Monday, January 31, 2005

Where in the name of all the teeming and adrenalized photogods did the days go and, fercrissakes, I know You have missed Perfect me. But where the fuck to begin.
Firstly, premierment to my fellow Francophiles, this and thusly.
Marky Norris, former officemate and one of the favoured Middling City rockstars and the second person eVER to know I was toodling off to Parsons, opened for the pinstriped and skunky-haired Tommy Stinson, formerly of the Replacements.
And jeez didn't Mr. Stinson learn a thing, maybe three, from Paul Westerberg about The Crabbies. He bounds up onto the stage, but not before Michele noted that his handshake was limp, drab. Oh no, that was another. She pointed out that amongst the cognoscenti she had no idea who in blazes this Stinson was. There he was, in his cornball TO-ish bumper car shoes (he did compare and contrast the MC with TO, needlessly, foolishly) of patent leather. And, I will argue to my death, you can ALWAYS judge a man by what is on his feet. No exceptions. Not even You.
Stinson. Sucked. I told Marky that he truly stole the show in my non-humble opinion. And that says it all. Marky was out for the first time solo, no band (GirlPoop/Pope) in tow. Stinson. Crab. Gets up on stage and complains nearly immediately about the club's temp. About its chilliness. Renee twists some knobs. Then he's too warm. Then he's too chilly. And on. Suddenly he's annoyed that in the barroom there're a few conversations and he leaps off the stage and performs for a handful of people at the bar, stopping mid-strum to do a shot. Now that is so rock and roll. Made some images of that moment, real real keepers with the bar rimmed with suddenly-awake-and-thriving-in-rock's-gentle-glow fans and tipplers.
I that night bathed in said glow of My People, my rock and roll famille.
More more more and then I find myself with Kennergy looking at the lame-arsed Georgia O'Keefe show at MC's Albright-Knox Art Gallery. I mean really, my pal of yore Georgia Davidson (who turned Perfect me onto all things scotch) could have made better art. Adding insult to visual imagery were the mediocre digital prints hanging alongside said paintings.
Today, while minding my own business was at a thing, a bennie, for a pro-choice group featuring in the hotseat Hillary Clinton, former First Lady, former brunette, former maxi-dress wearer. I am a huge fan. I was shooting this for the pro-choice org and did the requisite meet & (no, not potatoes) greet moments and then the Talk. HC says OOOh, I am not 100%, I need to sit. She sits. Then she needs to remove her sweater under her suit. She leaves and comes back one layer less. She sits. Her voice is fading and drifting and you can see that her usual steely resolve is waning. Finally she says I cannot go on like this. Rain check. She has food poisoning or a flu, she says. She stands. She clings podium. I make an image of The Death Grip, her eyes all zonky. Then. SHE'S FALLING. CATCH HER. Down goes HC. I made no more images, believing in dignity but waiting to see if there was some such thing that would need to be doc'd - like when I (amongst the plethora) got the shot of the teen catapulted into the crowd at the outdoor gig which resulted in one very sad broken neck for real.
So HC is on the ground. Show's over. But not for Perfect me. Suddenly I am barraged with calls from media far, further and furthest. Conversations and consultations happened. The Death Grip image appears in various media now. By me. No images that are ruinatious and nothing making her look worse than at her next gig, at Canisius College about an hour later and howinhell did she make that anyhoo, after her collapse. So, she is not dead, not dying just yet and no animals were harmed in the making of those images as they were made and e-shipped off into the good night.

Good Night Love.

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