Everything is so freakin' perfect right now in MY world it's crazy with a capital K. Checked in to the Cleveland Ritz-Carlton and there seemed to be a bit of mayhem behind the desk as Gary in the blue jacket said there was a problem with our appointed room, supposed to be a suite. I imagined a crime scene and housekeeping frantically readying the room. I joked with Gary that if he bought us a round of drinks all would be grand and we would gladly wait and wait. With a few more clicks of his mouse, puzzled looks as he peered into his computer screen, I ended up on a passkey-only floor in what we could call the Presidential Suite and which could comfortably sleep eight adults. Two bathrooms, dining room area, dozens of tasteful lamps, hi-speed internet access (how I'm writing to your fortunate self). And Gary tossed in two drinks each for two of us into a passkey-only bar two floors up. This is the rock star suite, screw that Presidential shit. Well, off to secret floor 14, and subsequent hitting this town which has welcomed your favorite Nancy with open arms, and bar tabs. Yippee.

As I worked diligently, of course, on my Warped Tour photo layout, ever mindful to leave myself a few inches to fill with quippicisms, I had this important thought: in the future, at these all-day music festivals involving musicians of similar ilk who may be sporting similar hairstyles, attitudes, and fashions, that they be required to wear Nancy-issued self-adhesive nametags much like the stickers we press photographers must wear saying that we're a-ok and not some deadbeat with a camera. This way, when I'm flailing away and looking at bassplayer B I'm not going to confuse him with a bandmember from band G who may have played moments after band C on stage H. Dig? Most bands are completely distinguished/distinguishable but there's always an unruly bandmate who falls through accuracy's ass crack.
Note to self: howsabout a break from writing deadlines.
Other note to self: you decided to be a photog and not a writer for a reason. Remember that.

Cheese & crackers, a few of you have wondered where I've been - sometimes the Perfect World involves a tad more carousing than blogging. I'm imagining the mayhem which would ensue if I was able to post as I was out and about. Oh, wait, I've heard about wireless blogging but I can't even spell html so it seems a bit of a stretch for Palmless me. I'll be making another John Lennon pilgrimage tomorrow for a few days so you'll have to live without my quippy wit until Friday or so you poor poor mopey online darlings.
So listen how my newspaper publisher/pal/big brotherly figure torments me so: Saturday, flailing away (REALLY) on the fuckin' story of the elusive artist for the paper when publisher calls to invite me to the beach with him and his girlie, also my friend. What's the world's most supreme procrastinator going to do but pitch responsibilty out the speeding car window as it crosses into Canada? So mid-Peace Bridge I had this elated feeling like I was an escapee and, just because I have my lingering eldest child syndrome, brought the laptop and tape recorder along, as well as some ketchup flavored chips, dill pickle flavored chips, coke, trashy mags, etc. Guess which saw more beachly action? If you say the former you must never visit epinw.blogspot.com ever again because you just aren't getting it, and you're resistant to all things Nancy. After beach, ***** Chinese food with the duo and then photographed the Knack of "My Scuh-ro-tem" fame.
Photograph Matchbox Twenty tonight and here's some really shocking news for you - Rob Thomas is only 4.5 feet tall. No, maybe 5. Doesn't he seem huge in the videos? He's not. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Over and out.

Pat Benatar can still rip the chords out of her vocal chords and has, according to my calculations, about 8million times the talent of her daughter in a head-setted and lip-synching girlie band called GLO. Pat did all her hitz and the way-over-cap. crowd was absolutely claustrophobic: I wanted to leave and had to stay until post-encore backstage as it would have been impossible to get the backstage gate open, let alone leave. A man with a mullet was carried out by security for being drunk and disorderly but everyone backstage felt it might have been due to his unfortunate hair styling choice. Another man was taken away and one of the techies yelled What's wrong with HIS hair? (He had no mullet, lest you're not getting this rock and roll humor) Before her encore Pat, ten feet from me, floofed her hair and reapplied make-up. That's a chick rocker, to be sure. Tonight I photographed Janet Jackson and dig this: SHE WAS LIP-SYNCHING. Sad but true. How do you think these artistes can dance so hard and sing? They aren't. Believe me, I'm standing within lip-synching-detection's distance from these moments. Tomorrow: more musical mayhem. To boy colleague who left fresh new bottle of beer on my car - mercury buckets. Bye now, your favorite and funniest N.
ps: celebrity guest bartending last night meant more than my fair share of tequila, just the way life should be - more more more for me.

Had a great Warped Tour kind of day cavorting with the boy colleagues and other backstage acquaintances. The nephew, I don't think, realizes his special condition at concerts and will one day when he arrives with his little pals and makes his way to the backstage area where a security man will put out a hand barring his assured small entrance. Henry Rollins, for some unknown reason, hit the stage at 1PM so most people, including Yours Truly, missed his bossiness. I imagine, as WT hits Toronto in two days that he wanted time off. PennyWise was great, and I admired the onstage bar of Me First and the Gimme Gimmies. Not too many chick rockers, which, I suppose, is why they have the ground level Ladies Lounge. Shot from the top of the 1/2 pipe and got especially grand images of a motoX boy up up up and away! One of my boy colleagues was afraid to come on up so he didn't. Pussy. The Fire Department had gushing hose on a throng of people who quickly became Mud People and then they had a tremendo mud slide going. The only mud slide I ever came into involved Bailey's, Kahlua, and vodka. To hell with the other sort, I say. Shot the self-flung mud sliders from atop and watched one gal slide right under the tent of a sound man working stage C. After Warped Tour headed up to Canada for a summer house party on the beach and did something very Nancy-like: took a running jump at a hammock and ended up twisting about on it and flat on my back with a huge WHOOOMPHF. My friend who was grilling nearby thought I was letting out the WHOOOMPHF with joy other than proverbial wind being knocked out of my proverbial body. All day Warped Tour and only one major arm bruise from crowd rider/security man/me collision. Tonight I shoot Pat Benatar who is, I say, Drag Queen Rock. Very uninspired and I'm now listening to PJ Harvey as a pre-anecdote to the banal 80's rock about to assault my poor failing rock star shooting ears.

