The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame is tres mall-like and shiny and full of people you would never invite out for cocktails. BUT: the Lennon show, extended is great. It begins with showcases containing his personal artifacts, his glasses that he wore when he was killed (I always wanted to see these), and the paper bag which Yoko was given after his death containing his clothes. Me and the beau watched a two-hour doc on him, Imagine, and I wept like nobody's business and am certain I was the only sobbing person in the whole damned theatre. And, of course, the song Imagine makes me cry every time and I've been wandering around Cleveland, partying and such, with the eyes of someone who's been chopping onions all the day long. Two thoughts: the Beatles were a rock flash, their rise and superstardom came quickly and just as quickly they ditched it. Other Beatles-era thought: watching footage of them performing some of their songs made those songs suddenly seem much more real and I wondered if that's because I'm a product of the MTV era or if it was because I never saw them perform.
And I'm still cemented in my belief that John Lennon is an awe-inducing artist and his loss still tragic.
One last thought: after meeting some really outgoing people I think the Great Lakes inspire such friendly behaviour. A cab driver wanted to marry me and beau but only if we would do it nude so he could get on the Howard Stern show. He gave me his card.
OK, here's last thought: what's travelling sans shoe purchasing? Got the greatest shoes on two soles today. Over and out.

Everything is so freakin' perfect right now in MY world it's crazy with a capital K. Checked in to the Cleveland Ritz-Carlton and there seemed to be a bit of mayhem behind the desk as Gary in the blue jacket said there was a problem with our appointed room, supposed to be a suite. I imagined a crime scene and housekeeping frantically readying the room. I joked with Gary that if he bought us a round of drinks all would be grand and we would gladly wait and wait. With a few more clicks of his mouse, puzzled looks as he peered into his computer screen, I ended up on a passkey-only floor in what we could call the Presidential Suite and which could comfortably sleep eight adults. Two bathrooms, dining room area, dozens of tasteful lamps, hi-speed internet access (how I'm writing to your fortunate self). And Gary tossed in two drinks each for two of us into a passkey-only bar two floors up. This is the rock star suite, screw that Presidential shit. Well, off to secret floor 14, and subsequent hitting this town which has welcomed your favorite Nancy with open arms, and bar tabs. Yippee.

As I worked diligently, of course, on my Warped Tour photo layout, ever mindful to leave myself a few inches to fill with quippicisms, I had this important thought: in the future, at these all-day music festivals involving musicians of similar ilk who may be sporting similar hairstyles, attitudes, and fashions, that they be required to wear Nancy-issued self-adhesive nametags much like the stickers we press photographers must wear saying that we're a-ok and not some deadbeat with a camera. This way, when I'm flailing away and looking at bassplayer B I'm not going to confuse him with a bandmember from band G who may have played moments after band C on stage H. Dig? Most bands are completely distinguished/distinguishable but there's always an unruly bandmate who falls through accuracy's ass crack.
Note to self: howsabout a break from writing deadlines.
Other note to self: you decided to be a photog and not a writer for a reason. Remember that.

Cheese & crackers, a few of you have wondered where I've been - sometimes the Perfect World involves a tad more carousing than blogging. I'm imagining the mayhem which would ensue if I was able to post as I was out and about. Oh, wait, I've heard about wireless blogging but I can't even spell html so it seems a bit of a stretch for Palmless me. I'll be making another John Lennon pilgrimage tomorrow for a few days so you'll have to live without my quippy wit until Friday or so you poor poor mopey online darlings.
So listen how my newspaper publisher/pal/big brotherly figure torments me so: Saturday, flailing away (REALLY) on the fuckin' story of the elusive artist for the paper when publisher calls to invite me to the beach with him and his girlie, also my friend. What's the world's most supreme procrastinator going to do but pitch responsibilty out the speeding car window as it crosses into Canada? So mid-Peace Bridge I had this elated feeling like I was an escapee and, just because I have my lingering eldest child syndrome, brought the laptop and tape recorder along, as well as some ketchup flavored chips, dill pickle flavored chips, coke, trashy mags, etc. Guess which saw more beachly action? If you say the former you must never visit epinw.blogspot.com ever again because you just aren't getting it, and you're resistant to all things Nancy. After beach, ***** Chinese food with the duo and then photographed the Knack of "My Scuh-ro-tem" fame.
Photograph Matchbox Twenty tonight and here's some really shocking news for you - Rob Thomas is only 4.5 feet tall. No, maybe 5. Doesn't he seem huge in the videos? He's not. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Over and out.