Britney briefing included the following to me + 15 boy colleagues (some mysteriously never seen before): do not put hands or cameras on stage, don't turn back to stage, don't photograph audience members, give us credit card/driver license in exchange for one-time security Britney pass which you'll turn in at end of 3 songs... and sign agreement that states all images made tonight will not be sold but may be included in your portfolio (!). What fun! At one point had to see something on my camera and, as it was very dark, turned back - sans thinking - on stage. I thought Oops (I did it again) hope they didn't see that and then realized just how fucked the whole situation last night was.
She, as in BS, had Pepsi commercials playing, the Pepsi logo on a spot that swept the arena, didn't even try to pretend that she was trying to lip-synch, changed costumes after disappearing via a trap door/Dracula-style exit system that a devil man in cape "playing" guitar had appeared in earlier as loads of pyros went off (much to my colleague Mark's chagrin) and dancers looking like voodoo mall shoppers pranced about. Did I mention the million-dollar green strobe lights, how she barely came near us photogs clutched around "Stage B" and how she kept grabbing her right tit?
Who needs surrealism with Britney Spears around.
Onwards.

Evidence that I'm an everyday badass:

1. Physical therapist yestiddy said You need cortisone injection in your shoulder (what I now refer to as my rotary cuff) to help the swelling/crap and I said nope. Then they suggested I might need eventual surgery. I said Hell no and proceeded to trash the medical office with high karate kicks.

2. As I'm being photographed this evening at 7PM for my special Britney photo id I'm going to throw up some gansta-style hand gesture that I've been practicing in the car all the livelong day - an inverted/backwards ILOVEYOU rock gesture while looking real pouty and sexy like Pink. Except, unlike Pink, I won't be captured in the middle of ripping my own clothes off. Pink, if you're reading this - stop with the self-ripping.

3. I think 2 examples are plenty. And now I sign off with Love. Oozy-goozy Britney beyond Spandex and frosty eyeshadow Love. Love that can accept the need to lipsynch one's brains out as one is dancing too hard with an ensemble of boys and girls who've practiced their lives away to join you onstage for one fleeting moment in hot lights, hoping all the while you catch the eye of someone who can make you a star and hoping not to, on the other foot, catch any sparks from any onstage pyros because nothing says unsexy like 3rd-degree burns.

ps: Whomever logged in as epinw reader #1000 you win a special prize!!!... contact me at njparisi@netscape.net for a special email from me. For you. Prized you.

Wednesday at the ol' Arena me and boy colleagues must and will check in at 7PM for our photo id photo shoot to shoot Britney. Then we must report back at 8:30PM on the journalistic dot to be ushered in for 3. Wondering what backstage mayhem led to the needing of photo id's. If this becomes de rigeur I will have a neat new collection of credential stickers/geek passes bearing my likeness!
Saturday night drove up to Toronto with Reese, beau, pal to see the post-5-year hiatus of band The Pursuit of Happiness. They officially rocked and rocked out. Many attend events in Canada for the turbo-powered Canadian beer. But guess what? Single malt scotch tastes the same, trips across the tongue and other vital organs the same.
Love.

Digital. My photo life is now officially digital. Dig that.
Yesterday's stranger moment happened as I was breaking down a gig at the famed Roycroft Inn and one of the CEO's in attendance asked me to help him trim a gag brunette wig to 'look like a regular guy haircut.' I said Well, let's do this out on the veranda. He asked why. I said Because that's traditionally where one gives haircuts in the warmer weather - on the veranda. So I trimmed this cheapo wig to resemble a man's haircut, sort of. I asked why we were doing this.
He was going to put it on in about half an hour for a super visual joke about a famed, not toupee, wearer, but a wearer of a bad dye job.
Hardy-freakin-Har.
As I was cutting Mr. CEO's hair two other CEO's walked onto the porch/veranda and, as I looked up at them, scissors wavering over the millionaire's head, one of them said
I don't even want to know.
The haircut CEO turned around and the other guy said Oh... Paul, it's you. Wow, I still really don't wanna know.
The end.
Moral: even CEO's can be wacky. Put that in your funny little pipe and smoke the shit out of it.

Conversation I overheard on June 15th still absolutely, completely haunting me:

Note: We are standing in a chain pharmacy/dodad store, they are lo-budg-appearing people talking near the checkout center where I am idly fondling tabloids.