As the rock & roll sages of yore said: "Hell hath no impatience like a nine year old boy awaiting Warped Tour." The sibling/sole sister dropped off Nephew at the crack of dawn en route to her job and he's been klanking about waiting waiting waiting. But enough about youthful waiting. I am looking forward to an entire day of rock & roll onstage exuberances, x-treme affletes flying through the air, climbing the ladder once again to shoot from atop the 1/2 pipe, the t-shirts, the sights, the sounds, the throngs, the thongs (ok, no thongs), the feeling of being THERE. Long live outdoor rock & roll.

Proof enough, dig, that there's a God/god: my deadline for story about reluctant artist whose chest I sat on was EXTENDED ONE WEEK. Yes, extended, as in more time to beat quotable moments out of her, to sip turbo-powered wine with her, and make her bend to my wishes. Met with three boy colleagues today and we're going to be members of a team (GO TEAM) shooting for a wire service. Photos of wired people, stray wires on the ground, wires sticking out of odd places, etc. I'm currently spewing thoughts one mile per minute as I made some good ol' fashioned joe with way too many beans and way little coffee. Where did I park that Oban? Peace & Love, your favorite Nancy.
ps: the reluctant artist's name is Nancy, too, but she is NOT your favorite.

Spent the better part of yesterday in a foreign land, in NYC-inspired Toronto. Before embarking with two others after traditional fun-filled brunch the post-brunch krewe called after me to "avoid international incidents." On the way back, perhaps flashing back to a much earlier blog time when I was scrapping with border patrolmen during the FTAA protests, I was (I admit) snarky with the border man in the box. When he inquired what were you doing in Toronto I was a bit gruff. When he asked me to repeat what we were doing in Toronto I barked ART!!! which took him and my passengers a bit aback. Oh, I should mention here that we had just been sitting in return-to-USA traffic for about one hour. I also quipped that we had nearly spent as much time in traffic jams as in TO which was not at all true but charmingly funny nonetheless (I thought). Warped Tour in two days. ya-hoo.

Worked on my artist profile, another freakin' piece of lit by your fav Nancy, on Friday and had to quite literally chase my subject up her aluminum ladder as she had tired of talking about herself and her art and had gone up said ladder. Put the recording device around the ladder into her face to catch a few more quotes. Towards the end of the interview in the public park where, I should have already mentioned, she was working on her public art piece - an arch with figures atop - an assistant pal of hers showed up with a gallon of turbo-powered homemade wine. I'm certain it was about 300 proof. After a few tumblers of aforementioned we all sort of lazed about and, needing a few additional quotes, I sat on the unsteady and uneager subject. Sat right on her chest, recorder in her face. Thanks, I said, I think NOW I've got my 2,000 words. What we journalists must endure.
Last night, speaking of the newspaper world, attended a sit-down-and-be-good traditional wedding reception for one of our staffers. To lively up ourselves we got trashed on weak cocktails, tossed about handfuls of those nightmarish jordan almonds, danced madly, got up on chairs (ok, I was the sole chair topper), and I entertained TABLE 3 with my famed "Everything's Perfect in Nancy's World Dance" - where I sing that phrase whilst arching my back and kick my feet back there, too. They were impressed. We danced more and left for one of our group fav hangouts where we had more drinks and, just before departing, I tied my silky hose up in the arbor over our heads. The End.

Eddie Money, who I shot in the filmic sense last night, is the sweatiest man in show business: in the space of four songs the tie-wearing performer soaked through his shirt and also the knot of his tie - sweat was accumulating at the top and soaking downwards. Another word on sweat: I'm still rather impressed with myself for being so diplomatic on Wednesday night when I hugged a rather large acquaintance at a benefit and it was like grabbing hold of a six foot damp sponge. He looked at my face waiting, I believe, for me to scream. I did not. A local singer songwriter femme of impressive talents duetted with Mr. $$$ on "Take Me Home Tonight" and I awaited this moment for what seemed an eternity. Finally It was happening. I was off to the side, not getting anything great, so I went onstage and squatted (not to pee) behind an amp for a moment when ironically-nicknamed Tiny came to take me away. As we walked down the ramp I asked Are you sure about this? Meaning = It's only Mr. $$$ and a local act and I am not in view of any audience member and I sure the hell don't look like I'm about to toss a bra or myself on Mr. $$$. The guitar tech squeezed me into another tight spot which was adequate. Special note to Mr. $$$: cool it on the anti-x-wife and divorce and rehab inter-song banter, it gets sort of old.
Thanks for your 80's-esque attention in this matter.
Your pal and apparant onstage nuisance, Nancy. XO

Satan sent me an email a few hours ago. Basically it said Hey, Nance, there's a special place here reserved for you. You'll be locked in a room for eternity with people eating popcorn and nacho chips with their mouths open, and you'll have to listen to cornball country western straight outta Nashville all the while. And you know why, missie. All those poor frantic editors whose lives you made so miserable with blatant disregard for their jobs, their deadlines, their sanities, and their happinesses.
One of my boy colleagues, when he phoned tonight, said How are you, my sister which took my ears by surprise: usually the boys refer to each other as brothers while I am uncategorizable. I thought.

