Who dyes the eyebrows of aged rockstars? That was my lone thought as Marky Ramone took the stage in the overcrowded downtown club last night. He looked so detached from his drumming, which he did after muttering This goes out to my other Ramone brothers, naming them for our erudition. The Misfits, despite Marky's distracting dye job, rocked. Bodies flew through the air. A shirt was ripped from Jerry Only's sweaty torso. Black Flag songs (.5 of the band are Black Flag men) were grunted. Afterwards, some mediocre & neck-vein-popping local metal. I was greeted at the door by a bandmember who couldn't believe that I was there LAST night when HIS lame pop band performs there tonight. That is shameless self-promotion of the worst sort.

Lest you think the life of a photojournalist is all fun and games and non-stop deadlines here's a tiny tale of woe: today, mid-press conference early afternoon was caught in a rainstorm and was, as were other media types, soaked. So was my camera which is now recuperating nearby.
Melissa Etheridge never happened and all media were sent away from the venue that night. Two wimmin at the fan club table greeting concertgoers who had shelled out their $75 per ticket informed me that there were no media creds to be had - which I didn't believe. As someone wisely pointed out later that night an artist on tour and hawking a book should be welcoming all media with open arms. Oh well, I say to that.
A second Beatle has passed away. I imagine John Lennon was waiting for George at the big recording studio in the sky. He died of throat and lung cancer and I'm wondering if anyone will mention his heavy smoking and use this as an anti-tobacco platform.
Now off to several places concurrently and with documenting in mind.

I had a pretend chastisement today after I used a flash to capture the middling city's orchestra playing behind a group of signing & singing students at a school for the deaf. The leader of the musicians approached me and berated me for nearly throwing her off course during the classical rendition of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" or some other such carol. I pretended during the pretend chastisement by my orchestra pal that I was rubbing very real tears from my eyes.
I left and moved onwards to a cover shoot with five individuals - one about an hour late, diva style.
A phenom: people can be upset with one another but a photographer can become a conduit for aggravation and it's part of the gig some days. Now I am leaving to shoot that Kansan, Melissa Etheridge.

As an experiment of sorts on Sunday I went to a 300+ cat show in the exurbs. At one moment I actually saw cat hair floating through the air - a non-treat to one with the most Perfect cat allergies (Yours Truly). Rows and rows of cat cages decked out with colorful blankets and whimsical cat toys. Eight judging rings and I photographed the grand champ of the premiership, whatever the hell that means. It apparently meant any cat that is inactive, caged, oversized and way fluffy.
Tomorrow night I will (hopefully) be shooting Melissa Etheridge who I've photographed probably five times thus far in my lifetime. I think back in the day (her pre-makeup and pre-failed marriage days to Julie Cypher... and pre-faux-impregnation of Julie C. with David Crosby) her shows had more pizazz.
Back to deadlines du jour.
My plumber pal asked if I'd like to adopt his dog Henry, who was my visitor/pet for two weeks in September. I think the answer, given the epinw lifestyle, will have to be a sad and sorry No.