Liz just emailed me, Catherine, honoree/very-recently-past bday girl Cheryl, and Polly to give us the tally of what we sipped on as we supped.
Quite impressive indeed. We champagned Cheryl's birth and Yours Truly put out a call for work online about a month ago to a long list of friends, colleagues, relatives of Cheryl's for b-day wishes and images.
Selected Flora's (her daughter) collage of her and her mom surrounded by a pen and ink drawing for the cover.
This took many hours to get together and had it spiral bound via some helpful Kinkoists.
Stuffed the inch-thick book into a garment giftbox with tissue paper and some dish towels that were very Cheryl-appropriate so she wouldn't see what was underneath them for a bit.
It's been a trad with this circle of pals that YT makes sign-in/wish books for friends arriving at 50. As Cheryl wanted a very intimate dinner of her inner circle several would not be there to sign a book. Left some empty pages, however, for her to pass the book around at a few other, post-b-day gatherings planned in her honor.
Did a classic encompassing EveryoneHere image at the evening's near-end.
Some technical issues with that little Leica.
It is in time-out.
Pushing pixels merrily before back-to-back planned outings.
Today is Mark's b-day. Happy b-day to Mark. At midnight last night we toasted his birth.
Tonight is the Nullstadt re-emergence at Hallwalls, a flashback to wayback over there when, when the Continental (the fount of dancefloor inspirations and so many rock and roll tales and experiences of YT) was running full-tilt.

Full-tilt dancefloor Love.

Yesterday was interviewed by StevieB's lovely lady Kelly for a piece about Artists & Models for Buffalo Rising Online. She made a digvid of Yours Truly for possible inclusion in an accompanying podcast and one of her last questions was about my cooking prowess – she was one of the twenty supping on my spring/ICP-inspired menu last month.
Kelly has been recording with Robbie Goo et al at Chameleon West and from her descrips and stories of her singing history it was hard to imagine what the product of those studio hours would be: girl with gospel background, rollicking bass player, knob twirlers of various ilks.
I gave her a lift downtown after our interview/lunch and she shoved her in-progress two-tracked (at this juncture) disc into the appropriate slot en-dash and omigosh and voilà, great dance music. She can sing for real.
At first I thought she sounded Pinkish, kind of aggressive and gutteral where needed but as I heard more I thought Nope, better. And I am a Pink fan. And, as I told StevieB tonight, she writes better songs and they're way more interesting than that twerpy boozer Lady Sovereign. And I'm a fan of hers, to boot.
So tonight was an artist meeting at Central Terminal for pending Artists & Models. I commented to Meg Knowles, also on the scene as she is making & doing for this grand fete, that it is astounding how in so many short years so many people stripped out so much and destroyed that giant space so very well. The surrounding neighborhood is now, pretty much, a ghost town with its former homes, bars, restaurants, corner stores. It would be a great movie set. The east side was, until even the 90s, a quadrant of the Middling City where, on a lark, a gaggle of us (and loads of others) would wend our way over for Polish food, some laughs in a crusty and well-equipped corner bar full of memorabilia and crusty neighbours.
*this just in*
Literal Harold is on a rooftop in San Diego on another press junket via Sony. He was talked shop at and now his fun may begin, the payoff, if You will. He mentioned the possibility of a Padres game, a sidetrip to Mexico. Nothing much about the goodie bags. Yet. I think the inclusion of YT on said trip would have made it oso much more raucously good fun. But, oh, right, getting away this time of year is as possible as Father Baker getting canonized this weekend. Double bummer.
Kennedy is in Spain, where I should or could have been. This would be time numero trio that YT has not been able to jet off to Spain. Sparky says there must be a reason for this and it is does seem soothful of her.
Off to do some prep things for Cheryl's lavish dinner created by a group of us for tomorrow evening, for her fiftieth b-day.
And, on another, warbling note, iTunes's email's subject line in the inbox mentions a new release by Paul McCartney.
Is this to prevent me from instantly deleted it.
It did not work.

John Lennon Forever, Love.

