Dozens and oodles of days and years ago Yours Truly had a few spans of time that are referred to as Ghetto Girl Days, amidst the Salad Days of two decades ago.
There was DavidC's apartment on Leroy near Fillmore (YT on a few occasions - when not bombing around town with him in his aunt's old station wagon with bales of hay in the back for ballast - actually took Middling City public transpo over there, met by him on the corner, very 50s), and then there was the Perfectly manicured home of JoeyD and Pat on Wakefield. Where YT rented an upper bedroom for a while after leaving the manse on Richmond (where YT acted as Den Mom for several years, holding the lease and down the fort, so to speak), and whipped the house of guys into domestically goddessed ship shape.
So today, after dropping a pal off at E.C.M.C. for some intra-body testing, somehow (as is my non internally-GPS'd wont) lost Grider Street and found myself on good ol' Leroy, passing amazingly ceramically-laden Blessed Trinity, and then DavidC's old pad.
The house still has its same mint green siding, still looks the same, and YT imagined that Russell S. was still up in the attic, drumming madly for hours. But, alas, he's out in Cali somewhere making alternative music with some lifelong pals, as men/guys are famous for doing – migrating in groups, and continuing what to women resembles flimsy (but are oso deep) relationships.
While wending my way towards a favoured diner for some sustenance (and where the eyelinered waitress warmed the cockles of my heart by calling me Sweetheart), was suddenly followed by what I thought was a police cruiser, undercover.
Now, here is a little backstory.
Back in the GGirl Salad Days, whilst living on Wakefield, occasionally me and the guys, when driving in the 'hood, were stopped by police officers.
Because we were young, and white. And on Wakefield, or neighboring streets. A rarity.
Why would nice white and young folks be in this sector of the M.C. if not to purchase illicit substances.
So, pulled over, we would be made to empty all our pockets (illegal search), and they would take a look inside the car, and question all of us, who would politely reply that we (or some of us) resided on Wakefield Street.
Then we would proceed.
So, when YT was suddenly, she thinks, being followed by an undercover cruiser, there is a small palpitation.
But then the realization Hey, I was not speeding - for I am wending down Memory Lane.
And I did not roll through a stop sign, being a survivor of a drunk driver's lapse of driving reason.
Suddenly YT realized that the undercover police cruiser is a Cadillac sedan. Perhaps a newer Seville. YT should really brush up on her car models, but that is for another time.
And then YT notes - in a flash - that this cruiser has PURPLE flashing lights.
And that the driver, a femme, has elegantly coiffed hair.
It was a hybrid - Mary Kay reward car meets RoboCop.
Onwards I rolled.

* this just in *

Saved by a laptop and your site for distraction and amusement from getting into altercation with a confederate flag toting biker here at BIKE WEEK
THANK YOU!!!!
You have no idea how invaluable the escape of this laptop and your talented clever and SANE WORDS ARE in this moment....
reading your site is saving me from escaping by writing things I just might regret later.... perhaps....
(from Maureen, a former MC rez, now in Daytona down in the FLA)

* this also just in *
Here for Your viewing happiness is my image of Tina Brown made last night.


Love of Fan Thought and Word.

Envision this, if You will.
Intrepid Yours Truly, ever minding her own business, was wending toward the blinking answering machine attached to the landline.
Twenty-three messages awaited.
Messages one through twenty-two, to be quite Perfectly full of exactitude, chronicled a large breech of communication between a man and a woman.
The man, who we shall call Jim, is dialing the woman, who, apparently is snubbing or ignoring his telephonic advances.
Messages one through three say, emphatically, This is Jim, Terry.
Message four, in a quieter and contrite fashion, says I am so sorry JUDY, I did not realize that you had changed your name.
Messages five through twenty-two are attempts at reaching newly-named Judy with declarations of I am right here, Judy.
These calls clocked in at an impressive call per two minutes - or less.
Terry/Judy, from the sounds of it, was on occasion egging on the exasperated and obsessed Jim.
Yours Truly truly enjoys caller i.d. on her cellie.
However, the landline is old school, sans caller i.d.
As call number twenty-three was an actual call to YT there was no way to *69 the desperate Jim to ensure him that he was dialing YT and not Terry/Judy.
There was a momentary mental image of a distraught Jim doing something operatic in his miscommunication quagmire.

