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.

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.