Here's some solid irony. Yesterday I had had enough of getting no return calls from Righteous Babe Records for my possible Ani DiFranco story for a local shiny magazine. Rather than calling her lead handler myself at his home or on his cel I decided to go the Professional Route and called their office - for four weeks. No yes, no no, no thing. So I called yesterday morning and, in a spicy nutshell, said I've been trying to contact the handler (who I've known for perhaps 15 years) via your office and is this the way your company handles media requests? I went on (and on) and said that if the answer was a big fat NO I would like to know as the magazine would be going to press shortly. The woman said she would have someone get back to me. I explained that I was on my way into a meeting and couldn't talk to anyone for about an hour. Within one minute I got a call from RBR's v.p. (oh hell, his name is Scot), the lead handler, who rambled a bit until I said look, it's been on & off four weeks of calls, yes or no? He explained that Ani had just finished all interviews and now there was a "media blackout" and that RBR is opening an office in London and she's about to embark on another tour. So if they had called me back aeons ago I may have had an interview. Irony: (which I detailed to the magazine's editor) RBR staffers make much of the fact that they've remained in Buffalo to do business yet give local media a difficult time. If CNN or SPIN were sniffing around for a story you can bet your sweet media credetials that they would have called back. So Scot was all mopey-voiced and I said look, I really don't care, but now I've got to call the editor. He said you can blame it all on me. Onwards and upwards, I'm onto another story which will actually be more fun to write. Ani says to hell with local media. I say how about a local media blackout of RBR/Ani? Off for a weekend of work and work-related fun.
Later in the day yesterday took a close friend out for sushi for his b-day and the sake flowed like the tears of Jesus in an onion patch. We moved over to a lounge and had yet more sake until the voluminous band chased us away, to another joint across the street where we proceeded to drink a hoary Australian from Adelaide under the proverbial table. He was amusing until he went very stooped and sleepy. His tag line, pre-snooze, was I love your work. Upon hearing that me and my friend are artists. Today I called him and shouted I LOVE YOUR WORK. He said that now we could add to our c.v.'s that we drank an Aussie under the table, 2001.

Today. Got to bed at about 5AM after working on my column and AOL deadline all day & night and upon arriving at the newspaper orifice found those machines in a state of chaos. Still managed to squeak in some VH1 before ensuing zzz's and re-arose at 10AM to reconfigure and meet my friend Catherine Parker to begin work on our dual exhibition which opens in exactly one year - a year minus one week. All grain elevator images. I drove us to Concrete Central and we meandered, I shot and she sketched for two and a half hours. We lost each other for about an hour which was scary as the grain elevator is huge and parts of the ground are sunken in and some of the concrete is worn thin. And, as Brucey said, you never know when you might bump into Boo Radley. When I began photographing grain elevators 6 or 7 years ago I did so with the intent to show the opposite of cold and formalist images that always seem to get made. Life is moving and grooving all around these stoic beings and I jump in for symbols left behind by workers, and document plants taking over. Today I imagined the ghosts of every past reveler at this grain elevator, hanging off of metal ladders, pissing in corners, the air full of spray paint fumes, fires all around, and dozens of rock & roll radios playing all different classic rock hits through the ages. I walked across metal grating bolted over rotting train ties of a r.r. bridge up about 50 feet to get to the site and at one point I froze with fear. I asked Catherine to tell me about her martial arts studies (she's now a yellow belt), to take my mind off of possible mishap. Walking back over the bridge was not much easier - I forgot to get a super criss-crossed bridge beam with view of C.C. behind it and my huge desire for this image overcame fear. Art/photography won. We saw a blue heron.

Two wondered whose email I copied, pasted, and posted yesterday. Some things in this world have to remain a mystery, and besides, you don't know him. He's the person I took to the abso-freakin-lutely amazing Roger Waters show a few summers ago. And he's married to the woman who I consider to also be one of my best friends. And if he's reading this, hello and you made me feel like I was floating along on a puff of pink smoke after reading such poesie. Oh yeah, speaking of smoke, I just returned to my deadline miasma from shooting craggly mime superstar Marcel Marceau, at his tech rehearsal. Understanding French I knew that he was really bitching out the people in the wings, hating the lights, and especially the very rock & roll puff of smoke which someone belched out onto the stage and which hung over MM's head. Me and two of my colleagues were dismissed after a few minutes with many apologies from some p.r. people.

