Like a cheap bar the Edwards doers and shakers and mess-makers (before the drop-out) basically papier-mached one of his appeals flyers to the windshield of my Middling City vehicle. So I can think of Edwards with every drive. Which I was just doing, returning from a gig at Middling City U. First item on agenda when Kerry stomps Bush is to appeal to him to rid the country of:
1. cornball musicals with no redeeming social value
2. cornball mod dance with same.
Had to shoot a percussion ensemble. And they're good. Only trouble is my editrix failed to mention the gaggle of mod dancers that were accompanying the bangers and whiskers. In what appeared to be mall attire, garments in that weird stretching shiny sort of textured rayon that was interesting for about five minutes a few years ago, they cavorted onstage. One number had me swallowing my groans, straining to be unloosed. Cutesy, near-mime gestures. It's a freakin' good thing I'm not reviewing that travesty. Drumming: primo. Dancing: barf bucket.
Speaking of such, still recovering from some mysterious bacteria in some food eaten a few days back. My stomach acids are still negotiating the re-acceptance of solids which, at this point, it feels is Martha Stewart to its good will investing.
Analogous Love.

Eavesdroppingly, walked behind two fellas in the rain. One was regaling, the other was smoking/listening. We were rascal kids, it was the 80s. My friend lit up a joint on Prince Street and we were walking down the street...
they turned the corner.
I nearly followed them onwards for the rest of the story.
Watched the Depp interview at Actors' Studio (which I might add is via my excellent New School U) from recently. Mellifluous. Perfect. Shy. Those limpid dark pools of soulfulness watching watching. It was almost unbearable. A whole stream of his Perfection. Different grades of Perfection. My quipping Perfection. Your good-sensed Perfection at blog reading selections. Mr. Hung's Geek Perfection. Darter's Imaginary Perfections. Dorota's painterly Perfection. Beth's positivity Perfection. JR's mentoring Perfection.
And on.
You all have your Perfections.
Wow, and I have mine.
Love Parfait.
Hold the nuts.

Well. Well.
Deb and I partied like rock stars a few nights back. A most cathartic and wondrous time of talk, and more.
Darter from Down Under emailed today to say that it is - in truth - his date of birth. And, by his orders, we his best pals are to do for ourselves something most great for ourselves and get back to him.
I am sad to report I've done nothing great for myself.
Well, except for talking to JR the Mentor.
Attempting to steal wi-fi molecules un-fuckin-successfully from two places today.
By gulping down too many ounces of Americanos in his honour.
Hey, Darter, how's that? I got cranked out in your honour on Americanos.
Caffeine Love.

Fercrissakes. OK, it was a bad idea. No ink. No ink on Perfect Me. I was just notified by Darter from Down Under that it was a stinking idea. OK, I was listening to a cute waiter who has the ink. I will not be indulging the ink. I am beyond ink in my skin. Tonight is the AIDS charity Cause for Celebration, which Liz and I were art co-chairs of a few years back - we had a record-breaking amount raised via swift art sales. I donated something to Cause (I always thought there was something rather inappropriate about the event name) and have two free tix. Not so sure about going but I did promise Danny Winter/Vicky Vogue that I'd be there. Ended last night with Cheryl, Liz et al at Mark Goldman's new wine bar. And, true to form, we are not sure what the hell he's calling it. It might be The Hardware, as it was a hardware store until a few minutes ago. I relented to my sartorial obsession and bought the smart black coat at Banana Republic with the satiny trim and the belt in the back. Chic. Super. Classic. These all scream Yours Truly.
With fashionable love in my consuming heart I sign off.
Love.

