All attempts every made by Yours Truly to be, to exude, alternativeness is blown to smithereens as tomorrow roughly at some moment between noon and 1:30PM EST I'm receiving a coveted civic awars: Business First's 40 Under Forty Award. Or is that Forty Under 40?
1K+ attendees will watch me + 39 stand before them (I'll be the one with the really flushed face as I'm more accustomed to being in front of such podiums being all snap-happy) as we one by one, alphabetically, have a verbal and slide presentation of ourselves, receive a plaque, get a good handshake, some ovations (I'm freakin' flushing thinking of that part) and then walk offstage to our tables of attendees, friends, family.
OK, so these award people must not have ever read epinw.
Don't they know?
I dance in my bra in lezbo bars, drink Oban at times like it's purified water (oh, wait that's pretty close), act out badass ventures and the like?
Well, from now on I would appreciate one and all addressing me as Honorable.
As in Honorable Yours Truly.
Honorable Perfect Nancy.
Dig?
Onwards to listening to more Sonic Youth, loud like.
Favored song du semaine: Sunday.
Love.
Awards of love.
Bushels of respectable love.

She's wearing turquoise leather pants, the tightest pants I've ever seen, and she's this big around (hands gesture to a separated width of, oh, 10 inches) and she has breasts the size of MUSK MELONS.

This is how the tipsy white suburban lady tonight at the godly college described Ice T's girlfriend, Coco, about half an hour before he hit the badly-lit stage in front of an estimated crowd of 500.
She continued:
And wait Nancy (I don't know this woman, please add her to the list of unknown knowers in your epinw workbook, page 18, righthand side of the page) until you see what HE'S wearing – a jogging suit.

Before Ice T arrived I floated near the corner of the stage at the edge of the seats and overheard another couple of suburban folks discuss the rap star and meeting him at the godly college president's house, querying if Ice T had been Agreeable. Then they raised eyebrows that he and Coco actually wanted the college to pay for them to go out to dinner following his lecture/presentation/rap about worldly matters.

The suburban banter was disturbing, whiffed from gin-soaked mouths fresh from the college president's rez and Ice T had only nice things to say about these conservatives who he had found, he said, actually engaging. And he stated that he was impressed that the college was liberalminded enough to not censor his speaking engagement, hand him parameters.
There is no free speech, he said, but maybe there is in here tonight.
I glowed up at him and he was surprised to see me sitting on the floor, legs akimbo, in the gulf between stage and seating, camera standing up on its lens as I intently watched him and wished, between my watching shooting, that the lighting was not so drastic and miserable. Knew the sound and lighting guys and should have asked if they could adjust them but oh well.
Onwards.
Onwards then to The Donnas where I stood stageside with my erstwhile and ersatz husband, Ronald of the band Bad Ronald. If you're a rapt follower of epinw you may (should) recall that I was married to Ronald on The Greg Sterlace show by attorney Ross Runfola of ersatz tan.
The lighting at the venerable Continental also was lacking, like as in was hardly turned on.
The Donnas shirts were Bo-RING.
Club owners of the universe:
Media photographers are trying to do a job. When you hit the stage with no light it makes the job of press photographers very very difficult. It is bad karma to thwart the work of hardworking press photogs and God, in his infinite and media-savvy wisdom, will punish you with fruitflies in your topshelf booze, underage kids passed out under your pool table and ongoing toilet paper pilferage.

Ice T parting shot/thought:
No matter the race, the sexes are on different teams and will fight Until the wheels fall off.
&
When he was approached about starring in Tank Girl he misheard what the part was and instead of hearing Ripper (the cute kangaroo morphed being with dreads) he heard stripper and started doing scads of crunches to ready himself. When they showed him a storyboard for the part and he saw the kanga-ears, etc. he thought it was his kanga-pouch that would reveal his juicy bits.

Fun fact I cannot shake: kangaroos have joeys and they are born into the world and crawl up to the pouch. They are the size of a teaspoon or so. The end.
And love.

(Is it my imagination or did I just spend half an hour of my life filling out the 'MTV Blue Book' for freelancers? I had the standard standardized test-taking anxiety as I penned in my info to get paid whenever the mood strikes the ViaCom gods and godlettes and shrews and shrewds and accounts payables.)
So after freelancing Saturday away, and shooting for the column, met up with members of Janet Reno Fanclub at a bistro-style Italian joint and then headed out with the willing to hit rock venues beyond, and worthy dance floors.
Second-last stop was a bar of dyke variety, Adva's special request, and after we all paid the nominal cover she circled the room, determined that nobody there was thrilling and was ready to leave only to find that Yours Truly + 3 were engaged in the act of freeform Dancing - in what was once the dining room of a stately Middling City mansion but what is sadly now decorated in the style best described as gay bar bunker.
So dance, dance, dance, then I said to Doug Let's jump on podium and go-go, baby, those two boring gay boys have hopped down. So up we hopped. Then, as the boys had been half-nekkid I whipped off my top to dance - en bra - and Doug removed his top. Adva fumbled with my camera bag to attempt some social documentation, NJP-style, and I laughed at her, mid-gyration, as she tried to shoot us sans flash. Then she got wise to the lighting situation and then fumbled to throw on the flash and, I am still astonished, got off two decent frames of us. None of which will be posted on epinw as 1. who in hell knows this html crap to make it happen and 2. your imagination is a powerful tool, so fucking use it, s'il te plait.
Tomorrow night is a gourmet buffet of events, first Ice-T at a local godly college then badasses The Donnas at the venerable punk club.
Off to deadline points beyond, catching up on things to clear the way for more mad fun, and go-go lifestyle fun.
My unabashed love.