Photographed Harry Connick, Jr. (HC, Sr. is a judge - not a hunk) last night at the landmark venue where staffers are always a landmark pain in the arse to do business with. The man with the headset welded to his head who never has a clue was there, in all his officiousness. He's the man who told lead boy colleague and I that he didn't think it was going to happen that we would be shooting BB King at his engagement there, even after explanations of faxes sent and agreements signed. So then I went to the stage door and found the tour manager who I had talked to earlier and who told Mr. Headset to back off. So Harry comes onstage and the women are a-titter. He did look pretty hot save for the embarassing bed head he had. The head of security told me and a boy colleague that when the crooner played Syracuse forty "drunk as skunks" women turned up and called for him outside of his tour bus after his show. Reportedly he preferred his tour bus to spending the night in a luxe suite at a nearby hotel and that meant that security had to keep a watchful eye on the bus all night - and the drunks as skunks. The opener, whose name (thank god) escapes me, was an odd choice - a man who wanted to show off that he could play solo guitar in just about any style. I leaned over to boy colleague and said I think the real opener stiffed Mr. Connick, Jr. and he sent someone over to the Holiday Inn lounge and grabbed this guy. Then onwards to a punk rock extravaganza where me and one pal decided to get some good old fashioned stage diving going but we were the only two - I jumped and he'd catch me. He'd jump and I'd sort of catch all 6'2" of him.

Note to self:
When you are photographing that tough-looking broad named Madeline Albright on the 15th REMEMBER YOU NINCOMPOOP TO HAVE A FEW FRAMES made WITH HER for your collection on the wall of yourself and the likenesses of famed others. Thanks, in advance, for your attention in this matter.

An interaction today (thus far) which was notable:
Me walking down street and ahead is a woman who had a piece of hemp tied around her waist, over her thickly-knit and dirty sweater. At her feet was a straggly mutt who resembled Toto a bit. As I approached the dog kept looking over his left shoulder and we connected and I asked if I could pet the dog before I lost my hand in a muttish freak-out. Woman tells me that the dog is a "pound dog" and is of indeterminate age. The dog's name is Girlfriend. Are you from around here? she asks. Nope, I say, I'm from Buffalo. Oh, Ani Country, the woman says, confirming my impression that she's a lesbian. I tell her that I know the little folk singer and that I have photos of her from the dark ages/pre-Spin mag era, etc. I did not share info that I painted houses with Ani, or that I have a photo of us dancing together cheek-to-cheek. The woman listened to my quick, fun facts and said Oh, I'm sure. In that tone that bespeaks of a distance - namely your assumed distance from reality or the truth. So now, there is woman telling her pals about a crazy woman dressed in black who bent down to pet her dog who thinks that she is a friendly acquaintance of thee Ani. Ani.

One beautiful thing I saw today, no two:
Art gallery visit in a strange new place and 1. Amid a show of spiritually-inspired images a Joel-Peter Witkin print, a photo gravure, of a corpse resembling J.C. and so it's a post-crucifixion image - replete with dead dog with wings and his scratchings; 2. and a 19th-century Japanese screen. Two six-panel paintings of crows in trees. Left side shows five crows in a willow tree. There is white space, three panels, between the five and a lone crow in another tree. The crows were made with brush strokes, no lines made, and they show such energy.

Tattoo concept: (derived from archetypal office humor fliers)
"You want it when?"
Image is a cartoon person bent over in uproarious laughter amid stacks of work.
This tattoo will be inked onto my upper left arm. No, on my left forearm. No, on my neck, the front. That way everyone will see it better. And I'll have the nose of the cartoon person filled in with a crimson to show that the laughter is real.
Two bad things:
1. Neil Diamond is not coming to this middling city on his new tour.
2. Luna has a song called IHOP so I went to the new IHOP in town and nearly barft.

I am filled today with such utter regret.
And regret is the pale flat-chested first cousin of lust.
I bumped up against, was hired to photograph and interacted with the large Irishman they call(ed) Bush's DRUG CZAR and didn't get a portrait made of me alongside him.
Whatever was I thinking?
One super thing he revealed during speech: he calls his wife CZARLING.
So intent on my gig I forgot me, ME.
No ME and William Bennett on this studio wall and I'm now going to kick myself in the arse all about the city block upon which I live.
Live and learn.
Live and shoot.
Live and plunge.
Live and exploit.
Live and ironicize.
Live and let live.
Live and let go.

Other special thoughts from this past weekend:
1. Derek Trucks, blues guitar prodigy speeding towards adulthood, doesn't sing and I think that's great. There can only be one Jonny Lang.
2. Last time I mentioned Johnny Depp in epinw I spelt his name as Lang does.
3. Does anyone but me see that Bob Dylan is morphing into a bat? The new RS cover is still giving me nightmares and I resent it.
4. Las Vegas will enjoy my presence soon so I can make up a story about people who do it (get married) there. Me + Las Vegas + notebook + tape recorder + a little scotch = who the hell knows!!!
5. Radiohead has now surpassed REM on my list of perfects.