In the midst of today's AOL gig writing kept getting phonecalls re: last Saturday's big CRASH. Got the call that They deem my car 100% totalled. All $22K shot to hell with only 2K miles on the sparkly new odometer. Oh, and Laura's Hawksley Workman cd is still in the cd player. I'll be replacing that. Tomorrow the car goes to salvage, the drunk that ran the red knocked my engine's block off, or, rather, knocked the engine off of its block. New Forester heading my direction, hopefully, next week.
Today's surrealism:
went into the dealer's body shop to fetch a receipt for picture frames for upcoming art show and bumped into my car saleslady, Caren. She, I thought, recognized me but she was talking about me as if I were not there. Yes, she said, we're looking for a new car for her... and it was too late in the dialogue to correct her so I went along with it, playing my sibling, who I assume Caren thought I was. Yes, she said as "I"/"my sister" was departing, tell Nancy that I said I hope she's doing okay and... have a Nice Day!
She also asked "my sister" if I'd/she'd like to see the totalled car. "I"/"she" did not.
Off to the Art Land, where magical exhibitionistic things happen.

Nancy's Great Entrepreneurial Idea #78:
What the world needs now (in addition to Love Sweet Love, as it's the only thing that there's just too little of... ), I have determined in my post-Crash (no ref to JG Ballard here) and enpained and ensnared situation, is a Post-Accident Coordinator. A PAC.
You are in a Crash. You hurt. You are weepy the first day. The second day, just like everyone predicts, your body is hurting like the jaws of Hell are nipping at your being, and you have to enter the bureaucratic maze of information, laced with landmines.
Here's are 2 of my fav landmine examples from yesterday:
Insurance "Agent": WHAT? You rented a car from Hertz? Oh, that was a mistake. Go get one from Enterprise. (PAC would know this and save you the wasted time and money of dealing with the Hertz nincompoops)
Enterprise Lady: WHAT? You talked to your insurance agent? You should have contacted the other party's insurance company. (PAC would spare you such inane commentary - would say on your behalf You know what Fuckhead? My client was injured, she didn't seem to have the time to chat with the other injured party about insurance matters, etc.)
The PAC would tape record your answers to all Crash-related questions, gather paperwork and run towards all the sharks whose careers are based upon accidents, momentary lapses of luck.

Took Laura, who had addressed all of my art exhibition p-cards today on her half-day off (point towards Heaven, I'd say), to Daisies for lunch and there I saw they had posted my review of their joint on the cash register. I said Oh, I wrote that. The waitress said, Wait, don't move! Then shouted into the kitchen's small window (where the circa 1972 heat lamp sits and mesmerizes me) Hey, that reviewer is here. They were so happy about the writeup. That made me happy, as did getting yet more work done on my upcoming art show. Note to self: call gallery maven to work upon his no-booze stance on openings. No vino = no saleso.

I refuse to believe that the bloody image of Andrew WK's face had a thing to do with my car crash on Saturday night/Sunday morn.
Minding my own business, heading home after a longass day of freelance work and newspaper documentation, I was broadsided (as they say in the calamity biz) by a drunk driver running a red light. Hello airbags!
Next thing I knew I was looking down a street I had not been driving on, fondling the airbags, thinking how the smell was choking and the white plastic had a neat texture and the bags an impresssive thickness.
Thanks to driving a sturdy Forester I'm writing epinw today with minor aches and pains fixable by Motrin and Oban.
The other driver +3 were taken away on stretchers. Laura, who I called as I'd just seen her, was at my side as were several empathetic emergency fixer-uppers all saying You've been in a very serious car accident, forget about the car, how are you?
After three hours in the hospital I was free to leave with a handout about head injuries/bumps on heads. Before leaving Laura said Let's take a photo of you on the hospital bed so I held up my wrist showing hospital bracelets (one bright orange telling of my PCN = penicillin allergy) and holding up the pee sample they asked for as I headed off to restroom and which nobody seemed very interested in. A nurse came in as we were taking the photo and she seemed annoyed.
Other than THAT the weekend was great, eventful, musicful, socialful, artful.
I may be the next poster person stating how Subaru completely rocks.

