"Invisible Airwaves!"

OMG—

I'm 41 years old and I'm going to see Rush on Saturday. That should be depressing but I'm so excited. It's been more than 25 years since I sat in my best friend Tim Haney's basement and boggled over the mystery of Cygnus X-1, a song that ends "to be continued…" Whoa. Tim had filched older brother Jaye's copy of A Farewell to Kings and it was just one of the most intriguing things either of us had ever seen or heard. What would I have thought if I'd known that I'd be going to see Rush so many years later?

There's something about Rush that fires the furnace inside of teenage boys in a way that cannot be denied. I barreled through my teens listening to "Tom Sawyer" and "Red Barchetta" thinking that there was nothing in the world that I couldn't do if I really wanted to. The music of Rush assured me that I had an important place in the universe —that in fact, we all did should we chose to accept such a mantle. Does that sound breathlessly grandiose? Of course it does! That's what Rush is about somehow.

What really excites me is that I'm going to see Rush with some of my oldest friends and, while our friendships are somewhat disparate and we don't always spend a lot of time together these days, we still have Rush. And while we listen to all manner of music (I am an ultra-hip-on-the-newest thing college radio deejay, I must belabor), obscure, mainstream, in a variety of genres, we still have Rush.

So why is it then that Rush inspires a kind of timid or reluctant endorsement as we get older? There's almost "the Rush smirk," the sideways look you know you're gonna get if you bring up Rush among those who claim any degree of modern music fandom or scholarship. It's as if my briefcase (if I had one) fell open and was full of Tinker Toys or Legos.

And what's funny is that this attitude will frequently be adopted by people who quite possibly loved Rush when they were younger. Almost as if we're saying I'm so much more sophisticated now, but when I was a kid… sure! Maybe it has something to do with that delicious burning with which we once felt those Objectivism-inspired Neil Peart lyrics (who among Rush fans wouldn't have given anything to have dinner with our teenage intellectual god? if only to say "Neil, what should I do with my life?") coupled with the oft-repeated — and so inaccurate — labeling of Rush as a 'metal band.' Please. Nothing really against metal for the purposes of this point; it' s just so wrongheaded as to miss the entire point. Which is: There really isn't any other Rush. What's weird is that so few bands ever even come out into the light with their Rush inspiration. (The Smashing Pumpkins used to do "Limelight" in their encore, and Mixmaster Mike of the Beastie Boys does this great "Tom Sawyer" cut-up prior to Beasties shows). Recently, Chuck Klosterman, epic and hilarous rock writer that he is, wrote a fantastic essay on "The Spirit of Radio" for Esquire magazine.

So where am I going with this? Maybe it's this: Rush is just like Star Wars for me. That elemental. And just as I don't tend to watch Star Wars very often these days, neither do I tend to listen to Rush. But they both resonate to this day. They've both lost little of their sway over me and the way my brain works and really the values that I hold.

Recently, I've been reading, for the first time, The Lord of the Rings. I have always felt that not having read the Tolkien tome was an oversight by any supposedly well-read person. And one of the treats of this reading is seeing some of Rush's own influences. "Rivendell" is obvious, and even somewhat hamfisted, one must admit. But "The Trees" shines still, in both word and music.

The point really is what Rush introduced me to: Rush introduced me to literature. Rush introduced me to intellectualism. Rush songs aren't about girls, they're not about partying, they're not about drugs (okay, okay except A Passage to Bangkok), they're not about being depressed. They're about ideas and dreams, and the epic nature of the world around us. And for a band to inspire unshakeable starry-eyed optimism in teenage boys, well, there are worse things.

I learned so much from Rush, and I can't wait to see them for the 3rd and probably last time. I doubt that I'll need to see them again, honestly; this is kind of a "touching base" with my roots. It's less a testament to any continued adulation, than it is a celebration of who I am in my 40's. This person—this person who takes pride in a renaissance attitude, in a continuing zeal of discovery—owes plenty of that attitude to Rush.

