
Kennergy is repping me and him at the Shiney Happy Mag meeting later this fine evening at Liz's joint and I proposed that we collab on a brilliant piece about who can say. Regaled Beth last night with my April Fools prankish moments whereby I'd call editrix and pal Liz with a scheme, a dream, a fabrication. One I am still most humoured by. Involving a past gig and gallons of reserve label vino.
On agenda: digvid shooting fercrissakes. And Oban.

O, ban Love.

Not locating Patty Hearst I went to see a doc on Henry Darger, creator of somewhat-famed Vivian Girls who I knew about from Reed and Jef. In the day sort of a Mutt and Jeff situ. The boys, I might add I was there first-ever patron as their collaborative selves, turned me on to Darger and Reed gave me a drawing of me as a Vivian Girl of sorts. This transpired at Film Forum where I am a (former) card-carrying member. As I had misplaced my card and the joint is inept and cannot find its members online, I was forced - FORCED - to pay the average joe prix.
Still searching for Patty.
Here at Parsons early helping Beth set up her sculptural photo montage-alicious pieces which will be viewed and critted in about 10 minutes and counting. As usual in the world of production and such there is much scrambling for cords, cables, podiums, tables, and the like.
Fueled by an Americano. Seeing Laura later and Fitzgerald (hard at work writing in the voice and head of one Hell's Angel Founder, Sonny) on Thursday. Going to a Kafka-based opera at Carn Hall tomorrow night for a student ticket of $10. Those Carnegie Folks sure as shootin' know how to welcome students with wide open and understanding arms.

Arms full of Love.

Recurring word du jour. Irritating.
Well Editrix Liz received the masterpiece just aok and fine.
I expect the Pulitzer will be in the mail shortly.
I was just summoned to the front steps of Parsons School of De-No-Bagels for a smoke, a Coke, and a smile.
My critique went just fine. Some words here and there. I did not show one that I wish in retro that I had.
Off to hopefully conquer my lust to see the Patty Hearst docu-drama, Guerilla. It must be here somewhere.

Somewhere Love.

Yahoo squared.
The Shiney Happy Mag piece about the odd cable home decorating shows and attendant plastic hosts is complete, a masterpiece of twists and turn, unexpected adjective placements, fun facts galore. And photos to boot. And at 2600 words, nothing to sneeze at.
Had Kennedy help me with some photo illustrations and he waltzed into the moment, held the hammer just so in front of the t.v. screen and voi-fuckin-la! fini. That and a delightful portrait of my pal Jamie Johnson at her decorating helm, swatches as far as the eyes can see.
Currently just arrived in the Shiney Apple via the Fart Wagon/JetBlue and am about to embark on a brunch of relocated Middling Cityers... and salty dogs. That delicious concoction of grapefruit juice and vodka.

Salty, stinging love.

OK, no words from Annie but I trust the man whose arms I left her in is not an axe murderer but, come to think of it, he does have an odd scar on his chin, perhaps from axe grinding. Moving right along.

Perfectly situated in the midst of not only a fad, a phenom but a cultural force. Read this to read, brush up. Dig. Blog.

Email from Pahts somewhere in the bowels of MN who was once a Peace Corps Volunteer, in Thailand. You see where this is going. He was directly involved with an org in southern Thailand when there, a group that worked on keeping the fishing community there solvent while preserving eco-systems. An appeal. He asks on behalf of the org, Yadfon, for donations that can be mailed to:
St. Dominic Church/216 Spring Street North/Northfield, MN/55057. All funds, he says, wired to Yadfon at the end of January.
Here are are links to read about Yadfon and the director of Yadfon.

Another appeal is to contact Middling City Commoner Council to beg them to re-apportion funds for the lagging and sagging project to complete renovations at Ani's Church - also to be the HQ of Hallwalls. Polly, HW's Chieftain of Info, wrote a long and impassioned email to the MC's arts community to contact these erstwhile funders. A fiasco, to be sure. Touring through the church/concert hall to-be, Ed leading the way with hardcore flashlight as sole beacon of sight besides some warbling street light, I was overcome with (no, not the scent of pigeon turds) the thought that this was an empty building that hadn't progressed from the last flashlight tour I'd been on. Cold flashlight tour, I add.
Here are the people to contact, before this Tuesday. Like right now.
-Dominic Bonifacio Jr. - Niagara District - 851-5125 dbonifacio@city-buffalo.com
-Marc Coppola -Majority Leader- Delaware District- 851-5155 mcoppola@city-buffalo.com
-Brian C. Davis - Ellicott District - 851-4980 brdavis@city-buffalo.com
-David Franczyk - Fillmore District - Council Pres. - 851-4138 dfranczyk@city-buffalo.com
-Richard Fontana - Lovejoy District - 851-5151 rfontana@city-buffalo.com
-Joseph Golombek - North District - 851-5116 Fax: 851-5648
-(YIKES, ferreal)James Griffin - South District - 851-5169 jgriffin@city-buffalo.com
-Bonnie Russell - University District - 851-5165 brussell@city-buffalo.com
-Antoine Thompson - Masten District - 851-5145 athompson@city-buffalo.com


Compassionate Love.

Birthday. Sugar Cubes. The music of then discovery, of watching and not knowing (grilled tonight by a newbie to art matters of sorts on the matter of photography and the soul and I tolerated all to a point, until the champagne arrived), of Tokyo new - worms on a string - the theme music of this moment. Walks through the neighborhood Itabashiku the shops the faces every day the sun - she's painting huge books - this music of then and the memory of then and it's now. Today is her birthday and they're smoking cigars. I gave the name to his band's disc, Chain of Flowers, from this song, all a convoluted memory mess. - They lie in the bathtub - this winter night like a night so long ago, where is he now. I left Annie in the arms of a man I hardly know and it's all for the best I presume. The apartment of the now and the past all merged and I left, bereft and in search of my own memories.

Teetering, post-research (delighted I am in throes of research - vraiment), on brink of Shall I or Shalln't I regarding the usage or waiting of a certificate to use at the Shoe Addict Palace got a call from Deb. Amongst other things, in girlie fashion, we discussed the teeter. She gave me the shove I most needed and desired and now I'm blogging in slammin' realllllleather, patent, 4" heeled boots that, with great accuracy, could send you into the next hour.
Whilst researching gleaned this new Fun Fact:
Britney's husband, the faceless dancer, demands that she shop no more. I mean What the FUCK. Is this marriage, or, as PJ Harvey croons, Is this Desire. Ms. Disney Hootchie Mama needs some Johnny-Come-Lately to boss herself. Finger food for thought.
On that merry, pop culture-addled and research-infested note I end.

Shop ON, for Love.

ps: to the officious femme who meandered over my shoulder to ingest what I was up to moments earlier while in the Middling City U's Law Library - yeah, I be legit. I be so okay with my secret Okayness Card with password and all delegated to Yours Truly from a co-ed most helpful.

Despite the fact that I was shadowed for a long while by the man in the gold lamé jacket, I had a fine time at the biannual Kootsie Ball. I directed a small group of revelers to follow me towards the what I thought was an onion filled with go-go dancers in one of the Statler ballrooms to discover that, at the striking, it was filled with those cheeseball mylar balloons so prevalent at the checkout stations of grocery stores everywhere. Where were the go-go-goers.
Liz bought me a stiff scotch that sent all party wheels into turbo. The man in the gold jacket finally left me alone but kept lurking in the shadows, waiting for a moment when he might pounce. yipes.
Been making and receiving the requisite hi and happy new year to you messages, the touchstone of a new year being making contact to check in to see how is it, how was it, how will it be.
All for now and off to the resolution of making art.

Love Now.