Working, of freakin' course, on The Book and yesterday found images alongside Niagara River on the tip of Grand Island, where Israel might have been located.
The above image shows an inlet of marshlike proportions, where egrets, cranes, heron hang out on rocks and wade up to their knees in muck.
Off on the hazy horizon the Middling City is visible.
Yeterday's final gig was of a singing troupe of note.
Like the singers who appeared on the Lawrence Welk show, they wear matching attire.
The troupe's collective sense of humour was quite hilarious.
We had a photo shoot in a rather humid auditorium of a regional small private college and by the end Yours Truly was ready for a gallon of water.
One of the troupe's male members attempted to - or rather, did - tell an off-colour joke to the chagrin of every single person in the room.
He forged on towards the punchline, and it involved an ethnic group, a sex toy, and chipped teeth.
The entire front row groaned as he began this horrid joke, assuredly they had been treated to his jokiness before.
Today made ports of an anesthesiologist, and one of my set-ups was with a machine used in the 40s. Four valves, color-coded: helium, nitrous oxide, and I forget the others.
This did not assuage my fear of being put to sleep - in the human, not canine, sense.
Onwards to Jamie Lembeck's memorial service, Canada, and points above, below, and beyond.

Never ever beyond Love.

During yesterday's second gig, a political portrait making session in the midst of the Middling City's Japanese Gardens tucked behind the Historical Society and alongside the lake that was troublingly chartreuse, spotted these clover nestled up in a tree.
Nature, ever full of surprises.

Heard from KennethJ last night, who is still living in Amsterdam, NL after eight years. He, he tells me, is now a father. No word if he's still making art and music - yet.
I do still enjoy the piece I purchased from him, part of my arm/hand collection.
Not to be confused with my tree collection.

Readying for the Hallwalls members's show, always a fun exhib to be part of, it a mishmash of pieces straddling the theme.
This year's theme is an anagram of Barack Obama's name - Karma Cab Boa.
I tried to make another, better anagram of his name to no result.
Not sure if I'll be doing drawing or pixelpushing for this, maybe former.

Time to push onwards editing the ports made yesterday of a politico who I greatly enjoy talking to, a challenger.

Pushing Pixels, Love.

Last night's surprise fete was a treat, the 30th of Robert, thrown by Steve.
Arrived with bottle of champ (bien sur) in bejeweled gift bag and helped three others get things shaped into a party as we debagged 30 candles, cups, plates, balloons, mardi gras-style necklace for Robert, and more.
Following Steve's written instructions, hidden in his apartment, constructed the punch: 1 bottle of Sierra Mist (that kiddie bevvie that Yours Truly had never tried, in part due to its horrific name), some cranberry juice, some orange juice.
So I stepped back and looked at it, a strange orange-pink, bubbling.
I asked the other pre-party helpers if there was any booze. We searched the cabinets and finally found a bottle of good vodka. I dumped maybe a third of it into the punch asking Moriah Did Steve intend this punch to be non-alcoholic.
When a couple arrived I basically insisted that they try the punch.
In part to see if they got a wanging punch of vodka.
They did not.
YT added more vodka.
We hid in the kitchen.
Robert noted that some chairs had been moved and asked upon entering with Steve Hey what's going on, those chairs weren't there.
But he was surprised.
Really, really surprised.
I told Robert his Retaliation Party could happen in March, for Steve's b-day.
When I arrived at the apartment saw Roy & Sionen, Norman & Steve as the latter also live in the same building.
Ahh, the joys of life in the intertwined/interwined Middling City community.
Time to hit a front porch for a coffee gathering before the day's gigs.

Interwined Love.

+ this just in.
Merci beaucoup to NYT for writing up CocoRosie.
Create a Pandora station for same and You will be sans distress, swimming in a curious folkie galloping pool of musings.