Whirlwind in full effect.
And Yours Truly functions well in whirlwinds and other moments of pure motion in throes of observing and documenting.
This past Friday evening motored to Rochester for the member opening of the Ansel Adams exhibit at George Eastman House, where YT has been a proud member since Tony Bannon took over the gig of director.
Arrived on the scene with Sparky and we promptly toasted our arrival with a nice glass of champ before we headed in different directions so I could subsume.
As I sketched some of the prints and took notes I overheard a man telling his much younger date on his arm that No, this was the age before PhotoShop – to her amazement at the tonalities and sharpness of one of the prints.
I was there for art's sake and for a piece I'm writing for the Shiney Happy.
Big Fact Gleaned (BFG) is that AA did not use a darkroom timer (as some non-timing old timers did not) but a metronome, emanating from his pianistic training.
A main lovely feature of the show (besides a vid of AA and Georgia O'Keeffe in conversation) is a wall explication of how he created a shorthand of notes on printing each print, in a grid system. I think this is lovely info for all photogs who actually spent years in the darkroom, it certainly springs up lovely (for real) mems of being in the darkroom, lovingly sloshing chemistry over a print and working for hours and hours on one image until it was just Perfect.
And still, after all those years of childhood photo self-ed/experimentation, Nancy Golden workshops, big U undergrad courses, news bureau and newspaper printing on a deadline it was all still Magic.
Tony Bannon and I were so happy to see each other and me, Tony, Sparky visited in the GEH café and Tony gave me two gorgeous books: an AA book and another called Picturing Eden (after I told him of my nature-capturing photog ways and concerns and how grad school powers that be tried to flush this all from my system but it persisted and persists) in which he not only wrote a profound intro but a very sweet note to YT.
He then took me and Sparky on a back-staircase tour of GEH, culminating in a visit to his office which, back in the day, was Eastman's screening room.
Tony had photos (quel shock) of the screening room in Eastman's day, replete with stuffed animal bounty heads, extension cords suspended awkwardly from things, stacks of films in their canisters, an odd assembly of chairs for watchers.
Tony also wanted to show me a plant I gave him as a big thanks for writing an essay for a solo show I had at Big Orbit. The plant thrives, perhaps better than the art career of YT, who works all the livelong day making everyone oso happy with beautiful documentation of what they do.
Speaking of such, had the most amazing five-course dinner chez President Simpson and Katherine on Saturday evening during a pre-Commencement soirée. Tuna carpaccio, duck breast, side dishes that were so intricate and a dessert that, due to a pending deadline, will only be described as Architectural. A few of these dishes YT will attempt to recreate for one of my next dinner parties.
Mucho latero met the gang of girlies out for double b-day trouble, celebrating the births and lives of Jana and Tiffany.
The only snag du soir was that the Sabres lost in double OT.
Dined with my loving parents last night and, despite giving her a lavish bouquet that she received direct from growers (ProFlowers rules), gave her another gift so that those in restaurant would not glance over and think Geez, what a cheap-ass, no gift for her mom. So I stood up and in grand gestures, lest anyone was watching, presented my dear Mom (Fats to YT) her lovely gift of excellent jacket, just the thing a daughter who digs the shop acquisition, will buy for a mom who would not toss herself over that certain precipice of fashion chance.

Back to Pixel Management.

Laser-focused Love, Love.

Did me and the gang of girls learn a danged thang about vino last night at the tasting of Empire State vinewares at the Butler Mansion.
I think not.
And there was not much in the way of sustenance by the time Yours Truly meandered in with Michele and Siobhan, having just snacked at Europa which gets two enthusiastic hai-karate kicks.
The wino people had their usual tables set up at strategic corners and apparently were in their respective cups by the time we did arrive to meet up with Sparky and Annie.
Liane Hansen was speaking from nearly inside the fireplace and all I could make out through the several bodies was that she liked puzzles. Or The Puzzler. I could spy her in between people and didn't get a chance to say Hi or whatever.
But the vineyard cupsers were amusing.
One cherubically-faced girl talked smack about a man I had zero respect for at a nearby table as he'd used metal s-hooks to hang a heavy vinyl vineyard banner across an original nineteenth-century painting. Sparky, Siobhan and I went over to tell him how disturbing this was to us and he looked at us with psychotically glazed-over eyes to state that it was not bothering him and that the event was nearly over.
Realizing that this would be like attempting to rationally discuss a matter with a Grant Street crackhead, I wandered away.
So there was that guy.
Then there was another, who, the cherub told us, burnt a patch of his own chest hair off with a device he used (past tense, apparently) to purify the air around him of the stank of those around him.
We listened all rapt and shit and then wheeled around to have a look.
Siobhan noted that he had a wealth of hair left to burn.
We moved along then to the newish Stillwater to hear Heather and Fellas perform and she sang all songs in a foreign tongue. YT first thought it was a scatting episode but, no, it was Portuguese.
Some pesky men insisted we follow them along to another joint and we soundly rebuffed their feeble attempts at disarming our Perfect, maleless Fun.
My beloved mother, Fats, just called to inform that she has just received the lush bouquet I ordered for her so she would have it before the Day of Moms.

Love of Holidays.

