Pat Benatar can still rip the chords out of her vocal chords and has, according to my calculations, about 8million times the talent of her daughter in a head-setted and lip-synching girlie band called GLO. Pat did all her hitz and the way-over-cap. crowd was absolutely claustrophobic: I wanted to leave and had to stay until post-encore backstage as it would have been impossible to get the backstage gate open, let alone leave. A man with a mullet was carried out by security for being drunk and disorderly but everyone backstage felt it might have been due to his unfortunate hair styling choice. Another man was taken away and one of the techies yelled What's wrong with HIS hair? (He had no mullet, lest you're not getting this rock and roll humor) Before her encore Pat, ten feet from me, floofed her hair and reapplied make-up. That's a chick rocker, to be sure. Tonight I photographed Janet Jackson and dig this: SHE WAS LIP-SYNCHING. Sad but true. How do you think these artistes can dance so hard and sing? They aren't. Believe me, I'm standing within lip-synching-detection's distance from these moments. Tomorrow: more musical mayhem. To boy colleague who left fresh new bottle of beer on my car - mercury buckets. Bye now, your favorite and funniest N.
ps: celebrity guest bartending last night meant more than my fair share of tequila, just the way life should be - more more more for me.

Had a great Warped Tour kind of day cavorting with the boy colleagues and other backstage acquaintances. The nephew, I don't think, realizes his special condition at concerts and will one day when he arrives with his little pals and makes his way to the backstage area where a security man will put out a hand barring his assured small entrance. Henry Rollins, for some unknown reason, hit the stage at 1PM so most people, including Yours Truly, missed his bossiness. I imagine, as WT hits Toronto in two days that he wanted time off. PennyWise was great, and I admired the onstage bar of Me First and the Gimme Gimmies. Not too many chick rockers, which, I suppose, is why they have the ground level Ladies Lounge. Shot from the top of the 1/2 pipe and got especially grand images of a motoX boy up up up and away! One of my boy colleagues was afraid to come on up so he didn't. Pussy. The Fire Department had gushing hose on a throng of people who quickly became Mud People and then they had a tremendo mud slide going. The only mud slide I ever came into involved Bailey's, Kahlua, and vodka. To hell with the other sort, I say. Shot the self-flung mud sliders from atop and watched one gal slide right under the tent of a sound man working stage C. After Warped Tour headed up to Canada for a summer house party on the beach and did something very Nancy-like: took a running jump at a hammock and ended up twisting about on it and flat on my back with a huge WHOOOMPHF. My friend who was grilling nearby thought I was letting out the WHOOOMPHF with joy other than proverbial wind being knocked out of my proverbial body. All day Warped Tour and only one major arm bruise from crowd rider/security man/me collision. Tonight I shoot Pat Benatar who is, I say, Drag Queen Rock. Very uninspired and I'm now listening to PJ Harvey as a pre-anecdote to the banal 80's rock about to assault my poor failing rock star shooting ears.

As the rock & roll sages of yore said: "Hell hath no impatience like a nine year old boy awaiting Warped Tour." The sibling/sole sister dropped off Nephew at the crack of dawn en route to her job and he's been klanking about waiting waiting waiting. But enough about youthful waiting. I am looking forward to an entire day of rock & roll onstage exuberances, x-treme affletes flying through the air, climbing the ladder once again to shoot from atop the 1/2 pipe, the t-shirts, the sights, the sounds, the throngs, the thongs (ok, no thongs), the feeling of being THERE. Long live outdoor rock & roll.

Proof enough, dig, that there's a God/god: my deadline for story about reluctant artist whose chest I sat on was EXTENDED ONE WEEK. Yes, extended, as in more time to beat quotable moments out of her, to sip turbo-powered wine with her, and make her bend to my wishes. Met with three boy colleagues today and we're going to be members of a team (GO TEAM) shooting for a wire service. Photos of wired people, stray wires on the ground, wires sticking out of odd places, etc. I'm currently spewing thoughts one mile per minute as I made some good ol' fashioned joe with way too many beans and way little coffee. Where did I park that Oban? Peace & Love, your favorite Nancy.
ps: the reluctant artist's name is Nancy, too, but she is NOT your favorite.

Spent the better part of yesterday in a foreign land, in NYC-inspired Toronto. Before embarking with two others after traditional fun-filled brunch the post-brunch krewe called after me to "avoid international incidents." On the way back, perhaps flashing back to a much earlier blog time when I was scrapping with border patrolmen during the FTAA protests, I was (I admit) snarky with the border man in the box. When he inquired what were you doing in Toronto I was a bit gruff. When he asked me to repeat what we were doing in Toronto I barked ART!!! which took him and my passengers a bit aback. Oh, I should mention here that we had just been sitting in return-to-USA traffic for about one hour. I also quipped that we had nearly spent as much time in traffic jams as in TO which was not at all true but charmingly funny nonetheless (I thought). Warped Tour in two days. ya-hoo.

Worked on my artist profile, another freakin' piece of lit by your fav Nancy, on Friday and had to quite literally chase my subject up her aluminum ladder as she had tired of talking about herself and her art and had gone up said ladder. Put the recording device around the ladder into her face to catch a few more quotes. Towards the end of the interview in the public park where, I should have already mentioned, she was working on her public art piece - an arch with figures atop - an assistant pal of hers showed up with a gallon of turbo-powered homemade wine. I'm certain it was about 300 proof. After a few tumblers of aforementioned we all sort of lazed about and, needing a few additional quotes, I sat on the unsteady and uneager subject. Sat right on her chest, recorder in her face. Thanks, I said, I think NOW I've got my 2,000 words. What we journalists must endure.
Last night, speaking of the newspaper world, attended a sit-down-and-be-good traditional wedding reception for one of our staffers. To lively up ourselves we got trashed on weak cocktails, tossed about handfuls of those nightmarish jordan almonds, danced madly, got up on chairs (ok, I was the sole chair topper), and I entertained TABLE 3 with my famed "Everything's Perfect in Nancy's World Dance" - where I sing that phrase whilst arching my back and kick my feet back there, too. They were impressed. We danced more and left for one of our group fav hangouts where we had more drinks and, just before departing, I tied my silky hose up in the arbor over our heads. The End.