Just walked through the Allentown "Art" Festival where I saw scads of people that I know and now I'm writing from my newspaper office where my one editor is on a rampage to throw out everything, but only after he reads it first. So every few moments he'll say, hey, Nance, listen to this...
The festival yielded the usual panoply of craft, adorable dogs on leashes, an abundance of asphalt-soaked pedestrians, and the horrid wafting scent of fried dough and fried hotdogs and fried burgers, and fried onion rings, and fried tofu
So now I'm off to sushi with editor and my pal/his girlie friend and life couldn't be happier.
Tonight, more photo making, more rambunctious behavior.

Clarification: the mag(azine) editor is the woman whose life I was making hell by not turning in my story in a timely fashion. We did quality bonding. The newspaper editor in my life in the one who hugged me at the press conference, dig?
There are three main editors in my life: newspaper editor, AOL editor, and magazine editor. Then come second-level editors: my so-called sense of decency, the beau, close friends, mentor painter friend, and fav colleague.
So last night, out with the she-editor we had some wine at a downtown wine bar and I observed a sneaky move by a well-known area artist. He slipped his $20 off the bar and then asked the barkeep to bring his change. I was so flabbergasted that I said nothing. Then he took his unwarranted change and wasn't going to leave any $$ until I said something. I'm hoping he wasjust incredibly tipsy and spaced out.

The "editor" of my newspaper self has been calling calling calling and today, after a press conference at the region's largest art venue I said well, I'm leaving what did you want and he said I just wanted to say that I love you as he squeezed me tight. I don't always dig being touched. Like when I'm eating, please never touch me when I'm eating. Thanks oodles.
I'm (as usual) holding back information: beau, at my bidding, purchased and illegally imported some contraband from Spain. Two big bottles of Absinthe. And what came in the mail today, you might wonder? A specially-designed Absinthe spoon. So put that in your contraband pipe and smoke it. Look, any gardener that grows bushels of wormwood (me) has to be up to no good. I went out with the mag editor, I think we did quality bonding.

Phish's h.q. called again to say I've made it to the next round of the super secret Phish project and that they want some chosen shots FedEx'd to them asap. They dug what they saw and if I make it to the next round I still can't say what the hell this all is until there's a big public Phish-phueled announcement.

Newest in a series of bottles of Oban was purchased last evening which aroused some interesting reactions in the liquor store clerk boys. Maybe because I was purchasing it along with a mid-priced bottle of white wine. One said he didn't like scotch and I suggested that was because he had never had a great one. He said he didn't think he was old enough to drink scotch. I asked him if he'd like to step outside into the parking lot. I said that statement and calling me ma'am right now would earn you a good thrashing. He didn't call me ma'am. Earlier in the evening I had been talking to one of the Buffalo Bills, I'm pretty certain he's gay, who also was discussing scotch. He said Oh, I was into Oban for about a year. Like we were talking about opium or some other such thing, like maybe the Atkins Diet. Last weekend was all about rock stars, this one is light on star power. I'm passing on shooting *NSYNC to a pal who's into it for cash money's sake. (And that's sake, not sake, as in fun Japanese beverage) Last night my friend Jennifer - of Dyngus Day fame - said she'd help me learn how to create links and put photos of all the fab things I write about on epinw to make it an even more rollicking rock & roll sensory extravaganza. So yet more technology is screaming towards me hightailing it around a sunny mountain whilst straddling a Harley.

Party people, go and buy the new Radiohead NOW. That's my special order du jour. I was listening to it and it nearly blew my head off with its beauty and magma pathos. One of the record shop boys said "I've got a present for you" as he sped off into the back room. Now, as I've shot probably 2.5 million rock concerts and my ears, too, are shot, I wasn't so sure he had said present until he came back with a Radiohead notepad in his hands. It's so far-out I'll never use it for notes but maybe for a mousepad or just prop it up and admire it. That's the same joint that gave me the 3-d Chemical Brothers mousepad. I think they rule. You give me presents, you rule. It's as simple as that. Off to more deadlines. Love and adrenaline, your fav fotog.

Oasis and The Black Crowes were in my lens and mind last night at a show 70 miles away, r/t. There were superb rock moments with lots of hand gestures and good light, for a change. The stage at the venue, Darien Lake - a park of amusements, has been raised one foot. Security is now half the usual crew and half off-duty prison guards who are testy to talk with. Buzz-cut guys with no humor. And handcuffs. Wanted to work on my freaking story and made my way to the catering tent backstage which is no big deal. BUT apparently Liv Tyler and Kate Hudson were floating around - I really couldn't have been less interested as the boulder of deadline hell was upon me. I was harangued by my pal Chip, head of security, who was then was not then was going to kick me out until I stood up, threw the laptop on sleep and made my way out into the rain. It was the first date at this venue this season and it got off to a bit of a bumpy start. There's no place for working media to sit between our first three song allotment per band, no place to leave gear safely and in a dry place, and we're no longer allowed to leave via a handy gate to get to our cars and must walk a half-mile around a lot to our cars carrying all our stuff, etc. etc. I'll be cutting the amount of shows I'll be covering at this venue as a result of all of this hassle. Last night there was an attitude hovering about that members of the media, specifically photographers, are trying to pull a proverbial fast one and need to be treated like dishonest children. None of this makes sense to basic concert attendees who plop down money for ticket and for beers, then sit in a seat for a few hours with friends. But my Oasis and Black Crowes images which I made, and which will be appearing in my column, made up for all the officious muck.