Just de-grassed and de-pineconed the demesne.
And, whilst squirting down some Middling City crud from the front of the house, the mailman arrived and concurrently startled Yours Truly.
In his hands some mail, as well as a telltale tube, signalling that the Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. print has arrived. Kurt made it, with the help of his friend, Joe.
I emailed Joe, instructions to do so to buy art by Kurt are on the site, and sent in the appropriate funds.
First, a Kurt shopper has to print out a handy order form.
Our book club met about his Player Piano this past week, and Heather and Jeremy hosted and cooked a fab dinner. Next book: Unbearable Lightness of Being.
Most of us had seen the movie and I have some visuals from it but not too much the plot.
And now the print is here, one of his "portal" images, and then it will be time to drive over to Penny Wyatt's framing emporium to have this, as well as a few other art pieces, made to look polished and complete.
Today is River Fest, YT could hear first men yelling over at the rugby field and then the strains of Black Magic Woman. No, not the real Santana, for it was a cover band that moved on to other material.
Have been having some cellphone bad luck and took the little green phone over to the Sprint store which looked like one of those architectural pirates had stolen the store's interior. They are in the midst of an upgrade.
They kept my phone for a long time and, upon returning, was told that the interior of the phone was filled with green stuff, corrosion. That the phone had been wet.
I assured them it has never been wet. They disagreed and informed me I must put in an insurance claim.
The phone answers itself sometimes, sometimes it does not take voicemails at all, and all calls are subject to not being displayed ever. This is a dilemma of the modern sort.
Putting together a small album of Freeland images that I made and will drop this at the funeral home so that those attending his waking days may have a look. Then Carla, his partner, may keep it if she likes.
Time to move along the timeline.

Artful, timely Love.

Rest (or walk, or rock out) in deserved, carefree, earthfree peace,
Freeland.
Freeland never waivered from what his muse, what the art heart says.
Ars Longa.
Vita Brevis.
Love of Wild Things, Love.

Fresh Airstress Terry Gross receives an honorary doctorate from the big U tomorrow in a special ceremony for her solely at the Butler Mansion at the Del/North corner: she could not attend the big U's big C about a month ago.
Perhaps she was keynoting elsewhere, perhaps giving a Schumeresque GoForIt (fist in air) speech.
Was chosen to document the Guitar Competition this pending Monday, which Yours Truly looks forward to: hours of photographing misc.musicmusicmusic.
About to head over to Heather's for the bookish gathering, an unusual mid-week v. as it somehow worked out for all of us. We are going to be interviewed en masse for the Shiney Happy Mag for a piece about clubs about books, not book clubbings.
YT put out a challenge, first to Annie, then to the writer at a recent gathering, that our club would like to challenge other book clubs to an old-fashioned kickball throwdown.
JW,Esq. is on a kickball team.
He is not only a corporate success, but a kickball success.
He is my kickball mentor of sorts.
So the challenge.
YT has her own Shiney Happy pieces to write for this verysame lit-based issue.
Brilliant analyses of this and that, perhaps some Latin terms tossed in for good measure.
Now here is some primo Latin for You:
Amor est vitae essentia, Love.

