Midst of suburbs, midst of wedding gig and the woman who runs this country club's wedding portion of things just came to tell Yours Truly (editing another gig in the joint's sole room with smattering of a/c - despite all doors and windows wide open, the other rooms have none as it would halt the march of venerability in the ballroom and such) that the couple du moment was about to slice & dice their special cake.
It should be noted that the bride was absolutely not into having a wedding cake at all and this point had been mentioned by several in the cast of characters.
A bartender, an obvious lifer, tipped YT off about this coolest room and, after being out in the sun in a suit, this is a welcomed respite.
Down with sun. Down with heat.
Up with shade. Up with autumn.
Up with removed and discreet boardrooms in the middle of the suburbs with swagged-out windows, hand-painted walls, functional furniture in burgundy, and a view of a tetherball field of green.
There are some great dresses at this affair, one pair of fab sandals, a guy in very solid Steve Madden shoes (impressively he knew the designer), a feisty flower girl, no butt bow, and a priest with an actual good sense of humour who drinks scotch YT duly noted.
Time to make, do, observe, document with blazing finesse.
Would You be so kind as to fetch me another pint-sized suburban tap water with extra lemon squeezes.
YT thanks You.

Love in the Midst.

There I was, minding my own Perfect business, as usual, and a succession of events unfolded.
Headed to the favoured diner to see Betty the Waitress et al, read the Middling City News, catch up on neighborlike vibes, and oso much more.
John and his co-owner are opening a dinner-only place two doors down in what always looked to me to be a former strip club, those frosty up-high windows that obscure looks in and out.
I walked in the diner door - wide open for a theoretical breeze - to Hey, where've you been stranger.
I pronounced it was a morn that if I did not have their signature skillet I would just not be right all day.
Midtime there Betty and I looked out the bank of windows marveling at all the policemen and policewomen across the street, at Father Baker's joint. And then a bagpiper showed up, skirted out but bagless. I believe it was in his nearby SUV for safekeeping. We skimmed over the obits to discover who was going to be held aloft by the white-gloved officers of the law and could not find the name.
Left there and headed in a southernly fashion to points sort of known.
Destination was Lockwood's Nursery to peruse, as Liz had mentioned in recently and it sounded good. It was beyond good and bought some additions to Kennedy's garden, tall perennials of wondrous colours, especially the delphiniums.
Had another stop to make, at a national underwear chain for some summer upgrades.
As the salesgal stuffed the 5-4-$25 items into the trad pink bag she asked if Yours Truly would like some tissue paper, To offset everything.
I had to pursue this.
Offset.
Yes, she said, offset the items so they don't clang around.
Now, I ask You, have You ever had skivvies that clang.
More points beyond and beyond.

Clanging, aloft Love.

Let us be honest, decent taxis in the Middling City are a rarity.
Taxis in these parts pump out blue smoke, are missing hubcaps, are dented and rusted, feature smoking drivers who look like former (or current) felons. Usually.

sidebar: Once, after detraining at Exchange Street and hailing a quote-unquote cab-for-hire (the only one on horizon) was told by driver that he would have to wait for another fare - or two - before he could afford to leave. Needing a ride, and also riding along this curious and spontaneous narrative, waited for the others to express need. And they did. And we drove off.
another sidebar: For a short stretch YT lived with a roomie pal across from a now-defunct taxi company on a stretch of Grant Street that I referred to lovingly as Little Warsaw. The taxi drivers, a slatternly bunch, were usually, when not speeding off to parts far and wide, leering up at us when we sat on our dismal, sun-drenched rented front porch.

