Broken Nose #2 Story: shooting some local bands on ground floor of a dance/music club decided between sets to go upstairs to watch dance activity. I was standing on the side of the dancefloor when suddenly a tall, lanky guy in a ball cap grabbed me by the wrists and pulled me into the middle of the happy lights and post-mod movement. I was trying to see under the cap for an i.d. and never got a good look. I could tell he was drunk as he stumbled about - and I couldn't get away from him because he had my wrists and all. Suddenly he lost his footing and all 6' or so of him came crashing onto the bridge of my nose. He scooted away as the yellow lights of pain come racing towards my face. I staggered over to the upstairs bar holding my bleeding nose, for some ice in a filthy bar rag. When I collected myself I went downstairs and asked the person at the door if they saw this lanky accident on two legs and he said "oh, he just ran out of here." Weeks later I was speaking with another photo colleague and mentioned what happened and he said "that was my friend Chris and he feels really bad about that." He was absolutely not lying. And I've never talked with Chris about this, I think I like to let him think that I don't know that he broke my nose. Maybe I don't want to admit such nasal fallability. FYI: broken nose #1 I sort of deserved...I grabbed a ball away from a boy and cruelly ran away taunting him and straight into a brick wall. I was ten.

Psychedelic Furs was the band in my crosshairs last night: it was a case for lip-synching I have to say. But nobody seemed to notice, it was like the 80's were floating happily and heavily through the air and nobody gave a shat that Richard Butler was not really ever too on (or near) key. But I have to admit, hearing "Ghost in You" again live gave me a few goosebumps. After I was finished shooting (3 songs & you're out, general rule) I stood on the sidelines surrounded by several friends and acquaintances and marveled at a few guys who moved up to the edge of the stage completely enraptured. About song 6 or 7 a guy came over who knows me and one of my colleagues, a fledgling and lanky photog who broke my nose the second time at a dance club. I'm not sure that he knows that I know that he broke my nose.

Photographed They Might Be Giants last night and I realized that they were the premier, or if not first then near-first, band that I ever photographed. It was a small concert in an art gallery in the mid-80's and there were maybe one hundred people there. Last night there were more than the two Johns on stage, a light show, and hundreds and hundreds of watchers. And it was still a great show even though I wasn't sitting on a wooden art gallery floor at their feet. One thing I bemoaned today: the lack of the exchange of mixed tapes. I know there are snazzadelic ways to burn cd's and all that jazz but it's not nearly as romantic, as labor intensive, and low-tech.

Working for the weekly alternative to a small to middling city daily oftentimes means that you're not on the A list for info dissemination. Today by sheer accident I discovered that thee Sarah Ferguson/Fergie/Budgey Creator was in town promoting a new book and the glee of personal weight loss. I was about to do some quick phone calling, driving, self-credentializing, and documenting when I recalled something: Fergie borrowed a pair of Di's shoes and later said that she caught warts from the shoes. This so enraged Di that she cut off Fergie forever - and they didn't reconcile before Di's irresponsibly chauffeured/papparazzi-induced death. To lend a pair of shoes is a great gesture of kindness and to repay that gesture with the accusation of foot warts breaks the girlie code. I stayed away.

I'm not sure what bad karmic thing I did but earlier I was on the phone with a high school pal from it seems three lifetimes ago who is all rah-rah-sis-koom-bah about our class' pending reunion. I told her that I had worked long and hard to become one of the mailing list lost. I wasn't joking. She laughed. My life is full of fun and satisfying adventure and I can't imagine how seeing a roomful of people I haven't seen since graduation day will enhance it (the curmudgeon growled). I see a select handul of other, like-minded artful individuals from those teen days. High School me: voted most talented, played tennis a lot, set a tardy to school record, rowdy and zany (recollected teacher phrases), drove for years without license (or permit), babysat, A- student. Our class was renowned for cliques and I was one of the few who floated freely between them. Apparently the invitation makes reference to the clique situation which fascinates me.

As I noticed a moment ago that tomorrow is May Numero Uno I thought I'd add an on-the-verge-of-summer-anxiety post. Working daily, sometimes 12-18 hours, most summers are nearly over before I notice it's Labor Day and I have to pack away my white shoes (NB: I don't own a single white shoe, oh, one pair of white bucks). I always tell my colleagues that if it weren't for the occasional outdoor concert, music festival, and other outdoor cultural happenings to shoot I'd never see much sun or summer. For this inception I think I'll attempt more excursions out of town, maybe a trip to the beach, (okay, maybe no trip to the beach where my ADD completely shines), and one run through a sprinkler.

Daily words of wisdom, provided today by a wandering neighborhood crazy man: "Be careful. Be careful driving out there (we were both outside), there are a lot of crazy people out there."

Went to socially document a huge annual event at el grande Albright-Knox Art Gallery after suburb party. Thousands of revelers were milling about, listening to several bands, and occasionally knocking into a piece of art on the walls. Note to self: no more reading event program while walking towards a set of interior marble steps, it hurts. No equipment damage - camera or limbs. A man picked me up at the bottom of the steps and his name was Brooks, he and his wife were very hip and nice and I shot a picture of them for my column. Yay, Brooks. Realizing I was going to be aching I decided it was time for some pain management in the form of scotch & sodas. A rock star friend of mine asked if I'd like half of her pot chocolate chip cookie so I crunched that down although that's not my usual substance I choose to abuse. After a while I felt even more vibrant than normal and approached another rock star pal (formerly of national fame) and told him that I had just eaten a pot cookie (he's a proponent of all things marijuana) and that all of my amoebas were undulating. I kept walking, thinking, what the hell did that mean?

A truly surreal episode in the car happened last night with two friends. Mission: get to a suburban bon voyage party, deliver gifts, have some drinks, and make return drive within an hour. Drive time from city to sub/ex-urb is about fifteen minutes. We were in my car for two hours and never got to the party (none of us were under the influence of anything, lest you're wondering). We passed the football stadium three times, certain other landmarks a few times. Maps were consulted. We stopped and one passenger asked directions from a bar full of regulars. We called various people on our cell phones. The whole time we were searching for a Potter Avenue and ended up on a Potters Road about five miles from where we started - there was a house of the same number and I suggested that, because now we were hurrying to get to other events, that we slow the car and throw our gifts for the bon voyagee out the car windows onto their lawn. After dropping my two passengers off I decided to make another attempt and did make it to the party that time in the fifteen minutes, phoning my friends to tell them so so that they could share in my pride and jubilance. I regaled, or attempted to regale, the suburbanites with the tale of the two-hour drive but they just didn't find it nearly as hilarious, as eye-wateringly gut-busting as we had. But it was a swell party, lots of people, lots of wine, lots of snacks.