More Americans vaporized today.
Great chances taken can mean great loss and, although its an obvious tragedy, anyone who boards a NASA vehicle knows there's a chance that the ship isn't going home to roost.
As I watched the LIVE footage of the shuttle collapsing in the heavens and cuts to shots of debris in the scorched Texas landscape and even-keeled reporters I had an item float upwards in my memory.
On one of my liberating and caffeine-fueled cross-country roadtrips I requested a special stop, at NASA's joint in Texas. My travel companion obliged - I had been before with family and knew it rocked.
So we went, tooled around and ate in the huge cafeteria.
I glanced down at the lunch tray (usual injected plastic number, rectangular) and studied the two-tone NASA logo. It had to be mine. So I stole it from NASA's cafeteria. I don't recall my method but it happened.
I'm wondering where, in my many moves, it landed. I think someone could be serving snacks to a small circle of friends and my fucking NASA lunch tray is the envy of that person's pals.
Well that's karma for you.
I was really going to try my luck/karma last night by offering an officer of the law a jello shot from my opened car window when my two evening travel companions shouted NANCY are you nuts? He's a cop, he'll arrest you. Perhaps I had slurped down too many to dishevel my faculties but I thought an officer of the law, obviously young and freezing cold, might welcome a Skyy vodka-laced treat.
Onwards.
Charlie Hunter and Bobby Previte abso-fucking-lutely mesmerized. They duetted and Hunter at one point played the tambourine as I've never seen before, he made it an instrument for complete cool.
I went backstage with a venue employee as I'd requested going behind the curtain, meaning I wanted to shimmy behind the club's black curtain to a point where I'd be directly behind the duo. Then stick my lens through an opening (hopefully) and shoot from behind them, them looking at each other.
Well instead I ended up backstage shooting from the side. I located a tall stool and balanced atop it, holding my breath and leaning and arching to make the moment stick. I thought I had been invisibly shooting away merrily but several said they saw me doing just that.
Took the jello shots after Hunter/Previte to a house party desperately needing jello shots. I made three types of vodka flavours and one with quallity gin - the green/lime ones.
Onwards to Doug's gig further along the downtown scenario, his last with the other playas. And, as I said later to anyone who would listen If I were managing Doug's career I'd order him to stay with this band and ditch the other he's so committed to... this band has a sparkle, a buzz.
If you all listened to me the world would be a much much much better place. Plus I'd always get my way and thusly I'd be ever more exuberant and that would help all of you feel much happier, too.
Love.

This is sooo ghetto, but we're out of soda, she, the chainsmoking young co-ed bartendress said.
I looked at her for a moment thinking not only how in hell does a bar not have soda but also that the reason I was sitting in that bar was that it IS so ghetto. A place of ramshackle charm, an occasional death metal band nite, where the t.v. is always on and regulars strut in with teeth a-missin'.
Also, of similar theme is this tale.
Went out for two Janet Reno Fan Club birthdays except one JRFC member decided instead to attend band practice. Small plate joint called Bacchus, wine is their thing. Oban is not. And how do I know this? After dinner drinks were ordered. OBAN I slobbered and, at $8 a glass, it was underpriced = ojoy.
So it comes to the table in an oversized brandy snifter.
So I grabbed it from Smedly the Waiter and tossed the glass with all my energies at the plate window.
No.
I said I hate to be a glass snob but could you please get me a rocks glass?
Nincompoops.
Just had a gig at the Middling City Museum of Science and this is one fun fact I learned: mastodons are not dinosaurs.
Informational love.