Planning my next rock & roll pilgrimage, a drive to Cleveland to see some John Lennon remains at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Somehow I've managed to avoid that institution thus far and have heard from trusted others that it can be an annoying place. Hopefully it will be empty when I arrive. If only I had the star power of, say, a Madonna, or Christy Turlington, that when I entered a joint I'd have the authority (and staff on metaphorical board) to shut it down with a snap of my self-driven, manicured & well-moisturized fingers so I could peruse free from flotsam and jetsam. Sooner rock extravaganza is the all-day Warped Tour, a pleasure to photograph at as nobody onstage has a raging ego problem. Will be taking the nephew again - I've been taking him to WT since he hit the wizened age of six.

My Scare-o-Meter was off register when, while covering a food-related event in a park, I photographed an older couple who own a food-related downtown business. They asked Are you Nancy? I gave appropriate answer (ie: who the hell wants to know/are you writing a book/etc etc=kidding, sort of) and they said Oh our son talks about you all the time (yikes) and HE CALLS YOU HIS GIRLFRIEND (super YIKES). His mother said this with a little hand gesture subtly indicating Oh you crazy kids, god only knows what REALLY goes on in your lives. Thoughts not immediately - but gradually - turned to my concert security guard acquaintances who have, on occasion, offered their services as "private protection." I have one of the the business cards of a "private protection" purveyor and it features a prowling panther on it. Maybe I should hire him to rough-up my psycho "boyfriend." All in all a fab weekend of music photography, general mayhem, some sloppy celebrity guest bartending, and standing in a yurt for a wedding I shot on a beach in Canada on Saturday. It's not every day one gets to stand in a yurt in bare feet in Canada. I live a charmed life. All for now, Your Favored Nancy.

Today I was back out at the Camp, trying hard not to drool all over some of the boys and boyish counselors (absolutely only the OLDER sort to avoid CNN-style scandal, believe you me) and just intermingling best as I could to capture the campy moments. After that drove and freakin' drove and drove until I landed back in the city where I attended an art opening and a disco revival. And what a revival it was: man on a mic and mission who thought it wise to yell out about all things 70's. A video overhead showed some in the room in much more statuesque phases of life although their hairdo's were at embarassingly hilarious proportions way back whensville. And I saw gouchos. Don't pretend that you don't remember GOUCHOS. The yelling disco man whipped all of us into correct remembering, even though many of us were mere tadpoles during the disco era. There was a woman with 10 inch long fingernails - she's a phone sex operator for real. Disco duck/sucks.

If I had more than one plumber. I wouldn't have so many fears.
If the odor of poo wasn't repugnant. We'd probably be really sick.
Sorry, I have to go. Local wild girls are waiting to talk to me.
I love you, you are so big. Wayne.

This message is from "Wayne," a pseudonymed fan who loves me, who praises all things in special Nancy's World (it was a much longer message but some things are not made to be shared with any ol' tom dick or harry).
Spent the better part of today at a summer camp where I photographed the happy, sun burnt population of a camp out in the sticks. Parked my car on a steep hill and was most pleased to find it still there at day's end, and not in nearby lake.
Dig the kid world where conversation is free & easy & surreal in jumping from thing to subject thing. Before the adult filter of propriety gets strapped on.
Camp assistant director, TO Mike, drove me about in his golf cart and I had a sudden revelation about those who comandeer golf carts: theirs is a sadistic mission - to throw, like a bronco with a bur under its saddle, their rider, like a heap of old newspapers out of their unstructured, airbagless vehicle. We took turns, climbed hills, careened down hills, flowed under low cherry trees, sought out (apparently) ruts with such reckless abandon. Children's toes and arms and lives were mere vehicular inconveniences for sunglassed and hard-assed Mike.
One time a famous artist took me through a woods on his golf cart at a speed I thought impossible for that genre of vehicle. His golf cart had a high-pitched horn which he used liberally - he would send mid-woods pedestrians scattering as he approached them shouting 'look out!!!' as I held on, face the color of birch bark (like today at some points).

Due to the apparent dearth of writers on the planet I keep getting writing assignments from foolhardy, perhaps even crack-addled, editors. Don't they understand? I'm a photographer with heaps of deadlines. I'm a procrastinator with good intentions. Sure, you'll get the "story" and it'll fuckin' rock, whenever you get it. Why do these editorial types torture themselves with these so-called assignments? And don't they understand that I don't fall for their deadlinal ploys and threats?
And I also have that little lack of respect for authority problem.

Blink 182: pure testosterone rock in the form of adorable guys.
Blink 182 fans: raucous and tossing about inflatible sex dolls.
Blink 182 fans, femmes: see above, but add the adjective topless.

At one point at the beginning of the set the band, mid-song, shouted and pointed BOOBIES and every photographer turned to look - including me. One of my more boob-obsessed colleagues was not looking so I tapped him on the arm and said You're missing a photo op right behind you.

Bought their girl model t (you see, I am such a sucker for a good rock and roll moment) which is pink and adorable and was half the price of the Aerosmith shirt I recently acquired.

Read an email moments ago from Julian Muse (his Nancy-given name) who tells me that he just turned thirty. Day's meditation: does it make me old to have my biggest lifetime age-gap paramour-turned-pal at that auspicious age?

One of my ill-advised colleagues is about to get squeezed out of a whole lot of future concerts for being the too-squeaky wheel demanding legal WD-40, if you catch my drift. He's a known trafficker of photographic likenesses of rock starz on the internet system, too, and blabs about that to whoever will listen...despite our occasional signage of bitchy contractage.
Tonight is the Blink 182 gig out in the sticks and this is one of the summer shows I've actually been looking forward to as I've photographed them from the time they were little off-note pups. Today I have to corral five women into one photo frame which in the past proved nearly impossible - I had a cover shoot with them last year which they forgot. They were in bed. I waited. They ran about. I sipped coffee. Then they smiled.