Onwards to points beyond to further dispel and deliver good pixel vibes.

Good old school pixel Love.

Firstly, let me grandly state Holy Guacamole, there's a National Museum of Roller Skating (NMRS for short).
Secondly, let me jubilantly scream that Yours Truly has mere seconds ago received an email from the director of Albright-Knox Art Gallery, Louis Grachos, thee Louis Grachos, who would like to lunch to discuss the comment card that YT sent in, requesting a night of rollerskating fun at the venerable museum in honour of the birth of YT.

Nancy,
Great comment card for us - I get many, but not as interesting as this one! I would like to invite you for lunch and yes lets find a way create a roller skating experience for you 50th or your 45 here at the gallery !
Best,
Louis

Needless to say, YT is pouncing ahead into the future. Laces, bumpers, balloons, Champagne, wrist guards.
This is an October event, seven months away.
No time like the present to daydream rolling, artful thoughts.
Today is Sparky's birth anniversary.
Happy Birthday Dear Sparky.

Rolling, Artful, Thundering Thoughts.

Lest You needed evidence that Spring is in the Middling City air, here is an image of Nature getting ready to burgeon forth.
It is, despite a day of evidence, a day of deadline.
And reminiscing, in a way.
Moments ago e-heard from a grad school pal and bandied about some recollections and thoughts about the entire matter.
One, for example, is how Yours Truly was making digvids during that Parsons School of Design timeline, but how that fell away.
Not sure what to do, exactly, with the digvids.
How to show them, where to show them.
Prints are still my showing and sharing genre of choice.
Still.

Still Love.

In honour of Leap Day and its attendant Year intended to create an image of someone - perhaps Yours Truly - in mid-air, mid-jump, mid-springing, mid-leaping.
In lieu of that here is an image of Canadian Geese in flight.
Wending back from a suburban gig noted about a hundred geese munching on fallen grain on train tracks.
This is what the feral do in the Historic Old First Ward, they glean.
Reaching for the cam noted a city bus lumbering around the corner of Hamburg and South Streets (the ol' Louisiana Bus, I believe Number 18, Danny Gare's number of yore) and thought OHNO, the bus will scare away the feasting geese.
Sure enough, the bus not only scared the wild fauna, but the bus driver was also transfixed by the sight of the hundred or so in the gaggle grounded.
This image is them fleeing.
Through the windshield.
It hearkens back to Our Country's wild west, road images, tales of journeying onwards.

Speaking of onwards.
This fine day encountered the annual road race dubbed the Shamrock Run, the afternoon when thousands rediscover, or re-remember, where the Historic Old First Ward actually is fercrissakes.
And then they overtake the neighborhood and make it nigh impossible to get to one's home for quite some time, until the last of the stragglers hobble to the finish line for a beer.
This happened.
YT, after meeting up with Annie, to lay upon her the six Police tix ordered on her (and her sibs's) behalf - via a handi CitiCardi - for a cuppa (and random community conversation) encountered a true member of the Police force. This true Police man, a leathery and scrappy man, informed YT that she had to hit the road.
Even after a quick explication that I needed to just go a short dist...
Black leather hands flailing in air.
But I have to...
Frantic waving of pleather-covered arms.
How long until the race is done.
Leather policeman is ignoring.
YT yells louder HOW LONG will the RACE BE ON.
Half an hour, with frantic waves of arms.
So YT proceeded onwards just then to purchase a bunch of futuristic b-day presents for loved ones.
Moral: When life gives you the leathery, turn it into an errand.
Saw Butch Morris and an orchestra of Middling City pals on various instruments last night, a Hallwalls gig in the big colorful Babeville Hall.
Lovely conversationettes, including one with Kelly down in The Ninth Ward, as she worked on a few spots to dispel the sinusitis headachis.

Fauna Love, Leaping Love.

Here, for Your erudition, are some images from the Empire State Capitol Castle - the funeral of Lincoln memorabilia, one of the lovely green velvet sofas (high backed, comfortable, very arts and crafts with cushion) outside the State Senate Chambers (and, really, a sofa Yours Truly would not mind owning, or a facsimile of thereof), and an exterior detail of such sandy sandstone as YT has never seen before. This pedestal looks, to YT, as if it's just been formed by damp sand. A triumph.