With Martha Stewart's help I found a new color for my office/living room walls - Wasabi. Being a firm believer that a paint should be selected by its name I feel this is a perfect choice for Perfect Sushi-Loving Me. And the Goodwill box blue ceiling that I inherited from Dave Harrod is going away. Decided suddenly today that for the party I'm throwing on the 16th colors need to be changed.
Began today early with a meeting followed by a follow-up shoulder exmination by Dr. Alzheimers in the suburbs. He and I chatted about all things shoulder and I'm thinking Oh WONDERFUL, no dressing up in one of those pesky disposable, robin eggshell robes. When suddenly he stood up and said Well, put on a robe and I'll be back in to look at your shoulder.
grrrrrr
So he hands me the paper rectangle and leaves. Immediately I tore off the plastic belt accidentally and then whilst trying to unfold the thing it ended in tatters until I was holding a piece about as big as one square of paper towel. Laughing fairly heartily by myself in the overly-lit room I was not only thinking gees I hope Dr. Alzheimers isn't lurking in the hallway giving me not only a C- shoulder evaluation but a D+ psych evaluation but also wondering how to cover myself. Eureka, I thought, these bastards made me drive all the way out here, fuck conservation. Then I got another and was more tender with it. Wish I could say the same about Dr. A and my poor left shoulder.
Disposable clothing love.

As I logged onto Blogger just seconds ago there was, in the welcoming window, a link to a discussion board regarding, for god's sake, The Shroud of Turin - hoax or ferreal. Immediately my thoughts shrank backwards to the horrors of Prometheus Books where I slaved as jacket copy girl/assistant to director of p.r./assistant to director of advertising among the mushrooms growing in the corners of the orange shag carpeting in the basement office (this sounds like a bad dream but, believe you me, this fucking happened and is how I bonded with my pal Jamie Johnson, who also miseried there) and ducking the blue clouds of cigarette smoke streaming from several offices. And so much more.
Anyhow, the place is owned by Mr. Killjoy/professor Paul Sharits who believes in nothing. So that meant a constant stream of tomes debunking everything. Tooth Fairy Mystery: SOLVED. Shroud of Turin Mystery: Solved. And on.
The best book I ever came across there were the memoirs of a porn star (Jerry Butler) who was married to Wednesday of The Adams Family at one time before their coked-up minds derailed and forced their marriage onto the rocks.
George W. Bush Presidential Mystery... why doesn't Mr. Sharits solve that one?
Could not bring myself to watch his state of the union address.
I would, however, like to read a transcript and after the tidal wave of deadlines I'll look for one online.
Oban Addiction Mystery: Solved. No, don't solve that Sharits.
And, for the record do not solve the following -
Shoe Assembly Mystery.
All.
ps: nearly forgot the real reason I was blogging which was that today, as I drove down the DMZ that is Middling City's Main Street I was behind a car with clever vanity plates with a religious theme: UR4GVN. I was regarding these nincompoops thinking how best to yell at them from a car length away, smirking madly, when I looked over and there, mere feet away, was a man looking at me, smiling and pointing to the heavens. I smiled back and thought Thanks be to the gods of serendipity I don't have an impressionable mind and believe this is some sort of sign.
Sign (and rock) on.

While interested and semi-interested parties watched the Super Bowl spectacle of commercialized sport I flailed away on my deadlines whilst listening to the radio. Eureka! I heard on news radio that the play stopped and it was time to rock & roll in San Diego = half time.
Thankfully I missed Celine Dion and tuned in as Gwen Stefani et al hit the Super-sized stage. Her in her usual odd assemblage of femmey fashion and boy sports paraphernalia (boxing boots, leather fingerless gloves). She sang live which I think most would have opted out of but she's the pro at jumping and singing. She ended I'm Just a Girl with a little salute - I think not in reference to her 40s-style hairdo but a poke in the eye to US overseas machismo. Perhaps I read into that but I'd like to think this.
Then, for some reason, Sting appeared. He warbled in trademark nasal twang, in equally-trademarked outdated outfit. This man needs a personal stylist, a butler.
He had the look of a man who couldn't hear himself in the monitors and thoughts of shouting MORE VOCALS IN THE MONITORS were probably flitting through his mind. Gwen duetted louder and the off-balance duet ended with pyros that looked like a Colin Powell/GWB dream - flames and smoke filling the night sky as American fighter pilots circled over Super Bowl 37 out of sight of the media and sports fans.
Rock on.

