Lead boy colleague asked today Where's the blog progress?
Today, amongst other things, shot the Middling City University homecoming football major Loss in the autumnal sun, making Norman/l Rockwell-quality images of ye olde crowning of the king and queen, university president with his face painted and the marching band. Amongst the clubs marching into the stadium at half-time was a gay club with gigantic rainbow flags and I was struck that they had the courage to markedly march in amid a throng of chowderheaded sporty fans.
I am now back to freelance gig, back into the car/home-away-from-home.
And then to shoot the lead singer of my pet band, more music and then Simon and the Bar Sinisters... where I'll meet my fellow members of Janet Reno Fan Club, where the bartenders know my name, my drink, my proclivities.
Tomorrow interesting potpourri of happenings, including hanging of mine art at a bookstore, meeting up with out-of-town pals, working on freelance orders and then...
then...
TORONTO road trip to see Beck and Flaming Lips.
I am much more ecstatic about seeing the Lips, who I've seen since the mid-80s, who confound me as a photographer (as they usually dig going apeshit with bubble and/or fog machines) and who were pals of my most recent ex.
Beck I've seen twice and live he's enchanting and such but the openers (openers!) are the shit.
Rock & roll t-shirt purchase for sure.
And to be proudly worn Monday, here, there, everywhere and then some.
My rock & roll heart full of rock & roll love.

Lady, wake up, I'm going to flag down a Yellow Cab to take you the rest of the way.
So began the beginning of the chaos of getting out of NYC on 10/11.
I was moved from cab #1 to cab #2 amid a throng of cars meandering out to JFK on a Boulevard as all biways were still lifes. The car service ordered by Dorota was late, then not really ever coming. So the cab.
In cab #2 I sat next to the driver while in the back seat were two well-dressed and handsome businessmen, one French and one Brit but living in Paris. I was third to be dropped off, a mistake by cabbie #2 as I was to be, at Brit requested, dropped to not miss my 515.
So I missed the 515, The flight's closed, said the JetBlue guy with the wandering eye. His legs wandered off with my passport to inquire if I could get onto the flight, which hadn't left.
I snapped as loud as the doors of a JetBlue plane shutting hard, Nancyless, for him to hand over my passport. I snapped even louder as he put me on standby for the next and last flight in 1.5 hours. I asked where I was on the list of waiters and he said he couldn't tell me that priviledged info. And why not, I asked, eyes shooting flames into his wandering and non-wandering eyes. OK, you're #5.
Off I ran to the ground transportation centre to reserve the last car Budget had.
Then 4 hours of jams, bad rain. Then highway action, good ol' 87. Then another hour waiting.
Two naps, one snack, one pee, one mission later and I was in The Middling City at 530, at the airport dropping the rental, getting into my awaiting car and then awaiting bed for a brief snooze before shooting freelance gigs and rock shows.
The Mooney Suzuki. Tall boys in black spending much of their set time in the midst of their fans, lost in a sea of smiling heads and still playing guitars. I was standing on the edge of the stage shooting into the crowd. I had gone backstage, grabbed some Marty-made snacks en route, and skittled over the stage like a cockroach for the vantage point. There must have been 400+ people in Mohawk Place, a place that can comfortably hold 100.
Chameleons were also grand that night.
Today, in a few hours, I'm off to a New Orleans-style jazz funeral for Tim Switala, a great multi-media guy who was married to one of my former editors at UB Office of News Services.
A sunny day for a funeral.
A march of sadness.
And memories now of the jazz funeral I shot in thee N.O. for Ernie K. Doe -- raucous and equally sunny.
Love.