Designed by American artist/architect/OSS member/silk entrepeneuer, Jim Thompson (I highly recommend clickling), this angel hails from a most unlikely place - Bangkok, Thailand. While I am unfortunately not in Thailand at the moment, this little love delicately traveled back from Asia with me in February 2008 to remain in its permanent home in Monessen, Pennsylvania.

Since I was unable to see my family over the holiday season and the show is now over, a lovely trip to Pittsburgh was in order to celebrate a very belated Lutheran Christmas, a slightly belated Orthodox Christmas and Russian New Year (also referred to as Old New Year).

And actually, Russian New Year is the reason for writing today. I spent the day in the angel's home yesterday, which is owned by an angel of other sorts. A 92-year-old woman who lives alone, cooks, cleans, bakes, trims shrubs, cuts her hair, knocks icicles off her gutter (with a broom stick) and says the rosary religiously 1-3 times a day. As you can imagine, these feats also come with the necessary amounts of stubbornness and determination. The woman still hand-washes dishes faster than me.

No part (to our knowledge) of our family is directly Russian, but we are primarily Eastern European by descent, which explains why my grandma met my grandpa at a Russian New Year dance on January 14th, 194_. The year, in this case, is irrelevant, as she was simply glowing all day on January 14, 2010. She had recently cut her hair to suit a left-side-part and placed a crystal bobby-pin on the right, not for decoration, but for efficiency. She looked beautiful. Just as you can hear a smile through the phone, if you missed the light in her eyes, you could taste her happiness in her pirohy* yesterday.

Oh pirohy, pirohy... heavenly pirohy.

My pap-pap passed away in 1997, truly a man with the heart of gold. One of the first stories she told me yesterday was his arrival to her house on that January day.

She smiles, looks at her latest batch of beef soup, looks up at me, smiles even brighter:

"When he showed up, I thought (groans)... he was wearing a sport coat and all the other men going to the dance had rented tuxedos. It was the new year! You were supposed to dress up!"**

This woman is a perfect example of why I don't believe in the description of true love that subscribes to one spouse passing soon after the second. Last time I checked, it was 2010 - thirteen years after his passing and she is just as wonderful as ever. Sure, her body isn't as strong as it used to be, but she has one of the greatest, simplest philosophies I've ever heard: "I'm just grateful I can get out of bed in the morning." - says the woman, who, when she can't sleep... bakes pies. Actions speaking decibels louder than words.

To get back to our friend pictured above, we didn't have a candle to light for Pap-Pap, but I did have my camera and we did have the angel. Very cool to think that I wouldn't have been sitting there with her if it hadn't been for yesterday, over a half century ago. You can say that about a lot of things and a lot of dates, but it just felt poignantly cool yesterday.

*Common to most Americans as pierogies, its singular in Slovak, piroh, is sadly as unknown as canolo/cannoli is to Italian-Americans.

**In relaying this story to my parents later that night, my mom knew it and my dad, haha, my dad just smiled a deep, soulful smile and said, "I loved that man."

One of the classiest joints in which I've set foot in NYC. I will not disclose the location online of said night-spot, just know that it is definitely open on Sunday nights and definitely a place one should keep on the hush-hush.

And to think, my day started with "Batman"! How does your wintry, non-snowy day get better from there? Elementary, my dear Watsons. Your partner in all things exploratory, wild and fun says, "Hey, I just bought a few rolls of film, I've got my Lomo, grab your baby (for new readers, 'tis nothing less than my camera) and let's go."

While it took a little more than that to drag me away from Batman (the lack of quotes is not an error, I repeat, not an error), I hopped the 4 to the J to meet John on the frigid corner of Delancey and Allen to begin implied photo journey.

It should be mentioned that I am on two very personal quests to be accomplished in the next five years. I partially agreed to this frolic in the frozen air to further one of the two goals to teach myself to not be ridiculously cold anymore. The other has to do with snakes. I'll keep you posted on both, not to worry.

Traipsing around the Lower East Side, we allowed the cross-walk man to guide every step. I like to pretend that I make choices on my own, but that little LED man has led me on more expeditions so far than any other single factor in New York. While he guided us in the direction of the Flatiron, I remembered that there was a delightful joint called the Rye House, which had garnered much respect from the New York circuit of Pennsylvanian transplants. Supposedly it was a suitable representation of some of our weird customs. Me being me, I knew of its existence and I knew the neighborhood, but had no clue of its precise location. Rather than dragging John across the universe, I made a wise decision in these modern times. What! Heck no! My good for nothing Blackberry browser? Nope. A phone call to the one and only GianCarlo. Not only did I get the cross streets, but I got him too! How about that!?! A 9-6 advertising guy hitting the town with two freelance crazies on a Sunday night!! Very few things make me as excited as this phenomenon... and tap-dancing elephants.