Ta rah rah boom tee ay.
Sped off to Baird Point at the BigU's suburban campus to make some spectacular fireworks images last night, after Marty & Susan's exurban barbecue where, amongst others, spotted Bad Ronald, sundry musicians, a few dogs, an oenophile, a plowed field, children fascinated by firecrackers, serious fireworks exploding over a stand of trees beyond the field, and general revelry.
The BigU's spectacle, really that of the town of Amherst, draws thousands of watchers.
Annie and I saw a crescent of the various displays alongside the mighty Niagara and on various golf courses. The Indian's casino, ever cashing in on collective interests, allegedly blew off some f-works on their sovereign land alongside the cataracts, celebrating the development of the country that would go on to marginalize their entire culture, leading to the backlash of casinos and tax-free gas and cigs.
The Amherst spectacularity was wonderful and was only sullied by a curious mix of music that was booming from one point near the lake, deafening about 30% of the watchers.
Stepped over blanketeers to get various angles and this image is one of about a dozen of superkeepers.
Kennedy referred to this and a few others as being my Maxfield Parrish images.
I concurred, and here is an exemplary image for Your perusal and edification.

Compare, contrast, write a limerick or haiku in honour of both of these epinw images du jour.
Your post-holiday wrap-up homework assignment.
Oh, ate the year's first hotdog yesterday at M&S's, sans bun, of course.

Contrasting Love.

Nance's Rippin' Believe This or Not.
Outside, some ultra-locals are imbibing the day away.
Yours Truly spotted a couple of them hobbling back to their lair with a suitcase (as it's politely called up north of the Middling City) of Buds.
Now, they're way into their cups.
There is the crackling of a grill, the meager shade of a backyard vinyl umbrella.
YT just went outside to feed the cats, being the Official Old First Ward Cat Lady and all.
Now, here comes the Believe This or Not portion of this Perfect Indy-Day tale.
Loudly, the ultras are regaling each other with tales accidental, as in I was there and then suddenly a crash/boom/bang and then I was ... oneupmanship always happens in these circumspect circumstances, as We all know in this fair, Democratic and dwindling Superstar Power.
One of the ultras kept subbing the word hemorrhoid for hemorrhage, sans ironical lilt of any sort.
YT will, as Perfect luck has it, be in the Shiney Apple during Restaurant Week, that prix fixe fest for lunch or din.

Onwards to more present matters.

Jesse Helm is deceased, a hateful art hater and it's an interesting intellectual or, more precisely, metaphysical argument to bandy about just where he might be at this moment. If one believes in the afterlife. With all that negativity is he metaphysically south.
YT is about to launch a little slip of paper over to the ultras, with this hate/Helms talkpoint written upon it.

As indy-day motors on YT listens to one of her newbiefinds, Band of Horses, a delightful NWn indie band.

This image was spotted on in internet system today, paired with a story of the sale of Getty Images to a private investment group for over a bill.


Last night Jakob Dylan had his special aura, as did one of his bandmates, that roadblush upon them that makes the heart patter a bit and yearn for something ... bigger.
His gig was good, despite the people about who did not give a hoot (don't pollute) about the Dylan onstage, nor his bandmates - the ol' Gold Mountain Band, is that it.
I said to Annie that the show would have been oso much better in a small dark venue with a cool refreshing bevvie in hand.

Time to wend out to a weenie roast south of here and then f-works way north of here, for The Book. Ahh, The Book.

Bookish, Lovish Love.

It is Independence Day's Eve.
And bottle rockets have been blasting off in the Middling City's Historic Old First Ward for weeks.
And then there is the occasional explosion that sounds like perhaps a car has been bombed, or a building collapsed.
Happy to hear/see that the Livery on Jersey Street will be shelled and saved by Savarino. Now there's a potential headline for the MC News. Your Truly should probably proffer up her excellently Perfect alliteration.
Hoping to gather spectacular images of the BigU-sited f-works tomorrow night for The Big Book.
Time to fly off to map out the gallery where the Paws for Charlie bennie takes place on July 13th, a Sunday.
To make sure that the foodstuffs, the YT-created craft project, that the auction item tables, and La Marimba do not collide.
Afterwards, a fine all-girlie dindin extravaganza and then TATS for Dylan's kid's band. Have seen and photographed The Wallflowers a few times. They were harmless enough.
Read: dullsville.
But, as Mish says, that Jakob is easy on the eyes.
Plus open-air musique is oso jubilant.