And I don't expect them to be the same band that I loved (although I of course can't help but want them to be), but that's mostly because Rush taught me not to expect that. "Changes aren't permanent, but change is," was just one of the many little life lessons that peek through those overwrought lyrics. This from a band that has, unbelievably by any measure, had the same roster for over 30 years. Almost no other band can claim that. Name one band. By and large they've always been married guys who have shunned the spotlight outside of touring (okay, Alex did get arrested with his son awhile back). I remember hearing, many many years ago, when they played Rupp Arena that they were seen playing tennis at the Hyatt. I've always held the funniest mental image of boney gargoyle-like Geddy Lee in tennis whites with a headband on. (And thanks to the Internet, here it is)

Rush just carries on. They are the essence of what one might call progressive rock. They just keep progressing and kids keep graduating from the school of Rush. It's not like they ever sold out. It's not like they've ever had a bigger hit than "Tom Sawyer." But they have made million-selling record after record and have a die-hard audience of — guess who?— teenage boys full of fire, ambition, and what might be called intellectual angst, I'm guessing.

The funny thing about Rush, is that despite having "outgrown them," I've always trusted them. How does a band inspire trust? I'm not really sure. I have just always felt that Rush wanted me to be the very best person that I was brave enough to be. In Rush's music, the message was always Go! Do! Be! whether in my personal odysseys or even in relationships.

I'm still trying to do that, and I will always love Rush for their unflagging encouragement.

Last note on "The Starman," the longstanding emblem of Rush. Neil Peart says: "All it means is the abstract man against the masses. The red star symbolizes any collectivist mentality."

The Final Edit

blow drying, originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

Here it is. This is what I shot over a thousand pictures to get down to. Seems crazy, right? It was an amazing experience. I came to understand how a good (in the care of my teacher, great) photo editor can look at dozens —even hundreds— of pictures … and see a story. Here's mine, edited and laid out by National Geographic Senior Projects Editor Bill Douthitt. What you see here is what was shown a the Big Friday Night show at the Maine Media Workshops, along with the work of the rest of our class, and also the rest of the week's participants. It was a really great time for me and I was very very smiley. Note: It wasn't all girls, actually; but the slightly-extended story, which I'm still working on really concerns the girls and how 4-H figures into their lives. Plus I love the phrase Beltie Girls (although "Beltie Kids" is okay, too). Click here to see The Final Edit.

Rock-A-Fire Hacker

Here's the apex of western civilization: Videos featuring the reprogramming of the Chuck E. Cheese Showbiz Pizza Rock-A-Fire Explosion animatronic band to perform a variety of … other inappropriate songs.

Maine sunset

Maine sunset, originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

T-Mobile

The 40

heidi, originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

I've posted a flickr gallery of The 40, the shots that I culled down from around a thousand, which were then culled further down to six with the guidance of National Geographic Senior Projects Editor Bill Douthitt. It was one of the most thrilling experiences that I've ever had sitting in a chair.

The gallery is here.

Belties

Belted Galloways are among the most curious and gentle bovines that I've ever experienced. Apparently, the bulls are regarded as even gentler still. From my first day at Aldermere, I found out how relaxing it was to be close to a pen full of "Belties," if not actually in the pen, as the 4H kids were on MWF.

On my first day, I got there just as the kids' work was winding down, and then it started raining. The Belties really aren't any more fond of rain than these girls and everybody was in the freshly-sawdusted pen. Notice the girl who's actually lying on top of a cow. This scene lasted nearly half an hour, as I recall. If the cows got close enough to be annoying, the girls would slap-slap-slap! them in the snout or just push them away.

I had a different experience, just as I became convinced of the total serenity of the situation. One of the Belties who'd been kind of eyeing me with a bit of defiance, suddenly took a couple of steps towards me and butted me in the side a couple of times. It was a little disconcerting, especially, since she kept her eye on me and kind of followed me as I stepped away. Then she head-butted me again. I kind of quietly made my way out of the pen and over to where the kids were doing some other work and had this exchange:

• me: "So, um, have you guys ever been head-butted by any of the cows?"
• 4H girl: "Oh, yeah, all the time." (with blasé)
• me: "Oh."
• me: "So, um, what does it mean?" (translation: "Am I being attacked?")
• 4H girl: "It means 'get out of my way.'"
• me: "Oh."
• Another 4H girl: "Sometimes they're sorta bossy."
• me: "I guess that explains about when I saw you slapping that one cow on the nose a bunch."
• 4H girl: "Yeah. It's the best way to get their attention."
  