To proceed, as far as I could tell, the only PA thing about this place was their use of wood in the decor - but that was it and that's a stretch. I had a local beer (local Manhattan beer... meh) called Chelsea "Hoppy Holidaze" and some clam chowder. PA? I don't think so. Make no mistake, I love New York, but select Pittsburgh breweries could hop those holidaze to beer heaven! In fact, I can hear Penn Brewery call my name! As I write this!

Just for you, I shall ignore its summons and continue.

Next? Undisclosed location above, donated to my knowledge bank by Carlo. Personal inquiries will be honored.

Photo, photo, photo... diner, diner, diner. Hollywood Diner. Yes. Nothing in the world like a Monte Cristo at 3 a.m. Monday morning with two beyond wonderful dudes - photo/camera dudes at that.

Who knew things could be better than Batman on a Siberian winter night?

Photo: Racy wallpaper - what else do you want me to say?

Ok. I lied. Tomorrow is the day.

Until then, the only thing I can say is all I've ever really wanted is a tap-dancing elephant.

Happy, oh so very happy. I wonder what he charges for lessons.

Locomotive Breath. Jethro Tull.

Too much of a glare to edit photos on this westbound train. The stories of perfect Sundays shall resume tomorrow.

Headphones in, heater on (obviously I mean my overheating Macbook Pro), siesta - now.

Above? The German-made "Grand MA" lighting console, used by a majority of large productions all over the world. Complete mastery of this board means that you are one smart, well-trained cookie. Sadly, mastery is eons away from my skill level, but I was delighted to begin to learn its basics, separate from my work with the follow spots. If the show designers had wanted to, in addition to lighting and effects, they could have controlled all the projectors through this thing too - and trust me, that's a whole lot of expensive, high-tech gear channeled through one console. I would love to bore you with specifics, but I'm still learning myself.

I often wonder if Fisher-Price models their baby tables after lighting/audio boards with all the lights, buttons, knobs, levers, drawers, dials, colors, etc., etc., etc. perhaps with the intention we all will become board ops one day? If that is indeed their intention, Fisher-Price... I salute you. What a world of fun. What a gorgeous, gorgeous world of technical fun.

Photo: Grand MA, John's hand and Act II. My station/deck was just to the left of the board, so when I rolled my chair over to try and shoot this picture, I managed to get tangled in my headset AND get my chair wedged into the platform. Grace comes in many forms, my friends, but sometimes she goes on vacation.

Note: At the time, I liked this photo better with the show in focus, but now I wish I had shot it the other way around!

Two to three times a day... for two months... this angle... long, wonderful hours.

On that note, take it away Bing!

Where it's snowing all winter through, that's where I want to be
Snowball throwing, that's what I'll do!
How I'm longing to ski!
Through the snow-oh-oh-oh-oh...

(I can find "White Christmas" and/or Bing Crosby appropriate for most any occasion, at most any time of year. Try me in July.)

She learned that from me. Forget the gymnast mother, the Cirque-act-designer father. All me. You should see me juggle flaming maracas upside down on a highwire. Defies all laws of physics, really.

Photo: Elena Lev, one of the most graceful contortionists I've ever seen, performing her hoops act for Cirque du Soleil's Wintuk.

With the Cirque schedule being what it is, it's very difficult to accomplish lengthy tasks in the hours we are actually off. Those hours, of course, not pertaining to normal human functionality, come at unusual times, where one can sleep, eat, read and not get two of his/her 16x20 photos printed. Why are we printing such large photos, you ask? New Years Eve, of course.

Let me explain. A very dear friend of mine, Mr. Chris Hondros (there's an entry on him from the summer, if you are unfamiliar) and his close friend, Mr. Todd Heisler, were throwing what was destined to be the greatest NYE party ever. Renting a gorgeous space (with multiple fireplaces, might I add) in Hondros' former Brooklyn loft building, the dynamic duo of a Getty staffer and a New York Times staffer were asking their friends to contribute his/her art to the NYE decorating cause. What a stellar idea! So I get the call from Chris, asking if I "happen to have" any 16x20 (or larger) prints of my work "lying around."

"Uhhh nope."
"Ok, Alli Harv, if a few happen to materialize in the next day, you just let me know and I will swing by to pick them up."

Yoi. How on Earth was I going to pull this off? We're not talkin' run to Kinko's/Staples and get this printed, but legitimately take the time to choose prints, tweak prints, choose a printer, choose a paper, choose an ink and choose a frame with maybe-a-border-maybe-without-a-border-I'll-see-when-I-get-there?

The truth is, I didn't end up having time for most of that. It's not really like me to crap out on something so cool, but this year it just wasn't going to happen. What I did have time for was the lengthy process of sorting through hundreds of gigabytes in order to find a print I'd actually want to put on my wall. You better believe though, that if I was dropping the cashola to do this right, that thing was going on a wall somewhere.

