A glimpse

Well, I didin't really expect that I wouldn't write annything for nearly a full week, but … wow. It's true. I guess taking over a thousand photographs tends to hamper free time.
:-)

I don't feel like I can really explain what's happened here; I arrived at dinnertime last Sunday and came around the corner, a stranger, into the vicinity of the dining tent ((yes, I said dining tent) and the picnic benches (picnic benches! Am I going to have to repeat everything?) were full of high school kids. My first thought: OMG: I'm at camp. I'm the oldest person here") turned out that this pace is bustling with people of all ages. (there is also, a contingent of hs kids who are kind of segregated from those of us taking the workshops who range in age from 20-60, at least)

I've almost cried a few times, walking around these very dark rural main roads, past old shingled building after another, feeling the deep cold water that's just out of sightc. This place is sort of a collection of ramshackled yet memory-filled old houses mixed in with a couple of capital building projects (a dorm building) and a whole bunch of photography and film related notions, props, tools, and most of all— thoughts, ideas, stories and curiosities.

The Workshops are full of creative warm people. everybody smiles and I quickly learned that it's best just to go straight to outright friendly. I meet new people every day, have laughs with people every day, talk photography and philosophy and "life the universe and everything" every day. and there's beer to drink – good beer — every day! It appears in plastic cups next to plastic cups of box wine every night after the frayed rope is pulled aside and the dinner bell is rung, announcing the opening of the serve-yourself buffet line which as featured all manner of vegan and carnivore delights. The beer, though— that's been my first stop every night, somewhat serrepticiously filched w/o waiting in the long line. After that, I've been content to sit at a table, have a conversation with "somebody new" or in busier times, furiously plow through some of the hundreds of photos that I've taken of the belties and the kids who take care of them, in preparation for the Union Fair, which begins sunday. I'm staying extra long here so that I can finish out my project with images of the kids showing their cows.

Today was actually the last day of our class, and that makes me sad if I were to stop and think about it. I'd rather think about what I'm going to take next year, though. This place is … paradise. On the one hand, it's coastal Maine. It's pretty, rural, cool, foggy at night, it reains nearly every day for a bit, etc. I wouldn't want to live here, it's pretty rich and white, but as a place to … focus on something, or a place to take a step back from the harrying world, I doubt it can be beat.

And then there's the workshops. The Workshops. The Workshops! By that, I don't mean "the workshops" but rather the proper noun that is the casual reference to the Maine Media Workshops, which is just simply one of the greatest educational resources/concepts for photography and filmmaking in the world. Rather than me blabber on about its history, why don't you just check it out here?

I gotta go on to the next post. I know there's typos here. I don't care.

I'm back

Well, it's been a long time away from the blog, but I'm coming back now. I felt like I had to let things sit for awhile after losing Jamie. Now it's time to pick up telling tales, I reckon.

Today was supposed to be the day that I've been preparing for for literally months. That's to say, I was supposed to get on a plane today and go to coastal Maine to take part in an amazingly cool photography workshop that I registered for in November 2006.

I'll get back to that. First of all, USAirways can bite me.

They have beyond amazed me lately with their amazingly poor customer relations. I'm not going to dwell on this, but suffice it to say that at about 1pm today — 4 hours before I was due at the airport — I received an automated phone call telling me that my flight had been canceled, with no explanation, and the instruction that "should I want to reschedule my travel" to call their standard-issue 800 number. As if that wasn't bothersome enough, what followed was — I am not kidding — over 3 hours on the phone, literally an hour and a half on hold, two regular employees, three supervisors and an eventual begrudging agreement to fly me all over creation tomorrow, rather than today. Again, thanks US Airways, you sorry bastards.

But here's the bright side: I've spent actual months trying to "clear my plate" so that I can go be a photography student — in relative peace — and I've done quite well with that mission, though it has been harrowing and unbelievably frantic. But, as I sit here three hours after I was to catch my canceled flight, I can see that I really needed this one extra day to tie up a few remaining loose ends. So it all works out.

