Completely forgot to mention that yesterday (2/2/02) goes down in epinw history as being one of thee happiest days of my life. In the midst of transferriing my energy from freelance to artmaking I received a phone call from a guy who works at the nearby mega music venue to ask me if I'd like a photo pass and review tix to see
*!*N*E*I*L***********D*I*A*M*O*N*D*!*this Thursday.
Never speechless, but I approached that state and then said Well I have put in a request for both, so, sure and... you rock.
He said he'll let me know fersher in the next few days.
I hope Neil's concert t-shirt designs have changed from last tour.

And who said that this artmaking racket is all fun & games & kissy-huggy art openings?
Why, last night I encountered (no, he encountered me) the guy who runs the gallery where I'm to be showing in May. Seems he's added a #3 artist and he was saying that he's called me 4x and I never called back. I said, Oh, (blank), that's not true, you called me once last month about something non-show related, I tried to call you back and you don't have an answering machine? On and on this goes until I felt the surge of a FuckYOU! emanating from the soles of my feet but practiced the most intense self-restraint ever. In the car I told a pal about my amazing feat of restraint and later I pondered driving my Outback through the gallery's front windows. My pal said You could tell him it was a performance piece. Does this architectural deconstruction fit into the show's theme of crumbling concrete grain elevators? You bet!

Flutters of panic.
That was just about today's first emotion. Freelance gig this early AM was to photograph an officer who specializes in incident management: in other words she is a psycho-going-nuts-in-a-public-place-taking-down-machine and I met her at a training center where she just taught a class to other officers.
And there was her drug-sniffing german shepherd. Flutters of panic.
Me, officer, dog. Not resin-coated, but still, had I been in contact with anything since laundry day a small eternity ago?
Me (in chem-free clothing) and the dog made friends.
Last night I spoke with Dorota and told her how I regretted not getting a counter on this blog nearly a year ago when I started it. It's been on epinw for 2 weeks and only shows to date a pinch over a hundred readers. Dorota told me that she was contemplating attending an overpriced MoMA affair and I said Forget that, for that kind of money take yourself out to dinner and go buy some shoes. Then I changed my mind, Maybe you should go to this MoMA thing and promote epinw so I can have more hits. So we hang up, I go to post and OK-Counter logged 8,565 or so hits on my site and I thought Wow, who knew that Dorota was secretly a computer hacker. I had the mild feeling that I had cheated on SAT's but was going with the lie of scoring a 1600.
Back to hits reality today. And I didn't score 1600 either.

I am being used as part of an experiment: how much caffeine can a person consume and how much adrenaline can course through their veins before implosion occurs.
Results to follow. Perhaps not from me.

Standing on the stage last night I was shooting the wowmighty dj from the middling city's black power station and wandered occasionally behind the curtain where a dozen or so guys were dressing for the fashion show. I have to say the students and The Source put on a great runway show. Saw a Pepe Jeans jacket which I'm now in the process of coveting, a total rock star number.
So onstage I was waiting for Tha Liks/Tha Alkaholics to get their set underway when a very large and very drunk man (his breath left me in a sweet boozey cloud - Courvoisier?), told me (taking me by the arm) that I might want to step away from the plastic on the floor which was about to become a 15-foot tall 40. Tha Liks were not impressive but the woman who hopped onstage in micro-mini and thong sure was.
My ten years as camp counselor/art instructor to crazed inner-city and rural 8-12 year old girls sure comes in handy on an almost daily basis. Secret: I see most of you as types of summer camp child. And this morning I began my day by doing corporate portraits for a company I've done loads of work for in the past. One of their oficers/founders/millionaires is a feisty crabass and as he squirmed around he asked What do you want me to do? Cooperate, I said, gesturing with my hands.
You are all campers and I, Perfect Nancy, am your in-charge camp counselor.
Cooperate.
Or else.

On break from Source Mag gig which is going swimmingly, hip-hoppingly, bustariffically, boombastically. Crudsville, I realized I forgot to have my digital likeness captured and tossed onto a faux Source cover this AM.
Source's website is down, so no special links to there. Laurent, man who hired me, says they don't know which direction to take their site. (?)
What was I shooting, you might wonder? A model search for tonight's fashion extravaganza, 13 girls and 40 guys chosen to traipse across the stage in borrowed streetwear. They were looking for size 6 girls who could float on air - which immediately (+ I am, like, working) disqualified me, a non-6-sized camera-slinging sloucher.
En route back to work hovel stopped at the middling city's sole bubble tea joint to write it up for AOL and Your Perfect Nancy let out a wonderfully unplanned EW when her first tapioca marble entered the double-wide straw and shot down her unsuspecting and unawaiting throat. This transpired much to the delight of more skilled sippers, those in the know. Second thought: can't wait to bring niece and nephew here for fieldtrip.

*Recommended listening material for this post - Tricky's Angels with Dirty Faces*

Tomorrow I will be hiphop photo girl, booked day and night for Source Magazine. So I flail to make today a today and tomorrow deadline day. Meaning, I'm typing like the jaws of hell are snapping at my ass and the Oban delivery truck has its back door swinging open and I'm running towards a case about to fall to asphalt.

One of the weekend's top images, seared into my distracted mind: a man, halfway between old & middle, doing a drunken limbo under the outstretched legs of a hippie chick sitting on a plastic lawn chair in the midst of the bomb shelter bar/music venue, her comfily-shoed feet resting on the edge of the stage. I had no idea who was playing as I was there for a small journalistic favor (and microscopic adventure) for Saturday's final destination. A highly-regarded musician walked in and it was a what're you doing here/what're YOU doing here moment.
Band comes back from break and two notes into the first song I turned to my pal and said OHMYGOD They're doing Echoes... off of Pink Floyd's Meddle... it's one side of an album, I hope they do the entire thing.
His face shrank.
My heart exploded.
Except for the paltry vocals they did a fine job. 23.5 minutes later, we left.
Still scraping fun off of my ceilings after Sunday's fete.
Please pass the espresso.
All of my bean-fuelled love.