Today my sister called from her gig at the medical office, where my head was CAT scanned yesterday at 8AM. Yet more post-crash fun.
Nan (only three human beings call me this), it's about your CAT scan.
I felt a bit nervous, she sounded nervous.
They found Mickey Mouse in your head, she said.
I said That's impossible, I've never been, and never want to be, in DisneyLand.
Yesterday for Brucey's birthday took him to Star Wars and beforehand we got nice and stoned. Pot? Yes. Plot? Nope.
While we waited for the movie start in a nearby bar we watched a British guy, drink in one hand and mic in the other, doing a fab karaoke Louis Armstrong/What a Wonderful World. That was more entertaining than Star Wars.
I need to ask a geek what's the difference between light saber colors.
Four days until my temporary Middling City escape. Oh, speaking of Middling City matters, y-o-y does the weekly I work for keep putting City Hall on the cover, only mildly altering the same view of it. Its Deco-ness has been on the cover I think 8 times in the last four months. Are we becoming more like the Middling City daily?
Skipping out into the Friday night to document madness & badness.

Scheduled a bandshoot with the guys of Last Conservative, one of the pet bands, as they need something more... compelling to show the industry moguls and mavens.
What's great today: Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot but that should be not coming as any surprise. There's a nice meandering, jangly storyline quality to the entire disc.
And the new Moby is out and about and it's time to pay another visit to that nice place where the haughty boys (and a few girlies) do their thing beyond, behind the elevated counter. We all traipse through for their slight amusement.
What's not great today: having to drive out to the suburbs to see a specialist about a left shoulder rearranged internally by the 4/21 bad driver.
The summer is filling in with fine festivals, calendar heavy with dates of rock stars and waning rock stars and soon-to-be rockstars.
As I told a boy colleague yesterday If it weren't for outdoor summer gigs (and a smattering of gardenening moments) I'd never be in the sun, being a sun-shunning type.
Who else have you met, I demand, who carries a bottle of SPF 50 (suntan) lotion as well as a backup bottle in their car & in their camera bag during aforementioned rock & roll engagements?

Most of this past weekend was infused with a light dusting of surrealism.
As I like to do in NYC most times I tossed myself out into the Middling City night on Saturday with a plan but with a welcome to serendipity, good old-fashioned Zen.
And where did I find myself on my last Saturday stop, dually documenting for the column and taking care of some AOL beeswax?
A comedy club rumored to be way closed. It wasn't, though it wasn't very obvious from the roadway.
As I pulled into the lot I got a long distance call from Jen B, tipsy and wandering as we spoke out into a dark country night outside of Troy for better cell phone reception. There were several I MISS YOUs exchanged before I heard the drama of her situation as she was left behind by a carful of pals as we talked and then her fear as she stood in the middle of the black road and then the sighting of headlights as the pals realized her absence in the car and returned for her.
Then into the comedy club.
I believe comedy clubs are for those less fortunate than me who are NOT funny (or can't make themselves laugh at their own expense) and can't find humor in their own lives. Poor, cover-shelling, bad-food-ordering watchers.
Many moments follow in comedy club... I find myself standing next to a biker type, with charming eyes that glint with malevolent wit and twinges of dangerous high times. He and I are laughing at the scene before us, a hypnotist in full biker regalia and holding a cordless mic who has a dozen watchers hypnotized and doing all sorts of demeaning things.
The charming biker type and the hypnotist know each other fairly well... and loathe each other. Hypnotist motions over heads of watchers and hypnotized watchers, fingers spread about 3" apart. Oh, says biker type, he wants another shot, he can't have another shot. Biker type nods a huge NO. Hypnotist looks dejected, lunges for his Yukon Jack & Diet Coke (I guessed Jack and Coke - biker fav) on a nearby table and goes about demeaning the dozen.
Biker type can't wait to tell me this:
Now look at him, all tough looking. Would you ever imagine that he HAND SEWS ELASTIC ONTO THE BOTTOMS OF HIS PANT LEGS SO THAT HIS PANTS WON'T RIDE UP ABOVE HIS BIKER BOOTS? IT'S ALL SHOW BUSINESS. IT'S ALL A SHOW.

I leave you with these words. It's all a show.
Love.

