I had to chastise a 13 year old boy yesterday night as he had no freakin' clue how to make a scotch & soda - nor a good one. What I told him, pointedly, and in a nutshell: 1. o youngster, there is a huge difference between soda and tonic. Get the fuck away from my scotch with that tonic or I'll karate chop you. 2. sonny boy, when making a scotch & soda remember to add scotch.
The party was fun, even when an uninvited person (guest of a co-worker) was rubbing my leg until I gave him a look which can wither healthy leaves off of trees, burble paint off of walls. He knocked it off and no further near-need for karate chops ensued.
Later we all streamed out of the party and into a series of bars and clubs, including the one where a dj pal handed me a copy of his cd - it's on now, adding a nice even techno vibe.
At some point, realizing I hadn't had enough food for "dinner," I stopped in a somewhat reliable pizza joint and cavorted with the two employees - one pregnant and non-working (lots of sitting on counter) and the other a dough-tossing teen always covered with flour. I looked up and they had not changed my menu embellishment: the (apparently barely-literate) owner hand-printed their menu and their family pack looked as if it cost $2068 rather than what it must be ($20.68). So I was searching for a sharpie (I was with five other people = power in numbers) and then the hardworking teen said here's a black one, a nice stinky fat marker. So I reached up and added the words solid gold to family pack and made it officially $2,068.00. Last night the pair of pizza employees said We like you better when you're not here with your posse.

Swimming through a room of artists at a party last night I came upon one of my newspaper colleagues, in his cups. He was telling me a story - a challenge to follow over electronic music, talking everywhere and his thickening British accent. He told me about picking up novelist/theory guy Umberto Eco at the airport and how customs was giving him a hard time and he was growing angry and that he spotted Eco but thought it was a lookalike and I'm following along when suddenly I realize this is a piece of fiction he's working on not reality so I help him embellish with other essential details. Eco is going to be kidnapped and driven to San Diego via Chicago by the tipsy Brit who has been wantonly post-flight drinking at the airport. And he's also trying to screw over the woman who is really supposed to be picking up Eco for a talk at the universtiy. So she's in hot cross-country pursuit after the kidnapping. Or not. My embellishment: the car picks up a troubled teen girl who asks for a ride. His embellishment: she is carrying a small handbag and is always changing her clothes at rest stops. My embellishment: Eco secretly realizes what is happening but is digging being in this chaotic moment with the Brit thinking he's pulling a fast one on him. His embelllishment: Eco is carrying a duck-billed platypus in a pet carrier and suddenly realizes it's the wrong platypus. My embellishment: suddenly Eco is obsessed with the idea of going to a dude ranch that he's read about in Oklahoma where they custom-style your cowboy hats (bending them to and fro) to fit your personality. The person at the dude ranch has a helluva time figuring him out and the brim is steamed and resteamed and bent and rebent. For hours. His embellishment: suddenly you realize that the teen girl has an acoustic guitar and then a double bass. My embellishment: Eco has been furtively calling in details to his assistant in Italy because this will become his next novel, thanks to the tipsy Brit. I told the ex-pat that this could be a screenplay and the last scene would be a black screen for a while and then the voiceover of Eco stating that this was all his story.
Best part of the party: the Brit, growing ever-increasingly difficult to understand à la Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels (or whatever the hell it was called), stating that the nearby Portuguese guy who speaks 4 languages speaks none of them very well.

I went to CNN.com today and had every intention of downloading the US govt-ok'd transcript of OBL's found tape and my computer lost the connection. I took that as a sign from disgruntled and maybe even pissed Allah that I should not read this at this time. Either that or it was high time to complete my AOL deadlined work at hand. So I got back to work. And spared myself further Tora Bora thoughts. For now.
I've been on a mad frenzy to travel as much as possible. I was trying to squeeze two more trips out of 2001 but will only make one, I think.
2002 is the Year of NJP Making Art, for certain. I will be so art-focused that it delights me. It's getting into emotion, thought, fear, voice, intuition and the powers of self-made adrenaline. Off to events. And their worthy photo documentation. By Yours Truly. xox

I've just, as we say in the paper biz, filed and I'm glancing at the photo I took of some foie gras yesterday evening at a local finery eatery of expensively preparedly foodstuffs. Late as always, my paper called for the request and, having worked in the other biz which makes the world go 'round (the restaurant biz) I knew to call and schmooze the chef de cuisine, which I did. Upon my arrival I silently walked up their grand staircase to their upstairs banquet room. I set up lights and the shot and went downstairs to ask the hostess to tell chef de cuisine that I was ready. I had wondered upstairs how many joints I could walk in silently and set up lights and all unnoticed or how long I could hang out without anyone caring. Maybe bump around and have some free snacks, take some photos and move along. I am skillful at being invisible when need and want be.
So chef comes up with the to-be-shot food and it's foie gras with truffle-whipped potatoes, pomegranate, pea tendrils, fried salsify, shaved white truffles, and lavendar and honey glaze. Et voilà: the most expensive little plate of foie gras for miles around. I shot it, I must say, sumptuously. He and I talked as I shot and he asked if I'd like to take the food. I said yes. But I was amid a juice fast and took it anyway. Upon arriving back chez moi I gave the expensive snack to my outdoor-living cat friend named Extra - now he thinks I absolutely rock. I didn't tell him that they force-feed the goose to make the liver swell to make this treat..

My health and beauty regimen recently included the Snapcase show on 12/8 whereby every dirt molecule nestled into my face's pores was vibrated out of my face and into oblivion, wherever that might be. Before they took the stage with ferocious abandon they had a tape loop of searingly loud percussive machine noise which was beautiful. It went on for fifteen minutes. In that span of time I wondered if my lungs might collapse, or my face would freeze in a permanent grimace, or if I might faint - as I was much closer than other humans at the venue, being in the pit. Recently Snapcase's management bought images of mine for a British mag and other bandly purposes.
A final thought, emanating forth from this middling city (tossed in for lead fan who pondered if my novel will be called This Middling City) Tora Bora - was that name made up for this war, a spunky truncated name easy for Westerners to pronounce?