Next time I'm going to tell you about how I'm going to be studying assignment photography with a Nikon Legend and a venerable NGS senior editor, photographing and writing about kids and cows for the next 10 days on a celebrated Maine farm.

I'm sooo excited!

The Falls of the Ohio

The Falls of the Ohio, originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

On a clear and beautiful Tuesday morning, a group of us visited The Falls of the Ohio—one of Jamie's favorite places—to scatter some of his ashes. It was a very emotional time and I took special care to only document it in the most general of ways. I just wanted to share with those who love Jamie what it looked like there. The earth that we walked across is filled with remnants of creatures and adventures impossibly past. And to those magnificent epic tales, we added Jamie. I'm sure he would be happy about that.

More words and photos about Jamie are here.

sonambulance

Feeling kind of dreamy at 4am, though not from actual dreaming. I woke up with a toothache and got the opportunity to quietly walk the empty halls of the Galt House, thinking about how it's okay that Jamie's gone. Yesterday—Jamie's Day—comingled my life with the lives of so many other people who shared and delighted in him on this Earth. And it was hard to let him go, but it was very comforting and rich to walk into their worlds, beside them.

There was an underlying joy and a camraderie in his service, and in the simple hugs and shared faces, so many of them etched with sorrow—I felt like I got to look deep into the good souls of so many people who felt like I did; that we missed and loved Jamie, but that paradoxically, he was the one who had brought us together.

Walking the empty halls of this hotel, I found my way to a beautiful grand piano, with a throbbing lower register, thought of Jamie, thought of the sublime visitation playing of Rachel, and managed to pick out Brian Eno's "Another Green World," a timeless melody which has been ever-present in my ears ever since we … started saying goodbye. That pensive melody, to me, is one of complete and perfect reflection. It is the soundtrack of the mindful observer, it is the soundtrack of Jamie. It is not sad, though it strokes my sadness gently, comfortingly. Like you stroke a sleeping cat.

I'm still sad, as I've said before, because—selfishly—I miss Jamie. I can't believe he's gone. And I've bristled at those words maybe in the past because that don't seem to … really communicate anything. I've heard people say them before when there's been death in their lives. But I know them first hand now and I, too, find myself saying them: I can't believe he's gone. I'm grateful for Jamie's day, as full of tears as it was, it was also full of smiles, full of life and joy, and full of new and old friends. I'm grateful for the service and to the community process of mourning that made yesterday simultaneously so hard and so comforting.

We sleep in the mornings,
We dream of a ship that sails away,
A thousand miles away.

"The Spider and I"

Brian Eno

Miss you, Jamer.

Please go see pictures and stories.

Men an Tol Stones - Cornwall :: Photos of Cornwall

Going back to the Pilgrimages of Jamie, into the Cornwall countryside, to see sacred stones like Men an Tol

blown apart

"And she said losing love
Is like a window in your heart
Everybody sees you're blown apart
Everybody sees the wind blow"

—"Graceland" by Paul Simon

jamie and planet louisville — an outsider's perspective

I want to share a recollection that was shared with me by Mary Houlihan, something that we fondly recalled the other day—It's not so much a story as it is a state of mind, a snapshot in time.

Mary was dating Forrest, and at the time, Forrest and Jamie were frequent musical collaborators. This must have been around 1998. Jamie lived in Butchertown in the funny little shotgun place that one day just burned the fuck down. (Fortunately, nobody was home)

Anyway, because of music and friendship, we would all hang out together, mostly in Lexington, because mine and Forrest's house was "practice-space-central." for "the boys," as Mary sometimes called them — Jamie, Fo, RScotPayne..

Around this time, I became aware of Rachel's. Songs for Egon Schiele came to me by way of Forrest, who almost certainly got it from Jamie. It was and remains one of the most haunting and introspective pieces of music—of any genre—in my library.