Minding my own business encountered two suprise rock & roll moments.
Rock & Roll Moment 1:
Went to the favored joint to read, eat, and study. In that absolute order. Suddenly I was chatted up then joined by Waiter Wes who was "bored." To and fro, to and fro when - suddenly - the subject of tattooes came upon us. He has several, very colorful, inked by his pal John. I mentioned this year of life and significant alterations seemed so memorable and that I'd always had an idea tacked to the wall for a tat. He said, Hey, $50, let's do it now. I hemmed. I hawed. I even happened to have a neat Grant in my back pocket. I demured, saying I'd have to think about it. He pressed. So, whenever it is that I decide to do this inky project I'm taking Waiter Wes and we're going to see John. And for an even $50 (is there tipping?) I'm going to have the between-the-shoulder-blades piece of art. Then, as the rest of the plan goes, WW and I will go out and drink wine to celebrate. Will this happen? Who can Keith Richards really say.
Rock & Roll Moment 2:
For reasons I cannot understand I have to have my leased vehicle photographed for my new insurance co. And there are but two garages who can oblige, one being in the epicenter of the quadrant of the Middling City where several ghetto genres collide. Appointment? Why would there need to be, I speculated, if in fact this is common vehicular practice. I rolled alongside the place, skeptical. Inside were many signs separating the customers from the employees. And they were mean signs, to boot. I found some people who were not tinkering with cars, in a hazy office of flourescent lighting, beige office equipment, stacked papers and who the fuck knows. Inside were two shady characters who I imagine were doing little more than viewing internet porn. They approached. I held out the form. They queried, in the voices of svelte boutique ladies, if I had an appointment. One of them left to get "him" "upstairs." While waiting, and waiting, I stood at the edge of their showroom, a cinematic view, gorgeous with high ceiling, crap chandelier, an odd assortment of American-made cars missing hubcaps, a somber man mopping, a burgundy (and I chose this colour carefully, with love) Ninety-Eight with pinstriping and a sign readin' "SMOKIN'" on its windshield, a man truly smokin' - Dorals - next to the classic, and a beat popcorn machine on wheels, a jug of orange compound atop it. A real scene. And, while taking it all in, Led Z blared behind me. I snuck the hell out of there. If they caught me before I reached the vehicle to be shot I'd claim I thought I was badly parked. With a glad heart I gunned it out of there, flicking on the classic rock station they had been listening to. Tomorrow is yet another day. Another garage, in the Middling City suburbs, is where I'll be headed for my matters of insurance.

R&R Love.

Well.
What a day this Sunday turned out to be.
It ran the gamut from brunch to betrayal. Resulting in the ingestion of nearly a pack of smokes.
Stinky Love.

Nipples the size of spaceships.
Well, that pretty much sums up my astute assessment of the new Bertolucci film/movie The Dreamers. Whose spaceships. Did you really ask that question. I half-jovially whump you, dimbulb, upside the head for who else in the movie would HAVE said nipples but the sole girl in the movie. Not the two nubile boys. And, really, I think the entire point of this movie is to have us first guess at the spaceships before they are flying free. Hints of spaceships through diaphanous shirt. Then the yanking of a shirt. And... then... holy Chariots of the Gods.
Saw the movie with Vanessa (Jam Master V) and Beth and we had divergent goals although the commonality was lurid in scope. V's critique: Not enough dick.
And, really, it's no Last Tango.
Onwards.
Oh, JW,Esq. writes a dispatch from Oracle on my Mars rover, conspiratorial post. And he does put forth some fine twists and turns, of course building upon the thesis of Yours Truly.
To quote, summarily. An abstract. A brief. And then I am to rest my case. Your Honour.

"Now what to make of the White Boat?  Clearly it's a symbol of racial and moneyed-class superiority; it is now a target, a goal, a dream, perhaps unattainable by the unwashed masses unless you too have the best 'things' that money can buy, like the most expensive ATV in history.  I can virtually guarantee you that this Christmas, the Sharper Image will have a replica Mars Rover for sale in its catalogue for a mere $99,000, complete with extension arms with which wealthy suburbanites can "explore" the peripheries of their well-manicured back lawns -- 'nature' to them.
In short:  the Republicans are simply evil.  Go Kerry."

Nice work, JW.

