Today was a good shooting day. Not in usual sense. In firearms sense. Got to take aim and FIRE an MP5 9mm, an MP5 10mm, a glock, a shotgun and a revolver. Hung with two Boy Colleagues, one who conveniently studied at University of Texas so he knew a shitload about firearms, or at least that's how he explained it all. I had, like darts and my profession, exquisite aim, as did Bobby Kirkham. The FBI guys were truly dazzled by our marksmanship... Bobby would have great groupings in the head region whereas my style is to group them in the belly. Women always aim for the BALLS, one of the firing range FBI guys told Bobby, watching me shoot. I thought it was more belly than balls but no matter what, the fucking evildoer I'm aiming at won't be bragging over Sunday dinner about his exploits. So I dig shooting guns. It was way better than my past 22 experiences, my cyber-gun video shooting. The FBI men saw my excitement and skill and asked if I'd consider the FBI as a career. In talking it was duly noted the cutoff age is 37 so I'm done in their eyes. I said What about Special Ops. They sort of just gazed at me unsure if I was serious or not.
There are shots of me made by Kirkham shooting all the above and then later wearing a whole load of FBI gear: kevlar vest, FBI cap, limited edition FBI jacket with special stitched-on letters emblazoned across the chest only it's hard to see the I, sort of tucked under the left armpit.
Rockstars shoot a lot of guns. Badasses shoot guns.
Of course I dig shooting.
Bullets of love.

Now I'm on Blogger Pro and that means that one day I will teach myself how to put images on epinw AND anyone can have perfect me email the blog to them as it's posted. A supersonic thrill to be sure.

Where are all the rock stars? Avoiding the Middling City, apparently.
Next big up is politicized Bruce Springsteen on 10/7.
Quick posting as I'm off to darkroom for making prints for an art exhibition, opening TOMORROW night.
Again, art kicks me in the ass and reminds me that there are but 24 hours in each and every day, no more, unfortunately.
My caffeine heart says Love.

Yesterday I attempted, with the help of a scrubbed and non-eyecontact-making tech, to send myself down the 8' cigar tube that is an MRI machine, non-open variety. Three times, no go.
Got about four feet in and said I'm not doing this.
Three times. I wept. I left. Now to find an open MRI machine, quickly.
Onwards then to a press event I was hired to shoot for the university, the big Bioinformatics Human Genome Code-Busting center groundbreaking. And the governor was there, some fake ground/dirt, some 'golden' shovels, a shitload of politicoes, every media outlet, etc. Oh, and a handful of handsome secret service guys. One I had seen before at the recent casino pact-signing affair, a compact red-headed man unfortunately sporting a wedding band.
So the event is over, I'm burning a cd in my car for my client and then I hear running. I look up to see Mr. Married Secret Service Guy running top speed towards my car (I'm sitting on the passenger side, illegally parked - of course- with the door open so I'm a straight shot up the sidewalk) and I sat there in stunned silence watching him running. Then he started banking right and just before his turn I semi-shouted I thought you were running towards me and I was going to tell you I hadn't done anything wrong. We both laughed and off he sped in his black, tricked-out Chevy Lumina to follow Governor Pataki to god knows where.
So I'm still burning my cd when the Mayor of all people and a prominent millionaire business man I've done work for are having an extremely sensitive, privee, conversation about seven feet from my car. I am trying not to pay attention and I'm thinking Surely they know I'm here, for crissakes they're politicians, they're supposed to note all people within a five mile radius of their public selves. So after about 10 minutes the business leader notes that my door is wide open and I'm in there, motions very undiscreetly to the Mayor with an elbow in my direction and, obviously, the Mayor didn't get it and there's another pantomime in my direction and then they drifted away.
I now fear that my life might have a contract out against it.
So here I say If I turn up mysteriously absent, in Photo and Blog Land, you know why.
My love.

Well yesterday, what a day was that.
Full of serendipity, full of Samuel Beckett moments planned and unplanned.
As I'll be in NYC for the b-day and am hoping to see the production of his Happy Days there at the theatre where it premiered thought I'd give it a re-read. This is one of his plays I've never seen live and it's full of Sam's customary yin/yang characters (Winnie/Willie), mobility/immobility issues, reminiscences.
Towards the end of yesterday's freelance booking full of people that I like, mistook a lawyer for a guy I had just seen a few days earlier at physical therapy. Unbelievably, the lawyer had been in a bad car wreck like mine in '99 and we talked about our respective details, recovery, hauntings. I told him that I'm taking part in a car crash study at the university. Later on in the night I went to a performance by Pat Oleszko at Hallwalls and don't think I realized the magnitude of the pathos I'd be watching as she is an artist who first watched the building of the WTC towers and then their demise and then worked as a relief person. As I watched more post-crash trauma washed over me until I had to leave. I sat there frozen thinking Confront this, Nancy. But I lost. Trauma won, I left, sat in the car for a while connecting with others on the cell phone until I mustered up enough rock & rollness to move onwards to a reliable bar with good scotch, company and live music.
The night ended on a fun-loving note with celebrity guest bartending, information gathering, loud conversations with musicians about matters of the heart, matters of the world.
Heavy? Not really.
Had Samuel Beckett-inspired dreams and woke today most happy. Happy Days.
Words of love.

Well yesterday, what a day was that.
Full of serendipity, full of Samuel Beckett moments planned and unplanned.
As I'll be in NYC for the b-day and am hoping to see the production of his Happy Days there at the theatre where it premiered thought I'd give it a re-read. This is one of his plays I've never seen live and it's full of Sam's customary yin/yang characters (Winnie/Willie), mobility/immobility issues, reminiscences.
Towards the end of yesterday's freelance booking full of people that I like, mistook a lawyer for a guy I had just seen a few days earlier at physical therapy. Unbelievably, the lawyer had been in a bad car wreck like mine in '99 and we talked about our respective details, recovery, hauntings. I told him that I'm taking part in a car crash study at the university. Later on in the night I went to a performance by Pat Oleszko at Hallwalls and don't think I realized the magnitude of the pathos I'd be watching as she is an artist who first watched the building of the WTC towers and then their demise and then worked as a relief person. As I watched more post-crash trauma washed over me until I had to leave. I sat there frozen thinking Confront this, Nancy. But I lost. Trauma won, I left, sat in the car for a while connecting with others on the cell phone until I mustered up enough rock & rollness to move onwards to a reliable bar with good scotch, company and live music.
The night ended on a fun-loving note with celebrity guest bartending, information gathering, loud conversations with musicians about matters of the heart, matters of the world.
Heavy? Not really.
Had Samuel Beckett-inspired dreams and woke today most happy. Happy Days.
Words of love.