Woman #1: Yeah, I was gonna go visit you but I missed my plane.

Woman #2: Oh, I was gonna visit YOU but I missed MY plane.

Secret #1:
Saturday, whilst minding my own business, I drank a bucketful of tequila. Well, I had help with a few select others. This was at Doug/Steve/Josh's joint and a party was in full effect. I drank Guinness interspersed with tequila.
I learnt that this makes a beverage we'll call Milkshake from #9 Ring of Hell.
There was mad dancing. There was touchy-feely dancing. There was by the fire talking out in the yard.
The next morn, en route to brunch with the usuals (those of Janet Reno Fan Club) I had to pull over on Elm Street for a little barfulation. At the restaurant (they ordered for me because my restaurant orders are as predictable as... Old Faithful... Bush the Younger's language flubs) I had to immediately request a doggie bag. Then chatted.
No food for your dear sweet, tequila-loving, Perfect Nancy.

Secret #2:
Shot a supersonic watery, pre-mentioned news story with Lead Boy Colleague last week. Afterwards, as we passed a centre of golfing activity, we stopped to whack the shit out of a bucket of balls. We are both lefty golfers and can share a club.
Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack. ka-fling. Whack. Whack.
The ka-fling is when LBC hit the side guard scaring the living be-Jesus out of the guy next door who I (incrediby to me now) asked if he ingested steroids as he hit balls so effortlessly. I then asked him for a golf tip to force him to like me after the chem accusation. Well that glorious meta-sporting moment, I believe, may have undone two or so months of physical therapy for the post-accident shoulder. If you read this please don't tell P/T Mike at University Orthopoedics & Sports Medicine. Thanks bushels. Thanks buckets of tequila!

My LOVE.

I am in the process of moving and will be unable to change anything on
lilydale until I am able to access the internet through my own computer.
Lucy

OK, so the mystery person who acquired my image of Natalie and Mary wrote back but neglected to add how or why the image is on the site. How... appropriate.
Speaking of Natalie, shot her show mere moments ago and the venue was at 1/3 capacity. As is customary for her lights were dim and she was highly introverted of body language, seated at a piano for songs 1-3. Song 4 and VOILA!!! Lights, camera (no, no camera(s), action... lots of moving about and happiness!!!!!
Atta girl, way to make love to the press photogs.
All.
My love.
Off for more rockstar-style action.
Ding-Ding.

Today, and what a day.
Early was sitting wishing I had my big laptop-compatible sombrero on as wouldn't you know all sorts of people trundled by my restaurant worksite this AM to chat, chat, chat, chat, chat.
The last chatter was a really impressive musician - Joe - impressive for 3 reasons:
1. his long Lennonesque nose,
2. his breadth of musical knowledge - including the fact that, he says, the first time he heard Mahalia Jackson he thought immediately Paul Rodgers... DIG IT
3. his sense of humour.

Found myself at about 430PM today in a canoe with the famed ladies kayaking about the Greatest of Lakes... after, of course, sucking down a comp soymilk provided by one of their corporate sponsors. Both are very nice and how in hell do they do all that paddling? The world is different from the perspective from a sloshing canoe. That reminds me of the time I had to arise for a college gig at 4 to be on the waterfront for rowing shots and I'm thinking Cheez and crackers, hope the sun's up by the time they're done. It was and the whole event rocked.
Waterways, your path to transcendental thought.

Was looking for info to contact a psychic and made a guess as to the URL and came upon this site which has a stolen/pirated/usurped/appropriated image made by Yours Truly. I emailed the person to inquire How'd you get your greasy grimy hands on this image? The image of Natalie Merchant and Mary Ramsey, I believe (in love) was never in print and I gave a copy to each of them. I said Put my name on the image or I'll seek you out and rock & roll karate kick you or send bad karma your way - your choice.

Please, no more talk of dirty bombs. A dirty bomb-mentioning respite of a few days would be nice, conducive to collective mental health. But, oh wait, one more mention. Bush the Younger said of the dirty bomb planner He's a bad man. Won't he ever stop being our smug Texas daddy? Those poor twins, imagine having to hear this crap with more frequency.