Yesterday I photographed a motorcycle get-together and there were hawgs as far as the eye could see...and leather halter tops...and bike week t's stretched to invisibility over waxing bellies.
The day's strangest couple award goes to unnamables who I photographed for my column.
Her: blonde, petite, expensive sungoggles, Marilyn Monroe fetish - why their street custom bike features "Marilyn" on fenders and gas tank. However, there's an interesting twist to "Marilyn": her features have been melded with the petite blonde features of the wife.
Him: Overly-accessorized and he "cuts hair," so obviously gay yet married. He told me three times that he "cuts hair" as if this was a cue that he's a flamer biker. He was too tan, and art directed his wife who I had sprawled on the Marilyn bike.
Talked to some cigar-chomping bikers from outta town, met up with some people I know who I slargled hard lemonades with before my great escape from Muffler Madness.
Last night: great set by Simon and the Bar Sinisters who were playing three sets to a small yet appreciative gathering. Between sets he had some hard-luck, heart-wrenching tales about bar owners not wanting to pay the rock trio, his voice getting ruined by second-hand smoke, his other woes. Very sad, very sad racket is rock & roll.

Any whiff of thought I might have ever had about shooting for a political office has been dashed after last night's/this AM's bachelorette/stagette happenings. The revelry, the dancing, the shouting, the carousing, the photos taken in that bar's insty-foto booth...

Jazz funeral photos came out today in my newspaper and I wonder if any readers out there are going to scratch heads marveling at my ubiquitous ability to photograph events sandwiching the Friday the 13th event in New Orleans.
Tonight is Bo Diddley followed by civilized dinner and uncivilized bachelorette mayhem and I'm fearing for the safety of unsuspecting men out and about tonight in downtown clubs. Fifteen or so sauced up girlies, fueled on tequila, what perfection.
Everywhere I've been today I gave people this special Nancy assignment: go see Bo Diddley come hell or high waters as he's the inventor of rock & roll and what could be more amazing than that? Plus who knows when he'll be d-e-d?
At the risk of sounding like a bottle of Dr. Bronner's soap...have I ever steered you wrong? Music suggestions 100%! Go now and buy Tricky's Blowback. You'll thank me for this. I bought mine in the way-fab Virgin Superstore in New Orleans, where will you buy your copy?

Currently I'm what in the journalism trade is dubbed filing and am doing just that and I'm passing the fax spewer from which I gather upcoming event info and sitting at the bottom was a message from Ani DiFranco's Righteous Babe Records. Apparently the Lil' Folksinger is pissed as hell because a late night talk show (I watch none of that so I don't even recall which one it was) said You cannot play your depressing song about racism, you know, the one which poops on your home town. And she was like, oh, well, like, look, since I was 18 I've blazed my own trail and NOBODY tells this Lil' Folksinger what to do. So she's not playing the song. She's not playing the show. She'll show them. Nobody tells a Lil' Corporate Anarchist what to do.

So moved was I by the Aerosmith perfection this past Sunday I plunked $40 on the counter for their girlie model t with sparklie logo which is how I left silver glitter everywhere I went yesterday, including the fukt car dealership where I drove my vehicle for the first time in one year and where I camped out for seven hours using their free phone line nearly the entire time as my laptop (plugged into their DC) whizzed away DMB.
Aerosmith's set was not full of overdone props and there was a large hand in front of the stage which had fingernails which glowed at appropriate moments. Unfortunately for us photogs our meager little slice of Aerosmith sky (venue has high stage) was further lessened by ONSTAGE security, cameramen for rearstage monitors, super duper amps, and TELEPROMPTERS. Managed, however, to get a few breathtaking images of Skinny Ass, Mr. Tyler. A second stage was set up for the lawn/nosebleedesque seats and a colleague and I chugged a few beers and slipped amongst the fans for this possible photo op which didn't quite pan out - bad angle, roving security. One guy spotted my colleague and flashed a flashlight in our direction which is a helpful cue for escaping, which we did, further into the mayhem. There a bleary-eyed man dumped a portion of his cold beer down the back of my neck and my first rock & roll thought was that this was a friend or acquaintance greeting me in pure rock & roll fashion. When I said hey you dumped your beer down my neck he said grragrrgle ieeuh myefsyuh.

Went, and came back. New Orleans was perfect and all is swell in Nancy's World. Photographed a jazz funeral yesterday for Ernie K. Doe and it was abso-fuckin-lutely grand with umbrellas in the air, bands marching, people dancing, oversized bills with K.Doe's face in them, and the grand marshal who I talked with as his cigar hung at the corner of his lip. Shot the whole thing in black & white. The conference was informative and it was rather surreal to have a load of people of the same genre in one space except we were, physically and mentally (as usual), divided into three very distinct groups: editorial, advertising, and design. And never the twainish trio shall meet. In the midst of photographing a Hindu/Western wedding day and I'm still pulling red rice out of my hair from the Hindu portion. One more thing about New Orleans: I love the insanity there and the city was not much changed from my last time there about fifteen or so years. ago. Didn't eat enough seafood. Did drink enough cocktails. Off to hydrate before round two of the wedding. French guests are off tomorrow...I brought them back jambalaya mix and hot sauce and my money's on them never using either product but politely displaying them in their home in case I ever darken their Lille doorstep again.

I'm filled with kid dread to tell my French guests that for three days I'm heading off to the Big Easy Bake Oven that is summertime New Orleans. Newspaper conference. This will be quite a trip as last time I was there I was chem-addled all the while during what they call Party Gras.
And all the while photographed the beauty of chaos.
And saw the universe's grandest palmetto bug.
This is my most secret astounding feature: I can be in a city one time and the feel of its streets is completely imprinted in my specialized Nancy memory. I've revisited cities and have been able to maneuver about deftly, maybe not knowing street names, but moving unlost by visual cues. And that, pal, is a true photographic memory.

