(sung to tune of Love Machine, 70s Motown dance mega-hit)

I I I am a digital video editing ma-chine
And I don't work for nobody but Parsons
Oh oooh cha
A digital video editing machine...

I now have a plethora to send off to JR. And one, I swear, will be like so suitable for the next Whitney Biennial. No lie.
They are each little snippets of digital video editing mastery and the more I'm using this Final Cut extravaganza the more I'm meandering off the trail into black diamond territory, playing with scale, and other secret things.
About to jet off to Liz's girlie jewelry party for charity and find my sister some swingy earrings. Note to You: I do not have faux earholes. I do not wear earrings.
The last time I believe I attempted earrings was at the wedding of my beloved sister whose marriage (cue sit-com applause machine) went down in flames a few years back and whose d-word is now nearly final. (cue giant ovation)

After the jewelry purchasing power party Kennergy's free-jazz gig at Soundlab, renowned for serving the region's worst wine. At $3 per glass. O mighty God, if there is one, please prevent the temple squeezers from finding me if I so drink three of those glasses of rotgut that will rival the near-grain-alcohol vino of Thanksgiving Day when I served Stan and all the accoutrements. A-freakin-MEN.

Musing Love.

Well, file last night's charity event under Well, That Was Interesting.
First interesting fact is that I have the same, very-same, crimson chunks in my hair as does Robbie Goo and Carla, Mark Freeland's girlie companion.
Very same crimson, very same hair stylist.
Attended the VIP moment and ate about 6 Swedish meatballs and a rock sound guy queried if in Sweden the Swedes eat these. I thought not. The wine poured, the people schmoozed, the food disappeared.
Alison Pipitone played with her rollicking band and that was a highlight on the music end of matters.
Lead Boy Colleage and I spoke ever so briefly, told him about my beloved beau Kennergy who was not with me, he avoiding the rock scenario. O, velcro, I say.
I watched the video playing non-stop overhead and was delighted to hear that Yours Truly makes a cameo. It was described to me as TJ Zindle of Last Conservative fame and moi exchanging an Eskimo greeting, rubbing noses. And then, I saw it, this digitally-captured moment.
Have to FedEx off a dvd to JR for the grad student open house, sure to wow the masses my videos will be/are. Spoke with JR for a good long while yesterday, describing in full detail the work coming his way - a triumph. Triumph of use of adjectives, triumph of editing, triumph of shooting.

Triumpant, defiant Love.

A Johnny Depp look-alike meandered by in a gray poly-oly-um-cum-free suit. We danced a mean hustle. Afterwards, after twirling in a fashion that could best be described as near-arm-amputational (arms of Yours Truly), he growled in my ear Nice following, baby. The little vid made by Beth Dearest of the dancefloor encounter proves it to be not a good example of following, or leading.
Sky-high minis, sky-high 'fros, sky-drunk guys towards the evening's end, sky-high Leif Garrett of former idolatry (photographed by YT after collaring him and after his junkie eyes sort of focused upon where my voice emanated from), sky-high drink lines, sky-high bartenders in bowties, was the disco vibe.
Today I suffer from Convention Center Foot, the phenomenon that follows hours of fancy footwork upon a concrete floor.
Beth Dearest dared me (dared! me! what!) to dance with a cop guarding the point where those with all-access passes (me) could separate from the masses (them) and of course - suddenly - there I was gyrating in front of him. When the song was over he kissed me (kissed! me!) on the side of the neck and whispered into my nearby ear Thank you. It was such a touching disco moment.
Highlights Include:
Eric C not knowing who in hell Yours Truly was with my new colour-rich tresses and all, until I was practically on top of him.
Cell calls from Cheryl and Liz, somewhere in the morass.
Charlene Tilton, of Dallas fame, working up a sweat by the autograph stand where revelers were charged $10/Polaroid.
Finding a discarded Polaroid on the concrete floor of a chemical disaster that had beheaded the Polaroid's subjects = an artful triumph.
Discovering a cache of crap canned beers backstage and delivering them to the dancing girlies, and Myself.
Leaving and having to jump a curb to get out of the parking spot that I created.
Now to deadline day.