That was my only questionable moment with the Belties all week long. I loved showing up in the morning and going around and smartly smacking them between the eyes repeatedly, sort of like you do to a cat's tail end. They are just sooo sweet.

One more Beltie story: I was spending some time in a new pasture they are clearing on the back of the farm. It's an amzing piece of land and basically rolls down a hill right to the ocean, with only a grove of trees in the middle. At the top of the hill is a Beltie pen and they have free reign of the in-progress pasture, which on this day was being de-boulderized by a backhoe/frontloader. You know, a big yellow piece of classic construction equipment. A real life Tonka Toy.

The cows stayed pretty much away from the backhoe while the farmhand was digging — I don't know if that was because of volume (the thin's pretty loud) or just because everybody should stay away from backhoes. But after he called it a day and left, I hung around and the funniest thing happened. The cows — about a dozen or so — were under their shelter, standing, lying, staring at me. After a long while—half hour or so—one of them sauntered towards the gate, and slowly they all followed. The lazed their way down the hill, stopping here and there to chomp some grass, before eventually making their way to … the backhoe. And they all congragated around it, and sniffed and licked it for at least 15 minutes before continuing down the hill. It was one of the brightest moments of my day, literally, because it had been cloudy and the sun had now come gloriously through. If you don't believe me, see for yourself. I love them Belties.

I keep thinking about sooo many things… right?

The other day, a fellow workshopper and I were talking about the amazing cross-section of people that are here, in terms of geography. Easily, folks from all over the US as well as places like Iceland, Burmuda and Europe. We were thinking about funny colloquialisms having both had experience with the oft-misunderstood NY'ism, the habit of saying "rightrightright!" or "yeahyeahyeah!" to indicate that you are "following" what a person is saying. But it's frequently misunderstood as an expression of "hurry up." It's (usually) not.

Anyway, I learned how the San Francisco version of "yeahyeahyeah…" is a lethargic-sounding "yeahhhhhhh…" with a slightly glazed-over moment of contemplation. They mean the same thing: "I understand what yr. saying and I'm following you."

Here, I've heard this funny colloquialism that I'm not sure is regional or generational. It's the use of the interrogative: "Right?" It comes after a momentary pause, at the end of a sentence and doesn't really beg an answer. It basically seems to be similar to the above.

Example dialog:
Dude A: "Dag, this party is off the hook!"
Dude B: "I know! ..........right?"

No further comments on the topic of party-off-the-hookness are required at this point and conversants may now move on to the next topic.

PS: This picture also did not make the final cut. It is, however, a shining example of my attempts to emulate the fill-flash style of my teacher, National Geographic stalwart Karen Kasmauski. The idea is to use a strobe as fill-in lighting in a somewhat dark spaces, while simultaneously preserving the "ambient light." Oh, and the ideal is that it not be apparent that a flash is being used at all. This is one of my better executions. Quite a great lesson.

Pal/cottage-mate Jenna

Pal/cottage-mate Jenna, originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

jenna's lookin' all contemplative but really she's couch chillin. Also jenna's a swell photographer of tattooed love boys.

The class bldg

The class bldg, originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

Or at least my class bldg

Kate's Cottage

Kate's Cottage, originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

My home. Not on the web map for some reason. It's on the south end of "thw homestead."

Watching The Workshops go 'Bye

Photo_08, originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

I've been sitting in the dining tent for hours. After a crazy night of post-workshop jubilation—it's always strange and exciting to go to parties where people don't really know each other that well—I dragged my somewhat-slightly-dazed ass out of bed at 8am and shambled to the tent in hopes of a greasy breakfast. This wasn't easy for other reasons, too, namely, it was pouring down rain for the first time all week and I was all done. That makes for a pretty convinding case for staying in bed, no?

