Last night Artists & Models was a shitload of fun, my photo booth made a goodly amount of cash and after I figure out my materials costs I'll fork over the rest to the sponsoring arts org, Hallwalls. A lot of people said that they thought it was one of the best installations as it was interactive and humorous. All of my little helpers helped people select their fav secret and then they posed for a Polaroid which was $5. Most favored secrets were "I'm hung like a horse," "these aren't real," "I have a yeast infection," "I'm a true brunette," and "I love Billy Joel." There were about fifty secret choices. A gaggle of drag queens swiped "I dig internet porn" for a while and my helpers got incensed and hunted it down. Later, I was roaming for my photo column, and missed this melee, but three of my girlie friends were in an altercation with a drunk guy who took off with "I'm hung like a horse." They were, quite possibly, fueled by the shots of tequila which I had been plying them with all evening, served in film canisters in a smart and handy box. I'm not so sure I would want to wrangle a man who's hung like a horse. So at 2AM the house lights came on - show over - and me and the (unruly) gang broke down my photo booth in what seemed like a few minutes. The beau drove my car into the convention center and we loaded it up - as much as we ourselves were loaded. Earlier in the day, whilst setting up, I scouted out the p.a. system in the massive concrete space - a really hip-looking 70's mic of stainless on a very ergonomic base. So as we were all about to depart I swooped into the "command center" and my pal Steve B (musician & Hallwalls' music programmer) was sitting at the desk. I walked in and very quickly and calmly picked up the mic, pressed the large rectangular button for speak mode, and belted out about four lines of "Feelings" before another Hallwalls pal came RUNNING in to grab the mic out of my hands. Then out for more cocktails and further mayhem.
ps: Did run into my mag editor and instead of strangling me, she shook her finger at me for what seemed a long time. She said: "we've got black & white proofs coming on Monday and I'll have some explaining to do as to why your piece is not sitting in its space." I've been in this crazy racket to know that if that were really the case I would have received a dunning/serious/threatening/authoritarian phone call earlier in the week. If any editors are reading this, be up front, specific even. We writer/photographer types are a wily bunch, trained in information suppression and phrase turning. Dissemination is power. Procrastination is an art. Adrenaline is responsible for most of the activity and productivity in the whole huge world.

OK, I never ever, once claimed to not be a procrastinator and if you hire me to write a snappy/snazzy mag article you might just have to wait on it a while. But when you DO have it in your editorial hands, it'll freakin' rock.
PJ Harvey was superb, I think she was wearing Jimmy Choo shoes - they were that whack. One was stars, one was stripes, they were rhinestones & anklets. My boy colleagues informed the tour p.r. lady who looked a lot like Annie Lennox that I was the biggest baddest PJ Harvey fan and she regarded me. After shooting she asked if I'd like to watch the show, I said I've got a ticket and she said I can get you on the floor. Guess which rock & roll avenue I motored down above-average speed? I was at PJH's feet and nearly screamed at some double-fisting beer-toting bitch who would not shut up, so I had to move. The set was perfect, the crowd was non-surprisingly lukewarm about her. U2 was powerful.
Tonight I'm an artist participating in Artists & Models at the convention center and have created a "Trade Secrets Photo Booth" in which you select a laminated cartoon bubble of a secret, pose in front of a backdrop for a polaroid for sale, and move along. The booth is 20' x 20' and it looks great. I burned incense in it all day to give it another dimension. I've also prepared my customary tequila shots (just short of a shot) in Fuji film canisters, special treats for people I like.
Off to points beyond.

Filled with such glee as I'll be hearing PJHarvey and photographing her in now about two and a half hours. I'm listening to her latest cd and I must recommend it to everyone, go quickly, run, and buy it, now. Now. U2's label lady fedex'd me a ticket to the show tonight, but one, and I'm going to shoot, run to seat, run to security area where I'll stay in a holding pattern with colleagues until we're ushered out to shoot U2. Then I don't think I'm staying for their set and will pass my ticket off to another so that I can rush (rush?) home to finish my article for the magazine - the one that happened after Ani's big Dis and the one that, unless it's done tonight, will mean I'll be seeing my editor pal at my door, her two hands firmly grasped about my neck, ringing all the while. Well, time to do some more karate kicks to Polly Jean Harvey before I ferociously make my way through this frenetic night of music, of art, of power! (oh, the boyfriend thing will be fine, he read my blog, oopsies, and thanks for your emailic concern, it means a lot to me). Parting shot/thought: if I knew a goddamned thing about this web business I'd have all sorts of great links and images, but I'm busy and you have to simply amuse yourself with my musings. Rock on.