Like so totally rockingout tomorrow night at Silversun Pickups gig at Town Casino with Sparky.
Today, after conducting some non-e-biz at the Mac store meandered over to this side of the state's v. of Sephora, much-anticipated.
It's not the hugest ever but will suffice.
Yours Truly had to keep reminding herself that upon leaving the joint I would not: be swept into the stream of B'Way, be looking into Union Square and sucked next into Diesel, wheedling to a random airport security person that they really should not/need not confiscate the nouvelle cuticle snippers.
The latter happened once. It was real sad.
Buh-buh-buh-but I just bought those.
To no avail.
In case You don't understand the why's or whichever's the reason that this store rocks is that they are a skincare/perfume/gadget/makeup Centre.
Onwards.
Time once again to rush to eat premiertimewise at Europa and then onwards to the BFO vino tasting with members of the bookgroup gang.
Talked to Liz today about the pending soirée extraordinaire we are plannng for our beloved Cheryl next week.
Flowers, Veuve Cliquot, Cameras, Action.

Rushing, Love.

Driving back into the Middling City last night, after an exurban gig, hit the endangered but awe-inspiring Skyway and, as happens up there, had eyes wandering to and fro.
Fro included a most puzzling sight.
Someone at HSBC, the city's tallest edifice, created by architect Yamasaki, who also drew and made happen the late (not great) World Trade Center in the Shiney Apple (and why-o-why is more not ever made of this fact), had arranged some lights on its southern-facing side that featured three colours and an incomprehensible shape or script.
It was not Sabres colours, also those of the MC (blue and gold, lest You have forgotten), like the nearby Rath Building display.
Red, green, blue lights shone out into the still-chilled air and Yours Truly decided it must be a few symbols of the I Ching.
These days in the MC it is not all that unusual to see a vehicle with Sabres sentiments used car lot shoe polished onto the windows.
Nor crews sawing away at trees.
Or women with pedicures wearing sandals, their toes frigid lavendar.
Read today via FlavorPill (link it over there, there, on the right) that another Andreas Gursky show hits the SA walls over at Matthew Marks Gallery: the next reason for a foray there. Last time YT was at a show by him +crew was at MoMA.
Pieces for the Artists & Models installation coming together.
Have to locate an opaque projector, like now.

Projected, opaque Love.

As I just wrote to Paula Wachowiak, all is good and right again for Greg Sterlace returns to his eponymous show.
After a sabbatical, a meltdown.
Annie and Michele and the other Sterlaces of sorts did a fine job but there's nothing like the tawdry black witticisms of Greg.
After the Bill Horvitz Trio gig at Hallwalls this week Joe Rozler commented that he'd just seen me on the Home of the Future site and I thought he meant the 4.13.07 appearance on Sam's b-day.
But nope, he meant a viewing of my contrib to the Five Minute Series, the humourous tale of the implosion of a relationship past. Very past, thankfully. Richard Wicka of HOTF told me that my vid is one of the toppermost viewed of the series.
For what that is worth. Too bad there are no royalties.
Out for drinks with Bill Horvitz, Steve Adams, and drummer Harris E was good, Kennedy and I took them to good ol' Gabriel's Gate where the winging molecules sit in the air between O molecules.
Tonight shooting an event at the Central Terminal, Ghost Train, and from the p.s.a. I cannot quite decipher what this will be: an ersatz train ride to the other side is promised. Then maps are given out. If anyone advises me to just lick the map I will decline.
Speaking of declines, as in of civ, the other day, 5.4, was the anniversary of a bigtime school shooting, probably one of the first–Kent State. The NYT has that little link where you can see what happened on the very day you are reading along online, the actual front page of that particular issue.

First observation is that paper layouts have drastically changed. There were many more stories on page numero uno that jumped.
So Kent State, as we all do know, was the shooting of students by State Troopers.
Two women co-eds dead, two men co-eds dead. Two were 19, two 20.
One thing Yours Truly did not know was that the Troopers claimed they began firing when they were sniped at from a grassy knoll.
No snipers.
No surprise.
As I said to a client this week at a meeting, as we began to speak about the war and the killing of the environment, It's not the time in so-called polite conversation to have such a talk and then pause and say Well, on a HAPPIER note, or some such thing. Stick to the talking points fercrissakes.

Full day of shooting yesterday, ending up at a country club in the Middling City exurbs where YT viewed the second awe-inspring toupée in the past month.
I ask You.
Are viewers meant to not notice that the hair is faux? Has anyone ever created a believable toupée. Why are wigs not humourous. Hell, even Britney's wig is not a hoot.

In the online music jibing quadrant of the internet system read today that fans are shocked and stunned that Britney lip-synchs, especially during her quarter-hour quote-unquote sets at a national music club chain.
As You may note, O Loyal epinw reader, YT has photographed this pop icon (who is, undoubtedly, still red hot in Japan) several times, and has always felt a great tinge of sadness and pity for the young girls (in make-up), clutching $50 programs, watching their pop star fav lip-synch the night away.
One pop rock mem worth a revisit is that of Britney popping up from underneath the stage of the MC Arena like a vampire lifting up from the earth.
In all my decades of music and spectacle watching and shooting and documenting have never seen, in ANY music genre, any art genre, a more odd sight than that very one.