Yesterday was a wedding shoot in a downtown Middling City hotel, an Orthodox Jewish wedding with lots of rituals, and traditional good photo ops.
When the vows were completed and the MazelTovMazelTov chorus of young rabble-rousing men was parading backwards behind Yours Truly, en masse we re-entered the hotel lobby.
Nearing the escalators there - there - was a tall slim man in a white suit with black lapels, a silver mask on his face. Standing. Watching. Comedy. Tragedy. Fellini. Bergman.
Much later heard that there was a Mardi Gras-themed fete in progress and so therefore this was not the MC's latest onsite loon.
During the reception infiltrated the men's quadrant of the hoopla ever so briefly to get some shots of the groom aloft and general mayhem when a large, black-clad arm came crashing onto the bridge of my nose. Officially now injured four times.
Friday was Gary's surprise party as he has become forty.
Michele wanted to have the swingin' affair in Karpeles Manuscript Museum (always shockingly fab of showcase content - at both locations) and I told her to namedrop YT to Chris Kelly, herr director. She did and he gave her a hefty discount, mental highfive to rock boys of yore.
So there We all are, setting up and ready to holler surprise.
I asked a few others just when Gary would be arriving.
Suddenly, I saw Michele's head at the front door and then I grabbed the cam, the Polaroid, charged toward Gary screaming SurpriseSurpriseSurprise.
He was like so not.
Apparently there was a cellphone mishap and he did the following calculation:
2 + 2.
It was still a fine soirée and at one point I rested my eyes upon a couple of showcases off against a wall of the former church, below one of its overdone windows showcasing some celestial event.
I asked Chris's assistant, Vanessa, if YT could wheel the thing out to the center of the room for some snaps of Gary in it, he being a Goth and obscure ambience fan.
She said Fine.
Gary was thrilled.
Time to make more, do more, just more more more and more.

Showcase teeming with Love.

*this just in*
And how many out there wherever can say that they received an email from an acquaintance, a prison clergyman of sorts, who is publicizing that he will gladly switch spots with that squinchy-eyed Paris Hilton and do the rest of her time for her. He hopes that she will instead of jail head right off to a place that will help her mend her ways. And perhaps cluelessness and horrid driving to boot.
Of course this is thee one and only Marty Angelo, former MC-based disco czar.

Yesterday was the Middling City's Corporate Challenge, the temp tent city set up in Olmsted's Delaware Park nestled between zoological gardens and the expressway.
The annual road race that features about 11K runners and walkers going to and fro on the Delaware Avenue s-curves, the unforgettable sound of thousands of running shoes hitting pavement – thwacka, thwacka, thwacka, et cetera.
After shooting this meandered a long way back to the car through a neighborhood where I saw two men walking six pitbulls. As I crossed the street near them I turned my head in their direction, which inspired to give themselves a verbal high-five.
That's what I'm talking 'bout, one of the men semi-cheered, a reaction.
Onwards I sped downtown for a show changeup and then for dinner with Literal Harold and Sparky. Before the dinner I meandered down Mariner Street in search of a mailbox and then was spotted by Geoff Kelly, who was leisurely doing a crossword puzzle on his front porch whilst having some white wine.
He was not sure about the nearest mailbox's location and pointed out that my bills could probably wait. He was sure about offering me a glass of vino but I had to head back for the din.
Ended the social engagement in the Stink which miraculously has not imploded from rot, either dry or alcohol-infused.
The unmistakable stench wafted onto the street as a greeting.
It rains here in the MC, a bad thing for the Allentown Art quote-unquote Fest that begins tomorrow whilst Yours Truly makes money out in the suburbs that day and next.
I will not be seeing the usuals: people YT likes, butter dishes, the year's novelty item, overheated dogs, mylar balloons, and frightening fried foods.

Love of Festivities.

We shall call the image above Your Pal Nance and Gwen, by Richard.
To see oso much more about Arists & Models go here, Richard Wicka's Think Twice Radio Show/Podcast.
Mentioned in the last epinw post, Gwen interviewed me for this and Richard took some fun fotos.

More more more Love in the a.m., p.m., and A&M.

Completely, utterly minding my own business, for whom else's would I care to be minding, really, meandered into Central Terminal, decrepit wreck much in need of a billion or so in dollars, for the 20th Artists and Models.
For which Yours Truly, as You know, fabricated some delicious paintings on drywall panels and then, with team of builders and tapers and such, made frames for them last Thursday and then earlier on Saturday the 2nd went over there and gussied it all up with some spangly curtains and signage and finery.
Arrived at 10 and the girls had been minding the store.
Polaroid business was brisk and steady and then tapered off about 1ish.
As promised, showed up with fine tequila treats for all the helpers - Annie, Jana, Sparky, Heather. Several special special guests stopped by and these included Julian Muse in from Miami with his Little Lady, Literal Harold, Cheryl, Liz, Michael Niman, and the Pinkels (of The Continental dancefloor fame). And oso many more.
Did not get to see too too much of the other work in mid-stream but saw it all before event in the afternoon, of course. Pat Oleszko trooped in from the Shiney Apple with all her gigantic, inflatible sculptures which brought all 55 feet of the concourse's vaulted ceiling down to a much more humanistic level.
And really mucho thanko to Anna Miller for dragging my workaholic arse into the oat room that Seth built. A real treat and a half.