When it rains it not only pours in Nancy's world, it's a freaking monsoon. First the erasure of years of work off of the old-school computer and now my boyfriend is doing what he needs to do, and move far away from here. Apparently he's about to get offered a job for one year, someone just left a message on our answering machine. Maybe I should have picked up and said "listen, he said you can take that opening and stick it where the Buffalo sun never shines." This is something he needs to do professionally but which further sends me into an odd dark despair I haven't felt in a long time. I've just outlasted another man in this city.

After my last, Neil-loving post, all the shit in the epinw galaxy hit the proverbial fan. Just as I was completing six hours of my newspaper column (scanning, lay-out, writing) an evil message came up on one of my computers which, in a nutshell, meant I was FUKT. The hard drive is a thing of the past. I'll have someone try one more intervention but I think I've been jettisoned into having to spend more money to make this iMac my everything for the newspaper gig. So I had to rebuild everything after a brief personal meltdown. Then I got to the office at 5 or so and there was our art director who had had a panic attack and ran to work. It was very lucky for me as some other minor fiascoes came up. She said, "Nancy, you amaze me that you always keep going." I said "there's no choice." So the column was rebuilt, I was sleeping at about 8AM until Mr. UPS started banging on my back door to hand me a package from Gear Magazine, my returned Rolling Stone contact sheets. What's that saying, there's no sleep for the wicked? Back to new, exciting, post-meltdown deadlines. This is all almost funny, it's getting there. It's a real Over the Rhine moment.

Working on multiple deadlines of every genre to the point of absurdity. And I'm out of scotch. I'm listening to Neil Diamond, loudly, and if I had to hear one song for eternity/perpetual cd replay I would choose "Cherry Cherry." (Or "Blue Thunder" by Galaxie 500) If you don't like Neil Diamond you're reading the wrong blog - he's the fire in my medulla, the o's in my photography, maybe the i's of my writing. OK, so he's made some really Bad movies but his music, if you have an open mind, rocks. Here's a Neil memory for your perusal. When he was last in this city I photographed him for my column and for some reason felt I had to get dressed up for him, which I did - and which shocked my colleagues. I had invited a friend and she missed about half the show as she forgot about it. Then she showed up and was not into it one teensy weensy bit. By the time she showed up I had already bonded with a woman next to me who was with another also not into Neil so we sang - no, make tht screamed - all the words. OK, back to deadlines.

Today, I was a SUMMER GIRL. This exciting transformation of my tomboy self happened at the all-day Kiss the Summer Hello x-travaganza at the triple-A ballpark. I was backstage with all my boy colleagues and concert types and there was a gaggle of true Summer Girls with their red sashes and each had TWO beachballs in her arms. After a while there was a new gaggle - with sashes, and with beachballs. I became a bit jealous and kept saying, a la Veruca Salt, "I want to be a Summer Girl" until one Summer Girl whose time on stage had come and gone said "take my sash and go BE a Summer Girl." So quickly I put that thing on and blended into the new girls, all by the side of the stage. I hung in the back. I told one of my fellow Girls to give me one of her beachballs and she said "No we're supposed to each have two beachballs." I said "Look, I'm trying to blend over here," and turned to another besashed girl who said yes. So we pounced onstage between acts and acted all exuberant, bouncing and screaming before 15K spectators. Then it was time to throw our beachball(s) and the Girls all tossed theirs out in girlie fashion but I kicked mine triumphantly. I loved being a Summer Girl, and three of my boy colleagues documented my triumph over law and order. Of course I had to give the freakin' sash back. The Go-Go's played, by the way, and most of the under-21's HATED them and could not wait for 98 Degrees who were okay, if you like faux cornball romantic sagas between four bandmates and four girls. All in all, a damp day, many laughs with phello photogs and other fellow media hacks.

Forgot to mention this yesterday, a post-wedding noticing: I changed out of wedding photog ensemble into street clothes in my car after the portraits were done and the wedding party and family and friends split. I was done changing and I looked over to the smokestacks over the chapel, there are three as it's a chapel slash crematorium. I noticed that some of the leaves above one of the smokestacks were all undulating which meant that the whole time during the wedding ceremony, bird seed tossing, post-ceremony ceremonial lighting of cigarettes, well-wishing, and photography smiles someone was being transformed into ash. Ash to ash, fun to funky. I'm the only family member who has in my possession my grandmother's ashes which are sealed in a marble box and which sit on one of my work tables, directly behind me where I'm now typing this, and next to my favorite portrait I made of her. So tomorrow I'll be shooting some mega-popstars at a festival, from noon to six or seven in the pm. The Go-Go's are my major attraction. I can't wait to hear "Alex the Seal"/"Our Lips are Sealed" LIVE!