Monday, September 01, 2003

Well it has been a while but now you can really really savour my Perfect Nancy words. I was in NYC. I was in the Adirondacks. Now I'm in the Middling City. Tomorrow, hooray, it's back to NYC.
Why interim Adirondacks experience? Because dear Andrew married the woman of his dreams. Not me. Laura. It was such a great wedding, very Andrew, with lots of music and a duet from Trinity in Boston (there were about 20 other choristers there from there) who performed one of his compositions. Later, much much later, after plenty of a really good chardonnay and great conversations of Clarkson ilk (Nan insisted that I sit with her and Will et al - primo!), I danced with Andy, Will and Max Clarkson. Who were all wearing kilts. It was contra dancing and after my last horrific experience with contra dancing I nearly ran screaming from the wedding party tent. Last experience: gig shooting a day of cultural events at former dumpsite Artpark. One of the events was a contra dance escapade and they were short a woman. They called for me. ME. I said, No really, I have to shoot, I can't follow... well, after three songs/attempts they excused me. Last night fared better and nobody was injured. I ended the evening dancing three songs with a woman from Boston named Amanda as my partner. The caller said same-sex partnerships were welcome. It was about halfway into the first number of our same-sex partnership that I noted that my partner had one hand. I was intrigued but never got the chance to ask how her hand went away. Andy's wedding shooters were unbearable. During the ceremony they were right next to Nan and Will - literally in their faces. They had bad grouping skills and I snatched drinks and a few handbags from subjects. Egads. It drives me to distraction watching shabby wedding photographers. While Andy and Laura were exchanging rings (speaking of distractions) I snuck up the aisle to shoot a few with my new digital number, the Olympus 5050. Nan hadn't seen me yet and when she noted it was me she reached over to hug and kiss me and talk to me ever so briefly. During Andy putting the ring on Laura. Oh well. But it was that sort of wedding, very casual, lots of movement throughout in the area that Andy cleared beyond the pond and garden.
I met Will's brother Austin for the first time, a musician and Volpe scholar. I told him of my Parsons School of Delight experience, and meandered over to my difficulties with (former) mentor Anthony. I described the situation. Austin suggested I think of another program, one more inter-disciplinary, challenging and more history. Not so sure about those concepts. I am appealing the final seminar grade that Anthony bestowed upon my hard summer of work. I was stunned by it, and am moving right along to another advisor I feel will benefit me and my work more. There are several others (3, to be exact) in his group who are equally perplexed by him as an advisor. Two of those three are equally upset about their grades. Grades do matter in grad school when it comes time for grants and such. And for an advisor to wallop his charges with low grades is further unproduction.
To end on a more light note.
Two nights ago, Friday, my sister and I rode up to the casino, the one in NF, NY. Her idea. We split a flask of Oban en route. I wore my lucky Sam Adams ballcap. I did well, winning about $200. I made sure that she went home with as much as she stumbled in with. While we were parking to go in I realized that I had sort of fabricated a spot and was dangling precariously into the aisle for more cars. I had my sister stand on another less-obvious spot and did a great big fast circle to get there, purposely crushing an orange safety cone. There's nothing like the feeling of crushing an orange safety cone. No, scratch that - my old practice (before the cars got nice) of arranging tossed-out Christmas trees in the middle of the late night Middling City streets to rush over them, sometimes backing over them and repeating step (always with Justin in the car), approached that. Inside there were the requisite drunks, kooks, elderlies and conventioneers. I talked to a few of them. There was a bleary-eyed Native parked at a slotmachine, his eyes so reflective that the little cocktail waitress (let's just say her nickname will never be Speedy) cut him off. Free drinks cut off.
All for now, love.

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