On that lip-sunk note.
Sunk in Love, Love.

For the first time in human, art-making history Hallwalls has printed up a poster for Artists and Models with artist names on it.
I have to stumble down memory lane and recall the premier Artists and Models in downtown Middling City with films by Kevin Fix, fashion show by Steve Gallagher, and oso much more. It was a slammin' party and I got involved thereafter as artist and model. And at A&M #2 had work included in the Reject Show, of works rejected from Albright-Knox's WNY exhibition. Before it became the sprawling, incomprehensive series of shows that it is today.
Speaking of AKAG (and more A&M recollections to follow), was there for Kennedy's concert of Roscoe Mitchell and was hoping to catch a glimpse of the Francis Bacon installation. Not yet. That opens tomorrow but Yours Truly is missing the grand op for a gig.
YT needs to get hold of an old-fashioned opaque projector to make large-scale paintings once again, as I did for another A&M with a circus theme. Attendees could stick their heads through and become Saint Sebastian, Fat Lady, Snake Charmer, etc.
This year's transformational panels will feature all things nocturnal.
Dark, shady, street-loving, moon-blooming, and the like.
Last night, speaking of moon-blooms, went with Kennedy to hear and see Acid Mothers Temple at SoundLab, a rollicking 70s-infused rock band from Nippon/Japan.
The four men in the band are avid and two have heads of incredible hair-long, shaken all over the place for full rock effect.
The femme in the band is kind of Stevie Nicksing along with scarves, hands all curled up to the rock heavens, some warbling when needed, a wrist shakey instrument.
In the midst of the set I kept meandering to the front of the stage for a divergent rock perspective, in the throes and deep in the notes.
There was one rapturous guy doing what YT has termed an Esmerelda Dance-a rare male doing the Esmerelda Dance.
Also in the midst of the set I said into Kennedy's ear
There's a new trend in Tokyo, Male Gals, gyaru-o, boys who dress like girlies and wear makeup and go tanning. There was a New York mag sidebar outlining some of the products these gyaru-o fellas use, including something called Moving Rubber Grunge Mat (Love always Love those Japanese names) for $7 (that'd be about 15¥) which is super-stiff hair goop.
Recalling the hair goop of the 80s now, coming full circle back to the Artists & Models inception. Big hair, strong hair goop, shoulder pads (*cringe*) odd fashion twists like cloth gloves for some occasions. And oso much much more.

Artistmodelmusic Love, Love.

Apparently my stray cat pal, Extra, is an advocate, a practitioner of Santeria.
A few nights ago I made Kennedy and me some fab squid ink pasta and salmon and other special ingrediently mélange.
We did not finish it and Kennedy says You know how we eat leftover fish dishes, give it to Extra.
Extra nibbled out the fish bits.
Later I looked out to discover a beheaded bird near his food bowl.
He was very proud of his little killing spree, standing very tall in the sunshine.
I told him what a great hunter he is.
And I raised an eyebrow not at his Santeria practice but that just when you think you know someone, sometimes you like so do not.
I do recall that Santeria advocates killed and beheaded just like Extra did to speed Fidel along to good health.
Onwards.

Blooming spring, beheaded birds Love.

Al Gore came to these parts yesterday, first speaking to 5K students from high schools and the big U and then in the evening to that many grownups.
What differed from the movie, An Inconvenient Truth, was the ending.
Whereas the movie (like Iraq for Sale) piled on fact after fact after photo and photo and more factly matters about how We have really collectively and consistently been, in a nutshell, fucking up the Earth, the talk ended with some positivity and how We can change what has been mucked up–NOW.

Al was intro'd by big U prez John Simpson, Lieutenant Gov David Paterson, and U student Kelly Miller. Paterson, who Yours Truly got to meet and photograph for three days during the Empire State's Dem Convention, is a joking man and stated that Al Gore was going to make an important announcement during the talk, that he would be announcing ( mute mute ). He began frantically tapping the mic asking What is wrong with this microphone.
Sadly, Al did not announce his presidential run and in lieu of such stated that he is a Recovering politician and is on step 11.
He said He was the president of the United States and when laughter ensued he did a well-timed pause to say I don't see the humour in that.
Well, Al, YT would like to impart that it is nervous titters, not guffaws, because that presidency was like so yours, so popular vote YOURS.
Onwards.
So there was a positive, rah-rah ending and a deserved standing ovation.
All in all an all-around good Al time.