Several nights ago Your Perfect Nancy had this dream:
I planned a Samuel Beckett event, after his April birthdate, and made the crowd in attendance say Happy Birthday! 83 times in a row, for the age he would have been. I haven't checked his birth year but I think he'd be slightly older than that now.
In the dream I was onstage, tipsy from the celebrating, and gushing to all how every spring I read his play for three voices, That Time, reciting part of it so one and all would fall in love with it, too.

Even in my dreams I am the boss.
Dig?
My love.

I say it was a turtle crossing the road.
Laura says it was an already-deceased bird.
Whatever it was I ran it over returning from Letchworth State Park on Saturday afternoon for a couple AOL assignments. Best part of Letchworth journey, well, one: bought a super flask, plastic, wrapped in a light brown suede pouch embossed with words 'Little Buckaroo' and an iconic cowpoke on bucking animal. It has fringe. It rocks. I didn't bring it to BadCo who, btw, abso-fuckin-lootly rocked. From the pit the surge of passionate rock ovations was incredible, like an ocean on 10. Paul Rodgers looked down at me in the pit shooting and said 'Hey Honey,' picking up on my beaming love vibes. He looks and sounds great. Foreigner was awful. Shot them and scrammed quickly.
Things I saw sitting in my excellent seats after shooting from the pit -or- casual observances of my fellow BadCo fans:
1. looking back see guy with big scrape on nose, obviously to-sted. He's holding his BadCo cap towards Paul Rodgers, about 100' away.
2. Several couples of all sizes dancing, slow dancing, in the aisles.
3. Requisite guy looking back at his fellow audience members, arms up, conducting others to get on their feet and raise some hell.
4. Requisite girl at railing puking her guts out, back being rubbed by a pal.
5. Most excitingly the first thing I saw was a man having a psychotic episode, being pinned down by 4 cops, him beyond wild-eyed screaming that the cops are communists, faggits, etc. Another cop or emt was rushing towards the guy with a plastic mask attached to some medical equipment and I thought Now wouldn't it be wacky if they gave this freaked-out guy some laughing gas instead of oxygen.

This AM stood at the brink of one of the world's largest MRI machines, on yellow tape with the strong suggestion to not get any closer. Wondered if my camera would be affected. Wondered if the change in my pockets would get me sucked in. At one point I felt my right leg moving toward the opened door towards the doc sitting on the edge of the bed smiling away, proud of his upcoming big story, patient with the photog having him smile every which way but loose.

My love.

Well I'll take whatever I want
and Baby I want cheww
You give me something I need
now tell me I got something for you
Come on - come on - come on - and do it
come on and do what you do...

Be o-so glad that you're not my co-dweller or upstairs neighbor at this moment as, with tequila + hangover on this fine sunny Saturday AM, I'm blasting BadCo getting, as we say in the music biz, pumped for tonight's big show.
Glee has never been more experienced. The concert t's better be interesting. And the show, too. And I'm hoping that Foreigner is on last as I only want to shoot them and scram. But, for the record, I'm there, so there, for BadCo. Dig?

Fortunately last night I bumped, nearly literally, into the most boyish boy colleague who handily reminded me that I had a group show art opening in a few hours. Ran to opening (after running home for descuzzing and equipment changes) for fun and frivolity (and dinner = cheese, crackers, beer).
It was unmarred good times until a brat, dragged into a photo op by artist pal Matt, decided it'd be really groovy to have her back to me/camera, to make faces, to be just a general pain in the ass.
I had to say this: COOPERATE or get the hell out of the picture - a first.
Onwards then to other events, including a benefit with a M*A*S*H theme which happened under a mildewy tent so intense I had to curtail that stop.
Then to the disco step-by-step hoopla and that scene of well-matched dancers and a section for freestylists. Marty Angelo bought me a shot of tequila and I believe he told JP/bartender to supersize it. Through the strobing of lights I saw a second cousin on the dancefloor doing her thing, and, I'm proud to say, she didn't disgrace the family.

Onwards to AOL assignments, freelance matters, and then.

Almighty God who knoweth all please kill or cause the demise of the big crow outside my house, specifically my bedroom window, who crows every fucking AM really early causing me to wake to its Hitchcock strains. Thanks in advance.

Ben Folds is playing this week's freebie en plain air concert downtown. And could I be more un-psyched? Yes. I've seen him before, when he was Ben Folds Five. Today on the radio an astute station employee (I believe there are hardly any live humans on the air and now it's all prerecorded... I heard the fake woman's voice blip and it was onto an 80s Police song this afternoon) played that godawful song that Ben F wrote about taking his girlie pal to the abortion clinic and all the attendant psychodrama that accompanied that. Suh-nooze. He might need pyrotechnics to jazz up his set.