Nothing I read about Andrew WK prepared me for his gig last night at Showplace, a fist-pumping lovefest celebrating the party possibilities in us all.
I was tipped off by promoter that he'd be on first, at an ungodly 8PM and I counted three songs with the word party in the title. His band looked like your average metal rock geeks and he was even more handsome in the flesh than in photos. His music is techno-embracing pop-metal and he was all high-kicks that would be the envy of David Lee Roth, to be sure. And he's all long sweaty dark hair that he flips up from time to time to spread Andrew WK smiles of fan appreciation when possible. I looked at him and thought Holy Rock & Roll Hell, this is the closest I might ever get to Johnny Depp. During his set he wrestled with security to get his stageriding fans onstage, at which point he'd hand over the mic and smile at their lyric-spouting selves like a proud parent. Afterwards my security pal Paul told me that that was part of the schtick: Andrew WK's management said He'll try to pull fans up on stage - DON'T LET HIM. Then there got to be a dramatic tug-o-war, do you follow? This happens all the time in the rock world.
After his set (at 1 point power went off and the guitarist said Well, we are professionals, so we lost some power - let's DANCE!!!) Andrew WK went out into the crowd and then signed autographs for over an hour. I had my photo taken with him, TWICE. The first one was like hugging a wet stage towel. The second one, at the merch table, he was slightly drier. During the second snapfest security pal Dino had my camera and Andrew WK had me in a bear hug - fingers out in metalILoveYou gesture, tossing his hair to the front. I asked Should I rumple my hair, too? So I did, and we crossed our metalILoveYou fingers. Rock completely on.
I bought his t-shirt which shows him with bloody nose, a mere $15. The merch table guy, also Leo Buscaglia-ish in genuine love and hugs, informed me that for that photo Andrew WK smashed himself in the face with a cinder block. I am still confused by this. With the amount of faux blood available everywhere, why would a beautiful, Johnny-Depp-esque rock star have to go to such lengths?

Interesting snippet of Perfect Nancy time, 11AM today:
me in a Starbucks bathroom, using the toilet scrubber to get mud caked on shoes off before returning to freelance gig, after photographing Oozfest (muddy volleyball). I meant to bring snowpants and boots, forgot, traipsed to Oozfest in suit and kickin' shoes, got muddy and good ol' Starbucks came to rescue. Now I'm slightly horrified at thought of toilet molecules on my shoes.
The tink thank was thinkful, enjoyable.

So last night I'm all WOOO-HOOOO I'm in a think tank. I had a gig documenting a Law School event, a banquet. So there's my think tanker self sitting in a cheeseball room at an overly-decorated table waiting for something to happen for me and my camera.
I start talking with one guy to my right who, he tells me, is associated with the law school. He's one of those weirdos who can't look you in the eye as you're conversing and I determine quickly that he has a sense of humor on the negative side of the sliding scale.
He's mid-40's and his similar wife is sitting on the other side of him.
He mentions that he's into international trade law and I think surrendipity has reared its meandering head as that's basically the theme of Saturday's think tank meeting - American identity in global market.
So I say I'm in a think tank. He looks at me like I'm some crack-addled woman who has crashed the soirée. I ask him for some tips on where I can glean some background info. His response? Do you have time to read about 40,000 pages? We stop talking. I look at the program and holy guac this guy and wifey are leading national superstars in the realm of international trade theory, law, fun facts, you name it.
He might know a lot about the above but he's not trading in the hot commodities of humor and charm.
Finished the evening watching Drums and Tuba with a gaggle of friends who were happy for my new think tank status. All sort of people, save Ani, from Righteous Babe Records were at the gig - they're on her label. Bitch and Animal, another band on RBR, were there, two We're so into fashion lezbos.
Off to more photo deadlines.

Moral of following blogpost: Sometimes you never know where in hell a declaration will get you. Namely, you want something. You state it. Somebody for whatever reason remembers the statement, an occasion arises and you're en route.

A while back I was talking with a Middling City business person and said that I always wanted to be involved with a think tank and we talked about what sorts of think tank ops there are - or are needed.

I have been invited to participate in a think tank and the first meeting happens on Saturday. This doesn't make up for not getting the NYC residency (*#@) but lightens the air around me a bit. I'm in a think tank. On Saturday. A think tank. This blog is a think tank of sorts. Well, off to think. Not in a tank. Yet.

Just Experienced a very informative and semi-legal after-hours at a Middling City joint where Your Perfect Nancy et al indulged in cash registerless booze and snacks and high times. Now back to journalistic reality and the writing of the column.
Decision: (and being a Libra this is historic)
no more Zip discs. My dip drive is going to be asap subjected to the most draconian of laundry lists of punishments: running over by car, melting by cigarette lighter, stoning, spreading it with peanut butter and bird seed and letting the blue jays and robins have their way with it.
CD-roms are way more stable. Why have I been wasting time with zips? I wonder.
Back to journalistic "responsibility." Or integrity. What does integrity really mean.
My love.