Eventually, the opportunity — through Jamie, of course— presented itself to go to see Rachel's in the Ville. I'm not really sure where the show was. It was like a college auditorium. Going to the show was an eye-opening experience for both me and Mary; to see this Louisvlle scene, to see these musicians who had street cred for playing in some pretty loud bands on stage in a scholastic auditorium playing… cellos and violas. Opening the show was maybe the first "math-rock" sort of band I'd ever seen, Dianogah. For somebody used to seeing bar bands, it was like landing on another planet. Not just musically either—The audience was attentive and supportive, with Jason Noble, during some technical difficulty asking: "Anybody know any jokes?" and then proceeding to tell some terrible ones himself. The audience was also full of loving hecklers, people you just knew were friends of the musicians, saying things like "Why don't you play a little quieter?" to scattered cackling. Many of these were Jamie's "Louisvlle friends," I say as a Lexingtonian, and I saw for the first time that Jamie didn't just have other friends, but that he himself was known and moved in much wider circles. Heck, I had to acknowledge, Jamie was kind of famous, I felt like, and I was there with him. It was a good feeling.

Another time, maybe the same weekend, Jamie took Forrest, Mary and I to the legendary Sugar Doe Cafe, to see David Grubbs and and some major dude who had something to do with Tony Conrad, the minimalist giant (though I knew none of this particularly at the time). I stuck close to Jamie, a little uneasy awash in this sea of ideosyncratic arty strangers, many of whom greeted Jamie by name. And as we pushed our way back into the performance space in the back, I was in awe of what I saw, to this day: A room full of people, mostly younger than me, sitting quietly on the floor, in rapt attention, listening to David play some of the most atonal introspective "music," I'd ever heard.

It wasn't just the music. It was the whole scene. Why weren't these "rock kids" drunk? bored? talking amoungst themselves? I was in awe of it. Again, it was like another planet. The Planet Louisville. The Planet Jamie. And it opened a myriad of doors for me into musical worlds not yet explored. Jamie was always doing that for me.

The next day, we returned to the Sugar Doe for a fantastic brunch (unearthly music at night? amazing brunch the next day? what is this place?!) and Jamie seemed to know everybody. He was always greeted warmly and again, I was his friend. I felt special.

Mary and I recalled this story with great fondness the other day. We both had no idea what we were getting into, but in somewhat different ways: she was a self-described "bar-band girl," and I thought myself to be a a wise, well-informed alt-music snob. But Jamie had a way of showing me how little I knew. Without the least bit of hipper-than-thou, Jamie was just showing—and sharing—his interests, his curiosities… and leaving the conclusions to you.

I try to practice this in my life, too, but I never realized how much of that attitude I learned from Jamie.

(shared from The Jamer Way, a photo and recollection blog)

kapowspot

My friend Todd blogged a little bit about jamie, too.

Jamie, I miss you.

My good friend, beloved amigo, brainiac, humorist, and bon vivant Jamie Tittle passed away yesterday, Tuesday, June 19, 2007. At about 8:30pm, Jamie rocketed via Incomprehensible Quantum Dimensional Express to his next infinity-based adventure. He left inside a beautiful sunset from his hometown of Louisville, Kentucky.

I miss him so much already; but I know that he'll find ways to tell me more about myself and about this marvelous universe that we call home for however long our time here happens to be. Jamie's seemed short. He was 41, I think. It's easy to think that his tour wasn't long enough, but I try not to think that. The truth is, I like a world with Jamie in it. It's selfish, of course. I just miss him and I'm sad. Maybe you knew Jamie, if you met him for a minute you probably liked him. He was so very likeable. He was also a genius, but never tried to make you feel dumb.

Jamie was — and is and will always be — one of my favorite explorers, equally comfortable rubbing shoulders with computer wizards (and matching their wizardry) or lazily riding bikes in whichever direction suited.

Jamie, man, you will be so very missed. Thank you for all the things, places, sentiments, knowledge, and people that you shared with me.