Yours Truly has been to all but one Artists & Models and this one is up there with the toppermost. Reminded Kennedy of the one at the Pierce Arrow building with live Rodin sculptures and Rodin dancefloor.
What was sadly missing from A&M was just that - a freakin' dancefloor. I wanted to load the girls and special guests up on adrenaline and tequila and do some freeform dance. Nope. Next time, Hallwalls staffers, dancefloor a must, dig.
Yesterday met up with Heather and Jeremy and motored over to the Terminal for clean-up but had to wait first until the Middling City's Gay Pride Parade wended down Elmwood. I caught a glimpse of the ultimate float, looking up and peering at it through the large windows of SPoT Coffee as it was accompanied by a super-boom-box blasting dancefloor magique. There, in all his SPF70, whiteboy glory, was a shirtless, hairless wonder with a single strand of red plastic beads around his neck, gripping onto the float for dear life with one hand and gesturing so dancefloor madly with the other.

Float Float Floating, parades are one of the complex spices of life, even if they do make YT create small, parade-inspired tears emanating from some unknown spring.

Unknown Spring Love.

The images above, for Your complete erudition and amusement, show a few of the paintings created by YT for A&M, as well as an image of Annie, YT, Jana, Heather mid-event. The painting images: bat bevy, a trio of prostitues based on a 19th-century etching, The Starry Night (image shows Richard Wicka in foreground with his usual cam apparatus-he was with Gwen who interviewed me for a podcast of some kind, I did not give one straight answer, we ended interview discussing shoes, as usual), a martini in which two faces became olives, and a lemur (Jana is demonstrating). And Anna be-be-low, in the fab oatroom-2 tons of raw oats and a vid of grain scoopers from The Ward projected onto the ceiling of the fabricated, circular chillout space.
Love Again.

Yours Truly is much better with a chainsaw than a power drill, either cordless or cord varieties.
Triple F Ranch: freakin' finger-burning fiasco.
Was told after fact, via Vincenzo, that one does not touch one's screw newly screwed as it results in just the injury I had just sustained.
Then there was the issue of speed versus impatience.
It had probably been about twenty years since I screwed drywall screws into drywall and it is like so not getting back onto a bicycle.
I let others do the power drilling. Perhaps I will never use my power drill, resplendent with its shining choices of bits, and handy case.
Six of us in total worked sawing, power drilling, taping, moving, and the like. And the paintings - now a Polaroid installation and photo depot - is nearly ready for action.
In a lull of gigs tomorrow I have to rush over to Central Terminal and put on finishing touches.
Heard from Julian Muse that he is in the Middling City for a wedding and will be hastening and gracing. And, assumedly, purchasing a fine Polaroid of his likeness.
En route to Hardware from Central Terminal witnessed some curious things: motorcycle club on William Street looking most welcoming, a nice tungsten glow for it was Thursday and that is loud pipes save lives through the MC; a bevy of copcars near Mohawk Place as a band covered Neil Young's Powderfinger and then later on news report heard that a femme fell from a window, probably not a Neil fan; and then after Hardware saw throngs of gothkids wandering out of Town Ballroom, a good portion of them with white and black-painted faces.
Thought then what a fab photo series that would be, documenting the groups that leave venues, all charged up.
Speaking of such, Little Laura realized oso late that Interpol is playing in TO and we are ticketless. I proffered up the hypothesis that someone is always willing and able to unloose some tix from their person.

Ticket to Love, Love.