Today YT had a gig in a public school where I've done some work before, one on a rather obscure street off of a former lovely main drag on the east side. Across from the school about half of the houses are slated for demolition, with those telltale squares spraypainted on the facades, maybe even some helpful notes to those who may be doing the demo, or contemplating squatting or the like – Kitchen floor has holes, Floor may give way, and the ever-popular Gas cut off.
Drove to nearby Central Terminal (the site of this year's Artists & Models – hooray – as the light was oso Perfect and thought there could be images to be made.
The dark bricks looked rather mucky against the gray sky so YT rolled onwards.
Onwards to another gig.
Purchased flower seeds today, crafted (or collected, rather) by Richard of Faerie Seeds. Some that YT has planted before, like Nigella, and others new to this gardener.

Seeds of Love, Love of Spring.

Minding my own business, this time in Albany, I found myself once again drawn into (and lost amid) what is called The Million Dollar Staircase in the Capital Building.
The staircase in question is all sandstone and carved. I'd feel confident that I was on the right side of the building to discover that no, I was really not on the side that I needed to be and would have to go up up and up some more, cross over the senate chambers antechamber and go down again. On the right side.
So, this staircase has carved faces of luminaries who changed the course of human existence. And smaller carved heads of family members of stonecarvers. And art nouveau greenery, in sandstone.
At one more lost moment Yours Truly found herself looking into an Abraham-Lincoln-themed showcase with actual dried flowers from his funeral wreath. And a rosette from his hearse. And more.
Some of the artwork in the offices is great. Other offices are filled with requisite portraits of former officeholders. There were some outstanding nineteenth century etchings that were hand-colored.
On the kitsch end of the spectrum I saw a small print, about 5"x8" in a women's bathroom, a scene with some happy mountains, some happy sailboats, a happy sky, and a happy dappling of light. I especially liked how it was hung just a bit too high up on the wall.
Onwards to more shooting at the reception being hosted by the bigU.
Saw many beautiful rooms on the older side of things, old fireplaces, carved stone.
This complex of senate and assembly buildings is a maze of sorts, hence the chronic lost condition du jour.

Senatorial, Assembled Love.

Yours Truly, ever culinary and creative of Nature, is in throes of making Hoppin' John, a black-eyed pea-based dish of interesting origins.
Familiar with said dish as Polly always makes it for a friend get-together at holiday time.
YT is fabricating this many-stepped dish out of Joy of Cooking in honour of the culinary mentions in the last book club book read, Away by Amy Bloom. We Solid Gold Bookers rotate meeting places and always cook a light repast inspired by what we've read. The derring-do protagonist is Russian (so Russian fare works) but to augment the taste sensations YT suggested some Soul Food, too, as the protag is befriended by Gumdrop, a soulful, child-like lady of the night.
So, voilà, Hoppin' John.

...

It is now finished. After three hours or so I can deem it tasty, another version of rice, beans, secret spices, and pork product.

Onwards to book group.
Last night met Molly, Lisa, Lauren out for vino along the Avenue.
Discussed, amongst other things, the sad demise of New World Record, now officially over and out. Along that topic, discussed the purchasing of music - downloads v. discs.
Tomorrow bound for all-day and all-night bigU gig in Albany, the capital of this Empire State. Hoping that the limobus has plug-ins for laptops as this overworked laptop has meager off-plug powers.
Looking ahead to next VH1 gig, documenting things surrounding gaming and the WWF.
Yee Ha. Joysticks, Wii, oiled-up and steroided bods.

Hoppin' Love.

Voilà a few from George Eastman House foray and fieldtrip this past Saturday afternoon with my travel companion du jour to see the bulbs galore. Got a special bonus treat as the GEH was about to have one of their famed wine & fromage openings, for Magnum photog Larry Towell who has many thematically-grouped lush b&w prints hanging.