Here are pictures of Jamie. It's a group photo pool and I would encourage anyone who as pictures to please share them. Looking at these pictures is a kind of solace that I didn't expect to be so powerful.

Also, so much love must go out to Jamie's parents, his brother Kirk, his sweetheart Merrill, all of whom help shepherd Jamie to this "connection flight" and helped the rest of us invaluably by maintaining his caringbridge site. Go there. Read the guestbook. Share yourself with the people that shared Jamie's fight with the many many people who cared. And speaking of fights— Jamie didn't lose. Jamie couldn't lose. The guy was so full of light and energy that there's no such thing as losing. And knowing Jamie—just knowing Jamie—that has been a victory in my life.

To learn more about Jamie, read these words and look at these pictures. And share your stories, please at both sites.

More tall tales on Trivial Thursdays

This week on the June 14 edition of my weekly radio show, Trivial Thursdays, which features a different guest every week, and all sorts of non-sequitur chit-chat loosely based on the trivia of the particular day (whew-- major run-on):

Join us for a return appearance by beloved writer and Merry Prankster Ed McClanahan and celebrated photographer/filmmaker Guy Mendes.

Ed and Guy will no doubt regale us with more wacky storytelling, this time drawing from Ed's book Famous People I Have Known, along with appropriate musical flirtations. Also there will doubtless be further ruminations on Carlos Toadvine (a.k.a. Little Enis) and strange underground radio phenom, Cowboy Steve. Expect tallness of tales. You can either listen live on WRFL 88.1 in Lexington from 7-9am, or you can listen online.

A Night to Remember

A few days ago, Lucy and I put the bedroom window AC in.

It's the sure sign of summer; Neither of us particulary likes AC in general, but we share a love of a frozen, heavily-blanketed, white-noised-out bedroom. Ah, sleep.

The AC has led to some deep slumber of late (despite my chronic sleeplessness).

Last night was a weird one, though, even by my standards. After an action-packed dinner (Dudley's with the Points, and a great variety of Prom attendees, one of whom found a spider in her salad and produced the most amazing wide-eyed expression of panic/lunacy on her face that I've nearly ever seen), a couple of drinks with folks at Atomic Café (the restaurant who's 'you-guys-can't-do-a-damned-thing-for-me' reputation continued to soar when I ordered a Blue Hawaiian, and was asked by our server if I could tell the bartender how to make one; C'mon! This place claims to be a Caribbean restaurant!?! I just don't get it)

After that, Lu and I returned home to turn in, and just as I settled down with The Best American Non-required Reading 2006, it became quite apparent that there is a bat in the room—apparent, due to—you know—the swooping and flying and circling.
Which led to a probably 45-minute ordeal where I did the "Git baat! Out the door, bat! Giiit!" thing, waving assorted things in the air as—you know—a message of "git and good will." Meanwhile, Lucy alternately cowered and slept beneath previously-mentioned massive covers. Finally, summoning nearly every ounce of courage in my possesssion, I smacked a shoe box over Ms. Bat (I had the feeling it was a girl) and stood on a chair with a squealing bat under a shoe box, against the wall of our bedroom, while Lucy went to get me a LP record to slide underneath of it. I was exhausted and defiant at this point, too, leading to exchanges like the following:

Lucy: "I wonder if piece of cardboard would work?"
Mick: (defiant, sulky) "I WANT AN ALBUM."

Finally, she brought me Lily Tomlin.

A few squealing minutes later, the bat, the box and Lily Tomlin all made a hasty exit out the upstairs window, followed by the frantic and immediate slamming of the window. If that bat had flown back in, I might have started crying. I assume the box and Lily are in the driveway.

After The Batcave, I returned to my book, Lucy to sleep… done right? Oh, so-not-done. As I said earlier, we had eaten magnanimously and had a reasonable number of cocktails… hours before. And I was, admittedly, not feeling too good. Some kind of mixture of copious amounts of food, some alcohol, and I suppose 47 shotglasses of adrenaline. And lying there, I started to hear that little voice that you hear sometimes that says: "You will feel much better if you throw up, don't you think? Oh, by the way, this isn't a suggestion; it's more of a casual order." Which did come to pass, and I'll leave it at that.