Recently YT was in a drive-thru ATM situ and there was a shambles of a taxi letting off a passenger about a yard from the ATM machine, just close enough to block my own transacting.
I was so entranced by the sight of the taxi, the lack of courtesy, the lack of understanding of car lengths and such, the grease on the back window, the lengthy transaction between driver and passenger that there was no laying on of the horn to rile those ahead out of their otherworldly condition.
After this moment YT thought of an MC-based Conceptual Arts and Crafts Project Series.
The premier involves taxis in the aforementioned condition (and their handlers) switching spots and automobiles with instructors from the MC's venerable driving institutes.
Youngsters, and those who never cared to drive until later in life, would hop into these decrepit cars with loose steering columns to learn driving ropes, to really handle a mechanical tiger. They'd be inching towards curbs, lurching around corners in cars that could handle the abuse.
And MC cabbies could suddenly drive fares around in safe vehicles.
Wondering if there could be grant money for this conceptual foray, replete with a digvid doc of the fun, of course.
Onwards.
This weekend past involved a panoply of moments both memory-worthy, and photo-friendly.
Pre-Garden Walk party in Liz's garden was divine amid the lilies and tinkling pond and old friends, visit to the Hallwalls members's show opening was its usual crowded incarnation with a most inspiring exchange with thee Pulitzer-winning Tom Toles who liked my drawing and suggested I carry on with the pencils, after-dancing at eponymous Miss Kitty's (as the joint where we wanted to karaoke had some head-banger dudes filing in with basses and such, and where I Hula-Hooped for the first time in decades without injury to myself or anyone on the large patio, and where the CDjockey could not find her copy of C-Sharp's Set it Off, sadly), a brunch with the girls at Roycroft and trek to Vidler's to gaze at curios and candy. After Vidler's we went into that used clothing place and I made the disco-related purchase (for the pending Sunday night disco on the site of the old Mulligan's where OJ and Danny Gare and countless others sniffed in heaps of disco high times) of a very odd pink shirt that involves leatherette-looking stitched nylon, pink rhinestones, and lots of pleating.
It's, as they say about relationships, complicated.

Complicated, Conceptual Love.

Here is the entry of Yours Truly for this year's Hallwalls Members's Show, lovingly entitled Photo-Realistic Hound Mauls the Ankle of Artemis.
Grabby.
Onwards to drop this framed little number into the curatorial hands of John Massier.

Editorial Love.

Yours Truly has just returned from a portfolio showing, the artist/freelancer version of show & tell.
This juncture presented the general book, as opposed to the event book, to highlight YT as an artist type who shoots inanimate objets parfaitment. Such as jewelry.
After two hours of talk, show, tell, look, listen, I believe I may be shooting a series of bijouxcentric p-cards for a direct mail campaign, if my proposal is accepted. Have to formulate and call it in tomorrow. Props, shoot time, design time of postcards have to be meted.
Did not get my drawing of Artemis completed for the Hallwalls members's show, opening this pending Saturday and, as I'm not in the Hamptons with the rest of the book club girls, have a greater interest in submitting a concept of an updated Artemis - especially after researching her a bit.
Onwards.
Gadzooks I murmured as I retrieved the mail, believing I'd been found out after all these years by the high school. They know how to reach me for reunions of sorts but not for donations or newsletters. I am a demi-Lost Mountie. I occasionally threaten Loomis to blow her in.
She is a verified Lost Mountie.
The piece of mail causing such consternation came from a rival, cross-town school bearing a strikingly similar name and set of initials. This newsletter came to my home office hovel by chance and, Sharpeying that the recip is not at this locale, am sending it on its private, teen-addling, horn-tooting way.
Summer sails along and coming soon to the Middling City is one of its finest events, Garden Walk, whereby one gets to meander through gardens pro bono and pro flora inspirations.

Flowery, Goodly Love.

When I saw the man in Italia ballcap this early morning with oversized cigar and most passive eyes as I drove past, into aggressive traffic, I thought This is a sublime Mary Ellen Mark day. Maybe the thought was also inspired by the recent sights of a new car crash on the lethal and deranged Hertel s-curves (the small white coupe wrapped around a middle-aged tree, sirens en route), the comedic conversation of women walking along the ring road of Middling City's Delaware Park, the pronouncement that Mary McMullen (a pal) died of malfeasance and not of bad luck, and oso much more.
To remedy all of the above what could Yours Truly do but run for cover to the Shiney Apple. But there were reports of steam pipes exploding so YT steered clear. Oh, and floods. And power outages.
YT had been through the worst power outage in recent memory in the Shiney Apple, when the only phones that worked were those pesky, germy, and rare public phones, and the only food one could pay for out and about was gas-fueled pizza.
Ahh, that memory, of driving Justy and Erin's vehicle thorough a signal-less S.A. from Brooklyn to midtown East sans lights and pedestrians.
So tonight, after an art event, after a dinner outing with friends, found myself with fellow members of solid gold bookers looking to purchase some tix to a disco event in September.
September.
And it is sold out.
I really lobbied hard to my pal Deanna of said (former) disco joint Mulligan's/DiGiulio's and promised that me and five more members of the book club would show in tube tops.
Now, I ask You.
Tube tops.
Where in hell does one procure tube tops in this day and age.
eBay.
dismalstylespast.com.
The disco event sold out in mere half hours, Deanna said.
I suggested that she find slots for six of us lovely ladies to choogle and boogie and hustle the night away. A table of frightening guidosarduccis agreed.

