Well and whew.
Have been out and kicking ass and making the dough all day and let me tell you, it's a jungle out there. Not really. I am the jungle, I embrace the jungle.

Happy birthday to this blog, and to Samuel Beckett. Respectively 1 year old and god really knows - he had no idea, why should I.

Gwen/No Doubt report: she was, according to my excellent sources, in a foul mood and not speaking to her bandmates. The opener, The Faint, left me neither faint nor running for their merch table.
ND came out to screaming throng, Gwen radiant in boxing boots, yards of rhinestones about her waist, other rock star accoutrements and that fried out hair. ouch. Press photogs were to have three songs to shoot but instead it was two - the crowd at the front of the stage was a bit out of control and the student in charge of secrity became wild-eyed and ejected us. In a nutshell the light sucked but Gwen signed a copy of a print I made of her in '97 and kept one for herself. Guess she wasn't that foul-tempered. After shooting had a police escort to my car where I left my gear and came back in, locating pals and, after doing one of Gwen's exciting new stage moves (sort of a squat thrust into a big X) I managed to lose my cell phone.
But good riddance to bad electronics.
Laura called Sean at Sprint PCS, we all had a good hardy-har and today waltzed into SprintStore and within 20 minutes had a shiny newer, smaller phone. I asked the guys behind counter Do you suppose that as these phones get smaller and smaller I'll lose them faster and faster?
Running, and I mean RUNNING, to Dave Matthews.
Love.

Tomorrow is the one year anniversary of this blog. Where has all the time gone. Procrastinatingly, I'll tell you.
What do I have to show for the year?
What did you learn in this past year?
Enough reflection.
This weekend is a marathon jamboree of rock and roll. No Doubt is tonight and then Middling City talent. And then. Tomorrow night.
Dave .
My ticket was FedEx'd to me this AM and it's a laser-printed affair. And they have me close on the floor so I will be able to lob undies up there into his smiling face.

Post-Clinton shoot wandered like a merrily lost child in an enchanted forest through Target (and like all good post-modernists I pronounce it as tar-JHAY, dig?) looking for a trash can for my highly unused kitchen. I was lost, wandering in circles. Are trash cans Domestics? Housewares? Def not Electronics. I had to ask a Target Team member for assistance. I work so much that I forget/forgot about this oddly-lit world of Barbie colors and neatly-presented items. I was out of there in 20 minutes flat. Enough of that planet, back to Perfect Nancy's Photo Universe.

Bill had a cold sore. And an odd red blemish on his forehead, upper right corner. And that nose. A nose you could fuck. We press photogs were split up into two groups - Group A and Group B and I was assigned, with a few familiar boy colleagues, to Group B to which we instantly protested. The woman in charge of herding us was perplexed. We kept saying WE WANT TO BE GROUP A. Why? she asked. BECAUSE A IS BETTER THAN B. She said, to shut us all the hell up, A is for adequate but B is for best. The boy colleagues looked at Perfect Me and asked, Do you buy that Nancy? I did. And we were escorted in our groups for 2.5 minutes of Bill proximity, at the front row. And then the shoulder tap meant go to seats, little photogs, and shoot from your seats for the duration. I was shooting, seated, next to one boy colleague who was looking at his D1's camera back chuh-chuh-chuckling. Then he showed me his image, Bill with his hands about a foot apart. The cigar I smoked was THIS long, he chuckled into my ear. There were a few other cigar jokes floating about.
I would like to hire Bill to follow me around to explain many aspects of the world in his assured and even tone. What an advantage I'd have.
My assignment editrix wanted the hoopla so I talked my way up into an office of a basketball coach, made images from behind his computer credenza, smashed into the small space, lens up to the window to get the image of long lines of students entering the building. At that point I saw a lone protester - hurray - and sped outside to get not just one but THREE protesters. The MTV generation is so in love with Bill for appearing on the network that the three protesters were 1. an ugly philosophy prof, middle-aged, 2. a middle-aged man disguised as a faux billionaire and when I asked him his political party he quipped (barf) I'm a BILLIONAIRE, it doesn't matter which party I'm in, we control it all (hardy-fuckin-har), and 3. a bald student with a GO HOME BILL sign taped to his back. Oooo, very effective Mr. College Republican.
As I was driving back from that poli-hoopla here's something I misheard on the radio:
Russia has an embargo on American poetry.
I was flustered. Why poetry? Why, only this week my former college prof won the Pulitzer and he's like so safe and nice.
Then they're talking on and on and I realized it wasn't American poetry that Russia is embargoing - it's American poultry.
There is such a difference.
Love.