Food poisoning? Too much to drink? What? I don't know. I can't remember the last time I threw up. Dinner was totally delicious (though I did eat too much) and cocktails were a couple. I remain baffled by the barfing. After all that, I went to bed, totally exhausted and dreamt a very weird dream. Which I will tell you about next time.

Happy Birthday, Helvetica!

Today's moment in type ubiquity brought to you by the most famous font in the world: Happy Birthday, Helvetica! Now, you're 50!

Raquy & the Cavemen at Natasha's

Raquy & the Cavemen at Natasha's, originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

Took what turned out to be some neat pictures on Sunday of middle-eastern percussion wunderkind Raquy & The Cavemen, who did a workshop and also a performance with Rakadu Gypsy Dance at Natasha's Cafe, here in Lexington.

Some pictures are here.

Pix are up!

I'm so Poi. Much Poi-er than you (TT version), originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

If you're curious about the hoo-hah that was the Rakadu Spirit of the Tribes 7 trip in Hollywood, Florida, I got some pictures for you!

Cedar Post Restaurant, ideal at dawn

Kountry Kraft alert!

Stumbled across the Cedar Post Restaurant on Hwy 25 this morning in the gloaming.. The gloaming has long been my favorite time of day. Driving Lucy to the Cinci airport (which is in Kentucky, btw), it occurred to me that about 4:30 am in the morning is kind of "the staging hour." It's the minutes before the Big Show. "You mean the Every Day?" Lucy asked. Yep. The Every Day. The Big Show. Same thing. It's easy to think of it as "just another day;" but if you're up before the sun comes up (no small feat), it's somehow much more epic.

Plus, if you've just driven yr. sweetie to the airport, you might then stumble across some total Kountry restaurant and be the only customer, listening to the locals talk about health and home repair. Headed to my table: the house special, the "Sunrise Surprise," which is appropo since that is exactly what's happening outside. There's a lot to be said for a well-timed, well-named meal, methinks. This place is a cabin-like structure, what with the logs and the chinking; it's actually three buildings it seems, the oldest of which is currently a beauty shack. Hand-written on the sign it says "We use Matrix." Which kind of reminds me of the funny thing that less-than-fluent (and often perfectly smart, I must add) people say concerning computer software: "Do you have Microsoft?" or "Can you show me how to use Adobe?" These are all brands, not products, not that anybody's keeping track. Okay, okay, I'm keeping track.

I asked my waitress about the age of the building. "This building must be pretty old, right?" I inquired, looking around at the Daniel Booneness of it all. She smiled proudly and concurred: "Oh yeah—I would say this place is at least 20 years old."

.............Right. Well, I guess there's something said about imitation being the sincerest form of flattery—I'm sure Daniel Boone would have slept here…Had he been born a lot later..

Al's Bar! In Effect!

Curse the Fern bar. Thumbs down to the Sports Bar. Way down. At what point in the history of public drinking establishments did it become necessary for there to be a multitude of blaring televisions? I do not care for it, friends. TV is the opiate of the masses, not liquor, not even opium. TV, friends—TV.

And I have to admit: Al's Bar—deep in the hood in downtown Lexington—does have one TV. Annie, the barkeep gets rather absorbed in Days of Our Lives. And that'll do. Beats the hell out of CNN or ESPN, okay?

The point of this post (in case you thought there wasn't one) is salutation in fact. Particularly, to the new owners of Al's Bar. I had heard recently that a handful of intrepid young dudes had bought Al's, and I was intrigued and simultaneously concerned for their safety. Al's Bar is no TGI Fridays. In fact, at 6th and Limestone, I've tended to drive by and comment to whomever was with me "That is a good place to get your ass kicked." Suffice it to say: Al's Bar is no TGI Fridays.