Listening, per Doug's request, to a copy of his band, The Neighbors. Actually, Doug is in the band, I think Allen would prefer that it be called Allen's band The Neighbors. I think Allen might be disappointed to know that I think it's fine pop - especially now that I hear tambourines rattling.
Last night celebrity guest bartended for a while and overcharged a biker. I breezed past him a bit after depositing his pint and bottle of beer and he inquired How did these two things equal $8.
I looked and said I'm not a bartender and I can't add numbers up on the fly... Kelly, what do these two items total? Then I said OK, I owe you $1.75 and handed them to him with my patented Thanks for shopping at Nietzsche's. Jeesh, thank the good Harley gods above, pal, that you're not tippling in NYC I should have tossed in his goateed direction... goatee with Guiness foam around the edges.
Excruciating is how I'd describe the vocals heard last last night. I escaped to the front of the bar to visit with musicians and non-musicians and suddenly heard a huge, mic'd yelp. This is not what I expect from a band incorporating my name. Nancy's Candy is no treat. They do, however, have busloads of pals so there were lots and lots of onlookers.
Marty invited me, as did a few others, to Super Bowl parties.
In lieu of a bag of chips and a beer I prefer to enter into such an escapade with an armload of the Sunday Times - looking up, of course, at appropriate intervals.
Off for Janet Reno Fan Club brunch and points beyond, like shooting the Campbell Bros. at the art joint this aft.
No football love.

Hey. I blogged earlier and posted it to epinw but it evaporated into thin air - perhaps because it was all about boobies. Photographed two more sets for my upcoming charitable delving into the world of bra designing for the upcoming charity boob-a-thon called BRAvo for Women's Stories for survivors of breast cancer and for breast cancer research.
And for this girlie pals graciously doffed tops.
I will be cutting small black & white photos into elliptical shapes, grommeting them (excellent little red grommets I found this week) together and thin red ribboning them together.
The straps will be strips of contact sheets.
Where nipples appear I'm adhering tiny faux rubies.
Onwards.
Watched a moment of CNN and saw a segment on a man traveling to become a human shield in Afghanistan. Would I do this? Although I agree with the sentiment I think of the speedfreak motherfuckers who kill Canadians, innocents and each other and think perhaps not.
Chris Gallant is doing a short doc and looking for volunteers so I said I have about of 20 seconds of opinion that I'm willing to share with him for the project.
The Jayhawks canceled for Mon. night which has Reese in a tailspin. One of the guys in the band had a heart disease. Another argument for yoga, or exercise.
Ryan Adams warbles out at me before I head out for the evening's art and music and booze destinations.
Boobs and boobs of love.

Look, defenestration's no joke.
That movie last night, The Hours (or, as I've lovingly redubbed it - The Horrors), involved some minor defenestration. Any movie that begins and ends with dreamy footage of Virginia Woolf's river suicide is going at your heartstrings with a scalpel. I realized about 20 minutes into The Hours/Horrors that I was in a chick flick and I have a strict No Chick Flick Policy. At any moment I expected Julia Roberts and her teeth to come sashaying into a well-styled scene. I did like the movie, one of our little watching throng wept uproariously at it.
At a late hour the phone rang. Anne Loomis Roberts.
Quite a surprise, pleasant present.
She divulged the call was prompted by her concurrent viewing of Vinny's Buffalo 66 so, of course, I had to re-regale her with my favorite VG stories.
And somehow we always seem to reinvestigate our private and shared horrors during our time at the private girlie school. Still wondering, after all these years, Just what in hell was that.
Evil anti-choice folks to descend upon the Middling City today.
Armed with camera for hateful doc I will be for non-violent shooting, contrary to their terroristic style.
Choice, always, love.

