Off to the nail shoppe today in prep for CRAZY TIMES travel for shows, photos, and fun, a mostly-relaxing hour spent staring at the pale pink walls of the salon listening to meandering adultpop on the radio. My nail person today is "Becky," whom I am quite sure was not called Rebecca at birth in Vietnam about 40 years ago. Her English was very limited; a few small words and phrases and lots of gestures and smiles. But I keep in mind, for all I know back in Vietnam Becky may have once been a nuclear physicist. It's entirely possible.

Anyway, the nail technicians were all tickled today by my choice of nail polish, a mega-sparkle orange. "Hair orange! Purse orange! Nails orange!" Becky exclaimed, nodding her approval vigorously, or perhaps in amused wonderment. I live in the suburbs; most of the clients at this shop would never be this orange-centric, other than with a spray tan.

"What is job?" Becky inquired of me, surely curious to find out what kind of place would employ such a colored person.

"I write, and I take pictures of musicians at concerts," I replied.

"Oh!" Becky exclaimed, with a brightening smile. "You are camera of rockstar?"

I grinned. "Well...yes, I guess so! Yes, sometimes."

"This is very nice!"

It really is.