Concrete Love.

A Johnny Depp look-alike meandered by in a gray poly-oly-um-cum-free suit. We danced a mean hustle. Afterwards, after twirling in a fashion that could best be described as near-arm-amputational (arms of Yours Truly), he growled in my ear Nice following, baby. The little vid made by Beth Dearest of the dancefloor encounter proves it to be not a good example of following, or leading.
Sky-high minis, sky-high 'fros, sky-drunk guys towards the evening's end, sky-high Leif Garrett of former idolatry (photographed by YT after collaring him and after his junkie eyes sort of focused upon where my voice emanated from), sky-high drink lines, sky-high bartenders in bowties, was the disco vibe.
Today I suffer from Convention Center Foot, the phenomenon that follows hours of fancy footwork upon a concrete floor.
Beth Dearest dared me (dared! me! what!) to dance with a cop guarding the point where those with all-access passes (me) could separate from the masses (them) and of course - suddenly - there I was gyrating in front of him. When the song was over he kissed me (kissed! me!) on the side of the neck and whispered into my nearby ear Thank you. It was such a touching disco moment.
Highlights Include:
Eric C not knowing who in hell Yours Truly was with my new colour-rich tresses and all, until I was practically on top of him.
Cell calls from Cheryl and Liz, somewhere in the morass.
Charlene Tilton, of Dallas fame, working up a sweat by the autograph stand where revelers were charged $10/Polaroid.
Finding a discarded Polaroid on the concrete floor of a chemical disaster that had beheaded the Polaroid's subjects = an artful triumph.
Discovering a cache of crap canned beers backstage and delivering them to the dancing girlies, and Myself.
Leaving and having to jump a curb to get out of the parking spot that I created.
Now to deadline day.

Concrete Love.

So, minding my own business and shopping for toppings for my famed paella I actually had a family of four staring at my hair. They were making no attempt to hide the fact that they were staring and I returned their stares with my most Perfect, beatific smile. Nearing the paint-melt stare but not quite.
Shot a bar mitzvah today and this was overheard as a woman fumbled with a very decorative and overly-designed doorknob: Weeelll, that was easy after those bloooody marrrys.
To that I thought Well, yee ha to you, mid-afternoon tippler with abandon.
Tonight is the World's Largest Disco, or, rather, the Middling City's Largest Disco Scene. You know, the one where 10K people or so in flammable clothing and faux 'fros do their best hustle. Despite the fact that for most the hustle etc. was aeons before their time and if not for VH1's series loving all things retro they would just not know.
Bringing Inbal and Beth Dearest to the WLD/MCLDS vip portion of the evening for high times and no misdemeanours. Turned them on to sponge candy and now they are addicted.

Spongey Love.

*neato! this post was just completed as the previous was allegedly lost as I blogged on another internetal set-up with woeful and antedeluvian dial-up. So double post Love for You, lucky sunnuvagunn epinw reader/Lover.

The colours of crushed cranberries and sumptous, foolhardy and light-coloured pumpkin pie are running through my tresses, thanks to Jon. As of a few days ago and the visit to the salon and the espresso and - oh - it's all a blur. But I left with multi-colours. And they rock. As I told Kennedy Jon wants us all to look like we're out on tour. Speaking of tours, Robbie Goo and Jon are having a slammin' party on Monday night as part of the whole Music is Art genre of rock activities.
It's 3PM and I have not started cooking dinner for T-Day. Am I worried. Are real cranberries growing from my cranium. I rest my Martha Stewartlike case.
So I'm making duck with 40 cloves of garlique. 40. I went to B'Way Market yesterday for a special special duck from a poultry stand. I asked if the feet were extra to no noticeable mirth. Jon kept asking produce vendors if the various items in his hands were 2 for $1.19 a pound. To no noticeable mirth.
Now back to the Kennedy Kitchen for some good old-fashioned slicing, dicing, stuffing, and, most importantly, imbibing of wine all the while.