My stroll through digital memory lane had me stumble upon the above image - one that just didn't make the cut the first time around. I don't think this is the one I would have printed, but it was one of the first shots of a great friendship developed that summer, so I had to pull it into my "edits" pile. Just before I started writing this last night, I saw the file number on my desktop and immediately picked up the phone and called "T-Funk" as he's still labeled in my phone. I've never called him by that name, as everyone else does, but it kinda made me laugh. He didn't pick up, but I left him a stupidly long, nonsensical voicemail. Goodness only knows what I could have been talking about, but whatever it was, I assure you it was endearing.

The outcome of all this?

1. No prints with my signature on the walls of that Brooklyn loft.
2. A pretty solid reason to wear a vintage black leather pencil skirt.
3. The greatest New Years Eve I've ever had.
4. A kick in the butt to give a very good friend a call.

And I'm more than ok with all of that.

As our December sun is setting...

Two shows down on Christmas Eve and the tech team and I were ready to book it. If that juggler dropped one ball, man, if it had been any other day, she would have had 52 stagehands ready to pummel her with her own bouncing green artillery.

I'm pretty sure John, our dear lighting board op, bolted before the curtain even dropped, while Chris and I shut down our stations - haha I'mmmm preettty sure John's Grand MA most likely ran through Christmas.

By the time I made it out of the Garden, I was also on a separate holiday mission. Wrap, cookies, church. I am a master of the Christmas Eve prep, but this year I was on a little more of a time crunch and in a new environment. Thank goodness I had just scrubbed the apartment from top to bottom a few days prior or Houston may have had a problem.

But I digress.

Ok, wrapping... check... cookies... in progress, despite minor setbacks in sprinkle selection, which under different circumstances, would be a good reason to abort mission. More importantly, what's Christmas Eve without an amazing Jewish roommate with whom you can listen to Jimmy Buffett's Christmas selections, smoke hookah and go to the midnight church service? Assuming there will be many a holiday spent in New York, I just can't imagine it any other way - I mean, come on! When a Jew and a Lutheran attend an Episcopalian service, magical things happen!

Unbeknownst to us, the midnight service was moved from Trinity Church* to the St. Paul's Chapel, the oldest public building in continuous use in New York City. We arrived to find a smattering of Episcopalians and rogue patrons from all over the world... and on folding chairs. Four corners of folding chairs, all facing each other, altar in the center. Do you know what folding chairs mean at a religious service?? Participation and interaction beyond normal protocol. Goodbye celebratory formalities of Trinity Church, hello groupthink at St. Paul's Chapel. It wasn't at all what I had expected to find this Christmas Eve, but we still enjoyed the very new experience, more or less because it was a new experience. If nothing else, candles were lit, Christmas hymns were sung and it provided plenty of food for thought on the way home - and no, no, I don't mean the assortment of cookies the acolyte placed on the altar prior(!?!) to the end of the service. Certainly neither of us were trying to save the world through conversation, but, as always, there is nothing as comforting and thrilling as an exchange of sound minds. Perfect for a chilly walk home on what now was Christmas morning.

*Land for Trinity Church was purchased from the Lutheran congregation in Manhattan (1696). How 'bout that tid-bit?

Photo courtesy of Trinity Church Museum. I've been stalling on this entry for a few days now because I've not had a suitable image to post with the copy... so for now, this snowy shot of the church stands.

Going to watch my 3rd favorite Christmas film while baking cookies the other day, I was heart-broken to find that I had left "The Preacher's Wife" back in Pittsburgh. There are a few items that have not migrated to NYC and unfortunately, that was one of them.

Most of you, I know, will roll your eyes. This is not so much about a man's firm belief in a textbook God and His heaven, as it is about a character who has come to understand life on his own terms - and for him, it is through his definition of God. For you it may be something different, for me it may be something different, but either way, this time of year, spending time with loved ones makes you remember. Remember what, you ask? I can only answer that from my thoughts, friends. Take what you will from this.

"Beloved, God never promised us a perfect life. He's savin' that for the Hereafter. While we're here on this Earth, there's some things we just got to work for. It could be a job, it could be a church, it could be a community, could be a marriage. But the good news is, He gave us two secret weapons to help us succeed: Hope. And love. Hope is all a prayer is. And love, loving is giving. Pure and simple. But in love, there is also forgiveness. And forgiveness belongs to everyone. It's a right, like the right to breathe, or eat, or even to fall in love. Sometimes, we take love for granted. Am I right about it? Those who are nearest to us, dearest to us- those are the ones we forget to love. But the miracle is, when we love someone, we are really lovin' God. Look and wonder at those you love, for they are the face of God. And when the path is dark and the road bends, we will let the Lord show us the way. He will give us heart and make us whole again. Because I know! He did me. You may ask me- how? You see, He's got these angels, waitin' in this loonnng line for the chance to come down and help each and every one of us. And They do! So you see, Beloved, today I am truly blessed. Blessed with hope. And blessed with love - and blessed with the belief that I can make a difference. All of us can. We can save this church! We will help our poor! We will help our young! And our lonely! And our needy! So now, let us begin again. Let us go forward! Forward in hope! Forward in love! And forward into the new days of our lives. Put your hands together and praise God."