But I didn't want to. I love this place and the people that are here with me, and I just want to drink it in some more. Today is a day of teary goodbye's for most, and I've just kind of camped out since breakfast, through lunch, talking, laughing, sharing photos, and really having my eyese well up with tears more often then I would admit.

Every conversation seems to yield new things. I've even made new friends among people who were on their way to the airport in moments. I can't wait to talk to Molly some more about Holga. I've talked endlessly to various people about the contagious exhuberance of Bob Sacha, who I'll be revisiting in a month at the Mountain Workshop, along with a few others from here. And I've delighted in the shared wonder of nearly every person here at The Workshops.

My class is over, and this week is pretty much closing down. I'm alone in the dining tent, and the industrious kitchen staff swabs the deck, the rain relents, the sun comes out on a glorious Maine day, and the staff falls back and prepares to do it all again for tomorrow's incoming students.

It's not a wrap for me yet, though I now kind of move into a different mode. I'm staying to cover the Union Fair and my "Beltie Girls" as they show their cows for ribbons. And delightfully, I've made arrangements to stay exactly where I am until Tuesday, my room in Kate's Cottage (the students here are scattered around in a variety of dorms and motels and houses; Kate's Cottage is kind of ideal in terms of being "right down the road" from the campus.) and I even get to keep my "eatin' priv'leges." So I'll be kind of a lurker, but will get to visit with a few of my fave peeps who are staying for yet another workshop.

It is so great here. I've got tears again.

Beltie Girl

Beltie Girl, originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

One of my "Beltie Girls," 4H kids who take care of and show Belted Galloway cows at world-famous Aldermere Farm, in Rockport, Maine.

Documenting them was my photo project.

I made over 900 images, that were then culled by me to 80, Wednesday night into Thursday morning. I can barely explain what a strange and intense experience this was. From the 80, my pal Casey, our diligent TA, helped get me down to our instructor's mandate of 40 images.

The next thing that happened was one of the most amazing and hard-to-describe experiences of my life: sitting next to National Geographic Senior Graphics Editor Bill Douthitt (my teacher!) as he edited my photos down to … six. I was very, um, concerned about this. I don't know how to express how I felt. I felt nervous, I was kind of afraid that he'd say "Mick, there's really not quite enough to work with here. I want you to go shoot some more."

But Bill and his wife, Nikon Legend Karen Kasmauski (also my teacher) were among the strongest "the carrot not the stick" proponents I have ever met. I sat with Bill, and he consoled me by saying: "Just wait a minute, Mick. You're going to be amazed at what's about to happen."

So from 900 to 80 to 40 to 6. I'll put the show up soon.

Holy cow. It was presented last night at the Big Show (all the collected work of the Workshops this week) and there have been a stream of people complimenting me on them since then.

Which feels so great.

(By the way, this picture did NOT make the final cut!)

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.

Pezhead meets Rachel Brice

Pezhead meets Rachel Brice, originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

Oh friends, there's been much doings! While short on words, I've been thousanding them together in pictures, you know. I've been super happy with my new camera setup and have been putting it to some good use.

For instance, maybe you want to check out pix from Mecca's Dancing Lotus Lounge event, featuring the amazing Rachel Brice!

Some good news on the Environment!

I know I've been a little un-bloggy lately, but I'm coming back, I swear. In the meantime, this is the best news I've heard in many a moon, concerning the worrisome state of the environment and the fuck-headed attitude taken by many "in charge" in our country. Check it out, read the story, it's a big deal.

High Court rebukes Bush on car pollution

Now, if somebody can only explain to me why this story was in Yahoo News' top RSS feeds for less than a day, before being replaced by important news about Justin Timberlake.

Mushrooms grown by me!

Mushrooms grown by me, originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

I was worried that the crazy mushroom growing kit that sister-in-law Dana gave me for xmas might have sat around my office too long to produce. Luckily, it's still got some pizzazz. Here the results of two weeks of weird loamy soil sitting in a box in the basement, with me misting it every day.

We've lost alot in the air

5, originally uploaded by Avi_Abrams.

