Lest you think my Perfect World is all about cavorting with rockstars present & future and trading in smushed vehicles for shiny new ones, here's a little story for you.
Yesterday was my absolute least fav event - ever! - to photograph for the newspaper... an ultra-boring arts award luncheon.
Two clues when something will suck: 1. it's called a BASH. 2. it's called a LUNCHEON (rhymes avec truncheon).
So this thing crawls along for 2.5 hours and there's a platform of people, many of whom give rambling speeches, a huge roomful of art community types and corporate sponsors and banquet-style fare.
The first thing I noted upon entering the sea of tables was the absolute absence of light on the high platform/at podium. There were four tiny lights about 100' back from the platform, and gelled to boot with a nice hazy orange/pink. Oh, and the background was black. What does this mean? No ambient light is available and I had to burst forth light from the flash.
Onwards.
So, as a speaker rambled, I sat with a table full of people I know close to stage (our newspaper was table #29, a good hike from stage) and one woman sweetly approached me from this org of sitters and asked if I'd speak to some youths at risk into classical music THIS EVENING and give a presentation about writing about the arts so that they can, moments later, watch the symphony perform and, hopefully, write something snazzy about it.
Of course I said yes.
Here's what I'll tell them:
1. procrastinate, it gets adrenaline flowing.
2. either caffeine or alcohol is necessary on table/desk upon which you are writing, depending on concentration level.
3. get a thesaurus.
4. be honest, you earn street cred when you're real.
5. don't be afraid to toss in a smattering of poetry or fiction to spice up your writing about music.
and, lastly,
6. don't fucking ramble.
Maybe I'll have to edit this a bit - but basically that's it.
Over, out, about, rock on.

Jetting some images off to MTV to spread Perfect Nancy world view of rockstars. Have been slightly addicted lately to Patti Smith's Easter . Why I weep for today's concert-attending youth: as they sit stupefied by MTV (oops, today we LOVE MTV) - glitzy - stage productions as popstarz lipsynch and dance the night away they'll possibly never discover and/or appreciate the pioneering artistry of Patti who could, with one phrase from one song, rip the fake tits off of any top 40 girlie.
Tonight I shoot Wesley Willis - fat, black, heavily medicated drummer of small renown. Last time I shot him he sat on the floor of a now-defunct downtown club ringed with (drunk, equally-chem-addled) teen boys... and me. He had plumber's butt. As he reached for something from his nearby bag about 5 prescription meds bottles spilled out. He scared me. It was beautiful. And tonight I'll be back for more drumming fear. When I spoke with his press guy in LA he kept phrasing out NO WORRIES. It was equally scary. People in LA really say things like that.
NO WORRIES.
Say it.
Voice must intone on the reeze part.
NO Werrr-EASE.
Got it?
Good.
NO WORRIES.

Why I'm smiling.
Today (well, yesterday, but technically, in My Book, the day doesn't change over until one's idea-teeming head hits one's barely-used pillow) I meandered into a newer and better Subaru dealer with a dollar and a dream (OK, really a bit more than a dollar... and an abused vehicle) and left with a Deal. I think my powers of positive thought persuaded these nice saleswomen that I'm wonderful and deserve all good things, including a brand new car for perusing and abusing for a little while.
Either that or they're nincompoops. Kindly nincompoops.
Went there with beau to get a replacement side mirror (as I'm sure I reported the former side mirror was dangling after I thought I might be running over a homeless man's body wrapped in carpeting), blank check from Auto Guru Pal's business in hand. Left with a mirror. And aforementioned Deal.
I got them/saleslady nincompoops to toss in a gas card, free foot massages for a year and a cd player. I'm unfortunately lying about the foot massages.
When I returned to Auto Guru Pal's repair centre I told him about the Deal. He said Well, now that I know you're getting a new car, let's go out into the lot, walk around the car and laugh at all the damage you caused it. His skilled Auto Guru eyes noted every milimeter of despair, destruction and plain old shitty luck. And we laughed heartily.
The world is never more cheery than when Perfect Nancy gets her way and gets her self into a newer and shinier vehicle.
First cd to be played in new car. An important decision. Perhaps REM to ensure the vibes are wholesome/vegetarian (= no roadkill under wheels), from the south (= no rust on the newness) and full of indecipherable words (= Murmur for secret Zenlike chants).