Larry was there and being documented for his opening and Yours Truly got to speak to him for quite a while, about digital versus analogue for art's sake, travel, travel for art's sake, Tony Bannon, and Bannon traveling for art's sake.
Today was working away shooting campuses in the snow and the sun, a rare duo these Middling City winter days. It's been snowy, but not sunny.
Made some images of Nature mixing it up with the Academy.
Above image shows Roman Hyacinths, a favoured flower of George Eastman. There is a whole longish essay about this floral species by the curator of this year's bulbish display.
They are lithe and were under glass so the only hyacinth vapours YT has to report are those from forced bulbs via Liz.
Memories float over to a nice French, blue glass bottle YT owned several years ago of hyacinth oil that I wore until it went empty.


All for now and all for art.

Hyacinth Love.

+ +
This Just In.
Just went outdoors to observe the lunar eclipse. It is oso beautiful, an orange haze around the moon, light molecules from earthly sunrises and sunsets bouncing all that way over celestial yonder. Thought of photographing that, but YT is just not that type of shooter.
Lunar Love.

O where o where did the little stinky and fluffy sheep of Yours Truly go.
When I gaze at this image of my Perfect Bo Peep self YT think Ahh, I could have had a fine and rewarding career upon the boards, as they say in the theatre biz.
In this month's Harpers is a piece about Frances Bean Cobain, the little child of the man who changed rock in the 90s, and that rock & roll diva, Courtney Love.
The girl has a moonish face, and does not in the least resemble the image that YT made of her when she was but a tot, in the arms of her nanny, as Hole performed at The Tralf in the Middling City. FBC had little tot sonic-banning earmuffs upon her head, her little hands raised up to keep them in place, mom a car wreck on stage, weeping, wailing, ripping her clothing, and performing in stops and starts. Kurt (who YT also photographed about a month before he blew his complex brain to bits) was just departed so the grief in the room was fresh.
Ended Valentine's Day drinking a Perfect bottle of Veuve with Heady, Sparky, Jeremy, as a very white and snowy puppy slumbered under my cashmere sweater.
I propose that today, the day following Saint Valentine's Day, be celebrated with ash smudges right over the heart. As those who celebrate/participate in Ash Wednesday the day after Mardi Gras walk about with smudges on their foreheads.
If this becomes a new hot holiday trend do recall that you heard this first on epinw, harbingerpress of sorts of all things Perfect, novel, loveful.

Smudgy Love.

Roses are oftimes red,
violets are striped,
Love You from head,
to feet that are wiped.

Love Love, Love.

Where o where has Yours Truly truly been.
Living a life most cinematic, I tell You.
And - most importantly - Happy, Snappy Saint Valentine's Day Eve.
Photographed our handsome, spry, quick-witted New York gov today, Eliot.
Made some images as he entered the building we all awaited in from overhead and as he stepped off the elevator YT warmly enthused Hi, ELIOT. To his delighted, delightful smile.
Then onwards to points beyond for meets, greets, glads, handshakes, happys, moments.
Pal Jenna C. spoke most sweetly about her edu, fam, and more. Told her I shall email her some images of her on the dais, and afterwards Eliot spoke to Jenna to say to get in touch with him for some career ops. She has that special glow and I will not be shocked to learn that Jenna C. is in a Washington bureau in the future.
Way back to Mardi Gras.
I worked for SoCo and their local repping co. to make some fab images of various reps, girls passing out beads, the local version of a Mardi-Gras parade, and oso much more.
Later in the evening made some images of not only madness, but an alligator dish in a chafing dish at one Croc Bar.
Get it.