-Christmas Day sermon from "The Preacher's Wife"

On a completely separate note, Denzel Washington can be my angel any day.

"And hey, happy Winter Solstice - this is the longest night of the year, it's our night to shine, Kiddo." - J. McClellan

What are you doing inside reading my blog? Go shine!

Before I start my story, let me give you an idea of the beginning/middle of December last year. With a fair level of stress sitting on my shoulders, I tried to be as reasonable a human being as being a reasonable human being would allow. Not only was I a fresh freelance photographer in the most densely artistic city in the world, but my month sublet in Gramercy had ended and an exhausting real estate search through Manhattan, plus various boroughs, had begun - all the while sleeping on a friend's living room couch in Park Slope, retrieving necessary items from my suitcase that was her car on a daily basis. Working through my issues, working through the issues of people I loved - everything happening at once. I don't know that I solved my problems or theirs, but I did find a wonderful abode at the southern tip of Manhattan, which was certainly a start. With work not flowing as regularly as I would have liked and a move-in date of the 15th, a Christmas tree wasn't out of the question, but definitely wasn't likely.

So I've been here over a year now, and the tree you sort of see above is my first Christmas tree in New York. I found its purchase particularly necessary, because this year also marks my first Christmas spent in this extraordinary place. Now, I'm not the sentimental anniversary type and usually wouldn't bother to mention this occasion, had it not come about as it did.

Cue week 2 of December 2009...

Last Tuesday, Ms. Brown, my gentile roommate, and I set out to get a tree. As of Monday, there hadn't been any tree vendors in our neighborhood, so we were assuming the worst (or the best, in my opinion) of having to take a subway ride with our new fragrant, green friend. By Tuesday morning, Brown reported that our local 24-hour market had some trees out front. Super. Great. However, by the time we were both off work, we arrived to find three sad Fraser firs left, about 6ft, going for $75 a pop with the market's owner refusing to lower the price. The guy handling the trees told us to come back late Wednesday night, as a different owner would be there and would give us a deal. Done.

I got out of my last Cirque show on Wednesday around 9:30, promptly calling my cohabiting Gentile to make our festive purchase. No answer. Despising inefficiency, my final decision was to get off the train two stops sooner to check out the prospects on my own. As I got off the train, I called B again. Still no answer, though with the excitement of a Sheik spotting an oasis in the desert, my eyes widened to see trees! Trees! Lots of green trees!

As I approached with a little dance across the street, I saw a small Ukrainian emerge from behind a row of trees:

"Excuse me, Sir, how much for a tree?"
"Eh, what kind you want? What size you want?"
"Fraser, balsam fir, either will be fine... mmm 6-7 feet"
"Come."

Unlike a lot of the trees he had, the tree he lead me to was an unbound, deeply green, 6.5 ft balsam fir.

"It's 60, but for you, I give 50."
"It is quite pretty. I do like it, but just to be sure, may I see another?"
"Other tied up, on wall, will have to untie. This one prettiest."

Skeptical of his motives, despite the tree's outward good health, I agreed it would be foolish to open more trees because of a compulsion. I asked him to pick up the tree and drop it. The only needles to fall off were the dead ones. Okie dokie. Check and check.

"Sir, it's a very pretty tree, but I'm not quite sure how I'm going to get this tree home. My roommate isn't answering calls and with my computer bag, I'm not sure if this is going to work."
"I vould help, but have to stay with trees. Can help you at 10."
"How heavy is it?"
"Eh" (he lifts the tree again) "Not bad. Can carry for you at 10."
"No, no, thank you, but I appreciate the offer. All right, Sir, I'll take it. I need a stand too. How much?"
"20, but for you, 10."
"Do you take cards or just cash?"
"Both, but ATM 'cross street."
"Not my bank and I hate bank charges." (Running joke: my bank is STILL in NJ, but now with a full branch in Manhattan)
"Listen [pronounced l-eee-sen]. I pay bank charge. No tax vhen you pay cash."

I ran across the street to the ATM assuming he's sawing off the bottom and putting it through that net-machine thing that I had assumed existed.

I crossed back over and saw that I guessed correctly about one of the two.

"Can you please tie the tree up? Twine? Net?"
"No more twine. Garbage bag?"

Four pauses of me staring at him pass.

"Sure."

I call Brown again, because while I was sure I could carry a wrapped tree on my own, I was not sure I'd be able to manage the width of an open tree. Again, niente for B.