On NPR at this moment a man with one of those authoritative accents is describing the tradition of wild boar hunting on a holiday. You must make the kill... Oh, he's discussing ancient Greece and the historical figure, prince of Macedonia, Alexander, in honour, assuredly of the Oliver Stone movie starring the lips of Angelina Jolie and others. But really. No hunting of wild boars, please. Pigs are people, too. Ducks are not. Ducks are a dime a dozen as they are plentiful on ponds and in zoos feeding off the land. Alexander, a very present threat, the man accents on.

Stuffing. Love.

Cranberry and pumpkin pie colours now swirl merrily through my hair after a visit to Jon who touched up the red chunks and added anew. He and I visited B'Way Market to buy a fat pig .. home again .. home again .. jiggity-jig. Astute lovers of epinw and all things Yours Truly know, just know, I do not ever eat pig. But I did buy a duck, a solid bag of duck, no feet and no head. I asked the nice man behind the counter if I might pay more for the pair to be attached. Answer: no. Jon suggested buying a gag chicken and attaching those feet. I never swung by a shop of magick so no feet it is. Beth Dearest arrives in about an hour, onto this frost-strew gray Middling City terrain. Inbal comes on Saturday, just in time for me to drag their unsuspecting asses to the World's Largest Disco on S-a-t-u-r-d-a-y NIGHT for the beerish mayhem that it is. Now it's off to video land, cooking land, landing land, and more.

Love stuffed.

LOST:
(virtual flyer tacked with a red plastic tack, end broken from hammering, to a sapling on a busy street)
HAVE YOU SEEN MY ACADEMIC CAREER?
IF SO, PLEASE CONTACT ME.
ROCK ON,
NJP

I am in the midst of a freelance gig, part two (ding-ding) begins in a few hours. I informed one of my hirees that I am in grad school. She looked confused. SO I CAN TEACH IF I SO CHOOSE, I sort of warbled out. Well, if you ever do teach let me know. (long pause) I'd like to learn how to take better photos.

?

So, minding my own business, like fucking usual, and standing in the doorway of Jon's Salon (the man who gave me the crimson chunks and who is retouching them for brightness's sake this pending week) I see famed and lanky product and housewares designer Karim Rashid. Today, all dressed in white. Yesterday it was an all-pink ensemble, right down to his powdery pink shoes. Shot him last night at Albright-Knox Hallways of Art as he was lecturing, expostulating, espousing and effusing. Left Cheryl at the AKHA bar with one Jeff(rey) who was regaling and regaling to make the/my familiar less so, if you catch my deft storytelling drift.

So there was the imported designer, Rashid, meandering down Elmwood Avenue, the Middling City's one last outpost of pedestrianism. Spending his hard-earned design dollars in the MC. Jon ran to the window, leaving his client mid-cut, to see the man. I dared Jon to rush out and ask for an autograph, but on his left buttcheek. Jon, a rockstar, refused.

Love Refuse.

Minding my own business and about to blog this moment away as Interpol blasts away at a volume I'm sure that has the next door neighbors enjoying it completely, I glanced up at a stack of books. Dreamweaver MX for Dummies caught my eye and a cold shudder of death waved through my body.
Met Kennedy at a jazz gig at the church last night and Bandmate Scott was there, across the way/aisle/GodPath. So we go out for post-show drink(s), me and the Bandmate, at that joint Prespa. Small, functional, former storefront that pulls off the ginmill vibe well. We were glancing up at a college basketball game when - suddenly - there was a player with a face mask on. He'd had his nose busted or some such thing (as has Yours Truly - twice) and it blended his basketball head with the shiny plastic to horrifying effect. Bandmate Scott turns to me and sez "KNIFE CALL SHOULD WEAR THOSE ONSTAGE." I like so completely agree. This is like that dj that JW,Esq. was going to see last night, an alleged daddy of the suburbs who does his gigs in a metal half-mask. Masks, all the rage, suddenly.
And Bandmate Scott joins list of pals who have informed me that I must grow my hair. Puh-leez. Is it time to walk to the green line after grabbing a tall strong French coffee, wander into Diesel store before walking to Parsons, take a lunch break at Marquet and meander the streets in a visualizing stupor yet.

Love Stupor.