Dropped boyfriend at the mid-international airport (flight to Atlanta, six hour wait, flight of about same hours to Barcelona) a while ago and this means unabashed and repetitive Dave Matthews Band listening, Pink Floyd blaring, all-night VH1 watching, guilt-free workaholism, and above-average staying out late. Bye honey...I'll miss you...sniff...where's the Oban? Just bought Reveal, the new R.E.M. - it's soft and I'm digging it already but I haven't heard a high-kick-inducing rock song yet. Every release I find myself holding back before succumbing to their new twist on their genius. And the Stipe voice is still as sexy/earthy resonant.

Here are some special Nancycentric thoughts from the head of my secret fan club:

Course-o-course I have read your blogspot. All the damned time I read it!
Nearly daily. Daily, I nearly have enough time to write to you. Missive
thoughts are constant but not in cyberspace to you. Hello to you. How can
you/how do you/who allowed you enough time to do what you do and write
bloodspots'? I don't get it. I am beyond impressed. You truly are a goddess!
I praise thee oh Nancy, goddess of all that I believe to be. Zen one who is
chaos in nature but centered with a flow of the wind and stars. And flow you
shall, with the worms lifting the earth to your feet as you walk. No cold
alabaster benches for you bottom, no!!!!! Only love, love, love and, happy
thoughts and, free bowls of tummy love for you. You may rule the world but, I
quit smoking.

Saturday night arrived at a friend's all-gal b-day party late as I had been scampering about covering a fashion show, some music, and an art opening. Upon starting up the front steps of the respectable home in the respectable neighborhood I thought I heard a just-fired gun and imagined that it was another friend brandishing one of her cache of inherited items. It was two summers ago when me and this same woman, at another even more respectable home, thought about firing the handgun nestled in her handbag in the backyard - but thought better of it amid the brick courtyard setting. I imagined the terror of a ricocheting bullet and having to hit the dirt so to speak in my great outfit. Upon hearing about the backyard firearm antics that hostess went really pale in the face...that was also the party when an out-of-control acquaintance crashed the party, got drunk, got violent, and was taken away in a shiny ambulance. Sometimes I go to festivities which aren't tainted with lawlessness and the like.

Rock & Roll travel works - if you've got the right attitude. Mazzy Star's "She Hangs Brightly" was this adventure's soundtrack which worked well on both flights, and in MOMA as I looked at the annoyingly new DIGITAL and huge people-infested images of Andreas Gursky. Got to this city's airport with wet hair, blouse all mis-buttoned, and bag ajar. And, quite possibly (but I was in my zone and beyond noticing), fellow travelers agog. The air personalities stated "you must be Nancy" and then I stumbled towards the shitty little prop plane. Note to self: jets = less inner ear mayhem. Other note to self: car service = less post-ride barfiness than bouncy cabs. Made the to-NYC flight by some miracle (I was showering, oh, forty minutes before takeoff) and met up, serendipitously, with a pal on the very same plane en route to moving to France (Land of Perfection/Delicious Johnny Depp's home). Bought her and I some kir royales at JFK and went along my way to meet my AOL/outtatown & outtasight editor in the big M. Many other NYC adventures ensued with several friends & acquaintances & artworks including: near-knockout bump on head from steel girder badly positioned on stairwell of Dorota's new art studio; ferocious bite mark on right arm from same; scratch on face from god knows what; great new me&ro ring; blackened khaki knees from fake fall with a pal's non-fake cane in middle of a crowded SoHo restaurant; wounded feet from wearing beautiful new shoes for miles and miles of smiles; and residual hangover molecules floating throughout my artfully-stimulated brain. I returned to this fair city Friday afternoon after a near-debacle with American Airlines in NYC at their gateside counter. The on-duty officiates announced casually that my flight was oversold 100% and that I was on a waiting list and would be "rolled over" to a later flight. Visions of pre-air rage and attendant shocking acts floated before my hateful eyes - I had a gig in four hours. Nancy's World is a happy world when all goes my way. I watched the odd work of the two women in front of me, remaining a hunkering presence until I had my hands on my fucking little green boarding pass. In a few hours I was back at work, socially documenting a VIP et al dinner at which Rita Moreno was a guest of honor. Me: unfamiliar with her work on television and B'Way, being a non-follower of both. Rita: petite and well-dressed and a spicy starry presence who likes to jibe, apparantly, with photogs. Me: hanging back as dinner was being served to see if the little star of tube & stage wanted to actually eat or schmooze the night away. Rita: graciously throwing her arms around anyone who wanted to pose for a photo with her, all the while informing that person that I was the city's most famous social photographer. Me: slightly amused.