So this delightful small Ukrainian and I tore a hole in the bottom of a giant garbage bag for the trunk (aka grip 1) and shimmied that tree into its carrying pouch. I tossed the stand into the bag and with my right hand on the bottom of the trunk and my left hand somewhere at the 3/4 mark, my new green friend dressed in plastic and I in Marc Jacobs were off on our 15-block trek home.

Receiving plenty of questionable glances from passing pedestrians, I suddenly became aware that it appeared as if I had just kidnapped a Christmas tree from goodness knows where. Now I'm sure someone has carried a 6.5 ft. tree in a garbage bag through Manhattan before me. Probably during the middle of June. As far as I was concerned, it was just a method of getting my friend home.

When my willing captive and I landed on my doorstep, we had two flights of stairs to tackle and then we were home free... into the apartment, onto the stand.

It wasn't until Thursday night that Brown and I were able to collect the suitable trimmings, put on some Christmas tunage and make our little tree look divine. Simple, affordable, elegant. As Brown plugged the lights in, I switched off the lights. A home is not a home until you make it one and we had just done that. Brown went to sit and watch the tree and I walked over to do the dishes. With nothing but the tree light, I was a happy, serene little clam. Listening to music, taking in the soft light and dancing about the kitchen: wash, dry, dance, repeat. I don't know what it was, but it made me very happy.

Happiest of holidays, Kids.

Photo: Tree, apartment, me.

Let's see, let's see... Warhol being from Pittsburgh aside, what do I love about pop art? In this case, make-up entirely inappropriate for everyday use: light orange eyes and magenta lips!

This is one of the raw images from a project started a few months ago. As all art of this genre goes, goodness knows what crazy color and design will enter into the final product...

Speaking of color, once again, having an RGB profile issue with the true color of this photo. Imagine it? Sorry guys, Noah did a great job lighting skin tone and I can't quite do it justice. :(

In case you were wondering, that frowny face is me.

Didn't think you'd see this rare breed again, did you? She essss-CA-pes* to the ocean when she doesn't want to speak, where no one expects her to speak. Just swimming amongst the colors, taking in the wavelengths of light and thinking about the universe. At 110 ft in the Coral Sea, she couldn't have found a better spot.

Photo taken by a fellow diver aboard the Spoilsport and yes, yes that is the camera rig in my hand. Fan coral in the foreground.

*I try to be serious, but cartoon references (in this case, "Finding Nemo") often foil my plan.

One of the most venomous feeessshhies on the ocean floor: Mr. Lionfish!

I've been saving this picture from the Great Barrier Reef specifically for the holiday season that is now upon us. What's festive about this, you ask? They're Christmas Tree Worms!

These guys are shy guys too! Well, not like Super Mario's shy guys, but with each passing shadow or the slightest touch, they retract into their little burrows in the coral. If you wait a minute, they slowly reemerge looking as pretty as they did when you spotted them.

Bondi Beach, Sydney, Australia.

Probably one of the coolest populated places on the eastern coast of Aussieland.

Cataract Gorge, Launceston, Tasmania.

I've had a number of people ask me over the past few years about the origin of my profession(s) and how I keep myself employed. Below is a sample voicemail for a work inquiry. I hope it answers some questions.

Fuckin' Harvey! Didn't answer my call.

Shocker. Stunning.

Hello?... It's your pal... Cory. I hope you are doing well... ahhhmmm.... I can't get too mad at you for not picking up because you just sound so darn cute on that little cell-phone recording. Uhmmmm... please call me at your earliest convenience... I have a proposition for you if you're not doing anything from September 3rd to September 12th.

And it's not going on vacation with me.

Although that would be nice.

Sooo call me... 3rd of September through the 12th of September. All those days. Working. Call me back... bbhhhyyyeeee.

Peacock, peacock, how proud you are with your pretty, pretty plume. Were you so proud that you had to chase a little 8-year-old Alli around a farm many years ago? How beautiful she thought you were, but perhaps you didn't know that. Despite that treacherous lap around a barn in West Virginia, she still finds you exquisite.

Crazy writer, talking about such nonsense as peacocks in West Virginia or in this case, Tasmania. Such things surely aren't possible.

When we last left Australia, we were roaming and romping around the countryside of Tasmania. What's really inconvenient, however, is that my Cape Tribulation photos are still stuck on that stupid XD card (damn you and you inferior storage methods, Olympus!! Why do I have an Olympus you ask? The 550uz was part of my underwater rig that I wanted to test on dry land). I confidently inform you that my battle with it is far from over.

In the meantime, I'll stray from my frustration and leave you with an image from our hike through the gorgeous Cataract Gorge in Launceston, Tasmania.

Rihanna attends the release party for her album "Rated R" on Thursday at M2 in NYC.