Lisa, my positivity-effusing pal studying currently at Naropa U, emailed me my astrological chart earlier today. In a nutshell: I like to appear like I have a titanium nutshell but am truly emotional, I work hard, I avoid marriage and anything remotely threatening to my independence, my friends are my family and I seek power. Right on, positive Lisa. No bucolic pony rides and lolling about on the Maine coast for this adrenalized me.
Have spent the better portion of today freelancing and troubleshooting and driving for miles and miles. Back in front of machine before more of same, then resuming computer staring into wee hours. Wondering how I'm going to squeeze in some boozing time at about 930PM with Laura - the motivation to guzzle yet more coffee and hit the computer running.
I may be using my Dave Matthews image nearly half the spread. Why? Because I'm the photo editor and I freakin' SAY SO. Any further questions? Good, I thought not.
Love, your titanium-shelled pal, Perfect Nancy.

Today I have been rushing since 6AM. It's now 6PM+.
Did some food photography today out in an oddball swanky restaurant I've never ventured into and they were so nice, basically insisting that I eat lunch and sit and then a rockstar drummer who happens to work there came out and sat and talked to me about the music scene.
Last night I had dinner at the home of a manager of a few national bands, including ultra-Canadian ensemble Cowboy Junkies. A woman who works at Ani DiFranco's Righteous Babe Records was there and, even after numerous prompts from those of us in the rockstar know, wouldn't say a thing about the dark side of working at RBR. I teased her that she was fearing for her life. Or job. Her beau was one of those grad school types. The conversation was mostly dominated by rockstar talk. Fun facts. Figures. Gossip. Highs. Lows.
Got my Dave photos back moments ago, amongst hundreds of others. When I was eating at the restaurant (sort of a free lunch) the drummer/kitchen guy asked how many images I think I've made to date. A mind-boggling question. I've been shooting steadily since I was 17. I told him at the height of the season (maybe May through September) I shoot up to about 100 rolls per week.
You do the math.
Off for more more more.
Love.

Writing this from an elegant Apple shoppe in an exurban malle venue. A nice UB student returned my former cell phone so a nice reward is coming his way. I'm blogging on Apple's nickel and that seems very very appropriate.
EPINW is being written for the premier time on a huge screen on a power mac g4 priced at $3K or so. Blazing processor, too. A salesman is now telling a potential buyer about its screen, how it emulates the width of a real movie screen - 23" wow. Monsters Inc was made one one, I think he just said.
Last night Dave came out to screams. I shot from his right hand side and then shifted over to his left. Made tight images as he came down for his looking-at-hands moments, very intimate. Talked very briefly with Rudy again, his tour photog, who is very busy being important all of the time.
Stayed for most of Dave's set and marvelled at how every time he does his kicky little Dave dance now the crowd surges into an uproar. Bought the $38 model long-sleeved DMB shirt. Nice gray with yellow logo. Worth $38? Does Dave have the blackest, most miscievious eyes?
Afterwards onto other venues, other hotspots. And a reunion for a bar where I was a seasoned alum. We all talked about the good times, the past times. Then, when it occured to me it felt like a memorial service, after a few flaming shots, I split. Onwards.
Love.

Well and whew.
Have been out and kicking ass and making the dough all day and let me tell you, it's a jungle out there. Not really. I am the jungle, I embrace the jungle.

Happy birthday to this blog, and to Samuel Beckett. Respectively 1 year old and god really knows - he had no idea, why should I.

Gwen/No Doubt report: she was, according to my excellent sources, in a foul mood and not speaking to her bandmates. The opener, The Faint, left me neither faint nor running for their merch table.
ND came out to screaming throng, Gwen radiant in boxing boots, yards of rhinestones about her waist, other rock star accoutrements and that fried out hair. ouch. Press photogs were to have three songs to shoot but instead it was two - the crowd at the front of the stage was a bit out of control and the student in charge of secrity became wild-eyed and ejected us. In a nutshell the light sucked but Gwen signed a copy of a print I made of her in '97 and kept one for herself. Guess she wasn't that foul-tempered. After shooting had a police escort to my car where I left my gear and came back in, locating pals and, after doing one of Gwen's exciting new stage moves (sort of a squat thrust into a big X) I managed to lose my cell phone.
But good riddance to bad electronics.
Laura called Sean at Sprint PCS, we all had a good hardy-har and today waltzed into SprintStore and within 20 minutes had a shiny newer, smaller phone. I asked the guys behind counter Do you suppose that as these phones get smaller and smaller I'll lose them faster and faster?
Running, and I mean RUNNING, to Dave Matthews.
Love.