I'm happy to report that my assessment may have been out of order. That's because this sunny afternoon, I rode my bike over for a cheeseburger on the advice of intrepid radio pal Prof. Griff. What I found was something that I thought had nearly completely dried up—an honest-to-goodness dive bar. A Bar Bar. If you can picture Moe's Tavern in The Simpsons, then you're on the right track. I knew I was.

Tilty pooltable, C&W/Ranchero jukebox. Dismal bathrooms. Plenty of tables and chairs (to qualify for Sunday liquor sales). Josh, the kind and cool new owner is a hip younger dude. He's into healthy stuff, is embarrassed about the bathrooms and promises that the burgers-and-fries menu is going to get an upgrade, all of which is fine; I can suffer some organic produce dishes for the right to sit on a dingy bar stool and rock CCR on the jukebox in near-darkness whilest watching for assorted characters to come in and cool their heels. (Sample conversation snippet: [guy walks in] Bartender: "Leroy! Good afternoon! You want a shot of J&B?" Leroy [laughing]: "Naw, naw…it's too early…just give me…[concentrated pause]…um…well, Hell, why don't I just have a shot of J&B?" He drinks up and hits the door.) Done and done.

I didn't actually have a drink today, but the cheeseburger and tater tots were vintage and made with love. I'll be back for the cocktail, no doubt. If you're in Lexington or nearby, check it out.

Alyssum's place burned to a crisp. Please help!

I've got a super-special friend named Alyssum. She may be your friend, too, and if she's not, it's probably only because you've just not met. She's friendly like that, and funny and smart and double-plus talented; for instance, she's an astounding and multi-faceted dancer and also a veterinary student who has stuck her arm up cow's butts.

Here's the thing though—her apartment burned. She lost her sweet kitties (so sad) and many many things. Fortunately, she and her roommate were not at home and are fine.

Fire, jeez—it's just one of those things that you hope hope hope stays out of your life. If you want to help Alyssum out, there's a number of things you can do:

• You can send her well-wishes at her highly entertaining blog, You know, stuff.
• Also, you can find out more about the fire at her Tribe.com blog.
• But the thing you can really do is check out her wish list, where you can sign up for all sorts of Alyssum-helping tasks and things. (Even if you got no extra change, you might still have an opportunity to polish her smoked-up silver—we are talking about a belly dancer here, after all).

Here's a few pictures I've taken of Alyssum. One of my favorite Alyssum moments was an overheard comment by her moments before a contortion performance in Lexington: "Okay, you guys will carry me out and unfold me…"

Help her out if you can. And check those smoke alarms.

A funny thing happened on the way to the Casbah

Man, do things get weird and weirder.

I'm in Florida, in case that hasn't been established. And the trail of hilarity, unexpectedness, good times, gratitude, sun, beach, and so forth just continues to pour forth. And some of it, is rather wacky. I cannot seem to relate fully the bizarre things that have happened here, so I'm going to focus on one for this post. Read on, gentle reader!

I swung by the Spirit workshops to make an official introduction to grease the wheels of one facet of my trip: taking pictures of belly dancers—only to be severly rebuffed. No pictures. No! None! Do not! Take! Pictures! Not now, not tonight, not tomorrow, not at all. Kinda hurt my feelings and I'm not totally over it; Trying to accept that it's got nothing to do with me, but I know how much smiles some of my belly dance pictures have brought dancers and I was lookng forward to that again, with an audience of several hundred avid dancers. Not to be it would seem.

I came back to the condo, and said, "At the beach, no problem here, right?" I got a gyro from the same place around the corner that I last night got some hummus and baba for the trip to boca raton the night before.

And then a funny thing happened.

