Just visited Dorothy, the personal tress stylist, and tossed these parameters at her: a professional, but you look at me and say Boy, I'd like to be her friend and have a glass of wine with her. Usually I simply toss adjectives at her and she begins cutting. I am happy with these results, of course.
Onwards to more technical matters.
My life is once again changed for the better as today I, after some perusal and online researching, did commit to the Sprint wireless broadband card.
Therefore, and this is gigantic epinw news, I will no longer need to steal wi-fi molecules, wi-squat, and drive in search of these molecules.
This little contraption, that plugs into the laptop on my lap, has its own phone number and is, in essence, a little cellular phone and wherever there is service, there is online working to be done.
Now I am fretting about the bees.
This is not helping, this wireless world in combat with the winged world.
Spoke to a local apiarist at a farmers' market I documented for a client about the bee crisis. How some apiarists are importing bee hives to pollinate.
Mark Twain, ever-quoted, is quoted often regarding this beely matter - to paraphrase: We screw with bees and we humans are a distant memory in five years.
There are still bees.
There are still cell phones and wireless services all over the world.
What do we do.
Thinking of an exhib that Kennedy and I saw in Chicago, a satellite image of all the satellite and space junk surrounding Earth.
There were few empty spaces. How in hell do space shuttles miss all this detritus.
Yet another question for NASA.
I visited NASA once, the one in TX, a fun time.
They had a great cafeteria, every tray had a NASA logo upon it.

I bought some souvenirs, now added to list of missing objects from numerous moves.

Missing in space, Love.
Not love lost in space.

TA RA RA BOOM TE AY!
There were all sorts of plans in the works for a good, old-fashioned Independence Day throwdown in the Middling City.
However, the weather, all rainy and such, has put a literal damper on fuses short and long.
The rooftop party, the in-the-park party, the former outdoor grilling party moved indoors party all lost some of their respective lusters.
Someone the other day, and Yours Truly did not believe this, stated that these days there is only one MC venue for watching pyros in parks - Riverside Park.

* musical sidebar: Let us think now, right now, of Porno for Pyros, Perry Farrell's post-Jane's Addiction ensemble. Short-lived, but ear-worthy. "we'd make great pets" ... yeah!

Gone is the LaSalle Park hoopla where, Brucey and I reminisced today, we, along with a carful of others, watched the LaSalle barrage over the 190, stopped on the shoulder, police telling us via in-car p.a. systems - and other watchers - to move along lest we render our eyebrows short and crinkled.
We were that close, drifting ash from the casings in the air.
Today is the one day of the year that YT wears her Budweiser buddies, quite proudly.
They are fashioned so that when one steps into a wet media the Bud logo is left behind.
So in lieu of standing around a soggy grill YT has been working all day, as has been an occasional tradition.
Last night met out Annie and three of the Deck sibs at Hardware which was not, thankfully, full of live music. We meandered over to Staples where I discovered (although Annie knew the score) that there is oso much more space beyond the dark wood bar - an entire rumpus room stocked with mismatched tables and chairs, a grammar school-type screen, a few odd angles, an assemblage of odd-shaped doors.
Thinking suddenly of training for Iron Girl on Bastille Day: curls (arms, not hair), push-ups (arms, not underwire support), some scales (musical, not weighing), some perusing websites devoted to archiving lyrics, and ankle stretches.
Time to wander away from the laptop, to, as some are wont to say, merge again into the real world.
It is a patriotic, gray, verdant day and night.

Love of all things verdant.