Tomorrow is the one year anniversary of this blog. Where has all the time gone. Procrastinatingly, I'll tell you.
What do I have to show for the year?
What did you learn in this past year?
Enough reflection.
This weekend is a marathon jamboree of rock and roll. No Doubt is tonight and then Middling City talent. And then. Tomorrow night.
Dave .
My ticket was FedEx'd to me this AM and it's a laser-printed affair. And they have me close on the floor so I will be able to lob undies up there into his smiling face.

Post-Clinton shoot wandered like a merrily lost child in an enchanted forest through Target (and like all good post-modernists I pronounce it as tar-JHAY, dig?) looking for a trash can for my highly unused kitchen. I was lost, wandering in circles. Are trash cans Domestics? Housewares? Def not Electronics. I had to ask a Target Team member for assistance. I work so much that I forget/forgot about this oddly-lit world of Barbie colors and neatly-presented items. I was out of there in 20 minutes flat. Enough of that planet, back to Perfect Nancy's Photo Universe.

Bill had a cold sore. And an odd red blemish on his forehead, upper right corner. And that nose. A nose you could fuck. We press photogs were split up into two groups - Group A and Group B and I was assigned, with a few familiar boy colleagues, to Group B to which we instantly protested. The woman in charge of herding us was perplexed. We kept saying WE WANT TO BE GROUP A. Why? she asked. BECAUSE A IS BETTER THAN B. She said, to shut us all the hell up, A is for adequate but B is for best. The boy colleagues looked at Perfect Me and asked, Do you buy that Nancy? I did. And we were escorted in our groups for 2.5 minutes of Bill proximity, at the front row. And then the shoulder tap meant go to seats, little photogs, and shoot from your seats for the duration. I was shooting, seated, next to one boy colleague who was looking at his D1's camera back chuh-chuh-chuckling. Then he showed me his image, Bill with his hands about a foot apart. The cigar I smoked was THIS long, he chuckled into my ear. There were a few other cigar jokes floating about.
I would like to hire Bill to follow me around to explain many aspects of the world in his assured and even tone. What an advantage I'd have.
My assignment editrix wanted the hoopla so I talked my way up into an office of a basketball coach, made images from behind his computer credenza, smashed into the small space, lens up to the window to get the image of long lines of students entering the building. At that point I saw a lone protester - hurray - and sped outside to get not just one but THREE protesters. The MTV generation is so in love with Bill for appearing on the network that the three protesters were 1. an ugly philosophy prof, middle-aged, 2. a middle-aged man disguised as a faux billionaire and when I asked him his political party he quipped (barf) I'm a BILLIONAIRE, it doesn't matter which party I'm in, we control it all (hardy-fuckin-har), and 3. a bald student with a GO HOME BILL sign taped to his back. Oooo, very effective Mr. College Republican.
As I was driving back from that poli-hoopla here's something I misheard on the radio:
Russia has an embargo on American poetry.
I was flustered. Why poetry? Why, only this week my former college prof won the Pulitzer and he's like so safe and nice.
Then they're talking on and on and I realized it wasn't American poetry that Russia is embargoing - it's American poultry.
There is such a difference.
Love.

Did I really ever need to know that Pink fought like cats-n-dogs with her brother, who's now in the Air Force? I think not. And thanks SPIN for packing this useless info into my already disheveled rumpus room of a mind.
Last night at the Ani show shot the opener, an earnest 40 year old guy named Dan Bern who did a little Dylan channeling.
Then into the lobby to cavort with rock star men and discovered that a few guys, old hippie types/musicians/l.p. geeks who corrupted me somewhat, are friends of theirs so it was a virtual reunion (which happily involved seeing nobody from high school).
One of the guys, Kenny, lived down the street from my parents/young me and it was in his parents' house where I did my first bong hit out of a bong the size of a college basketball superstar. And that's maybe an exaggeration by about 8 or so inches.
It's always good to cavort with older guys who know their music - at any age and, having missed out on the big brother experience, it comes in musically handy.
Ani was her usual spectacular and rivetting self and I was happy to hear her give props publicly (again) to Michael Meldrum, the man about town/music joints, who taught her how to play guitar and who recently gave me a gratis copy of the latest Hawksley Workman.
Life without music would be like life without frozen organic butternut squash. Rough.
ps: one of the evening's moments exhibiting much levity was when one of my rock star acquaintances referred to me as Mary Tylor Moore at 35 playing a 21 year old. I said thanks but said I'd like to be thought of as early series, before she wore those thick polyester pant suits without irony.

