Last night didn't see college friend who's a rock star of the violin world of sorts and who lives in California and he, musician-like, made plans to meet me et al at a local joint for dinner but realized that he had a concurrent gig. It was, reportedly, important for him to see me, and I joked that he was going to propose to me at dinner. So cavorted without him, which absolutely goes without saying. Read an erudite article about Radiohead in New Yorker's Music Issue - a super keeper. Off to a high-powered day of gigs and, sadly, must change from beloved This American Life t-shirt to a grown-up ensemble. At about 10PM I'll be doing the ol' changing clothes in the car routine before heading out for more more more.

Hot and sticky lesbian sex.
Now that I have your attention, dig this. The 18-decibel evangelical church is at it again and from the sound of things there's a full-throttle revival in full effect and all I can fucking think of at this moment is fashioning a molotov cocktail out of some sadly emptied Corona bottles, an old t-shirt (not a concert t-shirt, silly), some gasoline from the lawn mower, and then a lighter from the kitchen drawer. And then, while they're all still in there, SCREAMING ON A MICROPHONE INTERSPERSING IT WITH AHHH-LAYYY-LOOOOOOOOO-YAHHHHHHHHHH, I will lob said cocktail through the window during the last syllable.
I have given this a little thought, as you may note.
Ventured aboard the Love Boat tonight as this city's premier lounge act took the stage in a suit which could best be classified as a collision between Armani and a harlequin's dream of christmas wrapping paper. Saw my sister et al and at one point my sister's beer was approaching the horizontal mark and, being the ever-responsible older sib, lunged to right it, as she lunged forward, and then... there was this horrible arc in the air, and I saw her face intersecting with that arc. And then her face, every itty-bitty milimeter of it, was dripping with draft beer. Holy farty beer bubbles on my little sister's face and shirt, batman. As luck would have it she was not mad. And then we created a two-man party train. See, with a positive attitude all is and can ever be perfect in Nancy's World.
Excuse me now, I have to look for an empty Corona bottle.
Love me, Love, ME.
ps:Don't hate me 'cuz my world is so perfectly partyrific.
Suggested soundtrack for rereading this blogpost - REM's Monster, esp. Strange Currencies. Thanks for your attention in this matter.

Freaky moment du jour, compliments of the weird church across the street.
I have a great neighbor across the way, a chain-smoking Viet Nam vet gardener named Frank and he lives/lived with his mother who sat on the front porch most days and who passed away on Sunday.
I walked across the street and left a card in the mailbox and the walked over to the weird church for the funeral. As I'm sitting in there, only for the second time, I glance over at a woman standing and flirting with the priest and realize that it's my nunly high school principal. I left the church, thinking that that horrid high school past still haunts me, that the card will do, and also that I'll talk with Frank at another, post-circumstance moment.

Looking down the pike of upcoming concerts I'm thinking the planets should try a bit harder to allign themselves more creatively. Edgefest on Sunday should do nicely and I'm looking forward to Jimmy Eat World, more Sheila Divine sanguineness (I think by law they must perform here every three months), and some good old fashioned vegan punk by Snapcase.
Here's good solid evidence of my electronic fallability: yesterday I made my computer such a tangle of lapsed neurons and such as I tried to install PalmPilot crap, and threw into the stew some AOL installing, and some other settings changes until it just looked at me and projectile vomited. I called a computer boy flusteredly preparing for a real job. He was no help. Another c.b. spent half an hour on the phone, helping me land the airplane aflame and ajar, scalding coffee carts careeming down aisles. Hooray.

Further canoeing down the techno geek river I am today. My pal Dorota (of DKNY fame) mailed me her Palm Pilot which she loathed. A new toy for a new week. I went out and had to buy a converting cable and bought it a new shoey leather wraparound. Debating whether I want to pursue credentials for YES with a symphony on Wednesday night. Sounds so...flippingly newaged.

2 things.

1. At the Lennon show in Land of Cleves R&R Halluhfame there is a top area where his lyrics, scrawled on all sorts of paper, are hanging in a circular room. At the bottom of the lyrics for Green Onion there is a number and when I read it I couldn't believe this: it was my social security number. It was an international phone number that John Lennon had written. A ss# has nine numbers in it - in this combo eight numbers were the same and two numbers next to each other (3 & 8) subtracted to equal my ninth ss# number - 5. I asked the beau to look at the Green Onion number and then said This is my ss#. Fun with numbers and your rock mentor.

2. At the Cleveland Museum of Art I wanted to look at the Japanese screen exhibition and then looked at Asian artifacts. There is a near-life-sized bronze Buddha seated with right hand out and another nearby in a half-gesture. I felt this incredible energy coming off of the sculpture and felt as if I couldn't move, or didn't want to move away from it. It was called Healing Buddha.

I think it's a perfect Sunday when you arise to a light rain, some faroff thunder, a desire for coffee, and the recollection that you haven't yet looked at your tiny little Phaidon-issued Joel-Peter Witkin book. So there you have this Sunday, looking at some images of his I am not that familiar with, reading the cornball essay, remembering looking at his work in Paris for the first time, tumbling into the large prints.
One of my new exciting resolutions: all clothing, except when it's intended for commercial gigs, must pass the rock star test. I bought some great pieces in a farout boutique in Cleveland and wore them on Friday night. First stop, art opening. Man at door, tastefully gay and who knew my cousin who owned this city's first coffee shop, said Well! Where's your whip? I'm going to get you a whip. To which I responded Okay.

Still mad at the artist whose chest I sat on and wrote about. She told the entire city that she loved the piece but when she saw me we clashed like the Clash at the end of their rock ride. I, usually a diplomatic Libran, let her have it, having had perhaps one shot of tequila at that point too many to be so.
Well, on a happier note, I'm realizing that this new Sade disc sounded better in the wine bars and shoe boutiques of Cleveland than my Sunday AM home where I'm needing something a bit more...upbeat and less stonerific, shall we say.
Love.