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.