The first time I planned on going to RMSC Strasenburgh Planetarium's Holiday Laser Show, I drove in through the Oxford Street entrance, joined the car queue circling for parking spaces, and 20 minutes later I left when I finally reached East Avenue. I don't know if it was the planetarium or the museum that was hoppin', but it was not my day to trip on the light fantastic.

The next day I was blessed when I pulled into a space just as someone was leaving. As I walked into the domed building, I realized it was the first place I had visited when I moved to Rochester. A planetarium was an innovative thing then, and we're still lucky to be in a city that has one. I had thought the gyroscope that I had bought in the now non-existent gift shop was really cool, man. The sight of the "side shows" brought back memories, but the line was already massive so I quickly bought my ticket and joined it. It was a bit of a relief when I remembered that here the audience is let in all at once. And by the same women who sold me my ticket. That it was 15 minutes late didn't bother me much, but parents were beginning to get as antsy as their kids.

I'll be the first to admit I know nada about laser light "art." I haven't a clue how it works, so I don't know what could look easy, but be incredibly difficult to do. My only experience is the High Falls show shown on the gorge, and I think that is lame, except for the facts that we even have a laser light show and that it's projected onto our beautiful gorge. So when the laser show began I thought the same thing that I always think when viewing the High Falls show: why don't they team up some good animators with the laser light people? We have some great animators in town, and maybe if they put their heads together they could come up with a show that doesn't look like an elementary school class project. Import some people from MilkDrop. But, as I said, I know nada, so maybe the swirling, blinking, cobwebby whirly-gigs are amazing feats of laser technology. To me they are still lame and my sweet tooth is still hankering for some eye candy.

To be fair, some of it was just plain pretty: the floating snowflakes, the yellow moon above the trees, the ice storm photos. (It's nice the ice storm was good for something, but the one shot of an upside down car was a bit distasteful.) And it was fun to sing "Let it Snow" with Mitch Miller as the lyrics came on screen, even if me and my friend were the only ones. (I blame it on the lack of the bouncing ball.) One of the songs sounded suspiciously like Justin T's Christmas anthem of last year - "*?!# in a Box" - which gave us a good giggle. But much of it was swirling whirly-gigs, and after one piece that reminded me of when cookie cutters attack, the girl next to me said, "I don't know if I'll see straight again."

Good. Then she probably didn't notice that according to the RMSC, Pluto is still a planet.

Next up: "Elsewhere" at Image City.

With the three-way combo of it being First Friday the night before, a Saturday day instead of a Friday night opening reception, and the seven-hour long expanse of time, I didn't think Image City would be packed mid-day. But it was -- jam-packed, in fact, for the opening of "Elsewhere" on January 5. I guess with the more than 100 exhibitors in "Elsewhere," all having supportive friends and family, I should have figured that. These same friends and family gathering around their loved ones' pieces made it difficult to maneuver around what is already a tight fit in a fairly efficiently arranged space. Still, I managed to slither through to view beautiful photo after beautiful photo.

With so many great shots, it was hard to pick out any favorites. Many of the subjects were beautiful to begin with. That many were taken in foreign locales, and some were digitally enhanced, added more layers to the Big B (beauty). I began to feel a bit hypnotized. That is, until I saw Michael Murdoch's "Whorls Above." It's a shot up the mast of a sailboat that jogged me out of my beauty fog and launched me into vertigo. I felt refreshed, like some of the ocean had sloshed up and smacked me.

After my kind awakening, I was better prepared to relish Paul Porell's "The Sole Heeler," a shot of the front of a shoe repair shop in Lawrence, NY, with its welcoming open-armed Jesus in the window. I also liked Sharon Yockel's pieces and the colors in Mary Jo Giglioti's. I found it hard to believe that Daniel J Nolan's "Boys Fishing on Honeoye Lake" -- a stunning sunset (sunrise?) shot of copper rippling across the water contrasting the silhouette of three boys in a boat -- was actually taken locally.