Open, airy Love.

A True Confession.
To be filed under B, for Baking.
Yours Truly, avid this & that, including cook, cannot bake (usually) to save her Perfect self.
Well, certain things can be mustered/baked. And have been good.
But things involving yeast, doughs, seem to be a challenge to my terminally-degreed, photog, Type A, organized self.
Last night, for example, told Kennedy I'd try a new pizza dough (keyword: dough) and used some rice flour. And followed directions, for we all know that baking is just a thesaurus toss away from chemistry - as in the confusing world of chem class.
So, there was YT last night, following the Shiney Happy Mag Best Of meet-up at Hallwalls, whipping up a little dough (yeast product) for some gourmet pizza.
Or so YT thought.
No rising took place.
YT re-read the recipe via Epicurious.
Yup, 1 t salt, 2 c four, splash of this, and dash of whatever else.
Like I said, no rising.
Finally, just spread the play-doughish matter around the official peel and topped with primo ingredients and then jerked it, true gourmet style, atop the nicely-heated pizza stone.
Several moments later.
Lovely ingredients atop a sort of baked cookie dough yeasty crust.
No, there is one pizza dough recipe that YT has seemingly mastered - with olive oil, really like a nice focaccia dough.
Now YT wishes that she'd paid more attention to Pahts all those years ago whilst he was mastering all types of bread bakings.

Live and bakingly learn.

Yeasting, feasting Love.

Nature, Nature, Nature.
Here is some Nature in the center of the Middling City, in the winding-roaded Forest Lawn Cemetery, where Yours Truly learned to drive with Margie Maloney calmly (really) on the passenger side of things.
And where Yours Truly, during her salad days, would scout out lovely fresh flowers from a dumping area hidden near a hillock.
There is a photo of YT made during an Oscar Wilde in the 80s, to which YT brought in armloads of fresh flowers gleaned from FL.

In these FL images there are geese and ducks lolling around Mirror Lake.
Images were also made of a green heron resting on a nearby limb.
Someone yesterday told me that there are more heron sightings than usual, that they have moved more inland.
There was also a report of a heron dipping down to eat a coy out of a small backyard pond.
Now that takes not only aerial cojones, but deft imagining.

Deft, daring Love, Love.

To be doubly filed under Y.
For Yuck, and Yikes.
Made happy, memorial, and rolling images at this year's Ride for Roswell, as is the wont of Yours Truly.
Beginnings and ends, and the light rains rolled in twice.
After nearly every rider had crossed the Big Finish, went to the tent of a private client, not the BigU, which hosts R4R.
Walking with riding team to our designated team portrait site felt an arm gripping my upper arm, a gesture that instantly annoys, of course.
Turning, discovered the gripper was one of the Middling City (and its attendant suburbs) lead advertorial attorneys of a certain genre.
He informed me that he is still available for s.e.x.
This character has made such other strange verbal utterances to YT in the past.
YT believes it is just a matter of time before said attorney ends up in hot water for some such harassment elsewhere.
In the case of YT, a clipping email is probably in order. On second thought, this person should not have email access, so a printed note (sans return address, bien sur) is best.

Onwards.

Arose early this fine morn to deploy out into the world to make some more images of the BigU for the Big Book that is pending. And, hopefully, teeming with images that are inspiring.
One image this fine morn was one involving a heron hanging onto a branch, discreetly centermost of the frame that also included some water, some grass, some mysterious MC clouds.

Cloudy, rainy Love.

