Warped Tour highlight was Andrew WK's set, of course.
Who doesn't or can't love a man who hasn't done laundry in maybe a year and is wearing an ensemble (white t-shirt and light jeans) to prove so?
I followed my 6th or so sense and meandered over to a lesser stage after his set and noted his guitar player, James (in embarassingly tiny shorts of near-Speedo proportions) shooting away. Then onto the stage bolts thee Andrew WK to play a final song with The Casualties.
At the end of the song I said to James Give me your email address and I'll send you a couple of jpegs.
His response?
OK, then we can be friends!!!
These guys are a cross between Barney and rock & roll high times.
Speaking of jpegs, shot a university prof yesterday and those jpegs within a few hours were e-catapulted over to Business Week Online and India Abroad which supposedly has the largest circulation of any pub in the universe.
Technology rules.
Love.

Look, I never thought for one micro-moment that it's easy to be my sister, sister to the most Perfect Nancy... ME. But really. I called her today at her office job to query OK, so the kid's been tortured enough, can my nephew come to Warped Tour with me today? Forget this goofball punishment for some bad grade, this is a fucking family tradition, baby!!! (not in such language, but smooth-like)
And the answer, most mom-like, no, prison warden-like was:
And what about Katharine (his 5 year old sister), what about her? And we mean business with this punishment for he's to learn that school... (blah, blah, blah)
I hung up.
I thought about kidnapping the kid. But I'm off to Warped Tour now, nephew-less.
Love.

The mud, the mayhem and the all-day music that is Warped Tour is tomorrow. The day that ends with a plethora of images and high times as well as fine dust over all of my camera equipment. The park, LaSalle, has an off-lake breeze and during the day all the dirt molecules float into the air and throw themselves into eyes, pores and electronic equipment.
Still hoarse from moments ago when I called my dad/pops/father to sing at the top of my strong lungs and intersperse the song with some wailing harmonic riffs for the occasion of his birthday. Please pass the lozenges.
Wondering if the Bosstones feel like ancient farts for still doing WT but they do seem to be its anchor. So refreshingly non-flavor du jour.
Ordered my steel (not aluminum) for my art project and had a panic when the guy helping with the order started going nuts with numbers and lots of zeroes. All is coming to $100 and I'll have custom-cut pieces of stainless steel with pre-drilled holes to my specs.
Then it's onto, later this week, the printing studio where I'll be attempting to recall all I gleaned in my 5 or so hours with printing master Jeff.
Art is so not easy to schedule.
Art is so easy to make one feel happy and balanced.
Art is so shiny when made on steel plates.
Art is so beautiful when it sells off the walls.
Art rules.
Art rocks.
Rock stars are art.
Love is art.
Art.
Love.

Yesterday's many tiny journeys included a stop at Middling City's 2nd annual Karibana Festival with a parade, allegedly, down one Delaware Avenue. Went with Lead Boy Colleague at appointed midday and at about 130 a micro-parade went creaking by featuring a non-drilling drill team, a convertible from which an elderly lady waved and a bunch of cops leading the way and then a fire truck signalled that all was micro-over. We were told that Karibana Parade pt. II was to take place at 2 so we booked over to another event, returned at 2 and then at about 4 (mind you all sorts of impromptu meetings and media gatherings are taking place during this time as well as a hearty ingestion of caffeine) IT happened with loads of skyhigh streamers, half-nekkid people and razzly-dazzliness.
Towards the end of the night stood backstage with most of the Boy Colleagues at HSBC Arena awaiting the Goo Goo Dolls late appearance and was surprised that we were all sent packing to the sound board to shoot from that mega-distance. Last time I shot them was from the stage and anywhere during their surprise engagement at Albright-Knox Art Gallery. Now this. This rivalled Rod Stewart Aging Rockstar Syndrome as we were all practically outside the fucking venue. But long lenses, slight riser, holding of breath and patience prevailed and some images happened.
Still haunted by the image, mid-wedding shoot, of a preteened guest of the B&G dancing solo on the dance floor. She, clearly Britneyed beyond belief, was doing one of those choreographed pop dance routines she had seen on cable and didn't realize that solo and on the dance floor of a wedding banquet hall she looked like a demented stripper. I watched as an older, non-hip and obviously cable-less couple watched in rising horror and embarassment. In her preteened mind, I imagine, she was in belly-baring spandex and surrounded by a plethora of buff young things. She was not.
It was a beautiful moment.
You are all my beautiful moments.
My love.
My camera-centric love.