Last night I taped another episode of the infamous and highly improvisational Greg Sterlace Show and it airs on Friday November 2nd (November already? who the hell's idea is that?) at 8 or whatever on the landmine-rich cable access station and it features your Fav Nancy and one of her "pet bands" - Last Conservative. What a treat it was to walk into the building and see those four rock & roll 21-year-olds (*sigh*) and their case of beer. I have to say it's one of the better guest co-hostings yet and it was a fun dip in post-adolescent pheromones. I ended up bringing one of the LC boyz to a party after wisely purchasing some of that hard lemonade that has the world in a whirl, and then we (and another rock st*r = Allen) traipsed down to a joint for excellent music crafted in this middling city. This was the same LC boy who I took to his premier gay bar for his first-ever night of gay bar hopping with me and Crazy Jen.
This blogging, this visual flogging, is a pit stop between freelance gigs to be followed by Halloween moments. I'm trying to break in a green leather mask which was given to me today. It smells great but it hurts around the eyes. Wow, that sounds like a way to describe oh so many things.

Advised a pal tonight to not fry out his brain cells and try to determine a pat plot for David Lynch's latest textural treat, 'Mulholland Drive.' I dug it and was still haunted by images from it - his framing is exquisite – when I received a call on cell phone from one of two(some) Troy friends. They saw it and so we talked talked talked about it.

Note to self: When you make a rule that when a police officer is approaching your vehicle you have a story at the ready, please remember to do so.

Punchline: motoring along deserted biway was suddenly in the crosshairs of two bored officers of the law armed with ray gun.

Special thought: there is no correct or smart response to the question "Do you know how fast you were going?"

Halloween - delightfully confused mix of religious iconography, pagan ritual and candy (like Easter and Christmas, too, for crissakes). But spooky faux webs, jointed skeletons, hand candles and lifelike skulls THRILL.
Although I participate by documenting the big H happenings all over hell's half acre, I prefer not to costume myself materially. Instead I have always chosen the conceptual costume and for many years (before the unfortunate Princess Di Thing in the Parisian Tunnel) went out as a French papparazza.
Then that, then that idea went the way of so much flotsam and jetsom.
Back in college days, when I was grappling with my fortitude, I would pleasingly go to parties obnoxiously costumed. There was the (I shudder) woman's KKK auxiliary member with floral sheets and floral hood, and then the Roslyn Carter as Assassin costume fashioned from a Newsweek cover.
That featured a perfect Roz dress and an unloaded handgun.
This year, after much thought, I've got my costume.
I'm to be a bad-ass. A bad-ass photog which means I'm going to push people all night and yell at them. Yell their names if I know them. Get really close to their faces and POOOOF will go my flash.
And I'm going to wear my most bad-ass ensemble. No Ms. Nice Guy that night. Nope.

I found myself at one point last night backstage at an all-star (to this middling city) guitar player x-travaganza and one guitar x-travagant was saddened that I didn't know who the hell he was. But Guitar Star, I said in my best and kindest soprano, I have never seen you without a Harley-Davidson leather cap on your head (and in so much backstage light) so how in blazes could I know it was you?
This is true and made him oh-so-happy.
The x-travagant guitar ego, example #34,776.
Surprised today to see that at the airport curbside check-in has resumed. So much for anti-American in-convenience.