Dashboard Confessional was a stop along the way tonight, as I speedblog. I noted the shifty eyes of Chris C, the man behind DC, the man who bit the logo of ACDC, the man, who if he had a memory seizure could safely say The crowd'll take over. He was too aware of my photographic presence in the pit, glancing down when he should have been glancing out at the sea of adoring and screaming teens. There were tears shed out of young eyes when they were not glancing through their FunSavers.
A later stop was the annual Red Cross charity MASH Bash where people cavort under really musty army surplus tents trying to look like MASH extras. Some pull off Hot Lips or Father Mulcahy fairly well.
I shot a couple in naval attire (her) and scrubs (him). I made four frames of them and moved on. The "doctor" came and tapped me on the shoulder: I hate to be a pain but she wonders if you'll come back and shoot another picture of us, she wants to do something with her leg.
As I knew one of the threesome I was then shooting I tipped her off: Something interesting is going to happen with this woman's leg, you may want to watch.
I walked over. The naval girl basically did a split on her beau, revealing all sorts of Victoria's Secret wares.
Of course suitable for publication, what do you think, I shoot for Highlights?
Disco was pumping through the musty tent and as I was leaving two girls were passing out on a curb outside the tent and one said to the other, roused out of her stupor:
Uhhhh, the BeeGees, not the BeeGees.
And I slipped off into the darkness, a ghost done with her soul-stealing for the time bean.
Love.

Firstly, how in blazes did Molly Hatchet's 'Kingdom of XII' end up within my illustrious cd collection?
Riddle me that.
Next on the agenda is this: why do not all artists have the same cavorting vibe about them that Yours Truly does? Namely, why did the artist who created the handpainted toilet (yes, I wrote toilet just then) NOT have a sense of humour about me sitting on his creation during the Take a Seat/chair benefit for the Middling City's beloved Studio Arena Theatre this evening? (Sidebar: I had a framed black & white print of one of my twinny models seated next to a furious fire, flowers in hand, for my contrib.) I handed my camera to my sister and said thusly: It's all set... get me quick. I went over, sat down on it (the art privey) with a straining look upon my (artistic/interactive) face.
The artist ran over muttering something, something about his 'Chair.'
Yeah, that and a packa smokes at a party'll get you a bunch of new acquaintances.
So during the tent party portion of this theatre benefit someone had the genius idea of hiring a really minimally-talented ROCK band in leather trousers to entertain the illuminati where a jazz quartet would have done the trick. Not only was I developing scenarios of how a certain office girl, I dubbed her MaryJo, would get canned early tomorrow AM for hiring Dirty Murphy (Ummm, MaryJo, could you please see me in my office in five minutes), but this band had a wireless mic and much later in the evening than the beginning the coiffed lead singer strolled about the tent as if this was his private karaoke time. He came up to me. I didn't know the (I think) ACDC cover that they were "performing." I started singing Yeah, Yeah, yeah, YEAH to the beat of the music and the lead singer looked at me as horrified as the toilet artist had and scurried away from me.
Oh well, we all have our strengths/talents.
Onwards to what the fuck I believe I'm good at.
Blogging, drinking coffee, making sublime images, conversing, shoe shopping and the like.
Off I speed to remedial rock audience participation classes.
My love.

Last night shooting ended with former Hüsker Du drummer Grant Hart warbling away on a guitar, his post-junkied teeth somehow still hanging on for dear life. His theme was scars (misunderstood by a Middling City listener as SARS) and at intervals he invited audience members to come up and share a scar to request a song. I was excited to show off one of several, attached to interesting stories, and had decided upon the deep right shin scar I got while shooting KMFDM and falling on a broken bottle and, standing on a barstool for a better angle, glanced down at the same time the sound guy stage right did and discovered I had bled all over my beloved soft doc marten boots acquired in Portland ME. A pool of blood, a piece of glass in my leg. I finished shooting (of freakin' course) and went to the front door where they took a shitty old tshirt and made a tourniquet of sorts. Well, I was going to share this story but by the time it could have been my turn I decided that I found Grant Hart supremely tedious. Enough, I said, and strolled back to discuss matters with others who had drifted away. The Neighbors, palsamine, sounded really great last night. Grant Hart might learn a thing or two about peppiness and delivery (and oral hygiene!) from these four.
Philip Glass's night in the spotlight actually rocked and I'm thinking of acquiring the piece performed last night, Symphony No. 3. Followed by a Q&A with PG seated front and center inviting any type of questions but that he'd probably do best answering music questions. Hardy Har, guess the comic twinge is in the Glass genes. For those of you not in the cognosenti, PG is Ira Glass's (swoooooon) uncle.
I am floating in writerly hell. Is my story too late? Will my editrix pal ever contact me? Will writing ever be an easy feat? Am I dyslexic? Am I a prognosticator? Am I a protagonist? A procrastinator? A pro-choicer?
Don't know (4x), Yes (4x).

So much Perfect News:
Just assigned seconds ago (ah! the life of a freeform freelancer) a shoot of the Philip Glass extravaganza at Middling City U tonight. They're banking on him standing up and making some sort of remarks at some point and that's not very definite so a-wingin-it I will be. If he's not onstage by, oh, 9PM, I'll hunt him down and get him backstage, lying on a divan surrounded by groupies and whatever.
Speaking of groupies spent most of Friday with The Nephew at Edgefest X at the local baseball venue, a somewhat sunny mediocre rock event. Highlight: Powerman 5000. The Nephew became Chief Little Autograph Hound backstage, politely asking playas for their autographs on his brand new SoCo bandanna. He kept wearing the bandanna high up to a point on his head, frighteningly resembling a much younger and healthier Pope. I showed him how to bestow a Papal Blessing and he gave such to several rockstars which they found charming. I had to give him Backstage Pointer #1: Don't Point and Backstage Pointer #2: Act always like you belong.
Yesterday shot an art party at an inner-city pro bono art school and there was, in a second floor art classroom, a girl holding an infant and two boys. The baby was crying. I glanced at it and thought Yikes, birth defecto... don't stare. The cry was odd. I looked more closely to discover it was a doll, one of those Baby, Don't Get Yourself Knocked and Cracked Up dolls that kids check out for a weekend and have to haul about for a weekend and a narc-like computer chip tells if this doll was left crying for long, shaken, etc.
I tried holding it and fed it its bottle. Then I looked at the kid: Do I have to burp her (its name was Jada, she said) now? I did. A few minutes of whoomping later there was sort of a breathing sound. She's done, the kid said.
Dixie Chicks management is being so obnoxious that I'm tempted to write back to their contact bitch and say You know what? I don't give a flying fuck about this show and these ladies need good publicity like mad so buzz off (or something to that effect). Four photogs only can shoot, one song only (#3), must shoot from soundboard (half a mile away), and the license and clearance agreement read like a messy pre-nup.
All in a few day's work and it's onwards for me... to caffeine, to deadlines, to images, to it all.
Love.