As Yours Truly (mais bien sur, still minding her very own beeswax after all this time, time squeezed of every last possibility like yesterday's lemon) firmly believes that all musical discs (as opposed to imagistic) should be judged by their Track 7's, she will zoom ahead to Coldplay's verysame, a tune entitled Viva La Vida.
Let us whirl it via iTunes.
Sounds a wee bit syncopatey, MOOGish, ahh, now the soothing voice of Chris.
Focusing now on strings, his lyrics.
Roll the dice, enemy eyes. O dear.
Held the key ... (YT is awful at picking up lyrics, a trait that has created much humour these many several years)
...
Noticed were what I wanted ... synthesized and multi-layered music.
Wicked and wild wind ... shadowed windows and sound of drums.
Alrighty, this will remain background musique for now to get to more important matters at hand.
Namely, the Big9/ToppermostsJudicious/Supremes voted 5-4 that our second amendment is to remain as is.
NYT featured an image of a protester holding this sentiment markered:
IF GUNS KILL PEOPLE DO PENS MISSPELL WORDS.
YT always appreciates a good slogan.

Sent in my moola to acquire a fine, limited-ed Obama superstar t.
They did not have a girl-cut t, and that is a demerit, in my Perfect and humble op.
OK, this Coldplay disc is really not wooing, yet.
Kennedy is quite happy to hear that Buckethead (GNR guitar god) is coming to the Middling City, to Club Infinity, where the prized Nephew has performed, where Freeland worked his dreamy rock wonders, where several others were captured by YT.
Tomorrow night hired to doc an onstage assemblage of rockstars during the downtown hoopla part of Homecoming Weekend.
We who have stayed in the MC already know its divergent and ragamuffin charms, but do enjoy basking in the affirmative attention of others from time to time.
All this as a new kitten rambles about outside the office door, the Natives build their large-scale gambling den in the midst of what should be a heritage district (assuredly leading to some struggling hardtimes for the remaining gin mills of yore who will be caught in this monstrosity's long, concrete shadow), and the storm clouds hover still.

Viva Luvva.

In quite possibly one of the worst headlines penned lately, Yours Truly just read on the epicurious site: Healthy Addictions: Granola Is the New Crack.
I will have to remember to tell that to the crack ho I saw staggering down the parking lane of Elmwood Avenue this past Saturday night as Annie and I decided to make our way north after not in fact seeing the swishy party that YT was not only invited to - but RSVP'd as an enthusiastic Oui to.
In my little FaceBook What'reYouUpTo YT mentioned that I wondered how long it'd take for me to become fluent in Japanese.
Whilst in Japan the first time YT did make a grand effort to learn some phraseology, some katakana, some hiragana, and could even write out first and last name - in katakana, a sound alphabet for mod/western words.
A handy thing when dropping off and picking up photo orders from the neighborhood photo lab.
So, Larry Deluxe read that YT wished to become fluent in Japanese and sent YT a handy list of phrases most moderne.
Mainly things relating to bodily, or gutteral matters.
In reply, YT sent him a YouTubed Domo Arigato Mister Roboto.
Really and truly a masterwork, when you consider it from a substantial, safe distance from the 80s that spawned it.
YT now wonders how we can get this number into the Solid Gold Bookers Rock Opera that we are considering writing/producing/performing at this year's Middling City Infringement Fest.
Our performative plate is oso full, but there is always room for a nice rendition of a Styx classic.

You're wondering who I am-machine or mannequin
With parts made in Japan, I am the modren man

Now, YT asks You. Is this not poetry.

Poetic, Modren Love.

The Middling City's eldest sycamore tree on Franklin near Virginia Street is ailing and maybe about to succumb to a fungus.
Yours Truly has made a few images of this tree over the years and owns a painting of the tree, purchased at one of the Paint the Town benefits for Buffalo and Erie County Historical Society years ago.
This was front-page MCNews news, as was a story about a femme who nearly perished after choking on a piece of kielbasa. I have to think that the reporter somehow relished this very MC fact. Not food, not a morsel of food, not a sandwich or sausage, but a kielbasa.
O so MC.
Thee eldest of all trees is in Delaware Park, a white oak, according to the same story. And I do believe it is the very tree where YT poses hundreds of bigU runners and walkers who are participating in Corporate Challenge.
Am I sincerely upset about the state of the second-oldest MC tree, You ask.
You bet your toppermost branches I am.