I'm just old enough to be able to remember when people tended to dress up for plane travel and when people actually smoked on planes and when in-flight meals were actually meals. To say nothing of the wonderful color and style of the stewardesses—excuse me—Flight Attendents.

I found a beautiful and delightful blog collection of images from the golden age of commercial air travel. Take a look.

Special Agent Lucy on Trivial Thursdays!

lucy is evil, but i'm nice, originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

Tomorrow on Trivial Thursdays, my long-running college-mutant version of a morning drive-time show, my guest will be the only woman with the moxie to shout me down. So much so that I married her!

Tune in to Trivial Thursdays—The Lucy Show on WRFL 88.1fm, tomorrow at 7am!

Thinking about Photography

I've been much more concerned with my photography lately.

Not "concerned," in the sense of "what will become of it?" (although there is that), but just rather with Photography (capital "P") and how it is a part of me and what I can do to develop (sorry) that part of me. The weird thing is this: I've recently made the foray into the not-inexpensive digital SLR world, by purchasing a Canon Digital SLR. Let there be no mistaking: I'm wild about this camera. It's a great camera. I feel like I've come home, in terms of having back the responsiveness of an SLR that I grew up with, a responsiveness that was lost for a number of years as I played with a variety of point-and-shoot pocket digital cameras. Those cameras all had their own merits, too, but also their foibles. Mostly, I guess these have to do with my preconceived notions of resolutions and lens quality, etc. I guess, equipment issues. Speed of focusing, ease of use, resolution, that sort of thing.

Recently, I've had some photographic experiences not directly tied to my own work. I've been reading essays by Janet Malcolm on some of history's great photographers—Steiglitz, Weston, etc. And it's been interesting—more so than I might have guessed, honestly—to read some things about the lives of these characters. In many ways, they had plenty of their own foibles. Weston, for instance, was a quite the heartbreaker, apparently. Steiglitz was rather an asshole.

These things are sort of beside the point, but I learned some interesting things not too long ago when I went out on a "photo day" with my friend Boyd. I wanted to play with this lens that I'd rented; Boyd, however, showed up to our location with a 4 x 5 large-format camera—a looming beast in a box, on a hulking tripod. Boyd came prepared to shoot about a dozen pictures. That is the nature of his contraption. It's not about volume, but rather about quality. Which is more indicative of the history of "art" photography, I guess. I suppose it would be overly broad to claim this about photography in general, since photojournalism has long required "mass shooting," as my friend Jenna recently referred to the common practice of shooting many many pictures.

And it's not that I think it crazy to approach photography from this labor-intensive handful-of-images approach, it just hadn't really occurred to me. It's a whole other aspect of photography that I had never considered. The nature of my historic relationship (mostly self-taught) with photography has been the convenience of the SLR, which has, ironically and from time to time, seemed rather inconvenient to me, compared to the myriad of pocket cameras that have emerged over the years. In fact, a fascination in one camera in particular, the Lomo, is sort of what got me back into photography after some years of waning interest. That was followed somewhat by a brief foray into the delightful lo-tech medium-format wonder of the Holga. And I've seen people on Flickr who can do spectacular things with seemingly modest cameras.

Now, with my Canon, I have probably the nicest (and certainly by far the most expensive) camera that I've ever owned. And, let's not be coy: My investment is modest compared to the potential of future investment in lenses and so forth. But here's the rub: As I upgrade my equipment, I've found a growing concern in me: the concern that whatever idiosyncratic style that I may have might be lost as I "join the troops" who shoot with the standard arsenal of equipment. A little voice inside says: Maybe you'd be better off to stick with, say, toy cameras, to keep some sort of oddness that some people seem to love about your photos. But, conversely, maybe I would be hiding in that idiosyncrasy— limited by a limited technology.

So, while I'm mildly skeptical of my equipment, it's for surprising reasons: I just bought a new lens, and looked forward to getting it. But after shooting with it, I was happy with the clarity of the resulting photos, but maybe a little uncomfortable about how … normal they looked. I mean compared to some of my weird, old blurryvision® pix, of which I'm mighty proud.