Deciding to enjoy the privacy for a moment (no disrespect to last night's Venician mansion and its ultra-kind owners with 87 rooms, wi-fi, a mechanical butler, etc. More on that later.), and lay down on the couch. Bang, the phone rings; it's my trusty other-continent customer support dude calling on behalf of my bank to confirm that I'm in fact swiping my plastic all over southeastern florida. Which I am. And, honestly, I have to remember to be thankful for this no-charge service that my bank provides, even though it can be purturbing if I'm in the middle of something else, like an attempted nap. The funny thing is, when they call, they'll run down a list of charges: "Did you spent $6.73 at foodway? (yes) Did you spend $14.83 at cocktailsRus? (uh-huh) $2.46 at Nuttier Than All Other Nuts? (yup)

And so on.

But the weird thing was this: two transactions to the mediterranean restaurant right around the corner. One being for the gyro I bought just 20 minutes ago. The other for the hummus from last night. And both amounts totally wrong. North of wrong. Double plus north of wrong. And that, my friends, is how I am currently involved in a credit card fraud case whilest simultaneously movin and groovin on the beach.

It's been rather fun I must say. The owner claims total innocence but in a kind of belligerent way that makes me thing either a) he is one guilty motherfucker or b) his people skills are seriously compromised. We've had at least a couple of smiling yet confrontational encounters since this happened. yes, some chest-puffing, yes, some finger wagging. I'm grateful that I've been able to do this without raising a fever, you know? And in a weird way, I'm taking my cues from the owner. but I think the sum-bitch is guilty. Last night, Mr. Mikey T was here and we were walking and I just couldn't help—couldn't help!—marching into old dude's restaurant and having about a ten minute chest-puffing session with the guy. It was quite exhillarating, I think, because the sums aren't really anything to lose sleep over (you're dying to know, aren't you? read on) But it's kind of cathartic to walk in, have this preposterous little debating session (him: "look here! see this number [pointing at my charge slip]? This is how much we charged you! If you were charged more, it's your bank's fault!" Me: "Well, that's very convenient for you, don't you think?" [ensuring laughter and head-shaking] And again, there's not really any blood boiling, but there's some finger-wagging (mostly me) and so forth.

And you know what else?
I probably wouldn't even be bothering with this if the guy hadn't said the first time I went down, "You call your bank, and when they figure it out, you will come back down here and apologize to me."

Oh. My. God. Did this guy really say that? He backed off of it real quick actually. I was completely slack-jawed over it. "Wow," I said. "You have an amazing amount of nerve! Me? Apologize to you!?" And this all said with a certain amount of incredulous laughter. I mean— even if the guy is completely vindicated, there is no excuse for his swagger, at least, not as a businessman who, you know, wants to sell food to people on a daily basis.

So the saga continues, but today, I look forward to a swim, some sitting around, maybe an argument or two with my neighborhood credit card swindler, you know—the normal stuff.

Stay tuned!

Headed Out! Spirit of the Tribes in FLA!

Wow, all of a sudden, I'm going to Florida!

"Excellent…" as Mr. Burns would say.

I'm delighted to report that I am honored to accompany my world-class bellydance pals Rakadu Gypsy Dance to Spirit of the Tribes 2007 in Ft. Lauderdale, thanks to the ceaseless proddings of sRi TaraSita. "Over 100 performers! Featuring Tribal belly dance groups and instructors from all over the country!" the press page sez! Including pals and Lex visitors Dalia Carella and Rachel Brice. Which is cool enough in and of itself. And let's not forget that Rakadu is basically the closing act for the entire event. Not too shabby, dahlinks!

As for me, I'll be acting as some sort of laptop adjunct musician slash entertainment consort slash cocktail consultant slash errand guy.

But the real junk is that I get to have my kick-axe photog shit blowin' up amongst the world's best bellydancers. Oh, yes, there will be photos to come. Oh, yes, there will!

(Editor's note: Extra thanks goes out to Mick's ever-patient wife and love, Lucy, for putting up with such dalliances. [in other words: she said I could go])

No one belongs here more than you. Stories by Miranda July

If you are looking for an innovative and delightful design for your web site, it just doesn't get any better than this one by Miranda July, an author promoting her new book.

How incredibly cool.