Disco Isco Love.

*NB: Blogger's autosave feature failed Yours Truly. FireFox went kaflooey and lost were hundreds of quipped-out words.
Onwards.

(From earlier)
Off to see Tom, my Auto Guru, shortly, for him to bestow inspectional and spiritual good will at the Subaru.
Iron Girl went quite Perfectly this past Saturday, Bastille Day, the eve of Annie's birth date, with all of us Solid Gold Bookers minus one (Siobhan, who had a scarlet throat and was absent) meeting for my first-ever cassoulet which I began assembling in the morn
...

(From now)
Tom passed the car. It only has 15K miles on it, of course it passed. Shiny new red sticker is mine, mine, mine.
Yes, the cassoulet on Saturday was mucho fab and authentico - except for the part where YT used only fat-trimmed duck breasts, and two types of sausages shorn of their skins, and three types of light-coloured beans.
We girls supped on Kennedy's terrace, the dogs and garden enjoying and enjoyed.


Iron Girl Event #1 of 3:
Voelker's welcomed Iron Girl with open lanes, nearly all open lanes, a few individuals were rehearsing for their leagues. We sipped pitchers of beer, having moved on from nice french vins, and fromages, and the like. Instead of the agreed-upon deal YT gleaned ($9 each for shoes, lanes, beverage, pizza or burger), we wanted no soda, no burgers, no 'za. We wanted bowleresque beers.

We bowled, we did that. YT bowled a 156, Heady was prima with somewhere over that. We all looked quite adorable and leaguish in our Iron Girl t-shirts.
Tiff passed on bowling, as did Sparky, one for injury past, one for injury prevention.


Iron Girl Event #2 of 3:
Rainbow Roller Rink had the usual daredevils off to the side, in helmets and crouched positions, ramped-up while the rest of us traveled in circles of various speeds in a horizontal fashion. Annie pointed out that Rainbow has reaped rewards from the residency of the Middling City roller derby girls, as they had a new roof. I noted, or thought I noted, some snazzy new blacklight-ready carpeting on the walls since our previous visit there during the derby girl bennie.

As I went to get Jana some hydration at the snack booth the owner lady asked if I might consider trying out for the derby. She advised me to Think about it. I did, and then did absolutely not. Some of those derby girls looked kind of mean, like they might enjoy being bruised, causing bruises. The snack bar lady says she'd like to dress like a derby girl. My thoughts were rushing back to blading in circles under the p.a.'s thumping beats but politely I asked Oh, you mean their fishnet stockings. The snack bar lady also informed me that she does not clean up after customers, meaning barf. Duly noted. We left just before closing time, 10 p.m., but not before YT played a little on-skate Red Light, Green Light. I fell for a ploy with the d.j. asking some guy to yell Green Light. And I was just hovering over an orange safety cone, so on the cusp of winning Annie b-day girl a prize. In lieu of the prize I had the d.j. announce that it was Annie's b-day (as if nobody could see that there was an obvious queen for a day b-day girl in tiara) and play the crackling recording of Happy Birthday as of us rollers sang.