Some of the curator's placements were brilliant, too, arranging similar subjects together, but the products arrived at by very different means. The photos attached to the bottom of the stands were a bit difficult to see, though, something I've noticed each time I go there and have to squat down for a clearer view. I'm wondering if there is any way they could suspend them from the ceiling, centering the viewing space?

Next up: Elizabeth Streb at RIT

Imagine mapping a dance's movements. The results would look like a drawing made with a Spirograph. Now, imagine separating the movements of each dancer within that piece, and mapping those; a bunch of Spirograph drawings. This is the type of investigation that Elizabeth Streb conducts in her particular form of "pop-action" dance. She knows where each dancer will be, has been, and will go and the scientific equations of those actions. The physics and mathematics of movement. It's mind-boggling. It's extreme.

Most dancers I know are light and airy. It's an art, after all. Streb takes the art of dance and creates another language; body parts as parts of speech, the grammar of the human body. I won't even pretend that I intellectually understood even half of what she said during her presentation as part of the Caroline Werner Gannett Lecture Series Monday night at RIT. But it resonated in some subjective area of my brain. Even though I couldn't make sense of it, it made sense. Her passion is catching. And I had the wildest dreams last night where it all rang true as a bell, even though I couldn't begin to say what it all meant.

Maybe I'm not meant to intellectually understand it. Maybe that doesn't matter, any more than the seeming coincidence that yesterday morning there was a new Extreme Caffeine coffee choice at my usual stop. Maybe trying to understand it will take an extreme amount of effort that I don't want to make, especially when it's so much easier to simply grok it. If I wanted to be one of her dancers, it probably would matter. But I don't. I like to watch.

Speaking of being one of her dancers, someone asked about her auditioning process. She says it's more like a three-day self-elimination. The whole company constructs the audition exercises. A blind vote is conducted on whoever is left after the three days. She asks that they make a commitment of two years, and most only last about three. I guess her Brooklyn studio isn't called SLAM (Streb Lab for Action Mechanics) for nuthin'.

Along with the extreme physical demands, Streb throws in two more variables weighing the commitment balance: strangers and interruption. Unlike most studios, which are closed to the public until the production is unveiled in its high-polished finish, the SLAM studio is open to the public so they can view the process. Which throws in monkey-wrench No. 2: interruption. While most beginning artists are used to working in shared conditions and its interruptions, most established artists choose to be, in a sense, "protected" from their audience until their product is complete. Streb says these two things -- strangers and interruption -- keep it real.

Watching Streb's dancers, it's difficult to discern what is real. Did that person just fly? Go through a sheet of glass? Propel into a wall? I don't know. All I know is I like it. It makes me go, "OMG, what was that!?!" And I'm looking forward to her return to Rochester, when she introduces her new piece featuring an elephant standing on dancers, against the venue backdrop of Pinnacle Hill. Hey, it could be real!

Next up: "Godlesses" at Renaissance Art Gallery

The Renaissance Art Gallery is in the beautiful HH Warner building on St Paul Street. It's a bit of NYC's Soho in downtown Rochester. Warner's old walk-in Mosler Safe, with its hand-painted door, still graces a hallway. And since I was last there, the gallery has expanded to occupy the entire first floor. Gone are Giovanni Sanfilippo's bright acrylics, replaced by the "Around Rochester" room and its related art. Originally, the gallery was a birthday present to Carol DiMarzo from her husband -- the gift that keeps on giving.

Jan Jacque seems to perform a marriage between her ceramics and other organic matters. The curves, and the way light plays on those curves, mesmerizes. I had to walk past these, and all the other pretty pieces, to get to Jennifer Hecker's "Godlesses," tucked in the sculpture room in the back corner. For someone like me, who feels like a bull in a china shop, this is no small accomplishment. I watched with trepidation as Mr. DiMarzo lifted up the top of one of Jacque's vases, something I would never, never do. I look; I don't touch.

