More Americans vaporized today.
Great chances taken can mean great loss and, although its an obvious tragedy, anyone who boards a NASA vehicle knows there's a chance that the ship isn't going home to roost.
As I watched the LIVE footage of the shuttle collapsing in the heavens and cuts to shots of debris in the scorched Texas landscape and even-keeled reporters I had an item float upwards in my memory.
On one of my liberating and caffeine-fueled cross-country roadtrips I requested a special stop, at NASA's joint in Texas. My travel companion obliged - I had been before with family and knew it rocked.
So we went, tooled around and ate in the huge cafeteria.
I glanced down at the lunch tray (usual injected plastic number, rectangular) and studied the two-tone NASA logo. It had to be mine. So I stole it from NASA's cafeteria. I don't recall my method but it happened.
I'm wondering where, in my many moves, it landed. I think someone could be serving snacks to a small circle of friends and my fucking NASA lunch tray is the envy of that person's pals.
Well that's karma for you.
I was really going to try my luck/karma last night by offering an officer of the law a jello shot from my opened car window when my two evening travel companions shouted NANCY are you nuts? He's a cop, he'll arrest you. Perhaps I had slurped down too many to dishevel my faculties but I thought an officer of the law, obviously young and freezing cold, might welcome a Skyy vodka-laced treat.
Onwards.
Charlie Hunter and Bobby Previte abso-fucking-lutely mesmerized. They duetted and Hunter at one point played the tambourine as I've never seen before, he made it an instrument for complete cool.
I went backstage with a venue employee as I'd requested going behind the curtain, meaning I wanted to shimmy behind the club's black curtain to a point where I'd be directly behind the duo. Then stick my lens through an opening (hopefully) and shoot from behind them, them looking at each other.
Well instead I ended up backstage shooting from the side. I located a tall stool and balanced atop it, holding my breath and leaning and arching to make the moment stick. I thought I had been invisibly shooting away merrily but several said they saw me doing just that.
Took the jello shots after Hunter/Previte to a house party desperately needing jello shots. I made three types of vodka flavours and one with quallity gin - the green/lime ones.
Onwards to Doug's gig further along the downtown scenario, his last with the other playas. And, as I said later to anyone who would listen If I were managing Doug's career I'd order him to stay with this band and ditch the other he's so committed to... this band has a sparkle, a buzz.
If you all listened to me the world would be a much much much better place. Plus I'd always get my way and thusly I'd be ever more exuberant and that would help all of you feel much happier, too.
Love.

This is sooo ghetto, but we're out of soda, she, the chainsmoking young co-ed bartendress said.
I looked at her for a moment thinking not only how in hell does a bar not have soda but also that the reason I was sitting in that bar was that it IS so ghetto. A place of ramshackle charm, an occasional death metal band nite, where the t.v. is always on and regulars strut in with teeth a-missin'.
Also, of similar theme is this tale.
Went out for two Janet Reno Fan Club birthdays except one JRFC member decided instead to attend band practice. Small plate joint called Bacchus, wine is their thing. Oban is not. And how do I know this? After dinner drinks were ordered. OBAN I slobbered and, at $8 a glass, it was underpriced = ojoy.
So it comes to the table in an oversized brandy snifter.
So I grabbed it from Smedly the Waiter and tossed the glass with all my energies at the plate window.
No.
I said I hate to be a glass snob but could you please get me a rocks glass?
Nincompoops.
Just had a gig at the Middling City Museum of Science and this is one fun fact I learned: mastodons are not dinosaurs.
Informational love.

With Martha Stewart's help I found a new color for my office/living room walls - Wasabi. Being a firm believer that a paint should be selected by its name I feel this is a perfect choice for Perfect Sushi-Loving Me. And the Goodwill box blue ceiling that I inherited from Dave Harrod is going away. Decided suddenly today that for the party I'm throwing on the 16th colors need to be changed.
Began today early with a meeting followed by a follow-up shoulder exmination by Dr. Alzheimers in the suburbs. He and I chatted about all things shoulder and I'm thinking Oh WONDERFUL, no dressing up in one of those pesky disposable, robin eggshell robes. When suddenly he stood up and said Well, put on a robe and I'll be back in to look at your shoulder.
grrrrrr
So he hands me the paper rectangle and leaves. Immediately I tore off the plastic belt accidentally and then whilst trying to unfold the thing it ended in tatters until I was holding a piece about as big as one square of paper towel. Laughing fairly heartily by myself in the overly-lit room I was not only thinking gees I hope Dr. Alzheimers isn't lurking in the hallway giving me not only a C- shoulder evaluation but a D+ psych evaluation but also wondering how to cover myself. Eureka, I thought, these bastards made me drive all the way out here, fuck conservation. Then I got another and was more tender with it. Wish I could say the same about Dr. A and my poor left shoulder.
Disposable clothing love.

