go to
www.pce.net/pubaccss/sterlace.html
for fun.

Of course you will have the piece on the 17th I said in my best I-am-so-utterly-indignant voice.
The suburban editor reiterated repeatedly, unnecessarily, that in no way would the shiny happy magazine pay for my travel to & fro.
I repeatedly, and necessarily, stated that the demi-reason for the voyage was to visit Vegas friends - and to investigate the wedding chapel thing.
And I feel it my duty to throw myself yet again on an airplane as a collective gesture of defiance and bargain connoisseurship.
And to show that all the ominous mind-fuck statements (last being that the big T and the big Q know the cracks in the Western economic systems as well as they know the lines in their own hands - wow, good imagery!, A-) issued forth from the cave in Afghanistan leave this hellion journalist nonplussed.
Come Hell, come high waters, come Allah-exploited chaos, the shiny happy editor will have her piece on Allah knows what on the (what was that again?) 17th.

Saw a bit of Fear & Loathing with mmmmmmmmslurp Jonny Depp last night in a drum & bass-infused nightspot, sound off. Much of it takes place in Vegas. It got me to thinking that perhaps in only a short while I will be writing my shiny happy magazine piece on weddings à la Hunter S. Thompson... in Vegas. Maybe not so many mind-altering substances of the illegal genre, however.
Mag piece due in virtually minutes.
Panic?
Me panic?
I feast on adrenaline like Halloween vampires feast on any type blood under full moons. Tonight is a full moon and adrenaline, caffeine, tides, blood are teeming at the gates of Hell.
Love and chocolate kisses from your abso-freakin-lutely fav Nancy, plotting a self-jettisoning into Vegas wedding chapel madness. It's one of those moments where I know. I know.

I tried to call a pal a bit earlier and turned 3834 into 3438 and a woman answered the phone Praise the Lord!
My pal does not live there, I think the Lord does.
In honour of all people who think Halloween is a Satanic plot to turn children and adults down the path to eternal damnation and candy-munching I will now answer my telephone:
HAPPY BEGGARS' DAY - TOMORROW IS HALLOWEEN... REJOICE!

I realized that I owned Roxy Music only on dusty cassettes and today bought the greatest distilled hits in compact discationalized format and this sates the desire.
I also bought the new Ryan Adams and a local jazz blower was in the record shoppe as I was looking and said Bryan Adams? in ironic squeakiness. To which I karate chopped him in the head. Then we stood around for a quick moment and attempted to warble out a few Bryan Adams gems - or non-gems, whichever the case may be.
This AM I was in the throes of secret service/VH1/Adelphia/Hillary Clinton swells of freelance activity and shot everything in sight, as they say out in the beer-drenched autumnal woods.
There was one hot secret service guy and somehow I was distracted away from photographing him for my "Hunks of the S.S." collection.
A fab femme from VH1 dropped a deadline bomb on my lap by stating that she needed jpegs of selected images - ASAP/NOW/PDQ - so most of my early evening was tied up with scooting/editing/scanning/naming/jpeging/emailing.
Life is a delicious deadline and don't forget it.

My Halloween, in a nutshell:
Last night, for the sake of documentation, began at approx. 830PM backstage at Kleinhans Music Hall with Midori warming up five feet away from me in designer photo print gown and metallic shoes (prior to my Bflo.Phil.Orch. gig and shooting the violinstar) and ended with a parade of Halloween parties until 4AM or so with me and five other members of the posse (Janet Reno Fan Club) storming in and out of various parties in bad-ass style. Highlights:
1. Your fav Nancy running, rolling, and coming up shooting faux gun in style at premier party stop in a very expensive house on the wall-to-wall.
2. Members of Fan Club collectively driving and entering next party in bad-ass fashion, creating some exotic limbo moment, helping ourselves to the rest of a bottle of Cuervo and leaving "to bring this orgy elsewhere."
3. Visiting a hot tub party and one member of Fan Club, partially nuded up, getting pushed into hot tub by bitchy bad-ass "Rachel" - usually known as Allen.
4. Whilst walking back to vehicle and passing party mentioned in item #2 "FBI" bad-ass suddenly inspired to streak through that party by entering back door. So, being the fab photojournalist that I am, set the camera on sports setting and got ready mid-living room to shoot his wantonness. Somehow we got in each other's way and there was a profusion of sequential flashing and I'm not sure what will come out of that moment. Oh, and what the photo lab will make of those tangled frames.
5. Next party was at thee famed Coatsworth Mansion and there we also left our bad-ass mark(s) by stripping one of the host's clothes off as he played onstage in the multi-level living room, destroying a shower curtain rig as one of the four girls sat tubside mid-group-pee, finishing up a bottle of whatever as Mr. Streaker/"FBI" bad-ass made "manhattans" for the Fan Club, "Rachel" barfing into a bucket up in the cupola beauty attic ruining the couch amouressness of a couple in heat, and then members of the Fan Club taking over the bandly activity onstage.
6. Going to a local joint and taking over a corner of it for more mayhem, etc.
7. Stop at a nearby diner where one of my cop pals, Eddie, had to come over to our table to: a. tell us to pipe down; and b. to keep our faux weapons on the table. (Two members of the Fan Club fell asleep at the table, very un-Bad-ass.)
8. This AM we reconvened for our weekly cultish brunch and only one of us had Partyer's Remorse and here's a hint, it was not me.
Love from your favorite Nancy/bad-ass.

ps: And to the woman at the gas station where I stopped between Midori and party moment #1 for some of that tricky lemon-flavored malt liquor, who told me that I didn't look like a bad-ass because my face looks too innocent - "fuck you, I am the baddest of bad-asses."