Hecker's pieces make bold statements whispered subtly. I enjoyed eavesdropping on what others thought those statements were. It reminded me that good art tells many stories. It's always a good sign when another artist purchases your work. When that artist is Wendell Castle it's like someone switched on a scrolling marquee.

I hope my look of astonishment served as adequate apology when my friend showed up with her dog. WITH HER DOG!

Next up: Hawaiian dancing

I think it's really neat that we have a Hawaiian Center in Rochester. It's colorful, it's tropical, in a city that receives precious little sunshine. The Gallery Kauai Center for Hawaiian Studies & Performing Arts teaches everything from hula to ukulele, and there was quite a turn out for the Hawaiian dance at Pittsford Library on Saturday, January 12. The room was filled to capacity, many having to stand along the walls or sit on the floor once the seats were filled. But it was a happy and colorful crowd, each presented a Hawaiian lei as they entered, many of which were quickly turned into head bands and tiaras.

Chirpy, enthusiastic, a bit over the top, and pretty, gallery owner and dance teacher Ka'iulani is every little kid's dream teacher. The kind they fall in love with, and a parent loves to drop the kids off to spend time with. Her husband, Kimo, accompanies her on various stringed and percussive instruments. Together they put on a nice combination program of demonstration, instruction, and participation, leaving little time for the tykes to get restless. It was pretty much a perfect thing to do with your little kids on a snowy Saturday morning.

Next up: The Rochester Razorsharks

It pays to follow your instincts. I didn't know why I felt I should wear a suit, but I did. It didn't even make sense, considering what I had planned. After the Hawaiian Dance, I was going to see the Razorsharks. I'm not sure what someone is "supposed" to wear to a basketball game, but I'm pretty sure it's not a suit.

A very informative arena employee named Terry led me to my courtside seat. We both agreed it will always be called the War Memorial to us. He also pointed out key people to me and patiently answered my newbie questions. ("Is there always an ambulance parked outside during a game?" Yes, in case of emergency. FYI, it looked like they were having pizza delivered to them as I was walking in.)

I hadn't been to a basketball game since high school, so the whole experience was new to me. They've changed a bit. I remember the slap-slam of the ball on the court, the squeak and squeal of sneakers, and the grunts and heavy breathing of the players. Now there's music. I don't remember having ever heard music during a game, except from maybe the school band or the cheerleaders during halftime. (Is there a halftime in basketball?) But Nelly Furtado was blasting while the ball was bouncing. And there was a large cube hanging from the ceiling with four giant-sized TV screens to watch the game right in front of you. The Mr. Screen also instructed us when to stomp-stomp-clap, to scream LOUDER, to kiss our dates, and to smile ‘cos we're on Jaws Cam!

When I arrived during the third period, the Razorsharks were down 50-65. I learned that time is not a constant in basketball -- 12 minutes equals one half-hour, give or take. I learned that you could watch clips from "Hoosiers" when the action is low. I learned about mop-boys. That basketball players run fast, and the teams move from one side of the court to the other like a migrating herd. They drink Powerade. Drinks are served in the Shark Pen. A shark-shaped stuffed head is FINley, the mascot.

I don't do well with sports. I always seem to side with the underdog, lacking home team loyalty. But just like I watched one season of "American Idol" with my editor -- just to have the shared experience -- I may do a season of Razorsharks. After all, when I arrived, they started winning, winning their first home game 115-108. (Maybe I'm their lucky charm.) I don't think you have to like basketball or know anything about the game to enjoy the experience. Even the owner, Sev Hrywnak, admitted to me that he's never even played the game. And ladies, the stands are filled with men!

After the game, there was a Meet & Greet & Autograph line. Hands were shook, posters were sharpie-d, and compliments were gushed. I was invited to join the peeps at 2 Vine (that's why I wore a suit!), where Rochester's elite showed their support for the Razorsharks by having a grand ol' time, celebrating their win. Rumor has it the players hit Sports Page Restaurant & Bar on Monroe.