Speaking of exploding devices I can hardly contain my excitement for the pending Day of Independence as I have a supersecret cache of pyros... and Eric has an equal cache imported from out west. I'm skipping crossing the Canadian border this July, I'll be adding to the collection (one can never ever have enough explosives on hand) via a drive to Pennsyltucky.

I love tradition. And what do I love more than the good ol' tradition of eating white trash food, drinking too much and exploding shit? Shoe shopping in NYC with Dorota. Now that's a perfect freakin' day.
Over and Out.
My love.

And how did I begin the week? Thusly:
At 4AM Monday/yestiddy I was awakened by Precious Jen knocking on my bedroom door, then racing out of house to drive her to the downtown train station and, upon surveying the bleak scene, stated 'Let's wait in the car, I'm putting my seat back, DON'T TALK TO ME.'
Then the train came and I sat up, we joked about her not talking to any more murderers on the train (she met one en route to Middling City) and I returned home for a nap. Upon rising a few hours later I surveyed the various cuts and contusions on both of my legs and thought Now that's a damn good baby shower = hostessed one on Sunday which throttled through the day from 2-9PM and (nearly) no ladies left sober, no rolls of toilet paper were harmed during the shower as there were NO GAMES and a mountain of gifts was dispensed to Deborah. At the end, in the night hours, a co-ed bunch of us (boys were invited at 5) sat about the garden, cocktailing and when we were cleaning up I attempted to pull a heavy market umbrella out of one of the tables and landed in a heap like a crashed kite, tumbling over a lawn chair and lying on the grass laughing until somebody noticed and came over to vertical me.
*Ron, hi. You said you are never epinw mentioned. Now you are.
Who else might not be reported upon at moments: significants, passersby, pals, irkers, the cursed, the crushes.
Deadline onwards.

Yesterday (in huge nutshell) was a diverse and perfectly chaotic day beginning with lots of coffee and ending with other refreshing liquids.
The other, crazier Jen is in town and this I know for sure as I collected her from train station at 4AM yesterday. I instructed her thusly: if your train is late do not despair, I'll be sleeping in a gold Forester. I awoke to a train whistle and peered through the misty darkness. There were many. Then Jen. Hooray.
Made us Dorota-style coffee later in day = any normal person would expel their intestines after drinking one or two cups.
But not extra-human girls with hearts and such of gold.
Picked up artwork from show, shot a bunch of daytime activities, freelanced at a college whereupon I met their small (of # and stature) first-ever graduating class, attended the downtown photo auction (where I bought a colleague's piece for a non-pittance), cavorted thusly, and oh yes... took Jen on a few AOL-related excursions to Niagara Falls and could not ((**%$)) locate any more nudie pens - the kind that, when you click the top, the man's drawers disappear like MAGIC. But Jen bought a pooping cow keychain for her man. In goes the belly and out blops the faux poop. A triumph!
Then later we went to another Wal-Mart to see if I could find 10 more pots to match the 20 other for favors for today's baby shower HERE in about 6 hours.
First I went into a plastic garden shed and Jen followed me in. We were hiding in there as I told her how beau and I got into trouble in that very same Wal-Mart for kissing and an old guy shuffled by and said THIS is a FAMILY store.
So as Jen and I are standing inside the shed with the door closed another geezer goes by and says Is there a lock on that thing? So we burst out and got on with the baby shower matters at hand.
Auction was okay but wish my piece went for a higher price, think Biff was right, they should be donated not under glass so you can see them better when they're on the block.
Ended night at The Plant, underground club scene, watching King Sunshine who combine a live techno vibe, disco/70's jubilance and street sense.
Off to pot plants, get the house shower-ready, have a caffeine, have another Motrin, think about waking Jen with a beer in bed, put photo items and delicacies away, chop up some fruit, etc. etc. etc.
Sunday love.