Later alligator attended and photographed Roscoe Mitchell and his rhythm section at Albright-Knox Art Gallery. Heading in to meet up with Kennedy, Annie, Erin, was rather shocked and pleased all at once that the venerable-yet-altered art joint had not sold off their small, blue glass figurines by Picasso. They were being shown somewhat prominently just off the sculpture garden (no longer a garden), past the Kiefer in a suitable showcase. They were not auctioned off.
Yet.
Off to points beyond on this workful, artful day, also another jazzful one as well.

Al Gore Love.

Minding my own business, as is always my wont, I meandered into an office.
Why, You ask.
As if You have no idea that much of what I do is appearing at office doors, talking, photographing, talking, leaving, but not before some more talking and photographing.
So there Yours Truly is, at an office door of a superstar prof, in midst of conference with a grad student.
Grad Student was being spoken and, having been out of Academe for a little while, my ears were a bit rusty.
I do still recall, howmeverr, how to pronounce Benjamin properly (benYUHmean) as opposed to Benji the Dog's full name.
phew.
So conference and bandying about over and YT had already started making images as the superstar spoke. And then I sunk more into invisibility. And then not when it was just the two of us. Results smashing, of course.
But in mid-pixelation started to talk Mac and mentioned digvid, being self-taught and all that hair-raising miasmic stuff, and then moved on to the online realm.
In about ten minutes I had gleaned so much new information from this man that my brain had the feeling of having spoken French all day and the evening is going to stretch along and maybe even one kir royale (alright, three) have been consumed (or are in mid-sip) and the brain is working very hard at this other lingua until running away from the language is necessary to regroup and such.
I told the superstar this, he was pleased that he had imparted so much in such a short time.
Then there is today.
Photo gigs and then the bleak, stripmalledtrek to The Clubhouse to pick up something I thought I needed for this Mac. Turns out No, not needed, but talked for a long time to a MacClerk about all sorts of things to do with a Mac and the internet system.
Is anything more exciting. I think not.
Saw Donny K at The Clubhouse and told him I'd received a request from afar to get six teeny-rockers into a Goo show down south. And then today a p.r. femme called to see if I'd like to review a show in Rochester tomorrow. The rock world, which never left the side of YT, is creeping closer.
Speaking of bandying about, met up with fellow Spree people to volley ideas about regarding the best that might ever happen or be acquired in these parts.
I do mean, of course, Spree's best of issue.
Everyone does a best issue.
It is as assured as playoffs in sports, blooms in the garden, glances between pedestrians.

Played off, bloomed up Love.

wow.
That is what I said, Perfectly like so not sotto voce to myself as I tooled around Target today for this purpose, to acquire more sunscreen.
This, Yours Truly adds, the very same week beloved President Al Gore visits this very region.
You draw the line.
Now You do not naysay, telling YT that SPF 70 is truly something like 35. Like how booze's alcohol content is a snippet of what is printed labelside.
Irregardless of the veracity in the tube, this is huge news for one like me, one who burns sitting near a window on a sunny day.
Al. Al Gore.
This will be the third time that YT has photographed his direct gazed countenance.
The first time he was the veep and appeared with Tipper, Bill & Hill.
That is the occasion at the mega-plex-sporto arena of the Middling City's downtown, the one that afterwards a glimpse of a dummy vehicle with literal dummies resembling the foursome was spotted heading off into another direction from the actual vehicle carrying themselves.
Ahh, the sights, the sites that have been seen.
The second time Al was running for his presidency and was dressed in a sharp, brown cashmere sweater, thanks to Naomi the Feminist.
This is numero trio.
Beforehand I am shooting man on the street shots of attendees, exactly as I did for the visit of His Holiness Dalai Lama–HHDL in media parlance.

Time to mix rhubarb into cardamom into orange into strawberries.
That, You see, is chemistry for good.

Good, chemical Love.

Org'd a viewing of Kenn Morgan photos with Sparky and Annie over at one of those Middling City churches now proselytizing pedestrians with Art as the highest of powers, Karpeles.
And so on that note meandered to put her highness, Cat Power, on the hi-fi.
Kenn made images of profiles of femmes with Roman noses, as they are classified usually and he created some magnum opusesque words of his own that were as admirable as the images - max cascade was one.
Jeez it's been a while since this Cat Power was played and Yours Truly wonders why it has not hit the platter sooner.
At today's high powered event was not only lured into promising a visit to another artist's exhibition in a few weeks, but into having some early box wine. Early as in the hour and early as in was probably vinted last month.
I noted to Annie that the box is meant to fit onto a refrigerator door, they are roughly the width of a jar of mayonnaise. Now, YT asks, with a spigot on one side how does a box wino pour sans lifting the entire package up and away.
The box denoted the contents featured real grape juice and alcohol content, 11%.
There was cheese. We girls were thrilled.
It is time to push pixels and disseminate happiness the world over.
Met with Liz Friday evening to discuss the pending momentous b-day numero fiftio of Cheryl and our celebratory gesture of dinner, Perfection, gifts, explosion of glad tidings.
This is a very busy birthday month for YT has several persons of interest who were born as Tauruses and Gemini: Kennedy (the lone Gem), Brucey, Cheryl, Jana.
YT overdoes the birth anniversaries of others, usually.
I say Hooray to them.
And, usually, one gets a special improv harmonica tune on the phone to usher in all good vibes.
The greens get more vibrant each day.

