Fuckhead du jour, experienced this AM at the ungodly and gray hour of 6.
*Changed background soundtrack music from glorious A Thousand Leaves via Sonic Yoof to its equal (albeit way more mellow) So Tonight That I Might See by Mazzy Star with the universe's most deft tamourine player, blowing Laurie Partridge out of the lake, Hope Sandoval.*
So I'm driving.
Driving home from all-night journalism following all-day shooting and earlier deadline and a few errands.
It's gray, as I mentioned.
And it's 6.
At a light from a one-way to a one-way I'm at a red light, not going left as I don't think there's left on red at this corner and you cannot see here what might be coming down the pike at you there - much like the nearby corner of similar format where I just missed the Xpress shuttle to meet my maker on 4/21.
So I'm sitting in the car, blinker on, waiting for the light to go left when suddenly from nowhere is an SUV, big and red. A woman is obviously in a mad dash and goes around me and makes the left on red from the center lane. As I see her moving about I'm looking around to see if maybe turning on red at the corner is ok.
Not like I'm all about following rules and such, but it's 6, it's gray, I've been working all night and there's a station teeming with cops literally inches away.
So the SUV lady goes around me, in a puff.
Light finally changes, turn and as I'm driving up to the next red light (because we're within Middling City limits where lights are timed to infuriate rather than ease along commuting) I see red SUV aggresive driver.
I'm chuckling. Ha ha, hurry up to that red light, hardy-har, moment of levity this gray 6AM.
So I pull up to the light, now on her right side, shooting her a quick glance and there, just for me, your precious and Perfect Nancy, was her manicured finger, center one, right hand, red nail polish, up in the air! For me!
And her lower jaw was sticking out an unnatural three or so inches from her face. Defiance! Anger!
This, of course, made me burst out laughing, that this woman was sitting here waiting for me, this gesture for me nearly missed, like death at a nearby corner.
So now we both traverse along the street to the green to the next red light.
She's noticed I'm having barrel of monkey laughs.
At this next light she's gesturing her car towards thinking of cutting me off and I'm thinking in a flash Cheez and crackers does this crazed bitch have a gun? What's she going to do, run into my car because she's provided me with a great 6AM package of guffaws?
So onwards to sleep. And, I suppose, a fine story.
Moral: don't fuck with me. It's only fodder for epinw.
My absolute, safety-minded, ironic, workaholic, deadlined, tar-pit-hearted Love.

I am proud to report that your favorite, Perfect Nancy has been spoofed in the infernal Middling City newspaper The Beast. They made an ELKHASHAPPENED column by Elk J. Elk – in honour of my WHATHASHAPPENED, replete with three snaps of elk as a quarter page spread, unfortunately way in the rear of the paper. I'm going to take EHH to Kinko's to have it fashioned into a tshirt.
Now I am forced to remember the tshirt shoppes of yore when you went into a joint and there, before your marveling eyes, were seemingly hundreds of decals to choose from and the scent of scorched poly-cotton fibres hung in the air (and let's fabricate, too that the scent of cheeba did, too, as it was the 70s for mulletted Christ's sake).
A favored shirt in the 70s: a photograph of two lions and bubble letters stating Let's Snuggle Up!
Today one of my favored shirts is the new Flaming Lips tshirt of multi-colors and also my Paul Frank how-to shirt detailing how to turn two socks into a freakin' sock monkey.
Plus ça change c'est le meme chose.
For you non-Frenchyphiles that means as Perfect Nancy gets older (and surlier) she's realizing that she really is the same ol' lovable madcap kid inside that she was in the early 70s when she was, oh, about 10 and more thensome and Danny Gare of the Buffalo Sabres was her favorite celeb and her first glass of Oban was about two decades away.
Still marveling over the conversation at a wedding I shot this past Saturday, had with a very average-looking woman who works at a very nondescript diner in the exurbs that I had the misfortune of visiting recently on an AOL foray. I asked her if she and her sister on my other side were, in fact, sisters, as I was just meeting them. She said, eyes widening, OH NO, we're not sisters... we're TWINS.
It was one of those moments where I tell myself in a flash to be diplomatic, that if I were in a foreign land and some foreign chick said this to me so earnestly and stupidly I'd be thinking Geeee, this is so charming.
We talked and she revealed to me that she is a gigantic Dave Matthews fan so then we had a zillion things to talk about, including how he raises his one eybrow and also (for this part I got up from the table and behind my chair did the DM kicky dance) how he gets ovations for the kicky dance.
Moral: in every cloudy wedding scenario you're shooting for ca$h money there is a silver DMB lining in the form of a twinly woman.
Love.