Forget WWJD.
WWPBT?
As in What Was Pat Benatar Thinking?
Had to shoot her last night for a university gig and out she trounces in cheezy auburn extensions, a bandanna on her head, bulky plastic hip hop boy pants and - get this - platform sneakers.
I nearly screamed but then I recalled that I never liked her or her music so I let her look completely odd, shot a quick 40 or so frames and split.
Her tshirts now have her and her hubby's name on them... like they're this equally hot pair of stars like Siefried and Roy or whomever those scary, Dr. Smith-looking guys are with the white tigers in Vegas.
And why do all men of a certain age who wear mascara come out looking like Dr. Smith of Lost in Space?
Another memory of last night.
Went to shoot Buckwheat Zydeco and in front of the stage was an errant blonde, also of a certain age, in 80s-era little layered dress and biking shorts underneath. She was out solo and was dancing for the band. I watched in great amusement as the guys watched each time she flipped her dress up and sent meaningful glances her way when they performed a song basically entitled 'She's My Little Hot Pepper.'
Two large drunk guys behind me decided to love this song and quickly caught on to the song's repeating of the key phrase so they grasped the two words - hot and pepper - and shouted that at appropriate intervals.
Tomorrow, Edgefest 9.
And amongst my photographic duties and such I'm running a Polaroid vending tent like ones I've previously fashioned with this one being more rock-related. I've got my 6' twin models running the show. I'm hoping that they'll know how to handle drunks that traipse in. Crowd control is key.
All for now.
Onwards.

This is when one knows that one has perhaps spent entirely too much time in front of a computer -or- that technology, like it or not has infiltrated one's fine mind.
It's late, you've worked an 18 hour day but managed to meet pals out for salads at some point to create much-needed levity. So after calling it a day's wrap at about 3AM you watch MSNBC or whatever the hell it's called and think Hey this is much better than CNN and think (pay attention, here comes the computer-infiltration part)
Oh, I'll just BOOKMARK this station so I know where to find it.
As in bookmarking an item online on your mac, dig?

Dorota, Supersonic Gal Pal, read yesterday's post and emailed that she wished that she could expense a table for the honorific lunch to her display company in NYC.
Public note to Dorota: reserve 11/23 as the Experience Music Project gig is fersher happening in Seattle, The Land Where Starbucks Began.

Off to printing studio, encore.
TMBG cancelled, due to the monsoon that spread through the Middling City.
Tonight it's Pat Benatar for the university, a pep rally.
Pep, my secret middle name.
Love.

They Might Be Giants play a free Middling City gig outdoors and it's raining. Peggy from Buffalo Place hangs a rosary out in the bushes and every Thursday it's rainy but then the Almighty Gods of Rock & Roll see that rosary and haul off the rain so the throngs can drink their beers in a dry state and the performers onstage don't get electrocuted.
I shot TMBG at Hallwalls when I was a baby intern there for a whole year, either in '84 or '85, with a borrowed camera, a song in my heart, a dollar in my pocket and a dream.
Oh, the newspaper publisher (Mr. X) where I work says he won't be buying a business-financed table for the luncheon that's honoring me as a 40 Under 40 on 11/7 as someone who has contributed to the community via the column I've been printing in aforementioned for 13 years - amongst other things.
Other honorees will have companies that have bought tables.
He said I can't afford a table... maybe me and (Ms. X) will go to the lunch... how much is it?
Yikes-a-roni!
This is a guy I call somewhat of a pal, whose pre-baby's shower I hostessed at my home and spent a fast $400 on, who just bought a Victorian home and is having beaucoup expensive improvements done to it as I write this.
Well, some things never do change.
Onwards.
Onwards to Rigidized Metals to pick up my stainless steel plates, to university's printing studio, They Might Be Giants and many points beyond.

Love.

According to the Ansel Adams calendar the full moon happens later this week but today right now feels very loonie.
Called my beloved former dentist's "replacement" and his bitchy secretary told me that Chester died and that I couldn't get my teeth cleaned for six months... then I could arrange to have fillings six months after that.
I processed this and just about screamed That's completely ridiculous (and my favorite word when dealing with the world's nincompoops) AND UNACCEPTABLE. And a slap in the face to Chester who dug this guy and handed him his clients.

Chester Memories:
1. the faux lemon tree in the waiting room
2. the mod lemon yellow vinyl setees in the waiting room
3. his rambling stories (my mentor!), that would have him leaning back against the counter, pulling his mask off of his face so you could understand the rambling better
4. the rubber animals and fake ring after-visit prizes

When I finally get to speak to my attorney I have this giant question:
Is it customary to receive letters (not one but two) stating that I must appear before a doctor chosen by the defendant's insurance company with ALL of my accident-related medical records at a designated time and date as if I were a small child or someone trying to rip somebody off rather than a person coping with the aftereffects of nearly getting cremed by a drunk driving an 80s sedan at top speeds?
Please, someone, pass the Oban and tell the moon to behave.
Love.
ps: Andrew WK, if you're reading this, I think that you might be dreamier than Johnny.

Arms pumped out of a small American car on the expressway as I headed back to the Middling City from shooting white-trasherific Allman Bros.
I (as were the driver & passengers of the small American car) was listening to the ye olde classic rock station with BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY in full throttle. Voices were high as were pumping fists. They had spotted my singing and acknowledged the joint rock moment with aforementioned out-window gesture.
At Allman Bros. I had a tiny window of op to shoot the remaining A.Bro. at organ/keyboards and, thanks to a kindly video guy atop a platform, captured the shaggy rock star. Afterwards me and Boy Colleague Mark drank a few large-scale draft Buds and watched the staggering, tattooed masses until it was near concert end and it was time to beat everybody out onto the roadways.
Back into town headed into a bar reviewing assignment, a joint called Classic Roxx, in the suburbs and reviewed whilst simultaneously enjoying a cocktail and, apparently, the final 10 minutes of the evilness of The Bachelor on t.v. where an ugly man selected one of two finalists to be his maybe future lucky lady. The girl bartender was angry because she had endured ten whole weeks of this ridiculousness for this most, in her words, unsatisfying ending.
Onwards to live music shooting with girlie pals in tow, some celebrity guest bartending, some celbrity guest price fabricating, some celebrity guest schmoozing and shot sipping.
One final weekend thought: the one-armed bartender at another suburban bar that I AOL'd has completely captured my roving imagination. My two companions hadn't noted his missing arm. When we were leaving and I said Wow, did you watch how he changed the bottle pourer with one hand they were perplexed. How do you miss a missing arm? How do you lose a missing arm? His absence throws him off balance and therefore, I duly noted, he pours drinks slightly stronger to compensate.
Love.