Onwards to more by Perfect Me.
Turned AnnieD and Beth on to the favoured Toronto restaurant, Caffe la Gaffe. A hybrid of North American bistro and Parisian parfait flourishes and easy elegance.
But before that, the true crux of this section, I purchased my first hands-free wristwatch. As in no hands. A display. And from the Canadian version of EMS, LLBean, About Face, North Face, whatever. Roots. I feel really sported out. I feel like I should be timing everything around me. It came with a fucking manual and if there's one thing in this world I do not need is more orders, more directives of a non-art nature. Who else owns an iPod but doesn't use it because who really has that kind of time to transform the cd molecules into iPod compounds.
Speaking of molecular structures I am now a very proud wifi pirate, hunting out non-lethal, non-ebolic hot spots to squat on the internet system efforts of others. How I do love technology. And gadgets. And shocking spaceships. And not orders. And not wonky surprises. And not strange emails from people I don't know stating that they know something that "will change my life."
Thanks for your attention in this matter.
I remain.
Remainder Love.

Not my usualling opinion but still in the after-haze of feeling ripped off by the Mac dude (a complete dude, worthy of that hated title. him, bearded, slight residue of Canadian accent, crappy beard, darting eyes) who charged me $30 "installation fee" as I hadn't shoved my Airport card enough into its slot. I mean. Really.
Giving him the paint-melting stare I said Really, you're going to charge me for that? Mr. Darter Dude stated that once your machine is dragged off to the mysterious back room from the Genius Bar you can pretty much kiss $30 au revoir.
onwards.
Thinking of my left coast attorney who sent me an email not too long ago so in the spirit and style of epinw, Yours Truly's Perfect locution, that I may have to sue his ass for plagiarism or some such thing.
The most soothing bane to the whole Mac fiasco and a few others is that there is a new Johnny Depp movie creeping towards me. Opening March 12th. I'm thinking he's so on a roll to finance that fat French bitch that he married and her wayward lifestyle.
Oh, learnt a very important civics-style lesson yesterday.
When one's country's national holiday of questionable origins (say, Presidents' Day, combining the b-days of two very different and very dead leaders) it's probably wise (oh, how we know it not wise) to get a haircut from a Russian on that very day.
For she, of questionable background and training, will hack the living daylights out of your hair to make you look like a gulag gone bad.
Clipped Love.

On the Mac store tour, now on Prince @ Greene where I happen to be blogging on a powerbook just like mine simultaneously on a gigantic screen to my right for the grand erudition of those nearby.
Spent a few nights ago in B'Lyn with Beth, Justy, SteveBartoo and Jen. Boat. Brooklyn. Dark. Smoke-free until midnight and beyond when all hell breaks loose. Justy and Steve have augmented the cd jukebox offerings with cocktail napkin sketches, found objets, etc. Simply, in a nutshell, brilliant.
Spent better parts of past few days judging work of incoming Parsons grads. Plodding through slides, all types of resumes and deadly statements of intent.
After hours of deliberations, coffees, re-reviews and bantering we selected 15 and 5 alternates. Defended one who has a commercial background. Was listening to smarm and crap about him being too commercial until I'd heard enough. Basta, indeed. Spoke on his behalf thusly... we want diversity and that's a whole heap more than ethnicity. Howsabout someone's background. Journalistic. Commercial. Travel-style. He's in, if he's so inclined.
Onwards. I'm here at the Mac store to get and Airport Xtreme card, enough of this playfully slick banter.
Bantic Love.

This just in from Darter, my dispatcher from down under.
As in KY. The state, not the jelly, fercrissakes.
Take this fab link to a place that will mesmerize, educatimize your self.
My non-ending Dem Love.

Not one to start my own conspiracy theories, I've noted a few things, while glancing at the captions to images of Mars, beamed to the NASA geeks - beamed onwards to all of us would-be star-gazers, theorists, and generally distrustful.
Two quotes:
This close-up image taken by the microscopic imager onboard the Mars Exploration Rover Spirit shows a portion of the rock dubbed Adirondack before dust was wiped from its surface by a brush on the rover's rock abrasion tool.
&
The rover also drove over Adirondack (seen in image bottom center), the bright rock that was targeted by Spirit's rock abrasion tool, on its way to a rock target called White Boat.

Do you see. They are using the language of vacation. Adirondack. White Boat.
Dig this, people. These NASA people know something that we don't. Mars might not just be a neat place to jet off to, to spend billions to have Marsanauts land upon it, we might have to live there as this planet is on the verge of having every last H2O molecule destroyed, polluted, sucked up by the microchip industry. They want desperately to find water on Mars. To find one small hope that Mars had life before turning into a roan-colored dust bowl.
Heavy Monday thought, I've had no coffee.
Spatial Love.