Think of every one-of-kind place in the world you've ever wanted to visit. Why do you want to go there? What makes it so different, so solitary? It's funny, but I started to type the word "rare" then "uncommon," however realizing using either would be an incorrect use of language within context. Those words imply that there is a level of equality elsewhere, but what if that's not true? Sometimes I feel redundant, always talking about how utterly incredible the above is, but then again, I do that with everything and everyone I find astounding and inspiring. If it/he/she is that amazingly incredible, it/he/she deserves to be spoken of admirably and frequently. Very frequently. I can't say it's happened often, no more than seven times in my life thus far, so I won't apologize, but if you don't want to read about the Garden anymore, it'd be best to find alternative material. I'll be very sad to see you go, but I'll understand.

In being absolutely honest, it's one of the very few things that has left me speechless on a repeat basis. When we came down off the roof, Tim just looked at me and said, "You know how I knew you were excited? You were emotionless." Which means two things... 1) That he understood something that many people do not, in that a lack of projecting socially recognized emotion often indicates the greatest expression of feeling and 2) that he had been paying attention since the day I met him. It's like when you try to hand-write your thoughts, or even type them, sometimes even speak them... the result that is displayed is only a part of the calamity that has taken residence in your head.

My point? The widest smile and the brightest eyes wouldn't have been an adequate translation of what was in my brain.

As a rule of thumb, if I'm still able to form sentences and carry on a dialogue, well, it's not always exactly what I was hoping to find. It puts life at a different standard and is a wretchedly terrible, yet splendidly terrific personality trait - a flaw and an attribute all rolled into one. Fantastic because I look for it in everyone and everything and awful, of course, because I look for it in everyone and everything. I can count on one hand the amount of times I've met my own standard - two fingers and a half... maybe. Call me difficult, call me impossible, but while I try to meet my own expectations, I have what I might call a "good time" doing it.

Creating reality one hour at a time.

Photo: Roof of Madison Square Garden on Thanksgiving around 7 p.m., 8th Ave. to the left, 33rd St. (almost) dead on.

I usually make no mention of this, but as some of you know, it was my birthday yesterday. Furthermore, I had a completely different blog for today until late last night when a string of stanza-ed text messages came rolling through from one of my favorite dudes out on the road.

Ladies and gents, my absolute favorite birthday present of 2009:

One summer afternoon I met Alli in PA.
She picked me up, even though I was out of her way.

Then we had to part for quite awhile,
And were separated by much more than a mile.

But we'd soon reunite in a city farther east,
And enjoy together an authentic Chinese feast.

Then back to her apartment she would bring me,
But it was only so I could assemble her Wii.

And when I proved undoubtedly inept,
Remarkably still her patience she kept.

So that's how I know Alli is sweet and kind,
And not just another superb behind.

Now I hope we'll hang out whenever we can,
And I promise I'm better at working things made in Japan.

- Bryan Strickland, tour manager/photographer/poet/class-A friend

Even if he's lying about the sweet, kind, behind part, the rest is awesome and true. From working my first big show in Pittsburgh to late night adventures in Chinatown to Mario Cart in my apartment to DMB catering at Fenway, we've managed to grow a wonderful friendship, which can be hard to do in the music business. I think it's frickin' great. Contrary to my usual stance, I give communication technology a big thumbs up for this one.

Photo 1: Bry's cover shot for DMB's Live Trax (Lisbon) vol. 10 album
Photo 2: Bryan!

If the arena/expo jammed with gear is Mecca, then this is the moon... or the roof of Madison Square Garden facing 31st. Same difference to me.

For the record, this would be a perfectly clichéd moment to use the popular and underrated line, "Just when you think things can't get any better...," but I've never really believed in that. I always, always, always think things get better.

Every week is the best week ever, Kids. Happy Monday.

Two women watching (one photographing) the parade move south from their hotel rooms. Though I'm quite confident shooting into a private, albeit temporary, residence with a telephoto lens breaches many a legality, I figured I'd take a chance on this one. Unfortunately, I wasn't physically able to politely push the crowds to reach a desirable angle in time to catch the lady on the right in her PJs and towel turban. Really enjoying the sign, giving both place and direction, I truly consider lack of towel turban to be the major downfall of the shot.

Of the many Thanksgivings I can forsee being away from home, I figured this was a good year to cross off "see Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade as pedestrian" on my life to-do list.

For those of you who love kicking butt at trivia nights, you may thank me for this later: the first balloon to appear in the parade? Felix the Cat in 1927 - and he was filled with air rather than helium. But wasn't the first parade in 1924? Yep, but no balloons... live animals borrowed from the Central Park Zoo! I expect a written thank-you when you win your team a round when you answer the bonus question correctly.

Anyway, it was an experience, again, that is uncannily unique to New York. So what if parades aren't your thing. Like Times Square, it's cool for the sheer fact that it can exist. I laugh to myself though, as I write this, because if you asked most New Yorkers what they thought of both those things, they'd say that they'd do anything to steer clear of the overwhelming calamity that either can be. As a transplant, I see past the lights, see past the crowds, see past the vast amounts of helium and see only a fascinating environment which enables such things to happen.