Consider Yourself lucky, oso lucky, that You did not receive one of those calls. You know, emphasis on those.
For Yours Truly was, self-amazingly, so completely lost just rambling down a familiar road. The latest vehicle doesn't have a handy on-mirror compass. Like that would have helped, but moments and moments later I was still trying to figure and make some orienting calculations from clues such as the angle and position of the sun, the powder blue water tower, the direction of traffic on a thruway overpass at one point.
Finally, I did find a tiny Welcome to the Middling City sign, one of those small green ones that proclaims it as City of Good Neighbors, this one within a neighborhood that has one locking one's doors.
YT is on the Buffalo Rising online site, via an aforementioned vid made by Kelly, who interviewed me about Hallwalls's Artists & Models and art-making in very general.
Unbelievably, YT had no Flash plugin on the supersonic laptop and had to download said e-contraption earlier today to see this vid. Nice editing, but jeez all that hand gesturing, painting of ideas in mid-air. Liz emailed me a nice screenshot from the vid, mid-blink.
Time for installing the Artists & Models panels/paintings, tomorrow the designated day and hopefully all will go off sans hitches but really, something always comes up. I'm sure a future post will feature amazement at how many little glitches were quickly mopped up. Or not. I offered a little helper pre-beers but then thought Yikes, no way, there are no washrooms, as they say up in MacIntoshToffeeLand, at the Central Terminal. Yet. For You can rest assured a troop of dismal port-o-wc's will show up on Saturday.
Today is Kennedy's b-day and I did find him the most amazing thing online, which I may or mayn't mention in a later post.
Time to make and do and wrap and sing.
Not rap and sing, dig.

Wrapped, singing Love.

Decoration/Memorial Day.
The Iraq War stretches on with more deaths, more money bled into this futility. This day is set apart as one to recall the efforts of those who die as martyrs, for their beliefs in convoluted political skirmishes. Or not, if drafted, perhaps.
Yours Truly was attempting to cross the border from the Middling City into Kenmore but there were sawhorses, cops, and flashing lights – a parade just beyond, down Delaware Avenue. There may have been girls with faux guns down there to add to the ongoing series but the cam was not with. So a u-turn.
Onwards.
Six panels completed for Artists and Models installation, one a double-truck, as We are wont to say in the high-flying world of pubs.
And that is publications, dig, not a joint for the big hunker-down.
The panels can now dry for several days before their cross-town meander to Central Terminal for installation.
A workman nearby (I blog dehors) has been wrestling with his matter at hand for some time, crescendoes of cussing occasionally and then, at moments, a murmur of non-stop monologue to such an extent I wonder if the man suffers from a slight case of Tourette's.
As in syndrome.
As in WoopWoopOBoy.
Today would be a Perfect day for a pedicure, but it is a national day of remembrance.
Endmatter (the very name of the thesis exhib of YT) Maintenance tomorrow then.

Red poppies for remembrance, Love.

Yesterday was, amongst other things, the day designated to get panels for making the Artists & Models paintings, five in all.
Scouted out materials at a Home Depot, made an art image for an art postcard for Dean, picked up Jana at work and drove to another Home Depot more conveniently located regarding the whereabouts of said materials to barn.
Where the special art magic will happen.
In the midst of the aisles I had a revelation that ceiling grade drywall would mean no pesky priming of wood for the paintings. Years ago, for another A&M, I made large paintings on cardboard and had to prime the surfaces twice.
So we wrangled the panels onto an unwieldy cart and then wrangled some nice young workers to toss them atop the car.
We did some winding and knotting of nylon tine and after one lurchy and ominous sound all went swimmingly - no drywall was lost.
I felt so confident of our knotting abilities I contemplated taking the Skyway back to the Middling City.
But then did not, opting for the long and scenic doglegged route instead.
Now is the time for the opaque projector sketching and filling in of images.
Mega thanks to Todd Treat, artist and racecar driver, for the big lend of the projector.
In case You do not know, A&M happens on June the 2 at Central Terminal from 9ish to 2 in the morn. This installation of Perfectly fun and audacious interactivity will be on the main concourse of party mayhem.
A&M, major Hallwalls fundraiser, is a nice way to usher in the MC's summer, a nice way to say Hey lighten up.
What are the images to be made. You will have to come and see.
On a much differing tangent, Literal Harold is in town for one month to attend to his regional matters at hand.