Had the crimsonest, tequilaest annual Red Dinner last evening, a soiree of red foods, guests in red, house lit with all red bulbs, passion-inducing music. Awoke to a few of those after-party memories that have one simultaneously feeling mirthful and regretful. One involves a gift from artist Gerald, a kitschy suburban mom novelty dusting glove replete with bedazzzzled engagement ring and big nails. So I took it out of the bag and began pretending it was a Dr. Strangelove kind of device, then switched into sextoy mode with it, waving it about suggestively. Well I hadn't realized my hardcore Catholic pops was about five feet away, had spun away (perhaps my sister was embellishing but she - suggested - that at the spinning away moment he spat out one of my infamous hard-boiled eggs stuffed with red caviar, etc.). As I am wont to say, Oh Velcro.
We can drink too many an alternate glass of white wine and then strawberry margarita and please and not condescend or scandalize some of the people all of the time or we can people please none of the time.
I rest my grad-school-honed debating skills. And case.
H.O. Love.

Today is the day that dragged Patty thee one and only Patty into the limelight, into my eleven year old heart via the SLA. Capturing my imagination with her pea coat - so hiply accessorized with machine gun - there in the bank, on the surveillance stills as speculation whirled that she was pulling a quickie on her pops Randolph, that she was staging this drama for some wack Cali drug-induced cause. I watched the news, read the newspaper, asked my mother if I could get a pea coat. She said No.
Fashionista/Revolutionista Love.

Twelve year old song, Girl, by Tori, on the hi-fi, a perfect match to the iced-over world out there, the rant surprisingly rising from fingers.
This. Dig.
To those faux-concerned, vrai-concerned, jealous and clenched to the physical Middling City concept that it is natural to watch a body spread from age to age due to too much driving, fried food, lardiness, negativity.
I work out. I work out 3-5 hours per week via Pilates and amazingly difficult Firm workouts. I don't drink excessive amounts of alcohol. I eat, for the most part, fresh and organic food. I am in school part-time in NYC and, as most people do there, I venture out with a MetroCard in my back pocket and no qualms about Walking.
Do the above for many years (you can skip the school bits), approximately five or more and you'll avoid the Middling City Rising.
Bodily Love.

I am not addicted to grrrande Americanos, I am not addicted to grrrande Americanos, I am not addicted to grrrande Americanos, I am not addicted to grrrande Americanos...
she muttered earnestly, self-delusionally.
This just in, from Lead Boy Colleague, in regards to the Televised Boob Incident during that gladiator orgy yesterday that I had the pleasure of ignoring as I was engaged in documenting Japanese Noh theatre at Middling City U instead. But crapskis, (or rather, fartskis) that meant missing some arse-flamin' chile, as goes the American tradition of pack football viewing, or so my memory recalls.
Off to legalistic reading, for art school.
Litigational Love.

Well, minding my own dangblamed business out and about on Saturday night I ended the fine evening at the Middling City's longest-running tavern, Ulrich's, past the edge of what most MC residents find acceptably close to the Elmwood Strip, what they believe to be the crux of matters.
At Ulrich's was a goodbye party to a duo moving to Manhattan. Amongst the revelers were a few rockstars, some video types, artistes, my beloved shiny happy mag editrix/pal and a few members of the Middling City police squad.
One of them, Ken B, stated that we had met before. I didn't recall. Then he mentioned the event and (believe this or not) up from the developing tray kasloshing in my mind's darkroom, I could see his face at an art opening at Art "Dialogue."
He is a photo student with my friend Ken. So this cop/photog tells me et al standing in a circle near the bar how he pulled me over one day and I, in a snarky and crafty nutshell, said to paraphrase a cop paraphrasing me in a moment that passed oh about, to his recollection, ten years ago:
Hi, I'm Nancy J. Parisi, I'm a photographer, I'm en route to shoot something for the commissioner.
He let me go. He finds it hilarious. It makes me a little uneasy thinking of my poor self back then all defensive yet composed and thinking I'll be goddamned if I'm getting a ticket. You walk that very small line when pulled over - charming, yes, but too charming and you're becoming patronizing and annoying.
And ladies, I've heard this from many a p.o. - never cry or say you're sorry when you're pulled over. You help the coply testosterone bubble up to the surface and you'll be writing a check for your small driving indiscretion in no time flat.
Ever-helpful Love.