Vibrant green Love.

+ The latest incarnation of that cable access show, still confusedly called the Sterlace Show although the eponymousee departed after a mid-life meltdown, is out in the world. Viewable on their site whose URL escapes. It was taped 4.13.07, the exact anniversary (to day of week) of epinw and Blogger, Beckett were discussed. Me, Mish, Annie had a sing-off at the end, to which I dragged several rock classics to the table.

. . . and back again for a brief refueling of sorts before jetting off again.
As I told the Girlie Gang last night during our extended replay over at that cold (and, when they dial down the thermo as the hour gets trop late, frigid) Toro, 'tis the season when Yours Truly subsists on reception food. Cheese cubes (one of the three basic flavours depending upon mood-orange, beige, spicily-speckled), bottled water, carrot sticks, random finger foods.
Met the girls out after a 13-hour, intense day that completely rocked-in images, conversations, thoughts.
Called Vincenzo en route and asked him to guess how many hours since YT had brushed all the teeth.
12, he guessed.
13, I corrected.
Today was the inauguration of Hilbert's nouvelle president, Cynthia Zane, who has actually been on duty for about one year already. It is official. Well, nearly not so when her medalion with bas-relief Hilbert College icon went all missing and former SUNY Chancellor Bob Bennett stepped up to the plate, so to speak, and proffered up his own SUNY medallion. Wrong ribbon colour, wrong medallion color but it was something.
Photographed her later with vrai one.
To date have been hired to document three inaugurations - Muriel Moore Howard at Buffalo State College, John Barclay Simpson at UB, Cynthia Zane at Hilbert.

Literal Harold used one of my gaming images from Sicily and posted today about this Mario Puzzle Bobble.
I told him the image's visual provenance, if You will.
An espresso rest stop area, open-air, plane trees outside, sunny day.
A place in Siracusa.
By the water, but, then again, nearly everything in Sicily is near the water.
Off to points beyond.

Pointed Love.

My highly excellent tax lady, Valerie, just completed the package.
Pfhew.
As I am wont to write and say, she is as much a life coach as a tax preparator.
She told me that We had until today at minuit and she trudged through all the receipts and such and I just met her and her pal over at a diner to get the goods and pay her for her work and give her her special surprise, a giftcard for Target.
For who in hell cannot use a giftcard for same.
I ask You.
Due to the horrific happening in VA there are today and onwards memorial ceremonies the world over, especially at especially-empathetic collegiate places.
Yours Truly is photographing one such gathering tomorrow and I was trying to recall the last time I had to do something of this nature, another convocation of people from all walks and spiritualities.
Students will be wearing memorial pins in the colors of Virginia Tech.
This event inspired a whole bevy of very bad dreams and YT thinks a positive outcome would be that the world takes better notice and changes the overwhelmingly violent and brazenly disconnected culture around us.
Connect for real.
VF has their annual Green Issue out now and amid it is a primo quote by Prince Charles, how people are disconnected from Nature, they can witness beautiful Nature docs all they want, and turn them off.
Same tangential motto is that people are disconnected from Nature, and human nature.

*this just in.
Nancy,
I am writing briefly today to confirm that you have been selected to participate in NOCTURMINAL, the twentieth version of Hallwalls’ Artists & Models Affair at the Central Terminal June 2, 2007. - John Massier

This means that YT will be a featured artiste in this Hallwalls fundraising hoopla at Central Terminal.
And now to turn the home office hovel into a studio - quick.


Terminal Love.