And to dovetail this in with my mentions of essays about the giants of photography and my experience with my friends who have forayed into medium-format film photography—It's easy to forget—or never even know—how hard, how complicated, how demanding photography used to be. Now, everybody has a camera. There's phone cameras, there's little bitty cameras, there's an army of soccer moms with XTi's just like mine. Which causes me to gulp a little bit. I would like to be a (more) remarkable photographer. I would like (and there's some embarrassment here) to be known as a remarkable photographer. And let's not forget this: ideally, I might also like to be paid as a remarkable photographer.

But reading these essays and watching my medium-format dabbling friends, I'm seeing that—historically—being a remarkable photographer was much much much more arduous. And why should that matter? There's is a romance about that which is undeniable to me. To understand the science, to gather together (and care for!) the equipment, to master the darkroom, and to shoot in such a way that might —might!— lead to a handful of exposures in the course of a day— And all this without the least bit of a guarantee that the photographer would even have the camera pointed at the right thing in the first place.

It's kind of mind-blowing, really. I guess that's all I'm wanting to say. But if you want to get together and talk about it over a drink or coffee or (heaven forbid) over a photo shoot, I'm game.

I'm going to stick with this digital business for now; but I reserve the right to change my mind and start shooting with Brownies, if so moved.

I can see (more) clearly now.

new lens lucy!, originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

I had been intently contemplating the purchase of a new lens (50mm f1.4) for my camera, and finally pulled the trigger. After Amazon took over a week to deliver it (Amazon is starting to slack, btw) and I finally got it in my greedy little hands, I took some pictures at Gallery Hop. Here's a set of shots with the new lens. It's a challenging beast; well-endowed with its own glories and foibles. But I think there are some great pictures to be taken in the coming days.

The Apples in Stereo!

robert, originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

There's much excitement around town as our (kind-of) home-town pop wonders The Apples in Stereo get ready to wow the world with the long-awaited New Magnetic Wonder. To get things going was a gig at CD Central to be followed later tonight with a full-scale bliss-fest at The Dame.

Check out some pics from the CD Central gig here.

Could it Be?

In the wake of the seemingly-settled 15-year lawsuit between Apple Computer and the Beatles' label Apple Records, some people are saying there's gonna be a whole new revolution in digital music delivery. Like Wired News, for instance.

Will the iPod be the new CD?

leaf geometry

leaf geometry, originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

I rented a Macro lens this weekend and took some cool pix with photo pal Boyd. If you want to see more, click here.

bennett

bennett, originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

I rented a Macro lens this weekend and took some cool pix here and there. If you want to see more, click here.

marionette

marionette, originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

I rented a Macro lens this weekend and took some cool pix here and there. If you want to see more, click here.

betty and olive

betty and olive, originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

I rented a Macro lens this weekend and took some cool pix here and there. If you want to see more, click here.

Required Stormtrooper reading

required Stormtrooper reading, originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

Check out some pics from this weekend's rather bizarre Joseph-Beth event, featuring droves of Star Wars fans and costumed maniacs from not one, but two, Star Wars fan groups. These are the pictures that you are looking for…

Laptop Lounge in effect!

Wow, Mr. DJ! Had quite the time doing the Laptop Lounge gig at a couple of events in the last two weeks. At this year's Heard it Through the Grapevine benefit, worked up this cuh-razy mobile rig that allowed me to pump latin jazz in a variety of venues. Hence the tag line on promo materials: "You never know where he'll turn up!"

The other gig was this year's Casino Night at the Headley-Whitney Museum, themed "The Gambler." I surprised myself by being able to come up with over three hours of western (not country) music. But the mood music prize must go to Calexico, for their amazingly appropriate dust-blown mariachi jams.

BTW: As I was driving home, I realized with great satisfaction that I had absent-mindedly managed to not play Kenny Rogers all night.

lolli's teaching me

Blogpal lolli yesterday blew my mind with her new-found curiosity about Technorati. Apparently, it's high time that I set up my Technorati Profile. So release the spiders!