The State Trooper tale makes me think of my George Bush story (not W, that's the dumb puppy eyes story for another time). I was yanked into a green room scenario with U.S. President #41 as one of my colleagues flaked. Secret Service had cleared me before the event so I was A-OK: for a Hillary Clinton gig before that I had received a Secret Service pin (which I kept) which says G-3. So I'm in the room shooting away, various portraits of former Prez with whomever, when suddenly the ex-President says "let's get a photo of the two of us." The President of the university where the cozy green room is located takes my camera and takes my photo with George non-W Bush. He's got his arm around me like we're super-pals. One, two, three frames and then he puts his arm in the small of my back and shoves me full-speed ahead away from him. I think "I guess he can smell a Dem."

Cops have senses of humor, too (proof): Upon hearing of an in-progress FTTA protest I raced towards it in my reliable, air-bagged vehicle. I saw the protesters, put car in park, grabbed camera and one extra roll of film, saw State Troopers and said "I'm media, I'm shooting this, and I'll only be a few minutes." I only wish I had said, in retrospect, "I'll just be a jiff." So I run ahead of the LLBean-outfitted group, and photograph State Troopers with thick calves on mountain bikes and in windbreakers which say State Trooper on the back. I run, I shoot, I take notes, I ask questions, I shoot, I sweat, I talk, I listen, I shoot, and start returning to my car (which I realize I haven't locked). State Troopers in enormous SUV see me and say "I thought you were only going to be a minute." I say "Well, I was waiting for things to happen." Like the line of policemen in a straight line to break out of their perfect synchronized swimmer formation. I said "and I didn't even lock my car." One of the Troopers said "the tow truck driver appreciated that." My car was still there, blocking one lane of traffic and everything unstolen inside. Hardy-har.

Famed illustrator Philip Burke has said no (via his soft-spoken wife) to an interview I was pre-yes contracted to do for a shiny happy mag. Does't he know that everything cannot be perfect in my world if I don't get my way? So now the periodical is sicking me on rock star/little folk singer Ani DiFranco, who I painted houses with before we were grownups. If she grants me the big I I'll probably have to assure her that our Scruffy Dog Painting Co. past will not see the light of day in ink.

What would be more shocking to you - that I'm listening right now to the Bad Co. Anthology or that I'm doing so whilst wearing my pink fuzzy bunny ears? The bunny ears are why the neighbors are sort of afraid of me - I forget I have them on as I go outside to check the mailbox sometimes. Secret fantasy: that I'll be at a wedding one day and the "lucky" couple will have selected as their premier dance together "Feel Like Makin' Love"-one of Bad Co.'s most famous numbers. Slow-dancing interspersed with karate-kick-inducing riffs as the chorus wails and elderly relatives drift away from the dancefloor, funsavers in hands.

I've been examining the fine blogs of others and I'm impressed yet unmoved from my minimalistic approach which asks you readers to simply bask in my posts and to use your imaginations. And did I mention that you're lucky to even be reading these snippets of my inner machinations? A friend who I renamed Julian ages ago sends a jpeg of me and now readers, imagine this - a special part of my blog where you can go to an online gallery of odd photographs that people take of this photographer. Rock on.

My pager is still soaked from last night's Dyngus Day festivities, to which I had my friend Jennifer escort me. She had never been to a DD event and at first was timid about hitting guys with her pussy willow branch. Science experiment: will several beers and a few shots of Krupnik speed a usually pleasant woman down Sadist Highway? Experimental answer: yes. I was talking to some people and caught a glimpse of Jennifer running through the crowd, screaming and brandishing her branch. I left our last stop looking like I fell into a swimming pool, hence the unusable pager. This morning, driving to a photo gig, there was evidence of a raucous Dyngus Day: Jennifer dropped a completely shredded branch, sans gray fluffies, on the floor of my car.

As I took the side alley into the venue for Headstones shooting (past hundreds of sweaty drunk people shoved in) I looked up from the front of the stage into the crowd, mostly male and mostly waving cans of beer. One guy said something crude to me which a HUGE security guy with a bizarre hairdo overheard and this is what he said:
"I'll tell everyone that he pulled a knife on you if you want to hit him."
Despite the fact that I'm 5'6", a woman, and was carrying 50 pounds of equipment, I have to admit for a brief moment I thought about what damage his head would sustain if I met a corner of it with my heavy F5. Although I had carte blanche to do so (the security guy told his colleagues to forgive me in case shit went down), I didn't hit Mr. Tipsy.

Sad about Joey Ramone's death. The first time I ever slam-danced (pre-mosh, with more love for your fellow slammers) was at a Ramones show. I once rode on the back of a boy's motorcycle for over one hundred miles to see the Ramones, leather jackets a-flappin'.
Headstones show on Saturday: band onstage and as Hugh the lead singer takes the stage I recall he's the fuckhead (his fav word for his fans) who kicked the shit out of my SB-28 (flash) during his last Buffalo appearance, I think on purpose. As I'm noting where he's spitting onstage and slightly off, to steer clear, he and I lock eyes, stare at each other for a moment, and then he points at his nether regions. I think how Sean Penn taught every asshole in the world how to behave in front of a camera.