Apparently there are three things about me that the Republican National Committee knows for certain about me that I, in truth, never knew myself:

1. That I'm married. They sent me a 2002 Republican Party Platinum Card yesterday addressed to and imprinted with Mrs. Nancy J. Parisi.
2. That I'm Republican. Contrary to my personal belief that I emerged into this great land a Democrat (despite ushering forth from a Republican, married to same), the RNC has me down as one of them.
3. That I, in my "exemplary record of loyalty and patriotism" that so obviously proves that I am of "the caliber of leader President Bush can count on in this historic struggle" helped somehow to elect (but doesn't this RNC chair Marc Racicot recall the recalled ballots, those pregnant and dangling chads... and that I wept when Gore lost?) this Yaley. "You and other distinguished Americans... helped elect President Bush to the White House and can be trusted to help him keep America's flame of freedom burning bright in this time of adversity." S.O.S.

If I spot my Republican parallelled universe self strutting about, she will get a good tongue-lashing for identity-thieving me. Or else we can swap platinum cards because she must have my Dem card.

In the Day-Timer (as opposed to Day-Tripper) it states that today is Ascension Day. I have no idea what this means exactly but if I had to guess I'd say that it's when somebody rose on up to the grand Celestial Night Club in the sky. Do they serve single malt scotch? Is it an open bar? Cash bar? Are there colorful video games sucking in quarters. Who ascended? Wasn't that an Easter-related event?
On April 25th Day-Timer printed ANZAC Day (Aust, NZ) and I called my sole Australian friend, Sionen, to ask What in hell is HAZMat Day and her response was that it's the commemoration of a big battle/death scene. Or something to that effect and she managed to slip in one of several New Zealand digs, stating that the poor NZ people always feel slighted and at that point she lost me, my ever-fleeting interest soaring up and away like an ANZAC balloon.
After last evening's inspirational photographic lecture I'd like to un-name this day Ascension Day and have it become Photographic Discussion Day.
Perfect suggestion: have at least one discussion today with a professional photographer, read a photo-based magazine and discuss image making.
Forget ascension. Bring on images.
How many ascensions affect you every day. I rest my gleeful photographic case.
Love.

Scene: Your fav Nancy/me/post-insurance b.s. & litigious-minded me and youngish attorney in his cluttered office, above both of our heads the hum and noxious output from a bank of flourescent lights. We look like corpses. Corpses with overly-caffeinated faces. Behind his head is a wall of snazzily-framed credentials. Your fav Nancy feels like any moment she might burst into song/tears/uproarious laughter.

Attorney: Well, looking over all this paperwork I think it's a good case. We'll get replacement of your damaged equipment, reimbursement for your out-of-pocket expenses.

(NO! let me begin at the most wondrous thing he said)

Attorney: You can tell by how the cop wrote up the accident report that he didn't believe her (the other driver's) story.

Me: (ever untrusting) How?

Attorney: He wrote her up as Driver 1, that's the person that caused the accident. And he writes that she said she ran a yellow light but he wrote that she ran a red light. (apparently spending most of his time in Accident Land he's a pro on secret signs of cops... as well as doctorly and injury matters)

Me: (mulling, wandering in attention) Did you go to UB?
(then I grill him on his credentials and learn that he's a partner at the firm. I stop cross-examination)

Attorney: Most attorneys take 1/3 of the settlement no matter what. If you're reimbursed only I won't take any of that.

Me: Then try to get more from their insurance company so you get something. (thinking: contingency, a wacky thing)

After I give him my social security number and sign some pieces of paper saying that he's the legal boss the attorney calls in a twiggy paralegal who copies all of my accident documents and then I am free to roam the rainy streets again, camera bag on wrong shoulder.

Upon returning home I am greeted by a neighbor kid on rollerblades who feigns no involvement in the dismemberment of a Sanford and Son car in the yard next door. The new SPIN, sitting in the mailbox, features Cover Boy Moby with foil stars licked all over his head and some crappy photos of obnoxious-yet-talented Courtney Love inside. The love of Andrew WK meanders through my thoughts and the record store boy has called to say The Hawksley Workman you ordered is in. So I can hand that over to Laura as hers was lost in the big C.
Over and Out, on to deadline trenches of happiness.

