Who the hell's idea was it to mix scotch, tequila and Jagermeister all in one night?
Abso-freakin-lootly could not have been mine.
Went out to see Jennie Stearns and backing band of boys and they were surprisingly wonderful. Every band that promoter pal Blair Woods recommends is always good and I think he's managing them in addition to Over the Rhine and a few others.
If not for these smallish gigs the Middling City would be completely bereft of rock activity as no chart-topper seems to be darkening these city limits.
Other bigtime promoter pals, Artie and Marcel, bring acts to Syracuse, Rochester but not here as often. Even beloved Dave Matthews has skipped here this next concert foray. His people have extended me tix and asked if I'd prefer Syracuse or Roch. Hmmmm, drive 4 hours or 1 to see lovely Dave.
Off to temple pressure-relieving measures and a plethora of deadlines to accomplish on superspeeeeed as Tuesday at the asscrack of dawn I'm on a plane to cavort in NYC. Dorota my love, ready your liver.
Rockingest rollingest love.
ps: forgot to mention the GWAR show and it was juicey. Within a minute I was drenched with "blood" by the headless man. Ran a shot of ersatz Saddam H., holding a huge rubber dick in his hands, shooting a giant stream of "pee-pee" into the crowd.
pss: bought the most bitchin' green metal tripod last night, made in Italy by a Bogen subsidiary and I cannot wait to use it. Artwork, still-life, wildlife, holding still wild people can all be tripod victims.

Minding my own business, walking briskly and looking sideways whilst addressing an official type guy from the university this fine evening I nearly ran into NYC's 107th mayor – His Honor Giuliani, one-time TIME Man of the Year.
When my eyes alighted upon his friendly, over-tanned and long face I was momentarily stunned, let out an OHHI as I stopped seconds before crashing into him. When thinking back to that moment a few hours ago I wonder how the nearby ring of secret service agents speaking into their cufflinks allowed my photog self to get that close to the former tabloid hero.
After photographing Mayor 107 at the private mega-donor party where I was hired to shoot I borrowed a tripod from a boy colleague, sped off to the cross-town rival college and shot slides of an artist's installation in a library when, suddenly, I heard my name and turned around to see a loose cannon acquaintance wandering through the lobby en route to internet fun.
Two fun facts about this guy: I made an image of him a long-ass time ago when he was in drag for Halloween and every time I see him I see him in blonde wig and trashy dress, red lipstick smeared about his big guy mouth.
I wasn't surprised a while back to hear that he'd gone off to join the INS. That was an image that I truly found disturbing, him kicking in doors and tossing unfortunate immigrants out of the USofA.
As I'm setting up lights and tripod and making long exposures I'm really indulging in a string of nosy questions about the INS gig and about the firearms he carried and here's what I learnt: One doesn't need any sort of permit to pack when they've signed on for Team USA. It's issued to you. When you leave, you un-issue it.
Without prompting he neatly printed out the supersecret codes I need to get onto the rival college's free internet access computer bank and sped off to go do whatever online instead of enduring more questions by Yours Truly.
Another thing I learned today: Giuliani is as tall as I am and wears good shoes.
L'End.

Standing in the elementary school office waiting for a Miss Wexler or someone to escort me to the dance studios where I was being paid to document an African dance co. teaching the local students I began messing with a computer touchscreen contraption as a secretary jumped out of her seat surprisingly quick to assist me. Whereas I thought I was goofing around with a machine to make kid safety kind of MacGruff items it was actually protocol for visitors to have temp badges and this had been forgotten. Right, she said, swipe your driver's license (whoah!, I'm thinking, just to meander to a dance studio) and then input who you're seeing and the reason. My reason? NEWSPAPER. That is always a grand reason for anything I do.
The shooting was great, the light was great, the sounds were great. I asked my editor at the university news bureau if ever the online edition might have sound files which would be way fab.
For the last two days, as a mental respite, I've been thinking how Elvis and Michael Jackson have similar star-turned-nut qualities.
This began while I was looking at an artist's work whereby the artist pairs oddball Elvis belongings, most notably an image of his handgun and his honorary narc badge from Nixon.
I'm going on the record as a person in the I Don't Get It column re: Elvis.
And Vegas didn't help matters.
Nor the VH1 ads that discourse at me that if not for Elvis there would basically be no rock and roll universe, no rock and roll photography, no rock and roll wardrobes, drugs, drink, mayhem and the like.
Tonight: Robert Creeley poetry reading then... GWAR.
Can I be smiling any larger?
I don't think so.
Toothy love.

Jeez, it's been... millennia... since I was sexually harassed whilst shooting a wedding such as last night's fiasco of Manhannite Diva Bride & The Hatfields & McCoys. It was my drag queen diva pal/florist who pointed out that the families were Hatfield/McCoy combo to perfection. All started out swell when Bridey called to see if her 90 folks at church could be photographed on the front steps of the church after their (let us not forget the pussy-flagellated guy/lawyer she bagged who bought her a yellow diamond and diamond-encircled wedding band, that, Diva Bitch told me, earned her a spot at the stove for the duration of her life, cooking him dinner) 530PM service. Uhhhh, I began, flabbergasted, have you seen the light at 630 these days? Thinking, suddenly, I'm dealing with an ADD type and ohno.
Then she asks for me to be at her mom's house at 330PM for getting ready shots. But you're getting married at 530, that's way too early. I relented, was greeted by sister/co-Diva Bitch at the door in bathrobe and proceeded to wait a good 45 minutes for the gals to get their bridal day shit together.
And the weird uncle sexual harassment thing happened approximately 7 unfortunate and interminable hours later in a hallway dotted with relatives and friends as equally redfaced loaded as this geezer who inquired Yours Truly thusly: Has anyone told you yet tonight how beautiful you are? (To which I'm choking back vomit in my throat) Give me your right hand. I with much trepidation handed over the hand which he stroked roughly along his left cheek. Several relatives, including co-Diva Bitch are watching as he yells And I don't leave whisker brushburns. I'm still disinfecting my hand.
Thank goodness for the filmmaker chainsmoker and occasional wedding video guy who I've worked with before for the humorous breaks where we'd chat about how fucked up the crowd was and how we'd never touch weddings again if all weddings were like this one.
Onwards.
Afterwards a quick change in the car and sped off to music, mayhem, a party stop and more mayhem.
Shared the wedding horrors with three drinking buddies at the nearest of favored watering holes and slargled down a few or more scotches before I felt like my most Perfect self again.
Liquid refreshment, liquid therapy, liquid forgetfulness.
In two nights I'll be shooting GWAR again and I abso-freakin-lootly cannot wait. All my little concert promoter pals were asking if I'd be there, as they know I completely dig that spectacle.
I am the smart photog in the pack who comes donned in clear plastic garbage bags - one for me, one for camera/flash. One time I shot GWAR and forever after that one particular flash was impregnated with their red faux blood. Another time I went the rest of the night with dried red/blue/yellow smears of their 'bodily fluids.'
Spectacles, what life is made for.
What life is made of.
What photogs thrive upon.
Water cannons of fluid love.