Nocturnal Love.

You wonder.
Why, fercrissakes, a mushroom cloud.
If ever there was one person on this atmospherically-challenged planet who should probably never touch the knobs of a microwave oven, it is Yours Truly.
Despite the apparent widespread acceptance of these contraptions into everyday situs, YT has really never developed an affinity.
Did not grow up with one. Did not own one in college. Did not own one in salad years. Worked with a chef who loved to intone Slow cookin' is good cookin.'
Kennedy has a microwave oven, probably a first edition.
It has faux woodgrain.
No, come to think of this all, I have seen older microwave ovens.
Oh, now I do recall a beau way back who owned a microwave oven and it had a small hole in the door and when he fired it up everyone ran out of the room.
I made a handy DYMO label for the door of this microwave - DANGER.
So today.
I decided to whip up, mid-working, a lunch for me and Kennedy. And on the lunch to throw some melted cheese, perhaps inspired by all my recent thinking of Richard Serra who has tossed molten metal about in his day.
I was working with rice cheese.
I put it in a bowl and set all knobs to high and I think five minutes on the timer.
I could smell molten rice cheese after a while.
I opened up the door and there was the image You see above.
When air hit the mushroom molten rice cheese cloud it slowly slunk back into the bowl.
Despite this I am a worldclass student chef, in my Perfect world.
Things are coming together for my Artists and Models installation, an old-timey stick-yer-head-through-the-holes-and-trade-your-self-for-a-thematic-alter-ego stand.

This week I was in a Wegmans and noted that there were no more of their DIY black nylon shopping bags for sale and commented upon this to the checkout kid, Kevin.
Kevin said Well, since the bags came out shoplifting has risen ... Americans SUCK.
I kind of felt around for what inspired Kevin's words and, no surprise, he had a favourable exchange student experience. And now is imbued with the Other. The tramontaine now is within, that exciting post-experience experience.
I did agree with him that this is a tragic and unfortunate thing, that people stuff bags meant to ease earth back to better health with goodies and wend their selfish (probably overstuffed) asses out the door.

Thematic and experienced Love.

Sunday evenings in the Middling City have redolence, they feel like something.
But since Yours Truly works every day I don't think it's that pre-Monday feeling.
It feels unlike Sundays in other cities – anywhere.
Kind of celebratory, sleepy, relaxed, depending, perhaps, on the season.
Onwards.
This Sunday evening is bright but an autumnal chill hangs over everything and for this reason dinner tonight is asking to be baked.
Speaking of baked, the Sabres are like so over.
Shot an event yesterday and did manage to hear in the automobile snippets of the game inconsistently so sometimes it alternated hopeless and hopeful.
Ultimately the former.
YT was on cusp of deciding to document all the homemade Sabres paraphernalia about town: the homemade Stanley Cups on front lawns, wishful spraypainted words, shoepolished car windows and the like.
During photo gig someone had the game on and as I breezed through a room I stopped on someone's nickel and on a proverbial dime to watch as much as possible and just at that moment Drury took the friendly fire puck to the face, resulting in biohazard blood droplets dropped off to the locker room.
Fires raging in this Perfect world include excitation at the pending Richard Serra show at the Modern, the Matthew Marks show of (holy shit, right, like happening now) Andreas Gursky, and, despite the fact that I'm booked for gigs and cannot wend my way to not Wembley but Giants Stadium for the 7.7.07 Al-created Live Earth show of rock legends, wannabes, has-beens, must-sees. For the halibut checked to see how much tix were in the algore.com section as well as another inner sanctum.
Naysayers naysay that rock cannot change the world and to that I say Are you freakin' kidding me. Money raised goes right to Alliance for Climate Protection fercrissakes and even more and more pedestrians will be inundated with Inconvenient Truths.
Rock saves the day, rock may save the planet.

Love of rock, rocks, planets.

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.