Today. Day of adventure, and of discovery.
Physical therapy is wearing a little thin. This AM asked one of the ultra-fit guys that runs the joint (sidenote: my sister works there, at medical complex) if I could perhaps use the trampoline (just tramp to those in the KNOW) to spice things up. Sure, one of the guys said, just be sure to take off your shoes. A woman, there to work on her knees, heard Take off your shoes and started to do so. The guy said No, I was saying that to Nancy. So blah blah rubbing big green ball on wall, blah blah working out slowly with giant rubber bands and then... TRAMP TIME. Kicked off shoes and was sort of disappointed that the thing didn't have more... lift.
Had lunch with sister and then she assisted me with several errands, including a stop to get a Starbucks-worthy market umbrella. Upon loading it into Forester I nearly decapitated a yuppie out with her fellow yuppie/girlfriend and shouted, inexplicably I'M SORRY. In the car I said to my sister I have absolutely no idea why I shouted at that woman like that. So we kept yelling I'M SORRY in my car until the next stop.
Siblings, they always get the joke.
Next stop I was shocked and amazed to see that there is, in reality, such a thing as black pantiliners. Why. Just when you think nothing on this earth can surprise you there they are, black pantiliners.
Off.
Blood Sweat and Tears, band, not my day, must be photographed and I'm the Perfect Nancy for the job.
My love.

Clues that your favored and perfect Nancy has been merrily gardening:
1. pine sap in hair, sure to be there for weeks to come
2. dirt rubbed into other side of head
3. sunburnt scalp due to forgetting hat
4. slight hangover from sippin' on the Mike's Hard Lemonade whilst gardening
5. sunny disposition
6. really cruddy fingernails
7. did I mention my fucking sunny disposition?

As I was gardening my little neighbor pal Andrew showed up, scaring me. He said That's funny, I just scared a girl down the street. Are you out making the rounds scaring people, Andrew, I queried. He, not always, sadly, catching onto humorous intent, said No, but this is how I scared the other girl, holding out a snake for my perusal. A corn snake. He went on (and on) telling me about his various interests and I was surprised to hear that at 15 in 8th grade he's heading off to a summer program to see if he's got the makings to survive a full-throttle boot camp for the Navy. This is all he's excited about, leaving his wacked parents behind. Although I think this is somewhat of a tragic life choice I tried to encourage him and kept mentioning the groovy perks... like world travel. He wants to go to Australia because he thinks they're untouched by the world war. I asked if he thought they were part of the world and perhaps they were not only aware but part of the war. He said No, it's too nice a country, they don't want it to get messed up in a war.

What did I learn at Kiss the Summer Hello?
That O-Town was very tired. That they pray before each set. That up close they're very tired looking. That little girls hunting for luvv and autographs don't give a flying fuck. That Michelle Branch really does kick ass, like Reese says.
That Vanessa Carlton was as good live as in her video.
That Tone-Loc needs to rejoin the music world, and the world in general. Wild Thing just ain't cuttin' it like it usta.
That the world's oldest stage hand works in Buffalo, that he's 84, named Pete, Uncle Pete, and that he snuck out of the hospital to go place bets at OTB in his hospital gown and slacks.
That cops acting as security guards in the pit enjoy looking at young girls, those that are cute and those about to blow chunks!
That some of my boy colleagues have egos the size of Rhode Island and don't seem to notice.
That rum & cokes on a hot day make you happy even though you thought it'd be a cold day in hell before you willingly drank one but perhaps all of the above sped the concept along beautifully.

All for now.
My love.

Leaving NYC grabbed a cab careening through SoHo, driven by a man with both language and attitude barriers to understanding my drive to get to LaGuardia in a timely manner. He would not take me to LaGuardia. Fine, I said, take me to the shuttle stop at Penn Station. Where? Penn Station. Where at Penn Station? The east side of the station. We had this conversation three times.
The last time we had the Penn Station exchange I said, rather loudly, I DON'T KNOW, SIR, YOU'RE THE NEW YORK CITY CAB DRIVER AND I AM THE ONE WHO'S IN FROM OUT OF TOWN... THE SHUTTLE STOPS ON THE EAST SIDE OF PENN STATION.
En route to Penn Station the cab driver suddenly announced I'll take you to LaGuardia. Thanks, I muttered.
What do you prefer... tunnel or bridge?
I don't know... tunnel... how about the tunnel.
The End.
ps: sorry to all the Middling City people who unwittingly encountered my post-NYC self on Friday night. No, not sorry.
Onwards.