Each time I attempt to write anything or think anything about NSYNC thoughts turn immediately to baby blue cotton candy bobbing along on a paper cone, held by a child in hot pursuit of good times.
Or I think of a mall fountain, there for white noise, to soothe shopping souls.
I wore my earplugs to NSYNC's show, for the screaming is not to be believed. I think even the Fab Four-inspired wails could not compete.
All the fans had their I LOVE NSYNC signs confiscated and while me and a gaggle of boy colleagues waited in the security area - pre-shooting - a security guy wheeled in a large garbage can packed with signs. I said aloud That's a huge waste of a whole lot of glitter. Post-9/11 teen schmaltz showz are signless for the "security and comfort of all of NSYNC's friends."
This just in: one of my college lit profs, Carl Dennis, it was just announced on NPR, won a Pulitzer Prize for his poetry, a far cry from There once was a girl from Nantucket...
Also in: I mean what I say... notmyprez Bush was just quoted as saying at a press conf re: Mid East problems. Just when you think you lived in a complicated yet progressive world Bush utters a phrase to remind you that Nope, you are living in a country where the Yale-educated, secret society membered, dictionless Texan leader can order other leaders, via mass media, to play nice.
Also back in: Reese Campbell, superstar, who found me via the internet system/mass media and is a welcomed addition to the select circle that makes me absolutely laugh.
Rock on world.

Whew! what a weekend for superstar merch purchases. DJ Spooky tshirt (double-sided, black, yellow logo) and last night a Hawksley Workman girlie tank top. You can tell a lot about a rockstar by their merch table.
Spooky: big tshirts, DJ Spooky-sanctioned turntable cozies/covers, cd's.
Workman: girlie tank tops, girlie undies, cd's.
The underwear was silly, and overpriced. He's not that great. I think the last band that I shot selling underwear was Aerosmith.
After Hawksley Workman zoomed over to Guided by Alcohol nearby. And, true to their nickname (band is really Guided by Voices, lest you wonder), they swallowed, according to my calculations, a case and a half of beer of assorted varieties, and a fifth of Jim Beam. The band lovingly refers to fans with smokes at the ready as Cigarette Techs. A match bearer? A Light Tech.
This week's roster of venerable shootees, in order of appearance:
Sun: Smashmouth and NSYNC (yikes)
Mon: Ani DiFranco
Wednes: Bill Clinton (hello again, Mr. Ruddy)
Thurs: Donny Osmond (kitsch value)
Fri: No Doubt
and, the cherry on top of this veritable hot fudge sundae -
SAT: DAVE MATTHEWS BAND STARRING THE ONE AND ONLY SMIRKY AND FOOT-SHUFFLING AND CHARMING DAVE MATTHEWS AND I'M GOING TO TAKE HIS PHOTO AND THEN SIT IN THE PRESS SECTION AND WATCH HIM WATCH HIM WATCH HIM SMILING AND SUCH ALL THE WHILE.
Dave, if you're reading this, I love you.

Went to an exurban art op last night mainly to speculate on how it will be much more wonderful after I and my collaborative boys (according to us, we are TEAM A) do our thing in there. That show opens on September 11th, in mere moments in art time.
After that picked up a travel companion and joined *physically, not metaphysically and certainly not scentily in the form of patchouli* the crowd at Maharishi... Mahapotato... oh whatever the fuck they're called... Orchestra.
Then onwards to the best part of the night, to bask in the vinyl luvv of DJ Spooky who was amazing though not as textural as I imagined that he'd be. It was more old school blends and starting and stopping of beats that would have your body grooving in one way and then in another completely different way. I was onstage with Spooky to get the best possible angles of him, his equipment, his laptop, his nice bottle of white wine and his floppity wool hat. I had successfully carved out an area for shooting/dancing/being in front of the stage and when an ARMY t-shirt guy wandered into the circle I looked at him shook my head and he went away. Moments later he reappeared with a candle he had found somewhere in the club, sat on a little apron jutting out from the stage, sat cross-legged and had a real moment - solo.
Spooky Moved.
and now your beloved Nancy will move herself into her darkroom to make art for the masses. Love.