The weekend's rock & roll notes:
1. Slobbered all over the front of Showplace's stage during Jon Spencer's set last night. He rocked those skinny leather pants like nobody's beeswax - jumping to and from the mic in his trademarked manner, like coming up for air from under water. Only one boy colleague was there and we both tossed on our flashes as the lights at the venue completely suck. Opening act, The Black Keys, apparently only had a single song, played about twelve or so times. Jon Spencer, yum.
2. The weekend's music purchases = Barrrrrrrry White All-Time Greatest Hits (for pending Red Dinner when I cook all red food and the house is lit all red and the house is crammed with guests wearing, what else, their best crimson ensembles), Matthew Good Band Beautiful Midnight, Damon & Naomi Song to the Siren (former 2/3 of all-time fav Galaxie 500) and The Jesus and Mary Chain 21 Singles (enough span of time between me and one of the x's to be able to enjoy JMC again).
3. I apparently emasculated Simon Chardiet of Simon and the Bar Sinisters so during his gig, visited with Doug who I rescued from the terrifying Middling City train stop, and afterwards, he would not acknowledge us as I gave him $10 for gas money last time he was in town. But Doug and I tipsily helped ourselves to his rock star pizza afterwards saying Well screw Simon, eat up!
4. Saw one of the Middling City's better new bands, Alla, Saturday amid stops far and wide and that's the band that my former hairstylist, Jon, was formerly in before he prima donna'd out and alienated the girls on guitar and drums. Thinking that Jon will be furious and possibly not speak to me (again) for a few years when he sees Alla in my photo column.
5. There's hope that the music scene here is not absolutely dwindling to nothing with the announcement of a few good shows like BB King, Tori and the Goos (as openers with Bon Jovi). Think at the Goo/Bon Jovi gig everyone will see that Johnny and BJ have the same hair do.
End of rock notes, time to drink some day old coffee and attack deadlines with gusto.
Blues explosion love.

Multi-tasking.
As I blog I'm on hold with Nikon to find out how come my camera is no longer willing to autofocus after it was fixed by them (camera was ass-crunched by a pal on New Year's Eve and the hotshoe was bent).
A sad tale. Which is sadder... the tech problems or the holding to speak to tech problem shooters.

Thinking back to Disney on Ice and what I learned from it.

*wow, I have a real person on the line...*

The Long & Short = they want the camera to come back to them to fix the AF probs.

Onwards to happier Disney thoughts:
young girls are victims of fate and victims of older and uglier women - on skates or not.
When bad or dramatic things happen sparks shoot from the sky. Hello pyros!!!
And, as we all know, every story ends with a cute guy in tights giving a big smooch to the girl.
Disney-styled love.

Technology schmechnology.
Look under the post of the 14th for the post of early the 15th.
I just figured it out. I'm in EST, Blogger is in SF, CA so if I post earlier than 3AM their computer says midnight.
Color me confused. Confused and happy in my ignorance and ever-questioning status.
Tonight it's Disney on Ice with niece on nephew.
Have to budget how many dollars I'm willing to spend on program, shirts, other items and glo-stick chokers.
Glo-stick chokers are critical to having a good time, I think.
Love glo.

Sip Oban. Listen to baby rockstar's band's cd. Take break from all-day writing marathon. (repeat as needed)
Today a nincompoop mis-dialed, reaching my super-secret cell phone. A caller from Wisconsin.
Call 262-203-0318 and say Hi, Perfect Nancy in the Middling City says you're a nincompoop - true or false?
Speaking of strange communiques, RR in KY sent an email moments ago that read, in part, I am a Raelian.
Now I won't indulge those cultos with a hit on their site lest that is their name but are the Raelians the cult that believes we've all morphed from the grays? Or that we all stem from newborn-looking aliens?
RR says that now that he's Raelian smoking is non-lethal.