Photo 1: The first Mickey Mouse balloon to make an appearance in the Thanksgiving Day Parade on November 29, 1934 at 105th and Broadway.

Photo 2: The 4th version of Mickey Mouse appearing in the November 26, 2009 Thanksgiving Day Parade on the corner of 50th and 7th.

Radio City Rockettes riding a 1930s IND train from the Chambers Street Station downtown to Rockefeller Center last Thursday morning. (Meant to post this yesterday too! Whoopsy daisy)

Radio City Rockettes riding a 1930s IND train from the Chambers Street Station downtown to Rockefeller Center last Thursday morning.

Mecca? Close.

Road cases stacked to the ceiling in the Garden's expo center. The only person who reads this blog who found out how huge this area is (besides you darlings who also work there) is Ms. Lauren Brown who went to go visit the elephants with me when the circus was in town. My point? This space, not only occupies half the 5th floor of the building, but houses elephants and tigers... on an annual basis.

Did I mention the ceiling? These cases are stacked to the ceiling!? Forget Mick and Bono, I doubt many people in the business have ever seen or will ever see that. Wonderful absurdity.

Now this was one hell of a show.

An email from the boss:


Tonight Bono named these hallowed halls "the cathedral of Rock and Roll" - And the world was shown another history-making event for the books. Each of you, and your teams all contributed to the success. You can and should take pride in the jobs you do. Without the effort and dedication of this amazing team, rock history would have been left to another time, another place.

Thank you for making the Garden the great cathedral of rock.


- Tim Parsaca, Saturday 10/31/09, 1:21 a.m.

Photo: Bono and Mick Jagger performing the Stones' "Gimme Shelter" at Madison Square Garden on 10/30/09.

Could have been great, Al, could have been great...

*Sigh*

I'm posting it anyway... as a public note to not screw up such moments as the above.

Wait... is that... Mick Jagger? Well what do you know! It is!

Whatever you've heard about him... it's all true. Damn, that man can move.

I distinctly remember one music discussion involving one of my dearest friends, Kelly McStay, my dad and myself where U2 was the headlining subject. The song in question was "Vertigo" and all Kelly had to say was, "I mean, he counts from 3 to 14."

End topic. Moving on!

Just because I saw the above on some kid while covering a pop-punk show once...

As the highly acclaimed (according to "almost 3/4" Dr. Jeff Stambough) Urban Dictionary defines it, a "Bonosaurus" is somewhere between "A dinosaur [,] preferably a brontosaurus*[,] with Bono's head on it and an "object obtained when a woman performs the ho stretch."

You decide which one better fits your lifestyle.

In addendum, if any of you are not familiar with the montstrosity U2 has been touring worldwide, have at it...

*I, umm, think that was the joke.

How was that $8 Chard?

Photo: Bono

"Can you believe these new girls? None of them use birth control and they eat all the steak!" - Almost Famous

Photo: Bono

Fergie and Edge... together at last. Really? I wonder A) how the Black Eyed Peas fenegled their way into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame show and B) who was pulling to see U2 with BEP? Whatever, people seemed stoked and really, that's all I care about.

David Howell Evans, otherwise known as the Edge, lead guitarist for U2. 'Sup, dude? Yeah, so we dropped off an $8 Chardonnay in your dressing room. Hmm. You don't seem pleased. You're telling me you have the palette to differentiate taste between an $8 Chard and an $80 Chard? I don't believe you. I don't remember your Wikipedia entry saying "wine connoisseur."

One day last January, I was told by a prospective suitor to meet him on the NE corner of 33rd and 7th. He had a surprise belated Christmas present for me and punctuality, not always a strong suit of mine, was moderately crucial. With hair done, slight make-up applied, my best jeans, heeled black boots and a long gray sweater that sits elegantly off the left shoulder, I left my apartment just in time to catch the 2/3 train uptown to meet him.

I walked up the stairs to street level where I saw him standing in his nicely tailored coat. I said his name and he turned. At about 6'5, his linebacker frame wrapped around me with my third step onto the sidewalk - he facing the stairs and I facing Madison Square Garden. I was only present with him for a minute before I realized that I was not at work and yet again, staring at this building. Noticing the glance of my direction, he pulled out two tickets to the Pittsburgh Penguins/New York Rangers game that was about to start in T minus 6 minutes. I wasn't really dressed in my standard hockey garb, but at least I looked presentable.

Still, I jumped on him in excitement and away we went. The important part of this whole thing, however, was the conversation between us following the first period of the game:

"I just absolutely love this place."
"You keep saying that... it looks kind of old and in need of renovation to me."
(Blank stare)
"Well, hun, that's not exactly what I mean. I mean a few things... the history - the events and people that have graced this space. The world's greatest everything! Musicians, athletes, actors, dancers, production people, political figures, photographers, comedians, etc... Whether they were performing here or playing here or just coming to watch some kind of event, they have been here. I mean the effort and precision it takes to run a cat show, a Cirque du Soleil performance and a hockey game all in the same night and then do three totally different events tomorrow!"
"I think we're next in line for ice cream, what would you like?"
(Blank stare)
"Mint-chocolate-chip, please."

