Much like a Perfect Nancy dream the rich voice of Neil Diamond floated out of the façade of a pizzeria as I walked by. There's nothing quite like the Zen of a song matching a mood in a public aural venue - a soundtrack moment. At lunch table today I asked what kind of movie our various lives would be.
It was decided that mine would be shot with a hand-held camera. I said it would probably be all jump cut and after a half hour or so people would either be diggin' it or saying Ohhh, I feel squeamy with all this non-stop.
Last night, whilst in the epicenter of a party, someone asked Do YOU still write, Nancy? To which I responded I write every day.
Someone said, No, she is the sort of person, Nancy, who thinks that writing is solely poetry and fiction, non-commercial expression.
I then said Yes, I do still write.
And why isn't it public? Because there's no public forum in this middling city whereby I would be happy to plan to stand atop a stage reading emoting effusing dissecting.
It would have to be the right sort of event, not a barfly-infested (yum) poetry event typical of here.
I told the questioner that I write pieces, print them out, scotch (yum) tape them to the wall and look at them periodically until a new one comes.
Off to yet more points beyond, including a sale of beloved John Lennon objets d'art. I have an inkling that tonight a JL piece will be hanging in my happy barely live/majority work space. Onwards.

What is that low moaning like pained ghostly presences I hear rushing at me from each direction? Oh, it's you, Nancy Nancy Nancy where are yoooooooooooo?

Well nope I did not perish back & forth from Plasticville = Las Vegas.
I did my thing there, wandering the strip and into a selection of wedding chapels with camera, tape recorder and beloved legal pad - and ideas abrew. I witnessed two weddings on Wednesday, one featuring Elvis in the role of officiator.
Here's an insider's fun fact: when a couple is married in Vegas they are first actually married by a judge in robes and then Elvis does a ministerial thing "for entertainment." Three songs is the norm and a certain Elvis of the Elvis Fleet gives the new bride a complimentary satin scarf atop his usual $100 fee. Anyone can have Elvis show up at their nuptials if they throw a little Ben Franklin luvv about.

At wedding #1 I was one of five people in the chapel - b&g, reverend so&so, photographer and Your Fav Nancy. At wedding #2 I was one of ten. At wedding #2 a girl who was shooting with a funsaver until the official photographer told her to stop, told me in a near whisper before the ceremony that she hoped to exchange vows with her honey, the best man, one day at Viva Las Vegas Chapel. But she wants a goth wedding. That means the reverend pops out of a coffin at the center of the altar to begin the proceedings. Dracula and Bride of Frankenstein-esque apparel are optional.

What is Vegas? A fantasy strip of plastic and scads of money tossed into the wind in the wrong direction: casinos are the gas-guzzling fuel of the city which rests in a prehistoric bowl of mountain and rock and long-gone critters. Casinos spend billions on the right faux looks, fabrics, dusky sky ceilings, training for employees to effuse whichever themed jubilance is necessary and not more than a smittance goes to anything an uppity Easterner might refer to as culture.

I did manage to sniff out the only bit of major culture in the joint, The Art of the Motorcycle, at Guggenheim Las Vegas - and I have the bitchin' $38 t-shirt to fuckin' prove it. What gorgeousness $20 million can be gleaned from the brain of Frank Gehry. Why is there not more of that? I wondered that a lot.

I took snappy photos of the backstage crap going on - with lovely Diana and with an unobtrusive Olympus.

Being me and loving the idea of tesing fate in a smirky way, I pumped some bills into the slots and second ass-hitting the front row seat doubled my ca$h. Did I stop? Silly question. It took about two hours of up and down before I was over and out.

So now my head is swilling with impressions and facts and near-facts and off-record back-stabbing accusations of wedding chapels and tomorrow is designated as Barf Out the Story Day. And I know it'll be grand. Like the Grand Canyon, another desert point of interest.

And let's move on to last night, which followed the morning of my return flight which led into immediate work, and Madeleine Albright's visit. MA = well-dressed and hates the photojournalist. Her assistant was a nuisance and at one point, as I kept gently nudging her out of my goddamned frame, she said You're KILLING ME with the camera. I had not a nanosecond to look in her way (as Albright was working through the crowd steadily and had but 300' of floor before she was leaving via back door) and kvetched out I'm just doing my job. Then she abated her press hatred. Only I was not press at that moment but a paid photog to document glad-handing of former Sec.of State and High Rolling university donors.

Albright was preceded by a big psych-out. At dinner with two pals my caller id on cell showed a Chicago-area number. It was not. It was Artist Kenneth from Amsterdam, who is an epinw FAN.
Albright was followed by a big freak-out. After attending a warbling and disconcerting Music Awards ceremony felt a need to be with My People so headed to the local gin mill where I sporadically find myself behind the bar as celeb guest bartender, which again transpired. Another night, another fresh bottle of Cuervo. Me and the bargirls did our best to evaporate that liquid refreshment and it was good. It was also a night of 3-D on-velvet paintings which I looked at with one of the bargirls.
Tequila + 3-D goggles + 3-D paintings - disconcerted feeling x82 jubilance = big yes.

Courage is oh-so many things but I don't think it involves arriving at an airport the day following a crash in one's hometown state.
Near-quote: You are a brave woman to travel tomorrow.
In a matter of small hours I embark for Vegas, armed with camera(s) and old-school tape recorder called a shoebox style (not those ridiculous voice-activated micro-recorders) and of course a yellow legal pad.
Hi, I'm Nancy and I'm here to document your bizarre behaviour. Thank you, have a nice day, carry on.
The story. The story. The story. 3K of my trundling-forward words.
At this time tomorrow I plan on finding myself alongside Karen stumbling along the strip under the influence of a sushi feast and god knows what else. Rock on. And love.

Last night. And what a night.
An all-star band in a dark and smoky lounge, an amalgamation of solid players culled from the top of the heap of the crop played. Their name is completely forgettable, Odiorne, and they are a former member of Mercury Rev et al. They're opening for Merc.Rev. in Spain and their drummer was nervous to fly. My Perfect advice? Whatever way you have to be sleepy on the plane - sleep deprivation beforehand, copious amounts of substance - do it, and sleep the flight away. The end. More Perfect advice dispensed from this region's most Perfect Nancy.
Any other question?
Today I'm meeting with a curator to discuss what of my brain will be on view for a superstar show upcoming. Art career? And who the hell in this mad whirlwind of a deep and wide chaos has time to even think about standing in front of her enlarger in the comfy darkroom, music softly playing and the bottle of scotch at the ready alongside the other helpful artful chemicals? Oh, how I yearn for a day when I can be there, making and doing and still (after all these centuries) marveling at the miracle of images floating up on sensitized paper in sloshing trays of chemistry.