Holiday Distractions in this corner.
And in this corner... Nancy's DigVid Work-in-Progress.
WHO WILL WIN?

Have a new visual in my head that I'm going to try to shoot this week. If I even explain one second it'll shoot away into the snow-encrusted landscape.
At last night's former job work holiday soiree ran into some of the Middling City men of rock and so we had to re-hash highlights from Robbie Goo's party. Including my splashy (as in I caused the collapse of someone's cocktail) and faulty non-leggy re-enactment of the stripper girl's lungings at innocent revelers.
After a collective leaving to go hear a band (missed by minutes, drats) noted that Laura was wearing her sexy boots, a real invitation to disaster/broken limbs this time of year.
Not wanting to be a smarty-pants I did not point down to my Kenneth Cole boots with sensible heel - height but solid-like = no spikiness.
And since when do I get the Victoria's Secret catalogue? Who thinks up items like triple-bow thongs. Did Gisele really like wearing it or is that smile a pang of embarassment.
Off to whisk JenB off for a coffee date before my art meet-up at the world renowned, Middling City-placed Albright-Knox Art Gallery.
Before further holiday hi-jinx. Another round to Holiday Distractions.
ding ding

Whilst some believe that the big J is the reason for the season, in my Perfect book it's Mayhem.

Robbie Goo had a C-Mas soiree at his Chamelon West recording studio so I stomped in after my engagement with members of Janet Reno Fan Club, to mingle amongst the rock stars and, apparently, a few fledgling strippers who I referred to all night as Santa's Naughtly Little Helpers.
How they helped:
by galvanizing groups of salivating men,
by stuffing their tongues down throats of unsuspecting girls,
by harassing Tommy, my muse.
!!important update: Tommy is "involved with" said stripper, harassment their metier!!!
And more.
JRFC member Doug and I located a bottle of Grey Goose vodka in one of Robbie's small kitchenettes, which we promptly opened and decanted into our large plastic tumblers.
Later, hearing some Barry White in one of the recording studios, I suggested that some good ol' fashioned bumping & grinding transpire. The smoke machine (or was it the new age smoking fountain/mesmerizing unit) had stopped puffing (like the smokers out in their tent) and the dj didn't keep up the b&g music so that Plan came to a non-sexy, grinding halt.
Snippets of earlier:
* had a conversation with Jim Ramer, the advisor/creative director who finally watched my video creation and made some strong and productive suggestions. The big JR quote:
Shorter, shorter, shorter, elongated photographs.
** spoke with vasectomied pal who suggested that I never get a vasectomy after a night of hard drinking. I vowed that I would not. Visuals from my medically-minded and employed sister's description of the procedure danced in my head.
All for now and now for all.

Minding my own business I purchased some new leghair removal technology. Basically a très butch mini belt sander. As I unpackaged it I was talking to Laura who instructed me to return it - IMMEDIATELY. I didn't heed her advice and, whilst talking to her, ran the thing over my legs in floating circular motions, like the sheet of paper said. No pain, I said. Well, half an hour later there was no hair on my legs and my skin cells (and maybe hair cells) - and a hot dull pain - were floating through the air of the room, setting everywhere. A forensic scientist's wet dream.
I met a hippie pal out for drinks later. When I told him about the belt sander he stared at me with pure incomprehension. Hippies and power tools do not mix.
Electric Love.

Look, if you're looking for a present for Perfect Me and are thinking Oh, gee, I bet she'd LOVE that Lennon busybook that came out I think you'd be onto something. It's kind of burdensome with its hoakiness of interactive envelopes that are to make us feel like we're snooping through John's undies drawer. Maybe I'd prefer that you send me $40 towards a plane ticket for my own special voyage back to Strawberry Fields, which, last time I was there, was disturbingly undisturbed under a few inches of snow. Where were the candles? The flowers? The glow of undying love. I kicked away the snow in the night despite my frozen and wet feet. Minding my own business, as is my wont, tonight and driving I had this amazing revelation:
thermal sleeves from javas to go when removed and inverted and slipped over hands become super-bitchin' superhero cuffs. I know, I was wearing two of them, hands secretly off the wheel and outstretched to practice the Michael Stipe-like gesture.
I just posted a rambunctious post for grad school. T(r)ying together some doodly essay I won't name by Barthes, my artwork and the practice of looking on the fly/tourism.
Pastel plaid is what I saw when I restarted my troubled iMac DV tonight. Then a plaid of grays and blacks. Then I shot it in the head to put it out of its misery. Actual fantasy: shooting a handgun at a television set in the ON position, à la 70s rock star.
Far-flung be-cuffed Love.