The Pens didn't score a goal that night, but I realized something very important. That I was in love with an environment. An environment that, with a year's passing, has now become a home, family included. Over the two days of Rock and Roll Hall of Fame shows, I watched the entire U2 set from stage right. I watched multiple performers from a legendary generation of music from every angle that venue has to offer. I got to see and hug my favorite and one of the best stage managers (DMB/Stones/Sinatra/etc.) out there. I got to quote Almost Famous within context multiple times. I watched the front row jump up and down yelling for Bono, yelling for Bruce, yelling for... Mick. I was in a one-of-a-kind position with people I love, yet again. Doesn't matter that it wasn't the best angle to shoot a show. I was home.

Photo: Stage right at the Garden for U2's set. U2's lead guitar, the Edge closest with Bono center stage.

Some of U2's gear from backstage right. The spot in the middle of the frame is lighting Bono downstage center.

Dinner breaks from Cirque du Soleil rehearsals = quiet theater = optimal editing time.

"Let me explain something to you - you have not been standing in front of thirty-thousand decibels for thirty-five years... WRITE ME A NOTE." - Ozzy Osbourne

*Ring* *Ring*

"Hey Jeff, this is Eric. I have some news - some pretty crappy news. My gallbladder's been giving me muchos problemas. Need surgery. Doc says I need two weeks recovery time. No, no - don't worry, I'm fine. I just won't be able to make one little girl's dreams of photographing my hands come true this week at the Hall of Fame's gig at the Garden. Yeah, yeah... I know. Big show. I'm bummed. What's that? Yeah I love that place too. So if you could be a pal and help me out, fill in for me, I would appreciate it. Thanks, Jeff. Yeah, yeah... Jimmy's on vacation. Pete doesn't want to do it. Keith might've died today. Jimi's dead. Carlos is busy making shoes... what can I say? You're my guy, Beck."

Photo: Jeff Beck

Coo coo ca choo, Mr. Robinson.

You go sing "Tracks of My Tears" with Stevie Wonder in 20 minutes. Have a ball.

Photo: Smokey Robinson

Nothing says "I'm performing at the biggest rock concert of the year at one of the most famous venues in the world" like a checkered navy blue velvet suit and black patent leather shoes. Few could pull that combo off as nicely as Mr. John Legend.

Not so much a legend quite yet, Mr. Legend, but you sure are cute.

When you see the Southern Cross for the first time,
You understand now why you came this way
'Cause the truth you might be runnin' from
Is so small, but it's as big as the promise
The promise of a comin' day...

In a somewhat appropriate (I saw/knew where to look for the Southern Cross for the first time in Australia), yet abrupt, transition, I'm going to switch gears to all the crazy happenings of this past weekend at Madison Square Garden before we return to the mystical land of Tasmania. When I posted last night, I tried to ignore my Rock and Roll Hall of Fame folder... but it just kept staring at me. *Sigh* - such a softy when it comes to legendary music.

Not the best shot of CSN, but Stephen Stills is looking at me - who cares if I had a camera in my hand. I also had no flash... under-equipped and doing just fine.

Photo: (L-R) David Crosby, Stephen Stills and Graham Nash Thursday night in the press room at Madison Square Garden.

Do you think he thinks about the possibility of getting stuck?

Launceston countryside.

Not so devilish now, are you Tasmanian Devil? Yes, I'm talking to you...

Speaking of Tasmanian Devil, was anyone else unsure of their existence (or the state's existence, for that matter) when watching Looney Tunes? I would add, "as a kid" to that, but I still watch them... frequently.

The correct plural of platypus is platypuses and NOT platypi. What a bummer.

Photo taken at the "Platypus House" just north of Launceston.

In taking a trip to Hobart from Launceston with Justin and his family my first weekend in Tasmania, I was able to see a lot more of the state than I had expected. Passing mountains, horse pastures, sheep pastures, canola fields and other sorts of farmland, I quickly noticed that I wasn't part of the conversation for a majority of the three-hour trip. For those of you who have spent some time with me, all I can say is that my inability to focus on the audio of the primary situation was certainly in full swing. Had I been driving, it would have taken us about seven hours to get to Hobart, as I would have insisted on photographing everything I passed.

Our destination upon arrival was a darling house owned by a family friend of the Hermans. Again, I was taken aback by yet another beautiful home with an even more beautiful view. With the warmth of the sun frequently luring me into the window's right corner, I couldn't resist the perfect perch with a cup of Earl Grey each time I was in the kitchen.