Sitting in Dorota's big time office on 5th avenue, corner office, dirty windows, nice plant and mere inches from the FlatIron Building. Had another foray into B&H where I purchased my 2nd EN-4 (code name for a d1 camera body battery to you uninitiated) and another memory card. As I left I noted there was a new product, something that goes on-camera that is a powerful light output that's a cinematic effect for a flash. That's on the to-do list.
So yesterday filed, no wrote, AOL items at Cyber Cafe and burnt them onto a cd. Then the CC worker bee said Nope, the cd reader's not readin' so back to Dorota's joint to email them virtually miles away to 18th Street to AOL editor Lia.
Technology, my friend.
Tonight, in about one hour, I'm meeting in SoHo with Ted and Josh to discuss our collaborative project, opening at Carnegie Art Center in September 2002.
It's all about conflagration and that's what I'd like to call it as we're going to burn images to a virtual crisp. And I will shoot it all. Burnt to high heavens.
Now I have to get the Alpha Teammates to dig the title.
Saw on the front of Mary Boone's space some workers affixing stainless steel panels to the building and thought That's exactly what I want to silkscreen images onto for Conflagration - wonderful smooth stainless.
My energy matches here.
The Middling City pales.
Thought Gregory Crewdson's show was decadently over-produced.
His production credits run to two pages.
Off for more.
Love.

Ya-frickin-hoo, the annual theatre awards night is over, I made digital images of it and nothing blew up, not even my mind. During intermission sat in the venue's cozy box office and put the images onto my laptop and did the same when the event was o-ver. Couldn't remember one secret step only so had to go back to the pad for the lost step. This was a big day in this Perfect life, technology is my friend. Not my foe.
Off to the Big NYC Apple today in a matter of hours and o-so many things to wrap up. Looks like I'll be napping all over the place.
Can't wait to be there, to cavort with Dorota as nobody else can exude such cavortedness as the two of us. In my non-humble estimation.
Big question: can I walk down Elizabeth Street without venturing into Me & Ro and buying a ring? I think not.
One of the Alpha Team boys, Josh, is having an opening tonight and sev Middling City people will be there. I'm planning a post-op gathering at Double Happiness. Oh, first session of Physical Therapy happened today and I sat for what seemed to be fifteen minutes with heat on the bad shoulder. Then some stretchy moments and I could not help not following instructions, try as I might. I got into a little hot PT water by clean-sneakered Mike who called across the room Nancy, a little smaller with those wall circles.
At that moment, roughly at 10AM, I found myself looking deep into a big green ball which I was instructed to place both hands on and roll in small circles. That got old real fast. I was on to bigger circles. Mike wasn't diggin' it.
Will be missing Cowboy Junkies on Thursday at the free gig. Over the Rhine, I heard, is off the bill anyhow. And plus, Margot Timmins is not the most exciting performer to shoot. Only her bro Michael makes for compelling spectating.
Off. Happy. Love.

The taste of an expansive/expensive cigar fills my mouth, still, the day after shooting a wedding. Two pals married each other (Rick + Jen) and there were loads of people that I know at the hoopla so it was a bonus & a half for me and, contrary to my usual practice, enjoyed cocktails as I would have absolutely stuck out like a sore, Prohibition-era thumb had I not. And then Mark said Hey, Nancy, I've got cigars and held out three for me to pick and I picked out a torpedo. A nice stanky affair.
A bunch of musicians were at the wedding and spent a portion of the evening discussing press photography/photographers/complex inner-workings of the minds of freelance photographers.
As I was having the above conversation a very drunk man came up, I thought, to talk to one of the musicians as she's very fetching. But, while looking at her he's telling the story of seeing me at the doctor's office for my shoulder injury as he read Sports Illustrated. He said, Yes I knew you were shooting Rick's wedding and I was concerned that you were injured. Talk about Middling City 2 degrees of separation.
After leaving there documented Middling City musical happenings and, last stop, saw a disoriented guy who was in the vestibule of Mohawk Place. He had soaked a Florida into the front of his shirt and I asked Marty, What's up with him. He said Oh, he claims he got mugged but I think he's just drunk and was fighting with someone. The usual bunch of ruffian musicians and music scene types were there and was happy to have seen +/- or whatever the hell they're called.
The shoot today with Last Conservative was supersonic. Afterwards they lolled about my joint listening to music, especially the new Wilco, as I burned their stuff onto a cd for them to take back to their rock & roll lair.
Onwards.
Love.