Time slowed to a non-rock & roll crawl as I watched two underfed Cutty (as in Sark) girls roll duct tape in their hands, stick them to the bottoms of tiny goldfishbowl-type candle holders and affix them to the tops of amps and other onstage electronica at the Cold show last night. Like other somewhat frenzied roadies they took their tasks very seriously, as if the awaiting crowd or sound men were watching and judging them. Rolling. Sticking. Affixing. Moving. And then the lighting of the little onstage candles. Cutty Girl #1, in cowboy hat, before the band lumbered to the stage, announced that if the crowd "drank a shitload" of Cutty then they could meet the band. I wondered if the band knew about this. Cutty Girl #1 chewed her gum and talked. One of my security buddies commented that collectively the Cutty Girls were "not the brightest lights in the harbor." Which harbor, I wondered. The band came out and it should be noted that they drank Molson Canadian and crappy bottled water - not a glass or bottle of Cutty Sark in sight.
Today I shot a fun and happy wedding. I was booked via a brotherly referral and correspondence but when I saw the bride I felt like I knew her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. A whole bunch of Mexicans were at the wedding and, as luck would have it, I mentioned to one of the groomsmen that I'd do a shot of tequila with him at the end of my gig. Word quickly circulated that this photog indulges in tequila and then I'm talking to the Mexicans and I mention that I dig Herradura but I say it like a Yankee and they say OHHHHH!!!!!! Herrrrrr------ahhhhh-doooooo-rrrrrrrrrrahhhhh.
Then, next thing I know, I'm doing shots of some primo Agave with the lot of them - and the bride. Did I mention that I told them and the bride I don't drink a drop when shooting a wedding? Well then we all did another Agave shot. Life is good.

In honour of my wondrous and childish ways I'm redubbing this hardcore American holiday ***SPANKSGIVING***: a day whereby each person expresses gratitude and happiness and fledgling consternation via either lighthearted or full-throttle SPANKS to posterior regions of those worthy and deserving.
No non-manual implements are to be employed on ***SPANKSGIVING***.
Although they're so handy on a day devoted to food & hearth, no spatulas or any domestic devices may be utilized. Hands. Butts. Spanks.
Spank you and happy epinw-sanctioned holiday.

A shockingly gullible epinw reader queried So you finished your story for the magazine, Perfect Nancy? Do not believe everything that you read. Especially when it comes to deadlines for magazines and you read that I'm flailing away.
I had a gig tonight documenting a party held in honor of last year's blizzard which had most of this middling city shut down and buried and looking for good times.
Non-ironically I was in this very spot, with this very same mid-article-write feeling washing over me, when the skies farted open with thunder, lightning and snow. I was here. I was fed a surprise chicken dinner and .5 bottle of wine by Nate who had surprised me that he was in this house, waiting for his upstairs and stranded beloved. I was deadline stranded - for the first time in my life happy to be stuck.

The most arousing, spiritually, music I own is playing as I work into what will be the most wee hours plus. The track is off of a compilation of contemporary Japanese music and if I knew how to link I'd send all ears to it.

A happenstance: I spoke with a blind blues guitar player a few nights ago. I asked if it bothered him. To be blind? he asked. Yes. He said sometimes and then said You know we all, no matter how rich or good or bad, talk about other people behind their backs. Twice I've been talking about someone and didn't know that they were standing next to the person I was talking to. We were standing at a bar and he pulled money out of his pocket to order a drink and asked me what sort of bill he was holding. I wanted to ask him if he knew that there was a super-special way that blind people fold their money to tell the 5's from the 20's and so on.

A few days after I was called to a last-minute gig at a blind school and had to gently lead my subjects around for a group photo. They were embarassed and/or worried that they would knock my lighting over and I told them not to be worried, that plenty of sighted people knock them over.
Maye the blind blues guitarist would ask Hey, Nancy, did you every hear that they sell little sandbags so's your lights don't tip over?

In Charlie Hunter's direction I arrived, unannounced. And it was swell.
Thinking This is an artist who is of the tapers-friendly genre, I wung it.
The last time I photographed Hunter - as part of the quartet - I was practically in his lap in a much smaller venue and was asked by his road manager to not use a flash - which I had thrown on for a few frames as the club has annoyingly uncooperative light and I'd rather get a wrist slapped and get something for publication than not.
Last night's venue is a cavernous mod stage where lighting is usually dim at best. The opener, Motet, was losing my huge interest until they did a number which was so deliciously drummed out into the primitive and then one which had two bandmates double drumming - very Japanesearific.
Charlie Hunter was fab and his happiness at the enthusiasm rushing towards him was visible. For Hunter I was tight tight on face and hands and instrument - not breathing. The light was that poor. Finally, flash time. All set up and waiting waiting anticipating and then (knowing only one flash looks like an ardent fan with a point & shoot to a backstage road manager and inhouse security) one frame explosion for insurance purposes.
One negative from the show: his concert shirts are lame.
Also, the unshaved rim along the jaw beard and sideburn connector borders on the country & western.