I am not getting married, but my friend is in October. So, with the promise of samples of wedding cake, she convinced me to go with her to the Brides World 2008 bridal show at the Convention Center. And since I'd never been to one, I figured, why not?

Well, there was no cake. Not even a bakery was represented. Plenty of caterers, but only one served us food: meatballs and cookies. After the first few sales pitches my friend asked if I could please not let anyone else talk to her. She's much too polite. Except when she screamed out that remark about the cute little groom model's back side.

Not all the women models were toothpicks -- says it all.

There was this one neat thing I found, though. Tea flowers are tea leaves sewn up into a ball, and when water is poured over it, it blooms into a "flower". It looks really cool in clear glass teapots and you can even drink it. You can also design your own tea bags for wedding favors.

Next up: "Meet the Photographers" at the Community Darkroom

With five well-known photographers showing, I was expecting the Community Darkroom Gallery's "Meet the Photographers" opening to be packed. As it is a rather small space, I also expected walls covered with photos. Not so, on either count.

I walked in to find only two people and 25 prints. That's approximately five prints per photog, which sounds adequate, but there was way more white wall space exposed. I'm wondering why they didn't show more, maybe placing them two-up, instead of the steady stream of one photo after another. No, they wouldn't have to put them almost on the floor like at Image City, but more would have been nice. And using IC's idea of nametags would have been handy, too. There were more people in the back room/snacking station, but most of them seemed to come with the gallery. If any of the showing photographers were there, I couldn't tell. And why didn't they use the back room space, too, as it's even larger than the gallery area?

The photos were nice, though. Maybe the lectures will fill the space. I left feeling unfulfilled.

Next up: Cheerleaders at the Dome

I was a cheerleader back in high school. Then, I lived in The South, where it was a big deal. It was athletic, gymnastic, unlike the sing-song of northern cheerleading I found when I moved up here. My try-out number was 75 -- yes, I still remember, because getting on the team felt like the biggest accomplishment I'd had to date. Feeling accomplished is a good thing at any age, but especially during puberty when it's so easy to feel like an outsider.

High arches of sparkle eye shadow, bare midriffs, mini skirts, and girly squeals were the common denominators at the Arctic Blast Cheer & Dance Championship. I arrived near the end, hoping to see a few performances and the award ceremony. (Really, who could take a full day of it if they didn't have to?)

These "everybody wins" events are so anti-climatic. One award after another is announced and the only dif between the first and the last is after the last the event fizzles out and the crowd begins to disperse. The moms, who have been sitting amongst their sea of ready-to-go backpacks, begin to corral their kids. There is no, "And now the moment we've all been waiting for! And the winner is...," while we lean forward anxiously in our seats. Nope. It's more like, "We're done now. See ya next year." And just how accomplished can a kid feel when they've won a trophy, just like everybody else?

Next up: Kurtz at UR

Steve Kurtz is a rebel rouser. And in the post-9/11, "you're either with us, or against us" backlash, he is a strange beacon of hope. While the mass majority leans back pretending to be unaware of violations to our civil rights, Kurtz's life-as-art-performance intervention art illustrates it for us. Avoiding the nihilism of pranks, he prods us to see things for ourselves.

As he describes it, it's not what he does that is considered so unacceptable; it's how he mixes and mingles it that elicits the authorities' seeming need for what he calls "expression management." Interdisciplinary studies are on the frontline for this, and while censorship is often the jump-to reaction, it's our self-policing that bothers him. How he frames things, how he expresses them through collective action, is just not good M&M (Mixing & Mingling) in the authorities' view. This self-censorship, a restriction of our expressions, is becoming quite commonplace. Kurtz likes to stir things up. That we become threatened by this proves his point. Difference threatens us. We tend to launch wars over difference, even in our back yards.

Next up: Haggis!