Waiting on the shipment of the t's for the Iron Girl evening that I designed for the 14th, Bastille Day, Annie's B-day Eve.
Came up with concept of Iron Girl with all the eight Solid Gold Booker girls going from bowling to skating to karaoke in honour of the above.
cafepress.com always does a good job, sure there are others but why futz with a good thing.
Next book - Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera. The movie that had us all talking about 1.5 decades or so ago and probably put that Daniel Day Lewis (later of much better Gangs of New York) on the celluloid map. And that adorable little Juliette Binoche I am sure was on the carte française way already.
Spent most of this past Saturday out in Java Center and now before You go and pronounce it all wrong let me save you from exurbian embarrassment and advise that it is jay-vah. So out there photographed a wedding and this is the verysame spot that Yours Truly has documented other weddings, including that of Jen and Jamal.
This couple on Saturday planted an ash tree in honour of their big day and they and then queued-up guests shoveled dirt onto the root ball. As geese silently trundled and pooped nearby.
On the way out of the venue in jay-vah center cut through a building and, as is the wont of YT, found a conference center, a free place to pense and post, if You will.
It was a PC, one of those non-mac cheapass machines that completely baffles a near lifelong Mac user.
And, speaking of such, I want an iPhone.
I bought an early iPod.
They became more memoryful, that's about it.
I want an iPhone to call. I need to check emails but Sprint is holding me hostage and is asking a $400 ransom to be rid of them.
On a non-tech, parallel, not lighter note, saw Dorota, Jason, Brucey last night on the patio of Left Bank, an early outing for summertime frivolities. Little Laura was working and, as chance would have it, had had some testy words with Dorota about said patio and the lack of crowd out there and how we were going to have a few vinos out there. That meant that Laura would not come by the table to say hi to one and all.
Some Middling City madness for You.
As the city is so oonsie-boonsie, this could mean repercussions for generations to come.

Non-repercussional Love
as I speed up NW of TO quick fast in a hurry.

Grrrr.
Swell party was just attended to (Spree Best Of fete at the Middling City's historic Shea's Theatre, or is it a performing arts centre now), and met up with many favoured people, but just picked up the Best Of Issue that all the feting was about to see my most excellent portrait of Kennergy – sans photo credit. This is something that burns the asses of photographers the world over. This is like a story running without a byline. It is just so unpro.
The Shiney Happy mag certainly does know that Yours Truly made the image as it ran once before and all my images are imprinted with my initials.
Is this a minor detail.
I think not.
One of those seen was Artie and that was a treat as I have not seen him in near ages. He did invite YT to hop into a show any time, hooray.
Kennergy did receive second place for the Arts Patron category and did receive a plaque, which I did sign for and take with.
He lost out to the board of the Albright-Knox Art Gallery.
Several other Bests in attendance are frequented by YT, including TruTeas. All the TruTeas ladies were there and that was quite a pleasure to see them whilst they were revelling in their Best Vegetarian Joint status.
Dorothy, who cuts my hair, was there as her boss (Lynn) got Best Women's haircuts.
Dorothy and I have been not meeting on sched ops and we are aiming for a trim this pending week.
So the MC is aglow with Best vibes, a very upupup evening.
Last night went with the book club girls (save for one, Tiff) to Starry Night in the Garden, the benefit for my beloved Botanicus Gardenus.
On the stage were two of the REO Speedwagon men, who interspersed what we did want to hear (namely, their cheezeball hitz of the 80s) with several tunes newly crafted.
The crowd of thousands pepped up when the familiar songs warbled out of the portable stage. We girls wended through the historic indoor greenery and florally for quite some time.
The century plant is beyond its blooming and is in the midst of its slow decline and agave ending.
Time to make more and do more.

Best Of Love.

Went to see nephew's rock & roll ensemble last night, a newly-crafted 3-piece after the second guitarist backed out of the r&r life four days prior to this gig at Club Infinity - once only known as How-Dee's. Now, apparently, according to a sandwich board near the curb on Transit, there are still How-Dee's nights. I do shudder to think, recalling the night I motored out there to see Electroman and had to wait a long-arsed time for c.w. linedancers to robot around the dancefloor in identical kicksteps.
Nephew's stage name is Drake. I thought I may have mis-heard and asked the niece for confirmation. Drake. His real name is Jake. Other members are the girl lead singer, Izzy, and drummer Josh. They did all originals, one cover. Izzy introduced a song twice and had some semi-snarly inter-song banter to offer, interspersed with teen sardonicisms and a giggle or two.