Had to run back to home plate to deposit my scary Dahmeresque item into my freezer. I'm in the midst of working on my next mag story on specialty food items with which to jazz up one's culination and popped into a Muslim store I've been in before. The son of the owner developed some kind of kooky instant crush on (yikes) me and he was all gangly goonie and I inquired about the meats - are they only frozen - ? - and next thing I know I'm in this walk-in cooler that was a regular Joel Peter Witkin fantasy with animal body parts all over the place hanging from nice big silver hooks. And...on a metal table was ... the head. A lamb's head. All flayed. They eyes intact watching me, my cinematic concentration zoomed in on them with a small trumpet blast ushering forth from an unseen yet Japan-worthy micro-speaker. An eye of a lamb, watching me and this horny teenager. And the brown rotting teeth still in its dead mouth. So, thinking of my art career, I asked - how much? The answer? Free. So off I wandered back into the street, plastic shopping bag over my arm, the weight of the head making the plastic welt up my forearm skin. My legal pad filling up with notes, my mind filling up with future art images, and further strange tales to tell.

Everyone in Nancy's World: We miss you, Nancy.
Me (responding to everyone): I miss myself.

Well, it's summer apparently and the work is piled up to my eyebrows and there are more looming deadlines which would crush the average person like a coconut falling from an airplane over a huge asphalt driveway. A pal at a supersonic photo lab whipped off a major order as my other lab has a piece of crap new machine which is making all of us already-stressed pros look like a bunch of slackers. Had to disappoint a colleague today with this horrid news: Black Sabbath here is CANCELLED. Sad, but true.

The day after. Lawn littered with beer bottles, cigarette butts. The driveway marked with an occasional burn streak, and pyrotechnic wrapper. The next door neighbor, the cardinal nestlings, and the stray cat pet a bit deaf today. The tip of my right thumb is charred and scarred from a bit of a firecrack mishap but it's all in a holiday's work. Today off to rock and roll photography of the local persuasion and found out today that I'll be in New Orleans for an extra day for the conference which I will be whisked off to next week as my house guests will have to do without me and my sarcastic quippicisms for three, not two, days. Life, a happy miasmic whirlwind and it's far too early to hit the Oban.

What Independence Day means to ME: as all the imported hockey giants and expat photographers living in the castle section of Scotland denounce America as a slaughterhouse and a whakteen sludge of animation gone awry and t&a and those television shows where seemingly everyone is fat and ugly and dumb and sans shame, I say the US of A is still better than lots of other places. Exhaustion sets in when thinking of the social inequality here and elsewhere but it's still a lot better here for most people than not. And you can drift around much further. This country is like twenty of the average country combined, and it acts it, too. Maine is a different country from Ohio which is a universe away from New Orleans. And Texas is unto itself: don't mess with Texas. We have choices, most of us, some of us, geographically. The money is ugly, the coffee is getting better, women's rights are faltering, the flag could be snappier, the voting process needs desperate rehabbing, but overall, commercially & cinematically speaking, we kick ass. And in the rock & roll realm no other country can touch us/US. And, in that amplified state of mind, I think of buying up in Canada at the loonie store a Canadian flag and a US flag and how my beau thinks me so utterly corny for having a patriotic streak but it makes me nearly welled up in tears holding a $1 plastic flag. Wars, and horror, and history, and earnestness, and that I can drive to Canada and buy a facsimile from a wire bucket for only one dollar. And I wondered today, as I hung the flag up on my backyard fence, if the VietNam Vet, Frank, across the street, was watching me doing this, if he would be enpained if I dropped it, if his chain smoking impulse would be triggered, or if his encapsulated decompressing debriefing would fly again from his mind, his lips, his quivering eyebrow. God Bless Your Underwear. I'd rather be living here than loads of other places. Amen and Sayonara.

How should I know an eight-foot white pine weighs 500 pounds? I'm a city girl gardener and, besides, all those fluffy needles, those thin branches, roots, what's that, fifty pounds? So I barge on into a local nursery and pronounce that I'd like a white pine tree and will be taking it away atop my sturdy car. The lady's eyes bulged nicely. She asked and what kind of car do you have? I said a Subaru. She then told me the weight and that two men and a truck and some machine she named by brand name would be able to come to my pad and install the thing to the tune of $500. I failed to connect with her telepathically to give me what I wanted, to give it all to me for perhaps $200. So instead I bought a rusty obelisk for far far less and it'll have to suffice at the moment. It's only five feet tall. It's not a white pine tree. I want a white pine tree. Everything cannot be perfect in Nancy's World if, when her world incorporates her backyard, she doesn't have a fucking white pine tree and she wants one. Thank you.

Did the big drive this fine evening to the exurban concert venue out in the sticks cow pasture and photographed Travis and then Dido, white folk rock. As good fortune would have it one of my colleagues had his rv out there stocked with Pepsis and so we sat in there and chatted while his wife watched some tv show I've never heard of and his other guests and kids came and went. Dido's band was actually great and the long instrumental intro for her was fab, I looked at the crowd and they were all on their feet, anticipatory smiles on their faces - it was actually electric. Afterwards I went to a grocery store (perhaps number three on my list of top ten things that I hate in the domestic arts category) in Pastureville and selected the world's LOUDEST GROCERY CART with wheels a -squeakin', me still in Dido sticker. I took solid pleasure in creating a major sonic disturbance with this rolling construction zone. A dazed-out employee of the store said "I know where you ARE" - heh heh heh heh.