Had much fun talking to people all over, including the Middling City's roller derby girlies, one of their intra-teams - The Suicidal Saucies. They joined the SoCo caravan so everywhere we went the Suicidal Saucies were sure to follow.
Ate some M-G food, did not drink the SoCo.
Kennedy picked YT up after gig was over but not before YT had a kooky asthma-style attack in Level (filled to the rafters with faux smoke), and nearly witnessing a reveler who fell on his face but did witness a dozen emergency folks carting his carcass away to ECMC.
Then this past week there was the readying for not only my annual slammin' Red Dinner ... now in its 12th vibrantly crimson year ... but Peep Show, the charity event for Squeaky Wheel.
Mucho helpo from my book club girlies made the dinner oso much easier, major smooches to Heady, Jana, Annie, Mish.
Amongst the sanguine Red Diners were artists, a judge, a few attorneys, a framer (not of a Constitution), some parents, a high school cohort, and some writerly types.
For Peep Show enlisted the painting assistance of my sister and together we handpainted a backdrop for my Polaroid (oh, this is nothing to joke at, YT is devastated by the dismal news that Polaroid is a goner) booth whereby revelers could, for a small fee, Be Bo Peep.
This idea came to me in the midst of a snooze.
Early in the event's ride YT thought to herself I must be nuts, for who in H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks will want to don a Bo Peep costume or two YT-made Sheap Beanies and pose in front of a bucolic backdrop.
Well, I write to You, a lot of people.
If there was a couple the man would insist on being Bo Peep.
Or his date would insist that he be Bo Peep.
As is custom, I gave my little helpers and guests and special customers little sipperoonies of tequila.
It is time to wend my way to an authentico German restaurant nestled deep in the scary section of the M.C.
Onwards to spaetzle.

Starchy, Cinematic Love.

post script::
Here is YT from this past week with thee Harold Ford, Jr., chair of the Democratic Leadership Council, who YT photographed with many others hungry to learn more about our nation's democratic processes.

Happy Mardi Gras.
In the reorganizing of artwork and archival material came across some Mardi Gras images made twenty years ago in New Orleans ... or NOLA as it's abbreviated sometimes.
I do recall that trip in great detail as it was all so flash, and documented by Yours Truly. The torchières, the krewes, the madcap crowds, a man punching out a USA Today vending box on the street under careful watch of a cop, the throwing, the catching, the exposing.
One of the most magical bits was going to a party on the levee.
True M-G revelers party all Monday night into Mardi Gras, so right now there are many who have been up for twelve hours and counting.
I would like to exhibit my images from above plus the Jazz Funeral I documented the last time in that city, the funeral procession for Ernie K. Doe - "Burn K-Doe, Burn!"
Time to move, groove, hoove and get ready for tonight's King Cake celebration.
Remember, do not be alarmed when tomorrow you see those with the ashy smudges upon their foreheads.
Non-ashy Love.

The very blue image below is of Cellist Fred, an image Yours Truly made this past summer and had floating about on the desktop.
The other very curious image is a hallowed and annual image of Ridge Lee Larry, U.B.'s version of the nation's weather-guessing groundhog. Ridge Lee Larry is stuffed, is twenty-five years old, and is still molting.
But, as is custom, there he stood next to his faux burrow, little sash and party hat in place.
As it was a slushstorm, RLL saw nothing but slush.
So dress accordingly.
Onwards.
This past few days, amongst other things, photographed a mom and daughter and the daughter had a manhole-sized hickey on her neck. I think the mother did not notice this blotch. But YT certainly did.
Tomorrow is Mardi Gras, and YT will be photographing MC MG madness for SoCo, hopping from spot to spot with some SoCo reps in a SoCo wagon.

Tomorrow is NYS Primary Day, dress accordingly.
Dressed in Love.

Yours Truly nearly began this wind-whipped day with two concerned (near-hysterical) phone calls of high flooding down in the Middling City's historic Old First Ward, where YT owns a bunker of a building.
One of the calls reported car roof-high waters, broken ice boom, general wild west chaos.
So, being YT (who, amongst other things on Catastrophe portion of the C.V., not only drove through Hurricane Bob of '91 in Maine, but co-crafted an evacuation strategy for a summer camp staff and campers after driving with Nancy M. to the camp - we'd vacated for a public grammar school where YT got the school's generator going by jumping it with her Nissan's jumper cables - the morn after to survey the awe-inspiring damages, like pines sheared off halfway up ... or down), brushed off the hysteria for a drive down. Sipping on a grande Starbucks.
One of the callers discussed - no yelled - about the dangers of driving through a puddle and it could actually be much deeper and YT could be swept away in a current. I should add that I am thrilled to have Concerned Callers.
Actually drove down to the water's edge to make some images of Nature's Power overtaking an arbitrary, human-made boundary.
YT saw nothing.
There are incredible swirls of snow creating white-out moments.
Traffic lights are swinging like paper lanterns.
Stray cats and dogs, YT posits, need ballast, and YT would like to create little sandbags for their ankles.
I digress, but YT has no stunning flood images.
No currents to report.
Just reports of winds that whip around a Subaru lending for a white knuckle ride.