As I logged onto Blogger just seconds ago there was, in the welcoming window, a link to a discussion board regarding, for god's sake, The Shroud of Turin - hoax or ferreal. Immediately my thoughts shrank backwards to the horrors of Prometheus Books where I slaved as jacket copy girl/assistant to director of p.r./assistant to director of advertising among the mushrooms growing in the corners of the orange shag carpeting in the basement office (this sounds like a bad dream but, believe you me, this fucking happened and is how I bonded with my pal Jamie Johnson, who also miseried there) and ducking the blue clouds of cigarette smoke streaming from several offices. And so much more.
Anyhow, the place is owned by Mr. Killjoy/professor Paul Sharits who believes in nothing. So that meant a constant stream of tomes debunking everything. Tooth Fairy Mystery: SOLVED. Shroud of Turin Mystery: Solved. And on.
The best book I ever came across there were the memoirs of a porn star (Jerry Butler) who was married to Wednesday of The Adams Family at one time before their coked-up minds derailed and forced their marriage onto the rocks.
George W. Bush Presidential Mystery... why doesn't Mr. Sharits solve that one?
Could not bring myself to watch his state of the union address.
I would, however, like to read a transcript and after the tidal wave of deadlines I'll look for one online.
Oban Addiction Mystery: Solved. No, don't solve that Sharits.
And, for the record do not solve the following -
Shoe Assembly Mystery.
All.
ps: nearly forgot the real reason I was blogging which was that today, as I drove down the DMZ that is Middling City's Main Street I was behind a car with clever vanity plates with a religious theme: UR4GVN. I was regarding these nincompoops thinking how best to yell at them from a car length away, smirking madly, when I looked over and there, mere feet away, was a man looking at me, smiling and pointing to the heavens. I smiled back and thought Thanks be to the gods of serendipity I don't have an impressionable mind and believe this is some sort of sign.
Sign (and rock) on.

While interested and semi-interested parties watched the Super Bowl spectacle of commercialized sport I flailed away on my deadlines whilst listening to the radio. Eureka! I heard on news radio that the play stopped and it was time to rock & roll in San Diego = half time.
Thankfully I missed Celine Dion and tuned in as Gwen Stefani et al hit the Super-sized stage. Her in her usual odd assemblage of femmey fashion and boy sports paraphernalia (boxing boots, leather fingerless gloves). She sang live which I think most would have opted out of but she's the pro at jumping and singing. She ended I'm Just a Girl with a little salute - I think not in reference to her 40s-style hairdo but a poke in the eye to US overseas machismo. Perhaps I read into that but I'd like to think this.
Then, for some reason, Sting appeared. He warbled in trademark nasal twang, in equally-trademarked outdated outfit. This man needs a personal stylist, a butler.
He had the look of a man who couldn't hear himself in the monitors and thoughts of shouting MORE VOCALS IN THE MONITORS were probably flitting through his mind. Gwen duetted louder and the off-balance duet ended with pyros that looked like a Colin Powell/GWB dream - flames and smoke filling the night sky as American fighter pilots circled over Super Bowl 37 out of sight of the media and sports fans.
Rock on.

Listening, per Doug's request, to a copy of his band, The Neighbors. Actually, Doug is in the band, I think Allen would prefer that it be called Allen's band The Neighbors. I think Allen might be disappointed to know that I think it's fine pop - especially now that I hear tambourines rattling.
Last night celebrity guest bartended for a while and overcharged a biker. I breezed past him a bit after depositing his pint and bottle of beer and he inquired How did these two things equal $8.
I looked and said I'm not a bartender and I can't add numbers up on the fly... Kelly, what do these two items total? Then I said OK, I owe you $1.75 and handed them to him with my patented Thanks for shopping at Nietzsche's. Jeesh, thank the good Harley gods above, pal, that you're not tippling in NYC I should have tossed in his goateed direction... goatee with Guiness foam around the edges.
Excruciating is how I'd describe the vocals heard last last night. I escaped to the front of the bar to visit with musicians and non-musicians and suddenly heard a huge, mic'd yelp. This is not what I expect from a band incorporating my name. Nancy's Candy is no treat. They do, however, have busloads of pals so there were lots and lots of onlookers.
Marty invited me, as did a few others, to Super Bowl parties.
In lieu of a bag of chips and a beer I prefer to enter into such an escapade with an armload of the Sunday Times - looking up, of course, at appropriate intervals.
Off for Janet Reno Fan Club brunch and points beyond, like shooting the Campbell Bros. at the art joint this aft.
No football love.