Today I was back out at the Camp, trying hard not to drool all over some of the boys and boyish counselors (absolutely only the OLDER sort to avoid CNN-style scandal, believe you me) and just intermingling best as I could to capture the campy moments. After that drove and freakin' drove and drove until I landed back in the city where I attended an art opening and a disco revival. And what a revival it was: man on a mic and mission who thought it wise to yell out about all things 70's. A video overhead showed some in the room in much more statuesque phases of life although their hairdo's were at embarassingly hilarious proportions way back whensville. And I saw gouchos. Don't pretend that you don't remember GOUCHOS. The yelling disco man whipped all of us into correct remembering, even though many of us were mere tadpoles during the disco era. There was a woman with 10 inch long fingernails - she's a phone sex operator for real. Disco duck/sucks.

If I had more than one plumber. I wouldn't have so many fears.
If the odor of poo wasn't repugnant. We'd probably be really sick.
Sorry, I have to go. Local wild girls are waiting to talk to me.
I love you, you are so big. Wayne.

This message is from "Wayne," a pseudonymed fan who loves me, who praises all things in special Nancy's World (it was a much longer message but some things are not made to be shared with any ol' tom dick or harry).
Spent the better part of today at a summer camp where I photographed the happy, sun burnt population of a camp out in the sticks. Parked my car on a steep hill and was most pleased to find it still there at day's end, and not in nearby lake.
Dig the kid world where conversation is free & easy & surreal in jumping from thing to subject thing. Before the adult filter of propriety gets strapped on.
Camp assistant director, TO Mike, drove me about in his golf cart and I had a sudden revelation about those who comandeer golf carts: theirs is a sadistic mission - to throw, like a bronco with a bur under its saddle, their rider, like a heap of old newspapers out of their unstructured, airbagless vehicle. We took turns, climbed hills, careened down hills, flowed under low cherry trees, sought out (apparently) ruts with such reckless abandon. Children's toes and arms and lives were mere vehicular inconveniences for sunglassed and hard-assed Mike.
One time a famous artist took me through a woods on his golf cart at a speed I thought impossible for that genre of vehicle. His golf cart had a high-pitched horn which he used liberally - he would send mid-woods pedestrians scattering as he approached them shouting 'look out!!!' as I held on, face the color of birch bark (like today at some points).

Due to the apparent dearth of writers on the planet I keep getting writing assignments from foolhardy, perhaps even crack-addled, editors. Don't they understand? I'm a photographer with heaps of deadlines. I'm a procrastinator with good intentions. Sure, you'll get the "story" and it'll fuckin' rock, whenever you get it. Why do these editorial types torture themselves with these so-called assignments? And don't they understand that I don't fall for their deadlinal ploys and threats?
And I also have that little lack of respect for authority problem.

Blink 182: pure testosterone rock in the form of adorable guys.
Blink 182 fans: raucous and tossing about inflatible sex dolls.
Blink 182 fans, femmes: see above, but add the adjective topless.

At one point at the beginning of the set the band, mid-song, shouted and pointed BOOBIES and every photographer turned to look - including me. One of my more boob-obsessed colleagues was not looking so I tapped him on the arm and said You're missing a photo op right behind you.

Bought their girl model t (you see, I am such a sucker for a good rock and roll moment) which is pink and adorable and was half the price of the Aerosmith shirt I recently acquired.

Read an email moments ago from Julian Muse (his Nancy-given name) who tells me that he just turned thirty. Day's meditation: does it make me old to have my biggest lifetime age-gap paramour-turned-pal at that auspicious age?

One of my ill-advised colleagues is about to get squeezed out of a whole lot of future concerts for being the too-squeaky wheel demanding legal WD-40, if you catch my drift. He's a known trafficker of photographic likenesses of rock starz on the internet system, too, and blabs about that to whoever will listen...despite our occasional signage of bitchy contractage.
Tonight is the Blink 182 gig out in the sticks and this is one of the summer shows I've actually been looking forward to as I've photographed them from the time they were little off-note pups. Today I have to corral five women into one photo frame which in the past proved nearly impossible - I had a cover shoot with them last year which they forgot. They were in bed. I waited. They ran about. I sipped coffee. Then they smiled.

Yesterday I photographed a motorcycle get-together and there were hawgs as far as the eye could see...and leather halter tops...and bike week t's stretched to invisibility over waxing bellies.
The day's strangest couple award goes to unnamables who I photographed for my column.
Her: blonde, petite, expensive sungoggles, Marilyn Monroe fetish - why their street custom bike features "Marilyn" on fenders and gas tank. However, there's an interesting twist to "Marilyn": her features have been melded with the petite blonde features of the wife.
Him: Overly-accessorized and he "cuts hair," so obviously gay yet married. He told me three times that he "cuts hair" as if this was a cue that he's a flamer biker. He was too tan, and art directed his wife who I had sprawled on the Marilyn bike.
Talked to some cigar-chomping bikers from outta town, met up with some people I know who I slargled hard lemonades with before my great escape from Muffler Madness.
Last night: great set by Simon and the Bar Sinisters who were playing three sets to a small yet appreciative gathering. Between sets he had some hard-luck, heart-wrenching tales about bar owners not wanting to pay the rock trio, his voice getting ruined by second-hand smoke, his other woes. Very sad, very sad racket is rock & roll.