So, last night, amongst other activities, picked up Annie to bring her to a solstice fete on the west side, near the fabled Elmwood Village.
We were all gussied up and motored by. I thought things looked rather tame so we parked and then walked up to the property. Nothing. No swingin' high times.
Something, YT speculates, must have gone awry and things did not happen at all.
Looked at invite again, confirmed that we were in the correct city, on correct street, at appointed hour - to no party avail.
So off we continued to eat some fab Indian food and catch a little less than half of the gratis Sloan gig alongside the canal, at Gateway Park.
Soundman Mark let us stand under one of his protective tents and then Gary and Mish found us. Some high kicks, some shouts, some furious applause, some lightning, some torrential raindrops, some ending.
One encore song and then Sloan hit the highway; they were actually getting wet on the stage and YT did wonder if the band would be meeting a sparking, sputtering, electrical end. They did not.
This was the third time that I have seen Sloan with this trio of people. One time, one of the favs, had Nephew in tow.
That was also outdoors, at Thursday at the Square.

Square, electrical, tree Love.

Thought it was high time to share a recent favoured image, gleaned from an online image bank. I like how glowingly Obama appears alongside Kennedy. And this is, obviously, weeks before it was discovered that he has a brain tumor.
This was when the stumping gloves were on and both Obama and Clinton suspected they were the chosen nominee.
Technically, there could be a change in nominee. Until all delegates have pledged their support, and votes are tallied, there could be an unlikely change.
Hi refusal of public money for his campaign is honorable and the R's should also pledge to spare the public the financing of presidential campaigns. Obama has shown the power of online fundraising. And blah blah, an R pal said Oh, here he goes, showing his true colours already, changing his position and going against his (campaign financing) word. I wholeheartedly disagree.

Speaking of the high-flying world of finance, all is coming together for the benefit that I'm helping to coordinate - Paws for Charlie. I named the event, and You know what a fan I am of the homonym. So there You have it - Paws/Pause. Dig.
The event is 7.13.08 and money will be gathered together to purchase a companion dog for Charlie, a three-year old with autism, and will go toward funding programming for Buffalo Companion Animal Network.

Just ran to CEPA to finally pick up my Josh Marks piece. Unwrapped it and had forgotten what it looks like, how large it is. It will have to be shoehorned into the collection somehow. Back to the home office hovel spotted a resident of the Middling City's historic Old First Ward in a nearly-vintage NYNEX Premium Goods t-shirt, giveaways years ago. And, whilst marveling, thought There is no other MC neighborhood that has residents in these PG shirts. Recently, I spotted another resident in same. And I'm sure that these two separate individuals and PG shirt wearers are not sharing closet space.

Onwards.

Premium, Good Love.

Whilst wending this fine day bumped (visually) into Sue of ShoeFly fame, who handed me a flyer for her first-ever Stiletto Run. A .5K Stiletto Run to benefit Ovarian Cancer research this Saturday.
Yours Truly would just enjoy and love to engage in a Stiletto Run from Bidwell Parkway and Elmwood to the confines of ShoeFly but YT is ultra-overscheduled for that verysame day.
Here is a link to take you to Sue's Stiletto Run site.
The charity du jour - or, in actuality du mois - and members of SolidGoldBookers is Paws for Charlie.
YT designed the fetching logo and made the blog for the bennie.
Read it, love it, attend it.
How is that for primo adspeak.
Today I made the executive decision to use my old standby, VistaPrint, to create some nearly-free tix for P4C. 500 tix for approximately $16 - You can't beat that with a stick.
Someone a long time ago turned me on to VistaPrint so I do the same at twists and turns when I hear that someone needs something to promote themselves.
Today's Middling City News lead off with (yes, a sobering photo of the casket of Tim Russert) a sordid tale of yet another teacher who's jumped off the Sanity Wagon and is in - or was in - hottest pursuit of a teen. In this case it's a femme forgetting hubby and kids to lust after high school boy. Perhaps, like Diana, hunting for that X Factor of her own teen desire.
Found yet another kitten, but this one is a very new vintage.
Black and white.
Some motor oil on right side of his body.
Fed him, of course.
Named him, of course.
Heady gave me a cat carrier so I can trap the little newbie and bring him to City Creatures for some medical attention, adjustments, and removal of oil.
His name, You ask.
Castro, of course.