Hell's bells, I just wrote this moments ago and lost it in a flashpan of disaster. A few hours ago, through a gin & tonic haze, I bought a fuckload of pyros for my demi-arsed Independence Day fete. Found a joint called The Boom Boom Room or some such thing and it was a low-budge enterprise and seemed like it was in a trailer. If it wasn't, it should have been, for perfection's sake. Upon entering one is treated to a spread of pre-packaged goodies and, behind chicken wire, yet more choices. I wondered if the nice man at the helm might say, excuse me, madam, under Canadian law I cannot lawfully sell you fireworks whilst your breath reeks so of gin. Afterwards, I went to purchase more Canadian goods: Canadian tampons, and a Canadian cup of joe. A ruse, you see: tampons would flabbergast the man at the border, something I'd mention if I thought his laser eyes might be drifting over to my trunkal area where the cache lay quietly, and coffee to seem o-so relaxed. Mr. Innocent asked if there was anything to declare. Just coffee *giggle* I said, eyes wide. Onwards I sped. I was in Canada shooting a 50th wedding anniversary gig and afterwards (after punching out so to speak) was practically duct taped down and force-drunk the gin and tonics by my friends Jamie and Paul.

How does one know when one needs to take one's car in for a tune-up? When one cannot get the mph's up to 85 by the end of "All Along the Watch Tower." Add auto tune-up to the big list of things to think about doing. My newspaper editor was haranguing me and we had an exchange of sludgy emails until he paged me and I called him thinking that perhaps this was finally it, my career with the now non-fledling paper was kaputskis, that this last bit was enough at that very moment to throw me into the no U-turn abyss of finality - but instead he offered a sincere apology. I dropped the phone on the floor. Not really but metaphorically I did. Yesterday I set a world record for espresso consumption during a single day and even I was amazed. It took several cocktails later to get me off of the ceiling. Off to a weekend full of bands and the usual mayhem. Luvv and kisses, your favorite person named Nancy!
BTW whomever left the robotic message on my cell phone rocks. The message said (think robot voice) hello my friend Nancy and with her help I can take over the world.Keep thinking positive thoughts, Mister Robot.

The all-day music marathon festival was loads of fun, and film. People absolutely go kookie for cocoa puffs for the Canadian bands and it was a sunny happy day unlike some other venues of late where security rules with iron fists and t-shirts. At one point in the afternoon I was talking to Eddie, my cop pal, and his boss - a real live cop boss like in the movies. They were both off-duty and I learnt that that's why both of them weren't wearing their badges and their other signifiers. But then Eddie showed me his badge in a smart leather flip-open deal. And he said that his boss had an even nicer one. So then he showed me his, it said Sargeant along the bottom. And I boldly asked if I could fulfill one of my fantasies. He said sure. I snatched his leather badge holding device out of his hand, flipping it shut. I went over to one of my girlie friends and said "FREEZE, YER UNDER ARREST" while I deftly flipped open the holder. It was great. After the festival came to a non-screeching halt I hung out with my newspaper teammates for quite a while on a patio, slushing down cocktails merrily and generally screaming and being mayhemious. I can't say that any of the bands hitting the stages really blew my head off, national or regional, but the happy vibes all day sure did.

Yesterday (friday) I shot all sorts of people on varying levels of fabulousness and realized one interesting fact, mid-day, which both shocked & stunned my avant-garde self: twice this week people whom I don't find to be complete dolts or assholes referred to me as a geek, both in the context of my unwavering rock & roll dedication and passion so it's not totally a horrifying thing. I'm so not the sort of geek who's in a hobby shop checking out the new Lionel train extender metal tracks or anything. How, you might wonder, do I know about such collectible ramifications? Well, let me tell YOU: today I spent a godd chunk of my life motoring about writing up my famed quippicisms about hobbies, arts, kids outfitters, toy purveyors, and the like, for AOL. Ask me any fucking thing you want about the sale of board games, bubbles, hello kitty goods, and the like in this region. I'm on it all like a summer tongue on a drippy popsicle. I'm debating the import of wandering downtown to photograph Gene Loves Jezebel at a club. Do I? Don't I? Tomorrow I've got a marathon music fest sponsored by my newspaper which means I'll be walking walking walking from stage to stage for about nine hours. And at some point, after nightfall, will slip down a few requisite shots of tequila. Pleeez, if you drink tequila and want to be my special pal, don't do so with condiments in my presence. That's so frat, so unnecessary, and so pussy-ish. Tequila must attack one's tongue full throttle. One time a friend brought back a scarily-labeled bottle from Mexico (pronounced right there Mehh-hee-ko) and nobody but me could drink it without barfing right away or nearly doing so. It had the nose of wet dog and the aftertaste of asphalt.

For the second year in a row at the very same venue Dave Matthews left Buffalo after seeing a female press photographer raise both her arms in rock & roll salute (ie: the deaf person's I LOVE YOU, I & L & Y all rolled into one) while hollering "Dave...YOU ROCK, I LOVE YOU" in great earnestness to the great amusement of her male colleagues standing all around her.
One of the group, of blackest/evilest wit, pronounced that our recently-departed fellow photog who was on the DMB press credential list for Reuters would not be there. We tittered, the press lady looked horrified, and later we each drank two expensive beers hoisted up in the departed's honor, to lubricate his way, I suppose, wherever he might be headed.
Tonight I photoraphed moe., national jam band superstars as the pungent scent of patchouli wafted over the 20K in attendance. The first time I shot the four/now five including a deft m.c. they were at a small bar playing in the front window.
I was annoyed at my lack of angle tonight and persevered and fought my way through the crowd to get what I wanted - the front line at a good moment. Like sex, it's all about angles and moments (and scents, and appearances, and feeling "it").
Opening for DMB was Angelique (great and I will be buying her cd) and lovely Macy Gray. I met the official DMB tour photog, Rudy, who bore an uncanny (albeit puffier) resemblance to Dave. He got snuffly when I asked which band he was with. I think the elastic waistband of his sweatpants was too tight.