Well, let Us get down to proverbial brass tacks, if You will.
As a Shiney Apple pal shares my adoration for one of Olmsted's best, South Park, and attendant Botanicus Gardenus, I was sending along a dig version of a Middling City News story about the century plant which is growing out its large stalk, right out from where a pane of glass has been removed for the occasion. I do believe that this same species did its own thing in the Shiney Apple and that when the huge bloom(s) appear there is a huge stinking stench emanating from the flowers or from the plant, which dies after its big burgeon.
So there I am on the MCNews site about to cut and paste when another newsy bit grabbed my eye. Ironically enough, the same Olmsted site was the sight of a gruesome discovery by some wayward teen boys - a beheaded and befooted goat, probably, some expert intoned, used for a Santeria ritual perhaps to say Hey, thanks to the spirit world. I think that this would include Spring in general.
Speaking of beasts.
Went to Dougie's soirée last night after meeting up with some of the Solid Gold Book Club girlies. It was a potluck turned general fete and then jamboree. We left as the jamboree was getting underway as we were hankering for more barside mischief and Erin had sustained a curious injury from Dougie's hedgehog. Whose name escapes me at this moment.
My pals in KY have or had a hedgehog and really I don't understand this type of pet that you can sort of hold in your arms but which renders petting a very tentative situ.
sidebar: Annie believed that Dougie had a wild boar as a pet and I marvelled at that until I realized that this was probably improbable in a quote-unquote urban domicile.
But what a grand idea. Pot-bellied pigs, so 2002. Wild boars, so Now.
sidebar2: Back in the dawning of Artvoice created some house ads, those ads that are made to fill up space when odd spaces between ads and copy are left. One I created used a dictionary image of a wild boar and the sloganific words stated Read Artvoice and avoid becoming one of these.
So there is Erin with strange welts on her ballerina arm. It was distressing to one and all, quite possibly most for Erin and secondmost for Dougie.
We left the party and found ourselves in Merlin's of all the forsaken joints of yore and now and the MC.
A doorperson said the cover was $3 each. I said How about you just let four girls in for free. He agreed to that and then Yours Truly felt some big responsibility to breeze right in and to the bar and order Something ... hearkening back to the girlie sojourn to Niagara Falls/Cracktown and the crab-assed owner of the joint that Jana had to review and all.
So we're in Merlin's, as were a speed metal band, a femme playing video poker, her pal the bartendress, some fans of the band.
At some point I went up to see which band this was. Did not recognize them from my WhatHasHappened days and so asked a guy standing to my right. Who are they, gesturing.
He said I am not sure, I work with the drummer's brother, I think they're called Serenity ... or something like that.
I reported this fun fact to the girlies.
We watched the bandmates, post-set, drag their sky-high amps out the front door out into the rainysnow and I mused on what an Olympiad feat it is for guys to work, practice, get gigs, drag their equipment to whermever, Perform, lather and rinse and repeat.
For the glory of free rock and roll hair spins.

Hair spun Love.

Happy Birthday to Sam.
Happy Birthday to epinw.

Today photographed a feeding frenzy of sorts for students at the big U, a way to thank them for being good customers of food services there. Photographed some with sky-high foodstuffs carefully balanced before the students had to walk about one hundred feet to a seating area. I imagine there was a spilling crisis at some point. Student carrying sky-high plate, student running for a bus, kapow.
Tomorrow I am shooting a house made of haybales. Yes, haybales.
And the Shiney Happy has asked me to review the pending Eastman show of Ansel, as in Adams.
Just perused the catalogue of workshops and travel possibs via Santa Fe Workshops and a few sound just fab, one week of cavorting somewhere exotic with the like-minded.
About to embark to appear on the Greg Sterlace Show, sans Greg.
But featuring pals Annie and Michele.
Greg has had a meltdown.
He always had me on as a co-host and it was often commented upon that I was able to quote unquote hold my own with him. We would usually end up conversing or shouting at each other and forgetting the guests onhand. Or we would kind of harangue the guests, if need be.
I will be talking about the aforementioned b-days. Of course.
Am I glad that that Imus character is expunged.
You bet your straw cowboy hat.
As in the one sitting on my printer, the one I was given by some nice people at a race, probably as they noted my SPF 8000 was wearing a bit thin.
Time to regroup, depart, offshoot.

Offshot Love.

so he goes
Shiney Apple DK just wrote to hear more about Sicily (apparently I did not provide enough big details and a few readers have inquired, there is another, trip-related blog in the works, Trinacria Tour) and to extend an open invite to languish in the happy, lofty vibes before the Big Move. In essence the Big E as in Eviction. Not Easy, and there is another slew of negative connotations now with that E. To ruminate completely.
She says she is awaiting a call from Mr. Fong. I know that feeling of waiting for phonecalls in the Shiney Apple - to find gigs, to find a place to rest one's weary head.
Just revisited an at-precipice moment, the one involving the overly-wrought mid-career photog who advertised a room for rent in her midtown east place. How she freaked when Yours Truly put a camera case on the bed. That is about the second I realized I needed to split *quick fast in a hurry* and call Dorota, the aforementioned DK (the other Perfect DK of this sphere).
An SOS was met with a Walton-worthy Come back home.
And the sad sidebar is that lofty days are coming to an end after over a decade as the building owner has decided to rent instead to a day spa and day care centre for caninus domesticus. She told me their shocking rent amount, what one could pay to purchase a modest Middling City home.
I told someone recently it seems like I've spent more time at the loft than at the building that I own, so much so that I know the quirks of the loft's wiring, dripping faucets and the like. Whereas the home office hovel remains a place for storage, occasional naps, wardrobe changes, and stray cat feeding.
Speaking of SCF, there is a newbie, a young female who seems in peril. I think the boys (and this excludes my precious darling Extra, as he is a ca(s)trati) have been hitting on her and she hunches at the door, ready to charge in.
Moments ago was editing a gig just shot at a smaller college in the region, a joint that is a pleasure to intertwine with, reconnecting with a femme who YT has known for a long time, who has joined their staff. I was just editing/flailing away and looked up to note that the cast of characters who were surrounding me when I began have all drifted away. That is intensity of purpose.