Feline, synonymic Love.

Moments ago, minding my own freelancer's business, received a nice email from Al. Al, apparently, is really not running. For president, or for health's sake.
Al is giving the big thumb's up to Obama.
YT, thrilled, gave a little bit more moola to the Obama campaign, despite the fact that I did not get the go-ahead to dine with Obama a few months back.
As I told CatherineP at our teadate this fine a.m., I should have been more failing-rust-bucket-town-edgy.
Today, about 1 p.m., Yours Truly witnessed a classic End of the World Sky with dark gray clouds to the north.
YT contacted her northerly contacts to learn if they'd been barraged by storms, hailballs, furballs, or a blizzard.
Amherst Contact wrote back that she had to park under an overpass to avoid golf balls falling from the sky, that the leaves out there were snapped off of trees.
That cars have divots.
The Middling City avoided this weather drama.
YT in a few hours will be hitting the stage of Irish Classical Theatre Company to read a portion of Ulysses as it is once again BloomsDay.
James Joyce, like Samuel Beckett, denounced the constrictions of Ireland and headed to more Liberal Lands.
The Middling City Mayor is calling for a Turn Your Back on the Pump Day to ... stick it to the man. To stick it to the conglomerates. To stick it to the local businessowner already hanging on by an overtaxed thread.

Still, Al, Love.

Very sad to hear that this afternoon Middling City native Tim Russert collapsed at his gig and passed away.
Was trolling through my mental archive to recall what images I made of him and they're coming in a bit more vividly - a wildly crowded reception for him when he was a Distinguished Speaker at the BigU.
Affable, flushed, lots of guffaws and slaps on the back, and stopped to sign every item that fans wanted autographed. Much like equally-affable, equally-shaped Michael Moore when he was at the BigU for his own Distinguished Speaker trip.
Watched the Steve Kurtz big screen release Strange Culture after yet another marathon day that included freelance gigs, a wake, a memorial service, a stop at a coffee joint mid-afternoon, the munching of an excellent maple cookie from Quaker Bonnet, and oso much more.
Before film watching dined at DiGiulio's and saw both Sandy and Deanna from the elementary days.
Pre-DiGiulio's motored out to Botanicus Gardenus to see their wonderful new exhibits in honour of The Everglades, and The Rainforest. More orchids at the viewing venue, more bromeliads, more big palms, more statuesque grasses. Just lovely. Afterwards, a brief look at the works of Roland Wise, another person no longer in this sphere photographed by YT at several arts events. He studied at Art Students League, where Brucey also gleaned some fun facts about making & doing.
Yours Truly began today with laptop working and then documentation of the high school graduation at the private school on the rolling and perfectly picturesque parcel.
After that ran for some healthbev and ran into Victor (also from elementary days) in Snyder - as I told him, I do not seem to ever go to Snyder and its juicebar without seeing Victor.
What is trad about high school graduations? Nearly same for the next level of graduating.
Apprehension, cockiness, flowers, parents and other relatives who are somewhat displaced. Some live music, school songs, incantations for all good wishes.
Today, as the headmaster sent out a love-packed adieu to the grads-in-making a large branch snapped off of a nearby tree with a huge crack.
Nature was adding itself to the program.

Nature, ever on the program, like it or not, notice it or not.
Today, I stopped to look at a departed bumble bee, fat, on its side.