Late, I work late. But tonight I finished at an earlier hour than usual, deciding to email a writing assignment before DMB. So I'm off to a few errands before filing at the newspaper office and one of the errands leads me to one block away from the home of the aforementioned busted (alleged) pedophile. I see camera crews. It's two in the morning and I'm thinking hostage? Legal announcement? Circled around the block and stopped across the street from the home and got out of the car and saw two people I know who told me that the accused killed himself in his bathtub. I said that I wasn't surprised that that's how it turned out and they looked at me in an odd way, but they had both been drinking around the corner. They left to go back to the bar and I stood and talked with one of the t.v. guys and all three affiliates were waiting out on the sidewalk and across the street neighbors quietly talked. Very windy night and I wondered if I was cold from the weather or the news. We all watched the police come and go and another photographer ran into the home and then left quickly and then returned a while later holding a bottle of Lipton Iced Tea which I thought was bizarre. What an odd time to get thirsty, or reach for a beverage, I thought. There was an oversized SUV sedan type of black vehicle in the driveway and after a while two people took a gurney from it, like the one I garbage picked a few days ago, but on it was a dark plastic bag. An old man left with a clipboard and wearing one latex glove and he went to his car and went back into the house. I wondered if I wished that I had my camera. I wondered what would happen to the archives of this photographer and to his possessions, and if he left a note. Maybe apologizing to all the boys and now men he did bad things to all this time. I thought, still standing there and between the fragments of conversation with the stranger from the t.v. station on the sidewalk, about how all of this pointed to guilt and how for a long time nobody came forward with a definite story or accusation before. And how because of the respect a lot of people had for him as a well-known photojournalist etc. how nobody ever said anything until that one strong fifteen year old had nothing to lose and spoke. I wondered if this man's ghost hovered over the scene, if he might try to be a presence one more time. There was a short and violent thunder and lightning storm a while ago and it seemed very fitting.

Afterthought: 2 second-hand stories about yours truly reported via two very different sorts of men.
1. An Argentinian male import, who moved here to stalk his ex, who I knew from way before their ill-fated relationship, reported to man #1 that one night out and about many years ago he told me as I passed him in a crowded bar that he was miserable. And I said 'good' and moved along my merry way.
2. Man #2 reports that people who sort of know us both witnessed me running/wallking up behind him and grabbing with ferocious strength and venom the back of his coat as he zoomed away, him being at that moment a maxed-out jerk leaving dramatically and impatiently the gig we were both shooting. When he wouldn't stop walking I said 'you're a fucking asshole' and let go of his jacket which, come to think of it, was very inappropriate for the warm evening. Oh, the ongoing fascination with pure emotion in this age of vagueness and confusion between emotion and vicariousness.

Confirming my suspicions about Aging Rockstars Eric Clapton kept still photographers at bay, a safe distance of half a mile from the stage. At the mixing board we stood and about midway through song #2 of 3 one of the colleagues was practically assaulted by an enraged fan who thought he'd be looking at our collective asses all evening.
Not only an Aging Rockstar, Clapton had quickly earned the rep at the venue of being a complete pain in the ass, a primo donno.
I shot a guitar fest gig en plain air at the waterfront and after two blues acts thought I was going to abso-freakin-lutely scream. I was 12-barred out! Thankfully Slash's Snakepit came out and realligned the day. One of my backstage hand acquaintances, upon hearing me gush about the band, handed me a SSP guitar pick which I will forever cherish. Slash was, of course, hot, musically & physically.
Oh, one of my new possessions? A coffin gurney. Garbage picked up in a northern suburb of this middling city. The HOUSE where it was pikt was tossing not one, not two, not three, but FOUR coffin gurneys. I was with Jen and she surprisingly and deftly folded the thing and operated all the knobs and things. We wrestled it into my car and it wasn't until it was just about in the vehicle that I realized it was a transporter for deceased bodies, not living ones. We believe(d) it would (with some minor adjustments and embellishments) make a swell snack table.
Tonight I write like the winds of hell are at my ass - translation: big deadlines. Thousands of words must now stream out of my brain like chlorinated city water out of a non-cinched hose.
Tomorrow night, Dave Matthews rolls into town. Love is in the air.

Writing writing writing. I've ingested too much caffeine and now I'm on that slippery slope and must head in the other direction and bust open the new bottle of Oban that I've been resisting until this very moment. If you have not heeded my advice and sped off to your nearest outlet of recorded music to glean the new Radiohead I must ask why. Do not be difficult.
The next scheduled Spanking Party - all-girl fiesta of dinner and drinks at a residence culminating in a band of us fired up and administering spankings to random men on the streets - is scheduled for late July. Batten down the hatches, beaten down the britches, here come the bitches, hark here are some bruises.
Yes, Oban, I'm coming. Love, your favorite person named Nancy. XO