Iron Girl Event #3 of 3:
According to MapQuest, the distance between Rainbow Roller Rink in North Tonawanda and Dome Stadium in Tonawanda (not north, east, south, or west) was a mere 6 minutes. Sparky and I took nearly thirty to arrive for karaoke, wending to and fro, to and fro, even ending up in front of Mount Saint Mary Academy (told Sparky about some horrifying memories, before we zipped up and around the circle back to Iron Girl jubilance) at one point.
Thinking ahead to karaoke spotlight, asked Sparky if she'd like to try my excellent lip stain and plumper I procured in the Shiny Apple. She did and then I asked if she could stain and plump me as I drove. She did. But there were some bumps, it was raining, and stain went out of the lines. With some adjusting, all was just fine. Finally arrived at the joint, after singing warm-ups, classic rock tunes, in the car, and consulting a map. Annie had called, wondering where in hell we were.
Inside we found a landscape of friendly ginmill cavern dwellers, a very precise karaoke duo, and our long table of wondrous companions.
Annie's bro Matt arrived a bit later and we all sang selections that were oso us. Emilie, Michele's pregnant sister, who joined us at Rainbow, sang I Touch Myself. Jana sang Geetarz and Cadillacs con brio, showing off her Vegas-worthy silver sandals, Heather C sang very well, as usual, Heady did not sing but promises to at the next big K gig, Michele did a really haunting v. of that Carrie Underwood jilted girl narrative song, Sparky did something jangly, and YT began the retinue with Neil's Love on the Rocks. I aimed for some spoken word qualities and afterward some creep emerged from the shadows to inform me I'd done a really great job with the song. Jana saw fit to submit - on my behalf - another Neil tune, the personal toppermost of YT, Cherry Cherry that I did a bouncy little dance for as the other girls danced.

Sparky and I, for a special challenge, selected a duet that we did not know: Islands in the Stream, made famous by Kenny + Dolly. It was my impression that we did a nice job sans knowing the melody. I did have a vague recollection of the refrain from radio radio.
We did another duet later, Fergie's My Humps.
I tired of the word hump and substituted several other rhyming words.
Check it out.

Annie was serenaded by a large cowboy who, every time he warbled, I suspected would burst into real tears. I whispered into Sparky's ear that I could imagine the adjectives this man'd use to self-describe for internet dating: sincere, tall, emotive. There were two other characters worth noting: the classic weekend warrior, solo and bedazzled with flash necklaces and oversized, Liberace-worthy rings, performing AC/DC tunes with such enthusiasm, such in-situ-in-mindu pervasion that it was fascinating and nearly troubling. Another man there believed he is Elvis, calling himself Elvis, singing Elvis, as he made well-studied and practiced Elvis moves - hands half-karate, half-rocker stiff with e-mo-tion.
We left, Iron Girl over, the rain had stopped.
But we are all still laughing, the cavernous Dome Stadium still reeling from the talents we Solid Gold Bookers unloosed.




Unloosed, Unfettered Love.

Today is, bien sur, Bastille Day.
It is also the eve of Annie's birthday, and Iron Girl, a triathlon for all of the Solid Gold Bookers bunch of girls created by Yours Truly.
Made cassoulet after comparing and contrasting about a dozen recipes for it and then just wung it. Did recall quite vividly the cassoulet made by Pahts many years ago - his homemade baking dish he made in Maine, the confit that was aged, the cassoulet served to about a dozen friends along with an appropriate wine.
He would, to be sure, look askance at my version with breasts of duck only and trimmed of fat to boot, sausages removed from casing.
Tried it, it is Revolution-worthy.
The girls will be here at 5 and at 6:30 we will be on the lanes of Voelker's.
Then roller blading/skating.
Then karaoke splendorizing.
Then perhaps to see the loungey version of Terry Sullivan's band.
Then the triathlon, Iron Girl, will be complete.
Designed the snappy shirt and we'll each have those on proclaiming that we're doing all the above events, and our love of fromage.
Yesterday was tree and yard maintenance day, performed with Fats and Pops, the parents of YT.
They make these tasks fun and of course all the slicing and dicing of Nature takes a fraction of what it would be if YT were out there solo chopping, mowing, and the like.
Afterwards, took Fats and Pops out for lunch, at McCarthy's down on Hamburg Street, a triumph of the historic Old First Ward.
Onwards for Iron Girl prepping.
Many details to follow, You can be assured.

Iron and Ironic Love.