Yesterday had a gig shooting the Bill T. Jones Dance Co. in rehearsal at the sprawling suburban campus of the university named for this Middling City.
In the studio I respectfully took off my shoes, in which to blend.
Was speaking with another media type when someone from the company shushed us saying Mr. Jones doesn't like it when people are talking. I looked at him, searingly.
Dancers, techies, observors, more dancers on sidelines were all talking.
Mr. Jones is one intense man and it was absolutely great to be so close to the dancers to hear them muttering things like Hands flat, open, move in closer, etc. as they interpreted their directions.
One dancer, Malcolm, was off listening to his walkman when Mr. Jones wanted him to do something and all the dancers were shouting MALCOLM until he heard.

Thursday I photographed Uber Jazz Crank Diana Krall, who sold out the 2K or so seat venue downtown. I asked the head of security if there were any good new Diana Krall stories as she's a noted crabass. He said he walked into a room to hear the singer/pianist/diva screaming I DON'T TALK TO MANAGERS .
My colleagues were photographing Krall from an odd angle, through her piano because they saw an op there. I shot from the keyboard side waiting until she turned, which I knew she would at some point. Beautiful verticals, full-length, were the result. Her, piano, her long legs, her long hair.

Tonight is a marathon night, beginning with an opulent gig at 4PM. Onwards then to art ops, DJ Spooky, more more more.
Love.

DADDIO.
I've coined yet another word. DADDIO is a condition.
Hint: It'll always happen on a Tuesday morn. And it'll always happen post-Easter.
It's Day After Dyngus Day Interior Ouch.
Minding my own business I picked up Laura. Then we proceeded to Dyngus Day party #1, a bit of a snooze but the bar owner was très excited as he'd, he felt, scored majorly by having an old time accordion star playing all night. I said to Laura Their pussy willow branches are impressive but wait until you see the next party.
A house across from DD party #1 had burnt to a crisp the night before and what I thought was a festive welcome wagon to the bar was a truck outfitted with bulbs so workers could see what the hell they were doing as they were cutting boards for all the exploded windows.
Party #2 began with Laura and I brandishing our pussy willow branches and telling the door guys that they were letting us in, pro bono-like.
Then we shimmied through the crowd to the bar where I convinced a whole lot of people that I knew and sort of knew and then knew later to do shots of Krupnik. The bartender was sad to report that the sticky, oozey-goozey Krupnik was backordered and there was only enough for one person. I made a rockstar acquaintance sip it. Laura drank the rest while we all opted for some sticky, oozey-goozey honey liqueurish thing with a little hive of holiday madness sitting atop the bottle.
Shots later, several Polish beers later, Laura was the new Dyngus Pro, squirting and swatting passersby. I photographed the polka band, convincing them to play longer as the media was in the house... a tv camera showed up... and so they launched into Roll Out the Barrel for some odd reason. Laura and I ended the evening sitting on a pooltable sipping scotch and watching a five-star Middling City rock & roll band do their impressively sweaty thing in the back room of a white trash-emulating bar. I recently hung out with these guys whilst shooting their promo shot so felt completely comfy wandering into their "stage" area and swatting the lead singer in the back of the knees with my pussy willows and he screamed lyrics into Dyngus Day night.

Basically began weekend by cohosting the cable access show again and when I walked into the "studio" there were these young pop rock-looking guys who were introduced to me as NSYNC and by golly they sort of looked like those nincompoops so I pretended it was NSYNC and we had a group hug jumping up and down. And I was wearing my beatup fuzzy bunny ears. Which I wore almost all weekend.
This band was inspired to forge a rock career after 9/11. And they call themselves State of Emergency. I kept calling them other things such as State of Confusion, etc., much to their chagrin.
At the end of the "taping" there's a customary photo shoot and this is posted on the show's website: link along here to see evidence of Your Fav Nancy as her lapindacious evil bunny alterego.
Much into the wee morning hours, when all good bunnies should be snoozing in their warrens, I was in the venerable rock and roll venue when I was approached by a boy.
Are you bringing me goodies tomorrow, Easter Bunny, he asked. I said Only if you've been a good little boy. He asked if I'd like his address. I said Sure. He shouted AHA, IF YOU WERE REALLY THE EASTER BUNNY YOU'D know MY ADDRESS. My retort: That information is all in my laptop, which I'm not carrying around at this moment. Then, traipsing along back to vehicle a big ol' station wagon slowed down... one of the Middling City's scarier-looking cabs. The cab driver unrolled his window and shouted SILLY WABBIT.
Bunny ears. What a way to meet people.