Awaiting the call. From Elliot Caplan, filmmaking guru and star, to meet up with him and show him a thing or two. Funny thing is I can't seem to find a critical cable needed for my one external harddrive that houses most or all of my most recent video oeuvre.
And I promised him an Americano so there's that to acquire as well.
And then I'll have one and then all hell will be breaking loose.
Got a note that I'm in the Parsons School of Delinquents Rogue's Gallery as one who has not yet registered/sent in funds. Oh, velcro, I say to that. It'll happen. Soon.
Sending off samples of work to a U for consideration to confuse and mold young minds - i.e. teach a few photo classes in the spring. Without giving away the exciting, exurban locale, it's a highway drive of two hours away. If it's a big green go Hello, books on tape. Hello, dashboard thinking.
All for now and over and out.

Love Out.

Senatorial shoot was a slammin' success, except for the lunching part. Evan, the imported (NYC) mailhouse guy that I drove about from location to location, and I had drive-thru from (gag) Wendy's. We both had the #6 with Diet Coke, should you need to gag along. Had to, at some point, coach my senator in the ways of the hand, how to wave it in front of his body like a salmon swimming upstream in a pleasing and non-threatening (continuing the metaphor, not like a salmon hung-over and threatened by a hungry, streamside grizzly) manner. Be Italian, I coached. To the softened gasps of all in the room. I'm half-Italian, I said, I can say that. At some point I bossed Like karate chops in the air.
Moments ago shot a Korean drum ensemble who marched and danced and ran while playing. Very kodo and affirming. And deafening. I was in front of them, as if they were marching into me (oh, they were) for the bestest shots e-ver.
Onwards to deadlines of redwood proportions.

Proportional Love.

Sloppy miasma, as all good parties should be. In the midst I discovered, on purpose, Polly and Mark's stash of aged rubber bands, broccoli bands, twist ties. A pet peeve. I scooped up half the collection and deposited it next to Kennedy, who was at that instant a seated reveler. I had just caught crap from him earlier for disposing of his twist ties. This has happened numerous other times when I am visiting someone. Scenario. Kitchen and Yours Truly is moseying about when lo and completely behold there is an amassment of the aforementioned and, before you can shout flotsam! jetsom!, then I dispose of them as they should have been months, nay, years, sooner. Au revoir neurotic gatherings. But then, as it was pointed out to me mere hours earlier, it is neurotic to gravitate and dispose of these.
As I was shooting at Burchfield-Penney Art Center Bearded Lady arrived, inquiring if the Cyndi Lauper show was still up. Poor testosterone-addled dear, she did mean Cindy Sherman but when I heard her request for Cyndi Lauper I turned like a cat sensing a snack, eyes lit from within, in a half whisper uttering Cyndi Lauper? Bearded Lady did not catch her artsy mis-spokulation.
Now I am putting together Regards., the column. And tomorrow an all-day shoot with a state senator doing the usual beautification and beatification.
All this and more as techno smoothness fills the space between.

Space of Love.

ps: still haven't sealed the deal, as Laura is wont to say, with Caplan. And Beth Dearest reports that Joel-Peter Witkin was not only high as a kite, but dismissive and incommunicative, this from Simone. To that I say Well ferfucksake, the man is a rock star. Does he have to be nice. Was Kurt Cobain nice backstage. I rest my haggard journalistic case.

Beth Dearest phoned me moments ago, from the computer lab at good ol' Parsons School of Deism, where she was sitting next to Mentor Jim. Upon hearing that BD was speaking to me he said to relay the message that I was in big trouble. For what, I queried. For not writing, for not calling came his basso profundo response. For. Having a sabbatical of sorts from all things grad, for having a moment of introspection in lieu of making - a commonplace must in art making, fercrissakes. Meeting up with Good W later today for some party wares as it's the b-days of both Liz and Polly and a party is afoot. Note to self: turn heat up on a more regular basis as the green plants are waning. Note to self: when the mood is of a certain nature keep the soundtrack peppy. Note to self: continue to bother the shit out of Holy Crap why Me Elliott Caplan to work with me as mentor #2, despite his wonderings if this is for money, for furthering of his fame, for coffee comp.

