Apparently there are three things about me that the Republican National Committee knows for certain about me that I, in truth, never knew myself:

1. That I'm married. They sent me a 2002 Republican Party Platinum Card yesterday addressed to and imprinted with Mrs. Nancy J. Parisi.
2. That I'm Republican. Contrary to my personal belief that I emerged into this great land a Democrat (despite ushering forth from a Republican, married to same), the RNC has me down as one of them.
3. That I, in my "exemplary record of loyalty and patriotism" that so obviously proves that I am of "the caliber of leader President Bush can count on in this historic struggle" helped somehow to elect (but doesn't this RNC chair Marc Racicot recall the recalled ballots, those pregnant and dangling chads... and that I wept when Gore lost?) this Yaley. "You and other distinguished Americans... helped elect President Bush to the White House and can be trusted to help him keep America's flame of freedom burning bright in this time of adversity." S.O.S.

If I spot my Republican parallelled universe self strutting about, she will get a good tongue-lashing for identity-thieving me. Or else we can swap platinum cards because she must have my Dem card.

In the Day-Timer (as opposed to Day-Tripper) it states that today is Ascension Day. I have no idea what this means exactly but if I had to guess I'd say that it's when somebody rose on up to the grand Celestial Night Club in the sky. Do they serve single malt scotch? Is it an open bar? Cash bar? Are there colorful video games sucking in quarters. Who ascended? Wasn't that an Easter-related event?
On April 25th Day-Timer printed ANZAC Day (Aust, NZ) and I called my sole Australian friend, Sionen, to ask What in hell is HAZMat Day and her response was that it's the commemoration of a big battle/death scene. Or something to that effect and she managed to slip in one of several New Zealand digs, stating that the poor NZ people always feel slighted and at that point she lost me, my ever-fleeting interest soaring up and away like an ANZAC balloon.
After last evening's inspirational photographic lecture I'd like to un-name this day Ascension Day and have it become Photographic Discussion Day.
Perfect suggestion: have at least one discussion today with a professional photographer, read a photo-based magazine and discuss image making.
Forget ascension. Bring on images.
How many ascensions affect you every day. I rest my gleeful photographic case.
Love.

Scene: Your fav Nancy/me/post-insurance b.s. & litigious-minded me and youngish attorney in his cluttered office, above both of our heads the hum and noxious output from a bank of flourescent lights. We look like corpses. Corpses with overly-caffeinated faces. Behind his head is a wall of snazzily-framed credentials. Your fav Nancy feels like any moment she might burst into song/tears/uproarious laughter.

Attorney: Well, looking over all this paperwork I think it's a good case. We'll get replacement of your damaged equipment, reimbursement for your out-of-pocket expenses.

(NO! let me begin at the most wondrous thing he said)

Attorney: You can tell by how the cop wrote up the accident report that he didn't believe her (the other driver's) story.

Me: (ever untrusting) How?

Attorney: He wrote her up as Driver 1, that's the person that caused the accident. And he writes that she said she ran a yellow light but he wrote that she ran a red light. (apparently spending most of his time in Accident Land he's a pro on secret signs of cops... as well as doctorly and injury matters)

Me: (mulling, wandering in attention) Did you go to UB?
(then I grill him on his credentials and learn that he's a partner at the firm. I stop cross-examination)

Attorney: Most attorneys take 1/3 of the settlement no matter what. If you're reimbursed only I won't take any of that.

Me: Then try to get more from their insurance company so you get something. (thinking: contingency, a wacky thing)

After I give him my social security number and sign some pieces of paper saying that he's the legal boss the attorney calls in a twiggy paralegal who copies all of my accident documents and then I am free to roam the rainy streets again, camera bag on wrong shoulder.

Upon returning home I am greeted by a neighbor kid on rollerblades who feigns no involvement in the dismemberment of a Sanford and Son car in the yard next door. The new SPIN, sitting in the mailbox, features Cover Boy Moby with foil stars licked all over his head and some crappy photos of obnoxious-yet-talented Courtney Love inside. The love of Andrew WK meanders through my thoughts and the record store boy has called to say The Hawksley Workman you ordered is in. So I can hand that over to Laura as hers was lost in the big C.
Over and Out, on to deadline trenches of happiness.

Thanks Almighty Ruler of Rock & Roll Situations for not having me be booked for the date that BAD COMPANY hits the Middling City's exurban concert amphitheatre. And a double-header with Foreigner to boot. That's easily $50 in merch moola in one fell swoop... unless the Foreigner shirts are hideous. I rifle through the index cards of my mind to procure a visual of the band's logo. And all I'm coming up with is the cheezball AWB naked booty logo. Foreigner logo... Foreigner logo. Not Foghat. Not Falco, Foreigner. Oh well. Maybe just a BadCo t-shirt will suffice.
Saw a movie last night and actually didn't take a delicious snooze duringst it. There is nothing in the world sweeter than a nap during a feature film after plopping $6 or so on the greasy counter. An Oh-I'll-just-close-my-eyes-for-a-moment-and-not-miss-anything-in-the-plot, five-star zoo snooze.
Tomorrow's intensity includes a meeting with an attorney about the big C (it's C for CrAsH) as there are now, I see, reasons one grabs the services of a big A for a big C because there are loads of BS and N (as in nincompoops) out there who stress you out and make you reach for the big T (as in tobacco) to quell that. Dig?
Love.

The art show's opening was, as they say in movie review parlance, a Triumph with 250+ sardining into the art space at the zenith – an attendance record. I had pals armed with fifths of vodka to "fix" the punchbowl situtation but the gallery director's mother was too surly a presence. Instead, there were special "pourers" going about the room fixing individual beverages. Each of us three artists sold two pieces and hopefully more will sell. I was very happy at the opening. Lots of people dug the work, especially the Holga images, squarely imperfect & perfect.
In the midst of freelancing marathonness yesterday volunteered for an Earth Day event at a Girl Scout camp out in Holland, NY, home of the world-renowned Holland Speedway. The GS camp is on Savage Road - coincidence? I think not.
Helped with the planting of a 9/11 memorial garden and many little girls lost their little boots in the savage and deep mud. A big burly landscaper named Jeff would wade out into the mud and extricate what was stuck.
Ended out the evening motoring to see a girl band who performs in duct tape brassieres and then me +3 sang aloud a fab Lionel Richie superset in the new golden auto.
Our version of "Hello" unforgettable, a Triumph.