Bombus Fervidus Love.

Yours Truly was minding her own freakin' business.
And she was at the inner-city gas station/deli/icecream stand/car wash to glean some over-priced, governmental and inter-nationally taxed and gouged out the wazoo gasoline.
At the pump in the shade YT looked up to see a man in his 60s at his own temporary pump.
High, he said.
YT, ever having problems with homonyms, having shot a plethora of rock concerts in her lifetime, heard Hi.
Hi, YT semi-shouted back at the man at his own temporary pump.
To his quizzical look.
Oh, he stated, kind of looking the direction of YT, I meant High, as in the prices.
Oh, YT stated, I thought you were saying Hi.
Glancing at his vanity plate, YT asked him if his name was indeed the name on the plate.
He did not see YT first looking at his plate before the question so he was amazed that YT quite possibly knew him.
Your plate, YT said, pointing.
There was a great degree of confusion at that inner-city gas emporium, the very same joint where YT was able to purchase sustenance after the October Surprise Storm: cheese, coffee (limited - only 1 tall/customer ... rations!), and water.

Tonight, as YT left a gig a chef pal and another asked What, You are leaving without some cheese, we have cheese put aside for you.
This type of conversational thread makes YT oso gleeful.
Nearby a dog snores.
Nearby another peony blooms and lets off an amazing scent ready for a good, deep sniff.

Good, deep Love.

Beginning of blogpost and Pandora spits out NYC by Interpol.
One of those serendipitous moments (today) that confirms I am living in Everything's Perfect in Nancy's World – the movie.
flashback moment: (heart aching, memory ridden of any negative spin on the following) Writing a brilliant term paper for intellectual property law course at Parsons in Shiney Apple sitting in (somewhat lame-assed) library at Parsons (in photo building, not the other across Fifth) as I had this very song on repeat, peat, and repeat for hours.
I have done this repeat of NYC on a few other occasions. Also with song Blue Thunder by Galaxie 500.
Today has been a most curious day, emotionally and visually.
A moving truck the size of Delaware – State of – was parked across the Kennedy driveway and had to shoehorn around it to leave to visit an ill pal of Yours Truly.
En route to visit spotted a woman in throes of meltdown running down Delaware Avenue S-curves, occasionally throwing her arms in the air and waving them (like she just don't care). She'd run a way, wave her arms for a bit.
Followed a fleet of emergency vehicles to lo and behold corner of Del and Forest where an accident had just transpired. And, whew!, YT was not involved.
Took long while to pass as everyone had to have a long look to analyze the situ, what in the media biz is called The Rubbernecking Effect.
Photographed Steve Kurtz at his show Seized at Hallwalls: toppermost and belowermost.


Federal agents left behind 30 pizza boxes for three days of seizing, snooping, and the like.
Wondered how none of those lemmings spoke up with a craving for Chinese, Greek, something less ... 2-D to eat.
Time to make and do, and wend and deliver bushels of pixel happiness.

Bushels of Love.

Latest in the ongoing, scintillating Accidental Series.
This image is entitled "Cops Coming: Corporate Challenge's Beginning, Blurred from the hip."
After a day of gigging, and showing the Middling City sites to Chicago cellist Fred Lonberg-Holm (including those cataracts near the casinos), made images of Corporate Challenge. As is tradition.
The stretching, the hydrating, the puzzling pre-race beer sippers, the pinnings of paper numbers, the hoopla of the half-day tent complex of an array of company barbecues. Some orgs/companies (such as the BigU) go all out with tent, buffet, goodie bags, whereas other companies have little more than a 10x10 tent with a party sub sliced up on a card table and a cooler full of bevvies.
Fred wanted wings and, of course, Yours Truly took him for take-out at Gabriel's.
He wavered at his choice but ordered bbq wings.
We took them back to Kennedy's and we three ate pre-gig wings (Fred played last night at Hallwalls); YT ate four wings, as many as YT has eaten in the last six years.
After hosing off the bbq slop, Fred dropped me off at an edge of the race boundary and YT trotted madly to the U.B. tent on the other, far side of the meadow.
At the cataracts Fred revealed himself to be quite the Nikolai Tesla scholar.
A lifelong scholar of all things DC.
I announced that a bonus to our Niagara Falls day trip would be that Fred could not only see the Tesla bronze near the edge on Goat Island, but that he could crawl up onto Tesla's lap.
He was skeptical, even after we'd parked in the nearby lot, walked to the sculpture, and YT pointed to the very burnished spots on Tesla's hands and lapbones.
See, YT, said, so many people clamber onto him that he's shining.
After some more additional, gentle prodding, Fred took the plunge, and climbed atop the opened lap of Tesla.