One person I did not mention thus far on the Shiney Apple sojourn is Zelda, a woman Sparky and I met Wednesday night in the Rose Lounge of Gramercy Park Hotel.
She was a vision and had so much charisma that as she entered the lounge with her entourage of two heads did turn.
She had on oversized round black plastic specs, an Egyptian princess head wrap about one foot high, made of a sumptuous pink silk, and an equally pink dress.
I picked up a nice little gesture from Zelda - the party girl head bob, a nice little and exuberant nod. Zelda nodded at me and lifted her champagne flute at me.
She was out on the town celebrating her 91st birthday and, according to the gymnastic barkeep, a former regular of Studio 54.
Her perfectly manicured hands oso gently held onto her cocktail and, when she was having no more, she demurely covered the glass with her hand.
I did ask one of her entourage what her name is, the duo were smitten with the lady and she even knew the d.j. who was spinning out some lovely Latinesque music. One number I jotted down, As close to reggaeton as I'll ever get, he said. It was all good.
This weekend meant the documenting of a soirée for 13-year olds, a race, a wedding garden party, and the rock life of the nephew.
His band is Ad Hoc but they pronounce it Ay-dock.
Oh well.
Bought one of their 3-song demos last night for $3. Their merchboy asked how many I'd like. They had sold a few, they have no sleeve, are sold in the raw if You will, a quick Sharpie notation of what is on the disc. Ay-dock, and the date.
Followed the nephew backstage to find the merchboy and was most amused at the teen antics back there in the clubly bowels, boys aping what they think rock stars should and must do backstage sans all the usual amenities like towels, girls, drugs, drink, fans, keepers, handlers, and the like.

Off and running to more dissemination of happiness via digital images on disc.
These are not demos, these are in-the-game veritas.

True, truer, truest Love.

The Shiney Apple welcomes Yours Truly with tasty, crunchy goodness of the vibe and visual varieties.
Staying at the sumptuous Gramercy Park Hotel which feels like a few other joints where I've laid my non-weary head over the years. Hyper-designed and definitely not how you would wish your everyday spaces to appear, but a lovely cinematic setting.
It is a wonderful thing to feel encompassed by a Hotel Plan: the scent, the lighting, the furnishings all thought out.
Last night dined at Gotham and Alfred was there and we talked for a bit and then introduced him to Sparky when she arrived. He sent over champagne and then hung at the table for a bit and then suggested a tasting menu. We supped on multiple courses, each with a different plate, all paired with excellent wine choices explained by the sommeliere. It was all a gift from Alfred. We left a hefty tip for the non-hovering, attentive helpers.
It was raining and we walked in the wet streets and then saw a fire on the top floor of a building just off Union Square.
The fire company blocked off several blocks and just the short walk rendered us with smokey hair. We hung out in Jade Lounge, not allowed to just enter the Rose Lounge until a certain amount of time, for some reason, the inner doorman not impressed enough, no, actually, he was communicating with the outer, on-the-street doorman via earpieces and cuff mic, and the outer doorman said we had to wait, despite the guest status. Finally, we could enter the Rose Lounge which is an art-teeming rathskellar. Gilbert and George, Picasso, Haring on the walls.
Famous people dotted throughout the room and rumour hovered about that White Stripes not only were staying in this very hotel, but had announced after their gig, onstage, that the after-party was in that very room. Not sure if Meg was there, might have been.
Time to go and see art and then more art and then more art.

Love the art walk, Love the art talk.

Just what are You looking at, You query.
This is Jamie Robinson, a teen, the toppermost rock guitar (Your non-verbal, readerly word association just shuffled to word god ... after guitar. but no) player, as voted upon by six judges of varied renown last night.
Saw a guitar maven who I know quite well, V, and the lovely Jess beforehand and he voted in the prelim round and basically (him being of good reasoning skills and impeccable tastes and such) said to watch out for this kid, that he'd win.
In the midst of one of his original compostions, he thumped out Pachelbel's Canon which was completely remarkable.
Yours Truly shot this whole stringed extravaganza, WNED's North American Rock Guitar Competition, for Them.
Photographing live rock and roll is one of thee most favoured things in this life.
YT blogs from the corner of Elizabeth and Prince, as is my Shiney Apple wont, with, I'm sure, a few stray corn kernels on my cheeks, my nose sniffling merrily from the plethora of El Yucateco habanero sauce just snarfled.
Here in the SA for a few days, a summer respite.
To see Serra, Gurskey, et al.
Meeting up with Sparky shortly to meander, wend, hear some music down at VisionFest, and then same tomorrow night as Fred is performing his cellic magique.

Magiqual, Mystery Love.

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.