Not to get like totally technical on You but there Yours Truly was, sowing seeds, watering seeds, and inspecting where seedlings should be gestating and appearing.
Nearly thought I was looking at etiolated crabgrass, if ever there could be a thing.
But, no.
This is the Japanese ornamental corn that I planted.
Yes, it is late.
But YT has an unending worklife and seeds need to be planted when there is no stress in the fingertips, my lifelong garden habit.
Never plant seeds when sad, distressed, frazzled.
You'll send negative vibes into that little dark hunk of Nature waiting to happen and in lieu of growing up to the Sun, it'll shrivel into something the size of a molecule.
Also planted wild columbine, nigella, nicotiana that allegedly smells like jasmine (!yeah!), more more more hollyhocks (another lifelong fav learned to be so via my beloved aunt Nancy's garden), and love lies bleeding. And something else I'm forgetting. I also bought more delphiniums - delphinia.
Speaking of plurals ending with -ia or -a.
The next installation of the Hallwalls members's exhibition (ever a summertime affair) pays homage of sorts to the sold-off Diana/Artemis and the Stag bronze that no longer figured into the ultra-post-post-modern m.o. of Albright-Knox Art Gallery.
This year's HW members's show is entitled Future Artemi, implying that what one makes is up for future auction at some venerable arts joint who sees fit to send it off to places yet unknown.
Future Artemi is the title.
YT has an idea and fercrissakes I might just stick to it.
Back to seeds of change, ideas, Nature.

Stuck in Love.

Reminded today of me and Dorota sitting on a jet heading for Roma, her stating that now would be a good time for the two of us to crack open our Learn Italian books.
I think we picked up a precious few other words in Roma for steering us in the correct direction for restaurants, sights, sites, and what YT came to call The Embassy, the Brit pub where we would confer with those who lived in Roma for a long time and who shared (somewhat) our language.
And when-o-when shall YT be Euro-bound next. Now there is a primo question.
After seeing La Vie En Rose wished for a nice walk through Paris, full of gorgeousness in the floral sphere in summer although way too full of travelers.
Lisa Forrest sent an mp3 of a new song she wrote and it sounded radio-ready and told her so. It was a poetic little domestic number. A love song of sorts.
Have been listening to a lot of Polly Jean and Patti these past few days, something that suits über-concentration in wondrous, affirming work frenzy.
Went to a garden store today after a work delivery, bought more plants and seeds, touching dozens of leaves to say hello to the Green World.
There is nothing quite the same as having perennials in the great outdoors that were chosen from an intoxicating seed display that creaks and groans as it turns laboriously from enthusiastic hand.

Enthused, handy Love.

Worked a gig yesterday, the ultra-auspicious 7.7.07, with documentary filmmaker Jon Hand - always up to some docu-project and with a wry wit that is a gas.
He said he saw my Ansel Adams exhib review in the Shiney Happy Mag and had liked it, another person inspired to make the somehow longish-seeming drive to Rochester off the Empire State's 90s ... 190 to 90 to 490 to there, nearly.
We talked projects - mentioned one I formulated that I ran by Catherine Parker at our tea date on Friday afternoon. She's in, Jon suggested I find funding before I lift a cam at the appointed subject-to-be.
At some point yesterday, observing a man with a bum leg, stated that I would like to ask the man what had happened to the leg. Jon said You're wonderful.
I rebutted that Yours Truly has always suspected a sort of grace, a relief when a bum appendage might be discussed rather than confronted with evasion, if done up in a respectfully inquisitive manner.
Plus the man with the bum leg had such an outlaw aura about him I could only imagine the leg had met with some tragic ending, or part of the leg, or the partial use of the leg.
This job was out in Youngstown, along the Niagara north of Lewiston, a strip of homes and shoppes. There are great and secret pockets of Manhattan Project-era sizzling waste sites nearby, as on various obscure Middling City blocks.
Speaking of obscure, yesterday missed a MapQuest finepoint, heading into Fort Niagara in Youngstown instead of Water Street to get to the YYC, the town's yacht club replete with cocktails, ropes, yachts, seasideworthy rose bushes, a few racist comments, and a smattering of striped sweaters.
Onwards.
Today is part two of the MC's Taste Of, this year emphasizing, according to media reportage and adverts, health. This strand of stands has always been noted for promoting lots of fried health antidotes but this is the new anti-war, anti-global warming, anti-saturated fats world.
Yesterday was Al Gore's lovely Live Earth 7.7.07 concert event on every continent. If I had had no all-day gigs yesterday, my ass would have been snoozing on a plane on 7.6.07 heading toward the Shiney Apple and then Giants Stadium although London had a far better lineup.
It is time for more non-day of rest making & doing.
The MC has a nice gray sky which makes those greens pop, no PhotoShop necessary.

Popping green Love.

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.