RR: do not contact me to donate fund to your Raelian cause.
And don't come crying to me when you realize you've been duped, all spent in your flowing cult robe.

Do Raelians wear robes?
Why not join that cult (article about them in my personal archives/fridge door) that believed the apocalypse was imminent so they ditched their clothing and a dozen or so of them jumped into a mid-sized American car and drove like hell to...
well they drove until they crashed into a tree.
A badass cult with a purpose.
Rock on, newbie Raelian.

Travel Queen Dorota is on the online prowl for el cheapo tix to Barcelona. The Land of Gaudi, Spanish rice, Spanish prisoners, probably some sort of turbo-powered booze and spices... and let us not forget Spanish fly.
D is painting (no, flailing) away for her big NYC début next month and I offered some important advice:
1. your new work sounds great (I asked her to be more specific about the 'candy' colors) but how about buying jugs of artificial flavours and creating one painting that has flavour, à la Willie Wonka?
2. and, of course, sound shoe advice to push her ensemble over the artworld edge.

Whyowhy should anyone care about the American Music Awards?
Apparently Eminem did not. Nor the Dixie Chixxx. And fat-headed S. Stapp of Creed and band stayed away.
This was the sound clip I heard this AM from the AMA:
I want to BLEEEEEP this BLEEEEEEPPP and BLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPP off. Thanks.

Can you imagine being the poor BLEEEEP who has to man the BLEEPING bleeper? That person must be drug tested to insure positive focus.

Back to AOL matters at hand.

DNA swirling somewhat the same, me and my sister and five girl cousins (1 missing as she's currently residing in gai Paris) simultaneously pallbore and experienced feisty and low-volumed outbursts of laughter.
My sister, the youngest niece of maiden Aunt Marion, brought up the rear and when she complained I said Listen, Sue, in the cousinly productions we did as kids you always played the Mexican visitor in the straw hat, so just deal with it.
We realized that the old North Buffalo church aisle was ill-equipped for a modern/wider coffin (according to the funeral guy) plus bodies on either side. My sister was right behind me and had both her hands planted under the coffin as if she were driving it solo down the aisle. She suddenly (and thankfully) noted that at that speed the six of us on either side were having a rough time managing the space between the old pews... and that she would also be mowing down the funeral director at the helm (and back to coffin/gurney/us) any second.
Then when it was time to bring up the gifts to the priest me + 2 cousins were like the Keystone Cops, heading off into various directions, reconvening at the steps then gathering up said gifts and then heading into three new and differing directions. More suppressed laughter.
Later a non-deceased aunt said There should have been arrows painted on the floor to direct you girls.
Better laughter than hysterical sobbing, I say. Life is for the living, and the laughing, dig?
The priest gave me my intro and called Wallace Stevens one of this country's greatest poets.
I don't usually but I really liked this Catholic priest, very hip to things cultural.
I read Stevens' words without a hitch and in my little intro added that my aunt loved LAUGHTER, and looked up at the cousins in front of me.
When the last drops of water were flung by the hipster priest onto the steely box the sun came out and shot through a rose window on the northernly side somehow and when we left the sun was blazing.
Now back to my familiar and comforting world of deadlines and wordy purpose.
Words and words and words.
Love.