His gig last night, replete with Canadianathusiasm to the max, with Steve and Ravi was super as the outside skies first lightened with increasing intensity and then a thunderstorm assailed the MC – the first of an audacious series by Nature.

Rain rain Love.

Well add that all to the section of the bio to do with Artists & Models involvement. As I looked over the images made by YT that evening (those kept and not sold for cash money to bennie Hallwalls), I pondered the event's 21 incarnations - different venues, changing cast of characters, sense of cohesion, dancefloors, and other stand-out mems.

One that popped into foremind was the third A&M, at Great Arrow Building on Great Arrow and Elmwood, how there was a corridor lined with living Rodin sculptures, buff men up on pedestals, their bodies painted what else ... buh-ronze.
Or the one on Main Street when Pahts and I were a living Calvin Klein ad and YT had the buzziest and shortest 'do ever for the occasion.

Onwards to now. Or then, the near then, of Saturday evening.
This inception of YT's interactive Polaroid booth was prop-happy, and props were shopped for for weeks. Office art, just the right sort of name badges were critical for the nursing staff, bathrobes, and the usual signage and Polaroid-related goods.

Gave the nursing staff their tequila-related names: Nurse Mezcal (SherryB), Nurse Sauza (Jana), Nurse Cuervo (Annie), Nurse Lime (Mish), Nurse Proof (JenM), and Nurse Worm (YT). We were a bitchin', saucy, nurturing staff prone to feeling scalps as we consulted our phrenology charts, shouts of RELAX, and our Nurse Sauza capping off most nursely statements with a shriek of Stat. YT had one straightjacketed patient spit out his gum into a gloved hand. Give me that gum, YT ordered. Are you joking, the strapped-down man asked. You cannot go into SURGERY with gum, yelled Nurse Cuervo, and out the gum came.

The Ward was busy all the livelong night, solidly from half an hour after start time until 1 a.m. - when it was time to call it a wrap and get most of the props and items hoisted onto my gurney and rolled out to the nearby vehicle.

Had a break only when ValT insisted that YT see her installation across the way, a couple of rooms that focused on mania, and depression. The next day, as YT cleaned up the remaining residue (the soothing framed office art and a few other items), observed that Nurse Sauza's shoes that were left behind were completely missing, and what else remained was a tiny plastic shot glass, a Little Mermaid crayon (from my Ward's artist and crafts table where patients were led and robed so that they could make happy pictures on their Polaroid folders), and the two small pots of faux fleurs.

What the above images are, top to bottom:
1. Nurse Sauza doing intake.
2. One of the Ward's phrenology charts. Know phrenology. Love phrenology.
3. The staff - (l. to r.) Nurse Proof, Nurse Lime, Nurse Worm, Nurse Cuervo, and Nurse Sauza. Nurse Mezcal was out triaging.
4. Nurse Mezcal, with patient Scott V. NB: Mezcal's neat sutures.
5. Staffers working on Steve Kurtz, media artiste Paul Vanouse assisting, between Sauza and Mezcal.

Recall: Kurtz's exhibition SEIZED opens at Oilwells this Saturday, 8-11.
YT will be there, with cam and a few bells on.

Wards teeming with safe, happy Love.