Compensatory Love.

ps: gleaned moments ago from Internet that the veep of this very land has been rushed or taken to hospital once again, for Shortness of breath. But he has a cold, the sniffles, so it may not be Arafat cause for alarm. Whew.

Firstly whilst shooting production shots of MacB (look, that'd be Macbeth to You), there was a fire alarm. Blaze, I wondered, a photo op of real-live flame, the lickings of orange and red that is escapable when it comes to my graphite brandishings. No. False alarm. While watching the non-burning building, housing, apparently, thousands of co-eds, as well as Leary Theatre, some co-eds thought it zany and unfettered of them to ditch their clothes so there was one nude male and one nude female. To the delight of the onlookers. I might here mention that this is a catholic (not as in universal) university. I might here also mention it's Oban time in my book, this moment, which always lends a special je ne sais quoi/feistiness/X Factor to epinw. Blaze. So there in MacB was some smoke effect(s) to accompany the Wyrd Sisters - one of the WS aided me in a moment of snack elusion when my bag of Smart Food brand over-cheesed popcorn ("dinner") landed sideways and was unable to enter my awaiting and disappointed hand, and mouth, and teeth crevices. Enter Wyrd Sister. After some magical wiggling I had my fucking Smart Food. She said Always call in a witch. To which I muttered Magick. Exeunt.
Shooting, shooting, shooting then this in Act V, Scene V, after death of Lady MacB. This quote haunted my own private moor and I reread it to Kennedy and have it now copied on one of the walls as it's the new digvid inspiration. Life's but a walking shadow, he sayeth thusly and following is most of the passage, fraught with phrases that have entered our mainstay category.

Macbeth:
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Dig. Digvid.
Moving bodies shapes in space and with the gray that hovers it's time to bring the show not on the road but au contraire in the rooms that smell of perfumes. To bring the lit refs up to the 19th C.

It Ove.
Lit Love.

Embarking shortly for a theatre-related gig. And You know how much I completely am enamoured of all things theatrical. As in stages, not emphatic speech, mercury buckets. Informed moments ago that not ONLY Beth Dearest but Inbal the Newlywed Israeli are jetting to the Middling City for holiday fun with Yours Truly. Sitting currently in the new newspaper digs to discover that the printer has had a snafu of sorts and there is no paper as of yet. And today is the day. The day that it miraculously appears from our minds and fingers out onto the streets, into the eagerly-awaiting hands of the masses. Emailed famed filmmaker Elliot Caplan earlier to inquire if he'd be my on-site idea masseuse/grad school advisor and to that he replied Holy crap, why me. To that I replied Because, fuckhhead. No, not really. Told him, oh, a plethora of reasons why. Just Why. Just Because.
Time to embark.
Love to Embark.

Minding my own business, as usual, awoke to the boisterous man at the front desk informing me that 400 cops were coming and they needed my room ASAP. Not for any bust of any sort. Just a convention moving in. And Yours Truly was being evicted from her seaside abode high above the large-scale folks walking back and forth the Myrtle Beach prime real estate. So I moved out and then did some art shooting that already has a fine fine title - Towards the Ocean. Shots made from the high parking ramp where I'd been docking my rented Chrysler cherry red convertible Sebring that in a flash would have one way way over any limit of speed or prudence.
So I says to my self, Nance I sez, You have not been on a beach in a year or more and why the hell not meander down there. So I did and then proceeded to sleep for the next three or so hours, scorching my face a bit which has now evolved into a tan = egads.
Heard from JW,Esq. today who informs me, as usual, that he hit a grand show and I did not. He saw Brian Wilson on the Smile Tour.
Back to chaos, back to the mountain that is the to-do list, the holy shit you had best do this NOW list, the emails, the calls. The past three days of beach and work and pals a hovering dream. Like the blissful dreams one can have only on an autumn beach.

Love Beach.