Last night several told me how much they enjoyed my drawings now hanging in the Hallwalls members' show, pencil renderings of drive-thrus and mentioned previously in a blogpost when I had a run-in with the fuzz at a KFC.
This week maiden aunt Marion left this world, as did Liz's mom, Anne.
This morning I delivered my homemade floral arrangement to the funereal parlor and was greeted by a doe-eyed man running the joint who was not so sure he wanted to allow me to enter Aunt Marion's viewing chamber. Are you immediate family, was his question. Are you the florist?
I stated (thinking Listen Mr. Important, I've dealt with bigger, burlier and snarlier men than you and won backstage at concerts galore and you're a graham cracker crust compared to them) I'm her niece until he let me in... for god's sake.
Due to the shortage of men in the fam arranged that six nieces will be pallbearers and told various relatives that my aunt would have totally dug this. One cousin, Patty, of Cali, is still not too comfortable with the concept of us pallbearing. The coffin will be on a gurney, on wheels, I said, it's not like we'll be heaving and hoing.
I am going to read Wallace Stevens's Evening Without Angels as a reading tomorrow at the funeral service and think, as I reread it, it's a complicated poem - thematically obtuse though beautiful. There's also one line with a shitload of s's so sibilance will be slithering throughout the vaulted space as I read into the mic.
... Desire for rest, that that descending sea/ Of dark, which in its very darkening/ Is rest and silence spreading into sleep.
Loads of s's.
My dad said It's not a tear-jerker is it? I assured him it is not.
How can a poem that mentions a coiffeur of haloes be sniffly?
It's about how we elevate our lives to holiness, how what we have is our life and the sun and the moon.
It ends
Where the voice that is great within us rises up,/ As we stand gazing at the rounded moon.
Rock on, Aunt Marion, wherever you've floated off to.
And same to you, Anne.
Literary and lifeful love.

How many of YOU can state that you began YOUR day in a worldclass cemetery following a tractor guiding you to the gravesite of a dead president?
Millard Fillmore (or Mill Fill as I lovingly call him), to be exact, was in my sights, sort of, this AM.
This was my traditional university assignment to capture the magic of the graveside fete and laying of wreaths in honour of his b-day.
Onwards. More dark.
Sad to learn that Stereolab singer Mary Hansen is no longer - and neither is her band.
She was hit by a truck whilst she was riding her bike in London. Rolling Stone could only muster up a tiny few-inch plot of words (with small yet exuberant photo) of her. At least they gave Joe Strummer a full two pages and, in usual RS fashion, tooted their own archival horn by running the last cover of theirs that he appeared on and at quick small glance he looks like Springsteen.
Today coffee, dark and deep, is my serious pal (go to this ultra-related site this instant) as I trundle from deadline to deadline like a French piglet on a truffle-rustling run.
Listening now to airy Parker and Lily and just noticed a hilarious typo up the spine of the cd where they renamed the band Parker and Illy. She be illin'. Or not.
Beastie and indie rock love.

Successfully attended today's baby shower for Jen & Tom's pending son, mingled with their moms, aunts, young professionals and a few of my co-workers... and then plotted my bye bye/escape.
Of course following a smattering of heartfelt oohs & ahhs (earlier I led a quick how-to seminar on the finer points of convincing oohs & ahhs).
There was a delegation of ladies lobbying the holder of a purse joint to go up to the third floor clubhouse to toke. But the holder was horrified at the idea of being high at a shower so she kept sippin' on the Pepto pink punch with floating raspberries (a bevvie I steered clear of. why does no one have the good sense to serve scotch at showers?)
Began today AM by listening to music and matting and framing the drawings to be dropped at the art joint tomorrow for the members' show - Sat. night. Four in a frame and I am proud.
Last night's live music documentation, nutshell-sized: pint-sized punk rockers, CW-luvvin diva and boys, stoner rockers, baseball bat-smashing punk rockers and wimpy folkster.
Dreams of big city and attendant big there fun.

Drawing all-American drive-thrus today was fantastic until I drew the attention of the KFC staffers who then called Buffalo's Finest on me. Was parked in the lot drawing madly for a while until I saw the cops pulling into the driveway = Time to Go.
At the end of the driveway a cop came over. What are you doing, the staff would like to know.
Making drawings for an art show. They saw you taking pictures.
I then showed her my assemblage of great drawings, explaining all the while how I was moving on from there to BK and then McD's.
Well, good luck to you, the lady copy said.
My drawing career is now sealed with Finest wishes.
No other scrapes with the Law after that... yet.
Last night ended the evening by watching the band of baby rockstar's bro = Parachute Adams. And they were amazing, even better than before their sabbatical and sans ska-style thin neckties. Baby rockstar introduced me to his mother and I said And I'm...
I know who you are, she said.
Call me surprised as a calf caught in a July storm drain.
Dorota called mid-aft to ask shopping advice: should she spend an even $300 on a great new suede bag. How perfect it is to confer with a photog who has ongoing bag and portage needs. Will you use it every day? Are there details about it that you admire greatly? Then run topspeed back to that bag joint and acquire, acquire, acquire.
Big waterproof bags of Love.

