Monday, August 26, 2002

Squatting and blogging, blogging and squatting.
Waiting on printing master to assist me with the inking of silk and placing of template. Last time, I'm hoping, that I require his assistance and from then on I'll be independently printing up a storm, a squeegee in each hand, making art like the wind.
Yesterday's Polaroid booth was a flop as all concession tents were about half a mile from the stage action and the geniuses that set up the event had all stages in a line on one end of the large park. No matter, I had to hop off to another event for an hour or so, returned, asked the twinnies how it had gone, they said lamely so we broke it down, I hijacked a golfcart of drunk boys who then drove me and my large plastic crate of items to my car, nearly creaming about a hundred dazed festival attendees in the process. They were about to drop and dash when I said Hey wait, I want a ride back. So back we drove to the venue/park, again making wild turns and scaring youngsters en route.

Shot my pet band, Last Conservative, who played first - for paper and for cash money. They absolutely fucking rocked.
I got that butterfly feeling that they'll make it and my butterflies are never wrong.
Afterwards they went to the autograph tent and I finished Mike's smoke as I grabbed Roger's smoke out of his mouth as he was signing away for young thrilled girlies.
It's bad for your image I stated, most big sister-like.
I moved on.
Later I had lunch with the band and Roger told me that he got to sign his first boob. Congratulations, I said, Now it's official - you're a rock star.
He described how the girl asked Can you sign my boob and flopped it out.
It was big, he said.
The other guys said it was the first one he'd ever touched.
Later in the day Lead Boy Colleague and I were waiting for The Tea Party to get going before we ran off to shoot Peter Frampton (ahhhh, early rock memories) about two miles away at a free downtown concert.
As we stood next to the stage a security clone shouted into my ear Hey, there's a girl without a top. He then radioed the other security clones to dispatch them for a good gander.
We three stood and watched her toplessness float above the hands as the hands worked to remove her jeans. They nearly did before she was dumped in the midst of the hands attached to a whole messa testosterone.
Lead Boy Colleague had galloped toward this action.
The security man said Well, they'll help her up now, pick her up just like a 6-pack, motioning his fingers down like they'd go into a bowling ball.
'Tis better to be one of the boys than to be a girlie-girl at all-day gritty music fests.
My love.

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