Defiantly not following my own (now seemingly) ridiculous rule of Thanksgiving hostessing, stayed out and had a good old fashioned rock and roll Thanksgiving Eve evening – ie: to HELL with staying in and prepping, get out there and do it up, pilgrim.
Yesterday had the Exclusive photo op with the band The Sheila Divine at Albright-Knox Art Gallery, shooting them looking at art, loving art. A few of them talked with me about harrowing life on the road, fighting jadedness and mutiny.
The AKAG pr girlie, Maureen, called to inquire if I was into a photo op with the band and I agreed only if she didn't call the daily, which would have run the image (maybe) yesterday whilst my image will appear on December 5th. So I got my way and the Universe rejoiced for the world is best when Your Perfect Nancy has her way with it.
Shot them later in concert, in a mellow college auditorium, adequate yet teeming with sit-downess.
Finally Aaron said Hey Buffalo, will you please stand up?
They were, of course, excellent and had behind them ongoing video images that were actually good, not just that Here's the band way closer thing you see from time to time.
Afterwards rolled on to Robbie Goo's recording studio for a private Studiowarming party and marveled at his multi-colored hair, truly more interesting than I've ever seen it. His breath was loaded with cigar aftereffects and he was his usual gracious funloving self.
The rooms were filled with Middling City rock types and it was mega.
Then on to meet up with members of Janet Reno Fan Club and Annie and Mary et al et al for a dual band extravaganza and bought an Iriving Klaws shirt, way too gigantic so I wore it over my jacket and loads of people said That's what's so great about you, Nancy, you're not afraid of looking HUGE.
Fear. No, thanks.
Huge, why yes I am, although not in size.
Off to continue slicing and dicing for in six or so hours there will be a warm house filled with people who I will entertain like Martha Stewart on too much Oban.
Lights...
cameras...
stuffing.

Apparently several of you were frightened by the last blogpost about mean-spirited Freckleface. Do not despair, she's only a poseur whose boobs are wrapped too tightly in synthetic fabrics, thereby resulting in a most negative purview. Plus, I can be ferocious when need be and when my camera equipment is imperiled.
Interesting sidebar of sorts:
On a gig a few summers ago I was hired to photograph several buildings for a developer and I was using my trusty Subaru as a stepladder, as I do from time to time. You get the car into position and climb on top.
So during this gig I was up and down, up and down and on one of the ups I came crashing down on the hood and my instant thought was to protect the camera, not me and my bones.
That's being a pro.
To hell with personal injury - it's a lot cheaper to fix my biological contusions than those injuries to a delicate electronic machine.
Talked to Canadian Georgie last night who said that sometimes he can't understand the American jargon of epinw. So I regaled him with my best Canadian impersonation:
Let's get some Timbits and crullers, ay?
Canadians, they look so much like us but are so... different.
Still shocked by the Missy Elliott song Let's Work It which they play on top pop radio. As I wrote to my pal Matthew Guru it puts that Tootsie Roll song of yore to absolute shame.
Tomorrow I'm attending the grand ol' opening of Robbie from the Goos' recording studio opening and before that I have an exclusive with Sheila Divine (or so I made the p.r. lady promise me) at a to-be-divulged -tomorrow location.
I'm breaking my past rules and will be out all day tomorrow/T-G Eve, shooting like a madwoman and perhaps tippling a few to boot.
All.
Turkey & all those starchy fixins of love.

Goth girls and boys crowded around a stage at last night's final stop as Janet Reno Fan Club were out on a musical tear. And what angry Goth girls and boys they were. As I shimmied between them to get closer for shooting Rasputina (3 of similar batcave persuasion, looking like withered Courtney Loves from her babydoll dress phase - including the boy in the band) one of them, with faux freckles on her face the size of dimes turned and looked at me and hissed And where do you think YOU'RE going? To work, I snarled into her freckled direction. Well, we're all working here = the puzzling reply. I was lifted off my feet and sucked into the vortex of hate by my temples and left her with these choice and unoriginal words - Fuck off, asshole. It should be noted that as I shot away several around me respectfully arched out of my way and one guy in heavy eyeliner shouted at Freckleface to shut the fuck up and to stop talking to the guy in the wheelchair she was leaning on.
So then I waded back through the vinyled and corseted crowd, went backstage where I was met by a true VIP scene of sundry band members and promoters and one of them handed me a joint on a long pin. Then I went to the back curtain, stood next to the Rasputina drummer boy and put the flash on nuclear to flash and flash and flash into the languid eyes of the watchers.
It was then that I noted that Freckleface was involved in a volley of fists, actually in a fistfight with another audience member.
We backstage people were very loudly cavorting and I said You know what? I think all those Goth people are going to start chanting SHUT UP at the stage.
Earlier JRFC convoyed up to toxic Niagara Falls, NY to see Doug's band of confusing sibilant name - Saw Secret Scene, really hard to say after a few scotch & soders.
It was their first gig in an elaborate old theatre, Pleasuredome 2, not to be confused with Pleasuredome 1 where I shot the Goo Goo Dolls in '92.
Saw Secret Scene's (or is that Saw Secret Seen?) lead singer, Todd, had never hit a stage before but is the equal of the other musical pros.
For a joint in NF, NY the stage, lights and sound were impressively mega.
Downside, of course, is the location.
Oh, and the bartender. Laura and I watched in amazement as he had difficulty finding bottles and I wondered if I should offer up this helpful hint: the bar is a mirror image on the other side, ie there are two topshelf setups in your bar so stop running in a gigantic circle to find the proper scotch you nincompoop, it's about 3 feet from your face.
Please address all mixology and musicology and humorology requests to Yours Truly.
Love.
And loads of that.