In the futile quest for the procurement of my legally binding document binding me for another $5K or so to my gilded Forester, I chanced upon, to my utter astonishment, the following:
1. Video of Motley Crue and a bio of a way-fledgling metal rocker named Jace, along with his portrait. In black leather, of course. I was to, some time ago, watch the enclosed video and then Jace was going to get back to me for doing a photo shoot with him, in the style of... you guess it... the Crue. NB to all smartypants/record store types and Germanophiles. I am fully aware of the umlaut situation of the band's name. However. Blogger does not recognize, allow for, such dots. Thank you for your attention in this troubling matter.
2. Broadsheet-sized pink sheet of paper, folded four times. On it is Bruce Nauman's sort of Yoko Ono-esque directional poem/piece entitled "Body Pressure." I quote: "Press very hard and concentrate." Concentrate indeed.
3. "Gold" initial pins of my deceased grandmother Victoria Plumsteel, taken from the lapels of one of her suits, by my namesaked Aunt outside of Houston, Texas.
4. A complete shitload more but also
5. The Action Sampler, published by the Lomographic Society. Still find it 4-up sort of interesting.

Time for more caffeine, more inspiration, more -no- -yes- merry procrastination before finishing the shiny happy mag piece.
More Love.

CentricS, who, as some, noted his epinwlessness, which I always thought perhaps a blessing rather than a chagrin, turned me on to this hotspot, this genius e-place that you must traverse to soon.
Over & Out.

Was severely ma'am'ed today.
A(n unhinged) guy working at the UPS store greeted me with an amped-up
HI MA'AM MELPEW.
There I was, minding my own art business, entering an overpriced national photo contest (via ASMP - which I thought to join for approximately half an hour until I noted what a rigamarole their application process is with requests for tearsheets, two org sponsors, and more) at $20 a shot/image/jpeg.
The last thing I needed was overzealous counter help.
Or a counter helper in need of a nic break, I noted a cigarette awaiting a breaker, balanced on the cash register.
First place. Digital camera. Show.
The counter guy yelled MA'AM a few more times and he had so not instilled my confidence that I could not entrust him with my envelope of entry goods.
Nuhnuh no, that's okay I'll mail it. Then I left and marched over to the mailbox ten feet away from UPS's door. MA'AM indeed.
Tomorrow is CEPA Gallery's dropoff for their member show and as I've missed all other Middling City gallery member gigs this, I feel in my bones, is the one to not be Yours Truily missed.
Back to the story overdue over at the shiny happy mag offices.
Overdue, overamped Love.

Old home 80s dance joint days besieged me while minding my own business, hanging with Karen following her dad's untimely wake. Being the super-pal that I am I whisked her away from Amigone Funeral Home (listed somewhere in Ripley's for its namely uncanniness) to O - sushi and cocktail emporium. There we were greeted by someliere Bryan who brandished an excellent chard and then some comp snacks. We sat in the lounge and supped and drank and lounged until the cheeseball rock-type trio began to play their decibels into our left ears. One bottle down and Karen turned to me stating Well that did nothing for me, I'm getting another. Then more. Then drinks with the rock stars. Then more and more of the cast of characters from 80s-era Continental flowed into O and we all marvelled at our sticktoitiveness, our undying love for the niteliphe, the glowing bar embers of blue that, I was musing, reminded me of another bar where I practically lived during the 90s, Icon, where I became after-hours conscious of many things, including my fleeting and uneven affair with Jagermeister, my burgeoning friendship with Dorota and the realization that art and merrymaking can and should live side by jowl. At O the rock stars took a much for us needed break, we lounged some more and made our way back into the 10 degree F night.
Onwards to more. An art opening that I forgot to submit work to, an other night of gladheartedness I will not forget to submit to.
Glad glad Love.