Next door neighbor of blazing KMart-style lamp called me this AM. She started saying something about the light and I'm thinking it's going to be Sorry that you're getting sunburnt whilst you sleep. But no, it's We installed that light on Tuesday and someone popped open the window again, they didn't take anything. So...nice huge light does no good. Actually, we are both certain the window popper is the post-juvenile hall kid across the street whose home is a study in disaster. Mom with an indeterminate number of children who all look the same - maybe six or seven - mom is a bingo and sex addict and the kids are alone all the day long and don't go to school. Sometimes I look down the driveway and see one of the younger ones running in the front yard, which she's been doing since she started walking. Nobody to keep her away from traffic. So this kid who goes into the building next door doesn't do anything when in there - he's bored. Somehow someone in the house has their shit enough together that they actually managed to hang a few patriotic signs (right-side up) in the windows.

Responsibly, I've got all of my Halloween decorations up. Then I realized, Hey, Halloween is about a month or so away. But it sure feels good to have that orange pumpkin head flashing in the upper window, making neighbors cower. I'm not even talking abut the skull which has been up in the front window for two years, or the interior decorations which have been up longer.
For isn't every day truly Halloween in some special way?
As I was working on AOL writing, specifically Medeski Martin & Wood's upcoming gig, I had that in the ol' cd player and realized that I had forgotten how much I enjoy them. Except when they attempt to play free outdoor concerts filled with hopheads.
From there a quick foray down memory lane and plopped Live's first disc, Mental Jewelry, in until I couldn't stand it any longer. It sounds so flat, so freshman-like, but I still recall perfectly the first time I shot them - big Ed still had hair and I ran a photo of him on one knee, hand outstretched. That was 1991. This is now. Good day to you. Your favored Nancy.

Note to self: even though you are not a huge Phish phan, buy the cd upon which your images appear for the proverbial archives. Or, choice B, perhaps the management will supply a copy as part of my comp for image usage.
Someone who read epinw yesterday wondered what I thought of Ray Davies. I was too busy noting wayward drunks and forgot all about Ramblin' Ray. It was delightful but at moments I wanted more music than Kinks or Davies talk. Also, last night was the tenth anniversary of the release of Nirvana's Nevermind and I thought how I could be similarly enthralled with epic tales from the Nirvana world.

Theme of post: nincompoopage.
1. Nincompoop of gigantic proportions at Ray Davies suddenly lost control of an Entire Pitcher of Beer which flowed like the Tears of Jesus over his table and onto my journalistic photo bag and squatting to keep low legs. Mr. N later, during the quiet moments, shouted in communion with the moment. Then I noted to a rock comrade, Robyn, that he was gone and I supposed he had hit his besotted head somehow in the bathroom and was lying, "out of it," on the pissy floor.

2. Next door neighbor nincompoop has installed one of those K-Mart parking lot-worthy lamps of questionable design and outage of light molecules. Wow! I am still amazed, as I gaze at the windows on that side of the house. Wow! It's afternoon on a cloudy day - or dawn all night. Maybe this is a CIA plot to further confuse a person wont to work into the weest hours.

3. Out of Perfect Nancy Sphere but popping into memory via an oldie on the radio was one of the music world's chief nincompoops, Morissey. Or is that Morrisey? Anyhow, onto more interesting matters involving ham sandwiches and biting rock & roll boys.
Moz once had an acquaintance of mine ejected from a venue for eating a ham sub during a techie break before his gig in this middling city. Sent home. Bye bye ham eater. And one time I saw Morrisey, post-Smiths (unfortunately) but still in his solo heyday, at Nassau Coliseum with a boy obsessed with him (musically, not physically). I recall girls with sheets spraypainted with his name, marching around the perimeter of the floor. Later this rising rock star wanted me to bite him, so, obligingly, I chomped upon his lip. Now that's a nincompoop.

Hell hath no fury like the mom of a little folk singer/rock staress angry that she was mentioned as an "Ani Associate" in your photo essay column. The brother of the rock star said Yes, she's really protective.
Protective? Of what? Seems rather silly but nonetheless all happiness resumed and I finished my rock star family gig in joy and exuberance and with typical pinpoint clarity.

Speaking of exuberance, my piece (drawing of grain elevator on a corner along with lines of sitting birds patiently awaiting grain elevator crumbs, a lightpost, and a beat to shit American flag) sold for $200. I busted out of the museum before my piece was being bid on but not before I bought a large piece by my pal Catherine.

Last night more rock action. Tonight is Ray Davies and I'm about to make certain his aged rock self allows the presence of an inquiring mind and lens = me. Photographically yours, your fav Nancy.

Note to self: if every bride were as psycho-bitchy as yesterday's, dear Nancy, you are not only skipping shooting any future weddings, but will lobby hard in our nation's capital for legislation to pass a law banning marriage.

Found myself in a far-flung vortex of local rock gossip this weekend. Firstly, late Friday night (thankfully after escaping a concentrated dose of show tune-toting theatre people) spoke with a departed drummer of the band he and I were watching. He, his tall, & tipsy self, kept uttering things into my ear. For all I know he was speaking Old High Inuit. Loud outdoor rock & roll under a tent + waning hearing in both ears due to a few decades of rock watching and shooting + drunk departed drummer = WHO THE FUCK KNOWS!. What I did catch was this: as one song was about to begin he said, hearing the first note, If I ever played THIS song again I was going to explode. His hands were drumming in the air, as if to help the new drummer, not nearly as deft or handsome.
Next night/last night: while talking to another guy from another band the subject of the band having personnel problems (losing drummer and bass player) came up and he said: Oh I heard they bagged him because of his drinking. Then he had some other misinformation about my friends' band which we both happened to be watching - why they were dissolving.
I set him straight then, sending him off whimpering post-karate chop to the kneecap. The End.
Off to a complicated day. One involving artmaking, a juicy little freelance gig, some event coverage, an so much more.

ps: Heard from a local hippie that my photos are now appearing along with the Phish live cd recorded from near here, a secret I posted a while back right here on epinw which I couldn't tell, couldn't tell, couldn't tell - having been swept into the enthralling underbelly of rock and roll secrets.