Well tie me to the spit and roast me twice.
(secret NY rez is to coin new hick sayings)
Have not been able to blog as I've been locked up in jail for my NYE badass activities.
I'm lying.
But what could I have been jailed for, in a nutshell?
Transporting a cache of pyrotechnics over state lines. Spotted an advert for Mess's Fireworks and followed signage to a VERY discreet operation where what I thought was a ferocious pitbull welcomed me.
It turned out to be an American bulldog and he was armed with a bag of potato chips in his muzzle.
And I nearly pooped my pants with glee when I saw what was inside... miles of neatly-packaged pyros. The dog's name was Pyro. And he slobbered all over me.
As the sign requested, and as I was not a PA citizen, I did not ask to fondle or buy the guns on display.
So onwards to the Middling City, to evening plans of Janet Reno Fan Club variety.
Meaning.
Dinner, drinks, bad behaviour.
I decided to resurrect the Chinese Fire Drill phenom and called for one on one of the city's busiest avenues, clapping my hands and yelling GO GO GO to everyone.
Along the way we picked up a few who needed a jolt of mischief (Jen and Jamal) and I treated them to a CFD.
We met up with them at a rooftop party at which my lungs were pruned by a fire rigged with that poison lighter fluid that should be fucking outlawed.
So at that party champagned and snarfled the buffet and, oh yes, gravitated topspeed to a provided basket of pyros like an early Easter present from a way-hip Easter bunny who knows my heart.
So Doug and I were figuring out how to blow up these 2 large bundles of joy with one wick each when one of the party elders got quite concerned and stated thusly:
You CANNOT blow those off up on this roof - you'll set fire to our neighbors' rooftops.
After a quick survey and summation of the environs (and my cursory Middling City expertise of our location) I thought And what the hell harm will that do here in Crack Heights.
So down we climbed, others in tow, to the street where we made sparks the size of cottages, smoke and danced madly in the street and then sped off to more more more.
More.
All about more, not less.
More love.
Less seriousness.
More Oban.
Less art dreaming.
More art doing.

Eureka!!!
this fancy-ass hotel and their high-powered business centre - The Pierre on 5th Avenue - has blogging capabilities.
NYC for high times and no misdemeanors and about to engage in another full evening of debauchery.
Ended the evening, as is custom, at Clay with Edward the owner excusing all the hired help and after the last customer leaves hopping behind the bar to pour forth his hospitality.
Last night had to suffer through what seemend an eternal Dylan Fest and Edward playing air organ and/or guitar along whilst singing. This transpiring as Jason asks my special journalistic and humanistic impressions of B.D. and me giving my uncensored opinion(s). His farty behaviour regarding hating photogs and even the mere thought that someone like me could or would capture his craggly likeness on stage. ie: what I call ARSS (aging rock star syndrome).
Or, as I put forth to Jason, perhaps a life of people poring over one's garbage makes one rather paranoid.
Onwards.
Finally got Edward to move on to PJ Harvey, more appropriate to the night.
Today happy wending down the streets here, now onwards to aforementioned.
Walked again through thee park and failed to intersect with Strawberry Fields, not to be.
But the loving spirit of John Lennon hanging over my life.
Tomorrow is 2003's eve and there is the driving back to the Middling City to join others in a banquet and party points beyond.
NYC love, for now.