Thanks Almighty Ruler of Rock & Roll Situations for not having me be booked for the date that BAD COMPANY hits the Middling City's exurban concert amphitheatre. And a double-header with Foreigner to boot. That's easily $50 in merch moola in one fell swoop... unless the Foreigner shirts are hideous. I rifle through the index cards of my mind to procure a visual of the band's logo. And all I'm coming up with is the cheezball AWB naked booty logo. Foreigner logo... Foreigner logo. Not Foghat. Not Falco, Foreigner. Oh well. Maybe just a BadCo t-shirt will suffice.
Saw a movie last night and actually didn't take a delicious snooze duringst it. There is nothing in the world sweeter than a nap during a feature film after plopping $6 or so on the greasy counter. An Oh-I'll-just-close-my-eyes-for-a-moment-and-not-miss-anything-in-the-plot, five-star zoo snooze.
Tomorrow's intensity includes a meeting with an attorney about the big C (it's C for CrAsH) as there are now, I see, reasons one grabs the services of a big A for a big C because there are loads of BS and N (as in nincompoops) out there who stress you out and make you reach for the big T (as in tobacco) to quell that. Dig?
Love.

The art show's opening was, as they say in movie review parlance, a Triumph with 250+ sardining into the art space at the zenith – an attendance record. I had pals armed with fifths of vodka to "fix" the punchbowl situtation but the gallery director's mother was too surly a presence. Instead, there were special "pourers" going about the room fixing individual beverages. Each of us three artists sold two pieces and hopefully more will sell. I was very happy at the opening. Lots of people dug the work, especially the Holga images, squarely imperfect & perfect.
In the midst of freelancing marathonness yesterday volunteered for an Earth Day event at a Girl Scout camp out in Holland, NY, home of the world-renowned Holland Speedway. The GS camp is on Savage Road - coincidence? I think not.
Helped with the planting of a 9/11 memorial garden and many little girls lost their little boots in the savage and deep mud. A big burly landscaper named Jeff would wade out into the mud and extricate what was stuck.
Ended out the evening motoring to see a girl band who performs in duct tape brassieres and then me +3 sang aloud a fab Lionel Richie superset in the new golden auto.
Our version of "Hello" unforgettable, a Triumph.

Perhaps evidence that I'm not as genteel (as that lezbo said in the bar that night) as I appear to be. If I were a blind person and, say, it was 4PM, the appointed time for my seeing eye dog pal Rocky to poop I would state so thusly:
Tell me when it's 4PM so I can walk Rocky to take a dump/shit/poop.
Contrast with how an actual blind person said same to me yesterday, in a very soft voice.
Please tell me when it's 4PM. He seemed anxious about this so I asked why.
Well, he said, Rocky was trained for a whole year before I got him and he's so trained that he does his business exactly at 4PM.
Business.
And, being like I am (non-genteel) I asked, So what happens if Rocky isn't ready?
Oh, he's always ready at 4PM, was the big steaming answer.
Today, shooting sports second day in a row at the same tiny college I saw this guy and Rocky again.
It was 345PM.
I said, HI, it's Nancy, we spoke yesterday. It's nearly 4PM!!!!!!
He said, Oh we took care of business a bit early.
I think he's fucking up all that special training.
I amazed myself today by becoming so lost in the suburbs/exurbs that I drove for I think an hour in that condition. I saw a thrift store and pulled into the lot.
Almighty God in His Infinite Thrift Store Wisdom wanted me to find this item and that's why I was lost:
an ashtray featuring a small Chinese tot (clothed) perched at the edge of the ashtray as if the ashtray were a giant pillow with indentation for ashes and butts. It's painted a complicated swirling array of purples, lavendars and yellows. It rocks.

To go with my new goooold-colored Forester, to replace the one rearranged and obliterated by Ms.Drunk, I'm getting my left front tooth coated in shiny shiny gold. I don't understand, clearly, how these insurance things motor along but the nice Subaru saleslady said that on Tuesday I can pick up a new one. hooray.
An interesting blend this past weekend of documenting musical activity in the Middling City and working on the art show. Dropped the artwork off today and it fills the eastern room/my room completely. 29 pieces in all, and I did all of the framing. Please, someone, remind me that in the future I don't have this kind of time. Thanks. However, the sense of completion and relief is immense. It is done. And, I might add, it's a good show. Unfortunately the show, a threesome of artists, has a way-unfortunate name: Trilogies. Cor-nee.

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.