Today read two obits for Kurt Vonnegut, the more complete in the NYT.
Commented to Kennedy that KVJR (as Loomis and I lovingly always called him) and Woody Allen provided a glimpse into lovely, creative planets for young and impressionable teen writers and thinkers. That and an uncle named Billy (yes, as in Pilgrim) who played the harpsichord and was a priest and who absolutely lived the high life.
KVJR, just like Dr. Atkins, died from brain injury from a fall.
Never underestimate Balance.

Balanced Love, body/mind/spirit

... Born sour or does the problem go deeper.
Now that is a question.
Your homework assignment is to check out this educational, health-related vid via Internet Archive. Sound only is fine for flailing away. It is still educational.
At least fur keeps you warm.

The latest of Perfect, jazz-related post-gig feasts was another raging success with PB at the helm of the table, after full-blast trio of him and equally-imported rhythm section - Marino Pliakas and Michael Wertmüller. Told Michael and Marino, way late into the post-dessert musings, that the moment they created with a simple beat that spanned into for a terminal but interminal-in-moment moment made all sorts of blocked art ideas in the head of Yours Truly slip out. They were visibly pleased.
It was one of my most favoured PB gigs and I told him that the big triad of events in the month of my merry birth (nine days later, to be quite Perfectly pushing exactitude) in Chicago is not only inked in but looked forward to. An exhibition, a concert, a publishing party.
PB invited me to bend myself into his suitcase so I could mosey along on this full-blast tour. With all the yoga and pilates it could be quite possible. But then, of course, it is a real hazard with sub-zero temps happening out in outer space where planes fly.
Two shopping days until Sam's b-day and the anniversary of epinw.

Shop and rock on, Love.

+ this just in.
two jpegs arrived of YT with a whole shitload of flowing hair, just after a Phish show and before some other rock hoopla - cameras present in both instances, of course. I look forward to its re-emergence soon.

As most people Yours Truly knows, and this includes YT, have turned that vernal pagan-x'n holiday hybrid–a.k.a. Easter–into Imbibathon, all plans for Dyngus Day sort of fell by the wayside/fell out the window.
Entertained, with Kennedy, ICP (Instant Composers Pool, not International Center of ... not for ... Photography, nor Insane Clown Posse although YT has witnessed and photographed them onstage) on Saturday night after their incredible gig at Hallwalls in The Cavernous Church of Ani. A large black curtain was added to the Gothic skyward arch but the sound still booms around the room. This was duly noted by Bandmate Scott and I who sat on the second level peering down at the mass of watchers and this tentet from Holland.
After the show sped back to the EasyBake Oven etc. where the hunks of lamb legs were baking away.
Served 18 supper and it all began with Oyster Shooters (raw, in a citron vodka/lemon/soy concoction) with raw quail egg atop each and dainty thin scallions. Bandmate Scott broke out into a sweat as he helped me construct them ... Are these raw, is this raw, he queried. He did shoot one. They are sublime.
After that lobster and crab salad in a YT-created tarragon dressing. Then the legs of lamb, Tandoori chicken, Americana meatloaf, buttery green beans, rosemary roasted potatoes, a few salmon filets for a chocolate-loving vegetarian who does eat the fish. And on the table I had a butter lamb, a Middling City specialty.
This perplexed just about everyone at the table.
Susannah, ICP's manager, had an incident with her Oyster Shooter and I had a flash of having to rush to get the vacuum to dislodge the oyster from her gullet.
Off to a marathon big U day, including documentation of thee man who created Earth Day, Denis Hayes.
Earth Day, yes, is each and every day. But it is truly on the calendar on the fifteenth of this month. Two days after the festive celebration of the anniversary of the appearance of epinw.
Dig.
As YT was merrily wending her way through life yesterday received some frantic messages from editrix at the Shiney Happy, looking for some fun facts to add to the behemoth piece on this and that. Fhonecalls, fixed, filled, finished in a flash.
Onwards to there, there, there, there, and there, too.

There, Love.