Did I really ever need to know that Pink fought like cats-n-dogs with her brother, who's now in the Air Force? I think not. And thanks SPIN for packing this useless info into my already disheveled rumpus room of a mind.
Last night at the Ani show shot the opener, an earnest 40 year old guy named Dan Bern who did a little Dylan channeling.
Then into the lobby to cavort with rock star men and discovered that a few guys, old hippie types/musicians/l.p. geeks who corrupted me somewhat, are friends of theirs so it was a virtual reunion (which happily involved seeing nobody from high school).
One of the guys, Kenny, lived down the street from my parents/young me and it was in his parents' house where I did my first bong hit out of a bong the size of a college basketball superstar. And that's maybe an exaggeration by about 8 or so inches.
It's always good to cavort with older guys who know their music - at any age and, having missed out on the big brother experience, it comes in musically handy.
Ani was her usual spectacular and rivetting self and I was happy to hear her give props publicly (again) to Michael Meldrum, the man about town/music joints, who taught her how to play guitar and who recently gave me a gratis copy of the latest Hawksley Workman.
Life without music would be like life without frozen organic butternut squash. Rough.
ps: one of the evening's moments exhibiting much levity was when one of my rock star acquaintances referred to me as Mary Tylor Moore at 35 playing a 21 year old. I said thanks but said I'd like to be thought of as early series, before she wore those thick polyester pant suits without irony.

Each time I attempt to write anything or think anything about NSYNC thoughts turn immediately to baby blue cotton candy bobbing along on a paper cone, held by a child in hot pursuit of good times.
Or I think of a mall fountain, there for white noise, to soothe shopping souls.
I wore my earplugs to NSYNC's show, for the screaming is not to be believed. I think even the Fab Four-inspired wails could not compete.
All the fans had their I LOVE NSYNC signs confiscated and while me and a gaggle of boy colleagues waited in the security area - pre-shooting - a security guy wheeled in a large garbage can packed with signs. I said aloud That's a huge waste of a whole lot of glitter. Post-9/11 teen schmaltz showz are signless for the "security and comfort of all of NSYNC's friends."
This just in: one of my college lit profs, Carl Dennis, it was just announced on NPR, won a Pulitzer Prize for his poetry, a far cry from There once was a girl from Nantucket...
Also in: I mean what I say... notmyprez Bush was just quoted as saying at a press conf re: Mid East problems. Just when you think you lived in a complicated yet progressive world Bush utters a phrase to remind you that Nope, you are living in a country where the Yale-educated, secret society membered, dictionless Texan leader can order other leaders, via mass media, to play nice.
Also back in: Reese Campbell, superstar, who found me via the internet system/mass media and is a welcomed addition to the select circle that makes me absolutely laugh.
Rock on world.

Whew! what a weekend for superstar merch purchases. DJ Spooky tshirt (double-sided, black, yellow logo) and last night a Hawksley Workman girlie tank top. You can tell a lot about a rockstar by their merch table.
Spooky: big tshirts, DJ Spooky-sanctioned turntable cozies/covers, cd's.
Workman: girlie tank tops, girlie undies, cd's.
The underwear was silly, and overpriced. He's not that great. I think the last band that I shot selling underwear was Aerosmith.
After Hawksley Workman zoomed over to Guided by Alcohol nearby. And, true to their nickname (band is really Guided by Voices, lest you wonder), they swallowed, according to my calculations, a case and a half of beer of assorted varieties, and a fifth of Jim Beam. The band lovingly refers to fans with smokes at the ready as Cigarette Techs. A match bearer? A Light Tech.
This week's roster of venerable shootees, in order of appearance:
Sun: Smashmouth and NSYNC (yikes)
Mon: Ani DiFranco
Wednes: Bill Clinton (hello again, Mr. Ruddy)
Thurs: Donny Osmond (kitsch value)
Fri: No Doubt
and, the cherry on top of this veritable hot fudge sundae -
SAT: DAVE MATTHEWS BAND STARRING THE ONE AND ONLY SMIRKY AND FOOT-SHUFFLING AND CHARMING DAVE MATTHEWS AND I'M GOING TO TAKE HIS PHOTO AND THEN SIT IN THE PRESS SECTION AND WATCH HIM WATCH HIM WATCH HIM SMILING AND SUCH ALL THE WHILE.
Dave, if you're reading this, I love you.