Had the crimsonest, tequilaest annual Red Dinner last evening, a soiree of red foods, guests in red, house lit with all red bulbs, passion-inducing music. Awoke to a few of those after-party memories that have one simultaneously feeling mirthful and regretful. One involves a gift from artist Gerald, a kitschy suburban mom novelty dusting glove replete with bedazzzzled engagement ring and big nails. So I took it out of the bag and began pretending it was a Dr. Strangelove kind of device, then switched into sextoy mode with it, waving it about suggestively. Well I hadn't realized my hardcore Catholic pops was about five feet away, had spun away (perhaps my sister was embellishing but she - suggested - that at the spinning away moment he spat out one of my infamous hard-boiled eggs stuffed with red caviar, etc.). As I am wont to say, Oh Velcro.
We can drink too many an alternate glass of white wine and then strawberry margarita and please and not condescend or scandalize some of the people all of the time or we can people please none of the time.
I rest my grad-school-honed debating skills. And case.
H.O. Love.

Today is the day that dragged Patty thee one and only Patty into the limelight, into my eleven year old heart via the SLA. Capturing my imagination with her pea coat - so hiply accessorized with machine gun - there in the bank, on the surveillance stills as speculation whirled that she was pulling a quickie on her pops Randolph, that she was staging this drama for some wack Cali drug-induced cause. I watched the news, read the newspaper, asked my mother if I could get a pea coat. She said No.
Fashionista/Revolutionista Love.

Twelve year old song, Girl, by Tori, on the hi-fi, a perfect match to the iced-over world out there, the rant surprisingly rising from fingers.
This. Dig.
To those faux-concerned, vrai-concerned, jealous and clenched to the physical Middling City concept that it is natural to watch a body spread from age to age due to too much driving, fried food, lardiness, negativity.
I work out. I work out 3-5 hours per week via Pilates and amazingly difficult Firm workouts. I don't drink excessive amounts of alcohol. I eat, for the most part, fresh and organic food. I am in school part-time in NYC and, as most people do there, I venture out with a MetroCard in my back pocket and no qualms about Walking.
Do the above for many years (you can skip the school bits), approximately five or more and you'll avoid the Middling City Rising.
Bodily Love.

I am not addicted to grrrande Americanos, I am not addicted to grrrande Americanos, I am not addicted to grrrande Americanos, I am not addicted to grrrande Americanos...
she muttered earnestly, self-delusionally.
This just in, from Lead Boy Colleague, in regards to the Televised Boob Incident during that gladiator orgy yesterday that I had the pleasure of ignoring as I was engaged in documenting Japanese Noh theatre at Middling City U instead. But crapskis, (or rather, fartskis) that meant missing some arse-flamin' chile, as goes the American tradition of pack football viewing, or so my memory recalls.
Off to legalistic reading, for art school.
Litigational Love.

Well, minding my own dangblamed business out and about on Saturday night I ended the fine evening at the Middling City's longest-running tavern, Ulrich's, past the edge of what most MC residents find acceptably close to the Elmwood Strip, what they believe to be the crux of matters.
At Ulrich's was a goodbye party to a duo moving to Manhattan. Amongst the revelers were a few rockstars, some video types, artistes, my beloved shiny happy mag editrix/pal and a few members of the Middling City police squad.
One of them, Ken B, stated that we had met before. I didn't recall. Then he mentioned the event and (believe this or not) up from the developing tray kasloshing in my mind's darkroom, I could see his face at an art opening at Art "Dialogue."
He is a photo student with my friend Ken. So this cop/photog tells me et al standing in a circle near the bar how he pulled me over one day and I, in a snarky and crafty nutshell, said to paraphrase a cop paraphrasing me in a moment that passed oh about, to his recollection, ten years ago:
Hi, I'm Nancy J. Parisi, I'm a photographer, I'm en route to shoot something for the commissioner.
He let me go. He finds it hilarious. It makes me a little uneasy thinking of my poor self back then all defensive yet composed and thinking I'll be goddamned if I'm getting a ticket. You walk that very small line when pulled over - charming, yes, but too charming and you're becoming patronizing and annoying.
And ladies, I've heard this from many a p.o. - never cry or say you're sorry when you're pulled over. You help the coply testosterone bubble up to the surface and you'll be writing a check for your small driving indiscretion in no time flat.
Ever-helpful Love.