This is it, shoulders walking strong with the rest of it, eyes looking at ideas of art swirling inside after seeing a masterwork again and again and now the haze of music that matches the outdoors and the interior perfect and also the mood collective at least among people that matter that are personal that wanted change but did not get change. And today, a question that surprised, about now an hour ago, from someone suggesting big changes and that idea hovers like the masterwork, in the dark, the messenger.
Shot last night Dem big winners, big surprises some. Walked with someone over to the bar to merrily discover that all was pro free-o, what with all the work accomplished, the lit drops, the canvassing, the stumping, and more. The spotlit crowd watching results and projections and then people up on stage until their attentions drifted back to the television set next to the stage. Big winners, big surprises. Stood on stage alongside Brian Higgins, a new congressperson, as he thanked everyone and sent out mad props to his forefathers, etc. Talked to pocket-squared Byron Brown, got a hard hug from Sam Hoyt. Got earfuls of gossip and news from various Middling City others.
Back to Mazzy Star, the stars and art and the like.

Like Love.

Yes, I am farting about with my template and that is why there are pixels askew.
File under How Democrats and Republicans Are So Like Cats and Dogs.
Takes place this Middling City morn, gray sky blazing and politics hovering in the air like tragedy or holiday anxiety.
Yours Truly: Hey Chuck (bowtied man who owns photo lab whose rent I pay, essentially), did you go out and vote already. But, wait, I do not want you to vote today, Chuck. (Chuck is a well-known Rep, a conservative one to boot, a lover of the prez, in the political sense as he's also an avowed hetero).
Chuck: Hey, Nance, remember to go out and vote tomorrow.
cue chortles.
As I just told Deb, I am preparing a dinner of flounder or sole, in honour of all the floundering souls out there who cannot get the lead (not Led, not today anyhoo) out and vote. My beloved sister is one of the lax. Oh, gravlax is another good choice for an entree today - in honour of those who are gravely lax in their inalienable right to freakin' vote.

Entree to Love.

Tenterhooks.
Collectively, good or bad/evil/anti-choice/pro-war, we are on tenterhooks - the old-school means of stretching fabric to its limit to work upon it.
Did you think these hooks were for meat, the meat of your anticipatory flesh.
The art world appropriated the def of the hook and it's what said world calls an 'L' bracket sometimes. The little L's that bend and cause one to smash one's finger(s) with hammer whilst installing artwork.
Today is Election Day's Eve and this is, historically, the one to make the difference we are ever collectively bantering about like earnest grad students. Difference keeps us apart, hopeful, suspicious.
If You have your shit together, have registered, know where in hell your polling place is, have the inclination, make the time and listen to the wise recorded words of Caroline Kennedy, professional orphan, that her pops nearly lost his prez election by 1% of a vote in each state (read differencemaking) then get the fuck out and greet the canvassers, the ladies with the boxes of doughnuts, pull the lever and impassively, prosportlike, move, tomorrow.

Moving Love.

ps: happy election day's eve with my whole dem heart pumping the B+

Had good discussion this week with X, AcademeGuru, regarding this my most favoured holiday. He gets this, always got this, about me. Halloween is adopting another persona, getting caramel stuck in one's teeth, trying to be terrified to get the ol' adrenal juices flowing, thinking of the dead and the morbid and the dying smell of rotting plants, Witkin photos that are elegant death. Halloween is not and never will be adorable Hallmark crap, cute and adorable smiling pumpkins. No, Halloween (and please toggle over to archive from last year's All Hallow's Eve) is the aforementioned as well as prankishness and smashing of jack-o-lanterns when it's proper to do so = under cover of darkness, in the middle of public streets and when the day/night is done. It is sad, but it must be done. It dispels the ghosts and after Halloween there is nothing sadder than a jack-o-lantern forlornly smirking as it implodes. Memory: Mr. Hung (whose handy diagram of the extro/into-vert dialectic I've hung alongside my desk) scooping 2-inch white fuzzy mold out of my jack-o-lantern last year, afraid I might be overly saddened that it had done its job and was sitting on a radiator festering. Fercrissakes, get that thing into the trashroom pronto, I suggested.
Be bad, be good, be everything in between.

Love, Pronto.

ps: My Annual Conceptual H'Ween Costume?
This year I am, I so am, Condoleeza Rice. Put that in yer corncob pipe and be terrified.