Riding it out, Love.

Well there was Intrepid Yours Truly, having just battled her way down chain-rich Transit Road and wending down icy roads to, ultimately, Lockport High School.
Why, You reasonably ask, for You know that YT is perhaps usually heading towards arts destinations in said Lockport, instead of sporting venues.
YT was shooting b-ball for photo editor pal Jim.
When I wended to the newspaper offices, and he was loading the images, I offered that I'd gotten some real Ballet Moments.
After he perused he did concur.
Keyword is anticipation.
Made some images today thus far of a stunningly beautiful geologist femme, and snowscenes around and about.

Icy, sparkly Love.

Back from a Planned Parenthood (today is thee thirty-fifth anniversary of Roe v. Wade) benefit at the ChipStrip dance club Level, also a mini exhibition for K.C. Kratt - images of femmes and hommes with tattoos.
Much discussion about pros, cons of inking.
And, of course, Yours Truly had to mention to a few the (unfortunate) ink from the X, a small nearly-complete star on the inside of an ankle.
This is small enough that YT knows that it's there, and most days it's forgotten.
It's a funny small collection of dots.
I told K.C. and Deb that I'd love to do a cover-up but then, really, why call more attention to this little dime-sized area.
Deb and I discussed the state of dancebars in the Middling City, not a really great one.
Level happens to have a lot of potential.
Still do miss the passing of The Continental, that imperfect joint with really fab dancefloor lined with mirrors and sternum-crushing sound.
The MC is covered in perfect snowman-making snow.
Making snow Love.

One Year, exactly one year.
Pam gave me a 1-20-09 t-shirt this past Friday morn (along with a bevy of other wonderful belated b-day gifts) during our java klatsch at SPoT. It's a nice pale green. It is now one of my favorite shirts, to be placed atop the other of similar ilk, purchased on Lafayette en route to school one fine sunny day:
The only Bush I trust is my own.
Today is also the birth anniversary of Pahts in MN in, undoubtedly, minus five degrees and layers of snow. And, quite probably, his warm kitchen cooking something wondrous. He was the first person I knew that made confit, he put it on my (and several others') culinary atlas.
On my birthday he sent me excerpts from his journal of all that happened on my birthday through the ages - a very touching gift indeed.
Meandered about the campuses of the Big U yesterday in the sun-blasted, pristine snow, trudging along with cam around neck, breathing laboriously into a scarf tied tightly around my neck to keep my face from freezing.
The images are striking, frames full of frozen buildings, trees, shadows.
There are more Perfect cloud-strewn skies and sun and it may be time to wend to shooting in the next few hours before all goes too blue.

Not too blue, Love.

Above is a holiday image outtake, something that illustrates nicely how digital doesn't quite render reds as well as other colours.
Speaking of images, the image posted on epinw yesterday sped off to a new home via the Trinity silent auction. Not sure for how much, nor to whom, saw it across the very crowded chapel.
Swam through the chapel trying to view most or all of the profferings and was enveloped in some hearty conversations and belly laughs. All whilst drinking the requisite auction glass of wine. From plastic, two-part glasses. Noted that several in attendance lost their bottom halves, their cheapo glasses suddenly transformed into those curious and trendy glasses with cups and stems but without a way to set them down.
Minding my own business actually found myself holding up my placard - 386 - to bid during the live auction, on a joint for a weekend up in Canada. Until both the numbers got too high, and me, Annie, and Heady realized we would rather not vacation a mere twenty mins away from the Middling City. So no more holding up 386 once the price reached an astonishing $425. It went for $450, same as for the Visser't Hooft that appeared on the block.
Afterwards enjoyed a few primo glasses (glass! not two-part!!) of white Bordeaux at Rue Franklin's bar with Heady, enjoying the moments with her and DeeDee, as a nearby table of international students celebrated a birthday and sang their rendition of a birthday ditty, and several other familiars and knowns leaving the dining room.
Today is a sunny day, and it is time to grab the cam and meander the world in search of Perfect pixel alignment.

Aligned Love.