I've realized that it's redundant to say boy colleagues as I have no girl colleagues. So...one of my colleagues paged me in a 911 fashion to answer the cell phone (what people with all these contraptions do to signal each other in a timely manner) which I did and he out of breath told me that another of our colleagues who always fancied himself, I believe, on a higher plane, was busted for child pornography, and other very bad things. He said to be sure to watch the 11 o'clock news which I never do but did and lo & behold there was the evil in-jail-now colleague's home on television with that plastic yellow police tape all around it and reporters in dour faces talking away. Then there was footage of him earlier in the day being led out of the house by some mysterious blonde woman (he doesn't go for girls, if you catch my reporterly drift) and he had a black jacket not just over his head but wrapping it. Like he was some sort of terrorist or religious fanatic of some sort. For ten years I worked at a camp in Maine for half inner-city and half rural girls, ages 8-12. Half of the campers were black and half were white, there were many racial tensions, and lots of the girls were sexually abused, unwanted, and yet at times could still be happy and carefree as kids should be. Sometimes you could see a dark cloud come over them. Some would tell you horrible facts from their short pasts as they held your hand walking to the dining hall for "food." The only thing sadder than an unwanted child is one who's sexually abused. I think the uncontrollable anger that washes over me when I see clinic protesters - when I slow down and honk and roll down my window and scream at them things like why don't you help the homeless or why don't you adopt unwanted babies - might be directed at this collegue the next time I see him. Maybe one of my high-falutin' karate kicks to his fat gut.

As REM once sang about I just came in from some quality Gardening at Night as I have these days only fleeting moments for such diversions. And some people never learn their lessons: the editor of the magazine just assigned me another story which I'm happy about, a subject matter I can wax poetically and prolifically about - the gleaning of exotic foodstuffs around town.
Only about one week until Dave Matthews Band and today I emailed my photo credentials request to his people who will email back to my people/me.
Slash of Slash's Snakepit fame (and G-n-R fame) is playing this mid-sized city soon, as are Clapton, Macy Gray, and BadCo. I'm photographing all of the above.
Haven't heard yet from Phish about the photos which I FedEx'd to them for the super secret project.

Just walked through the Allentown "Art" Festival where I saw scads of people that I know and now I'm writing from my newspaper office where my one editor is on a rampage to throw out everything, but only after he reads it first. So every few moments he'll say, hey, Nance, listen to this...
The festival yielded the usual panoply of craft, adorable dogs on leashes, an abundance of asphalt-soaked pedestrians, and the horrid wafting scent of fried dough and fried hotdogs and fried burgers, and fried onion rings, and fried tofu
So now I'm off to sushi with editor and my pal/his girlie friend and life couldn't be happier.
Tonight, more photo making, more rambunctious behavior.

Clarification: the mag(azine) editor is the woman whose life I was making hell by not turning in my story in a timely fashion. We did quality bonding. The newspaper editor in my life in the one who hugged me at the press conference, dig?
There are three main editors in my life: newspaper editor, AOL editor, and magazine editor. Then come second-level editors: my so-called sense of decency, the beau, close friends, mentor painter friend, and fav colleague.
So last night, out with the she-editor we had some wine at a downtown wine bar and I observed a sneaky move by a well-known area artist. He slipped his $20 off the bar and then asked the barkeep to bring his change. I was so flabbergasted that I said nothing. Then he took his unwarranted change and wasn't going to leave any $$ until I said something. I'm hoping he wasjust incredibly tipsy and spaced out.

The "editor" of my newspaper self has been calling calling calling and today, after a press conference at the region's largest art venue I said well, I'm leaving what did you want and he said I just wanted to say that I love you as he squeezed me tight. I don't always dig being touched. Like when I'm eating, please never touch me when I'm eating. Thanks oodles.
I'm (as usual) holding back information: beau, at my bidding, purchased and illegally imported some contraband from Spain. Two big bottles of Absinthe. And what came in the mail today, you might wonder? A specially-designed Absinthe spoon. So put that in your contraband pipe and smoke it. Look, any gardener that grows bushels of wormwood (me) has to be up to no good. I went out with the mag editor, I think we did quality bonding.

Phish's h.q. called again to say I've made it to the next round of the super secret Phish project and that they want some chosen shots FedEx'd to them asap. They dug what they saw and if I make it to the next round I still can't say what the hell this all is until there's a big public Phish-phueled announcement.

Newest in a series of bottles of Oban was purchased last evening which aroused some interesting reactions in the liquor store clerk boys. Maybe because I was purchasing it along with a mid-priced bottle of white wine. One said he didn't like scotch and I suggested that was because he had never had a great one. He said he didn't think he was old enough to drink scotch. I asked him if he'd like to step outside into the parking lot. I said that statement and calling me ma'am right now would earn you a good thrashing. He didn't call me ma'am. Earlier in the evening I had been talking to one of the Buffalo Bills, I'm pretty certain he's gay, who also was discussing scotch. He said Oh, I was into Oban for about a year. Like we were talking about opium or some other such thing, like maybe the Atkins Diet. Last weekend was all about rock stars, this one is light on star power. I'm passing on shooting *NSYNC to a pal who's into it for cash money's sake. (And that's sake, not sake, as in fun Japanese beverage) Last night my friend Jennifer - of Dyngus Day fame - said she'd help me learn how to create links and put photos of all the fab things I write about on epinw to make it an even more rollicking rock & roll sensory extravaganza. So yet more technology is screaming towards me hightailing it around a sunny mountain whilst straddling a Harley.

Party people, go and buy the new Radiohead NOW. That's my special order du jour. I was listening to it and it nearly blew my head off with its beauty and magma pathos. One of the record shop boys said "I've got a present for you" as he sped off into the back room. Now, as I've shot probably 2.5 million rock concerts and my ears, too, are shot, I wasn't so sure he had said present until he came back with a Radiohead notepad in his hands. It's so far-out I'll never use it for notes but maybe for a mousepad or just prop it up and admire it. That's the same joint that gave me the 3-d Chemical Brothers mousepad. I think they rule. You give me presents, you rule. It's as simple as that. Off to more deadlines. Love and adrenaline, your fav fotog.

Oasis and The Black Crowes were in my lens and mind last night at a show 70 miles away, r/t. There were superb rock moments with lots of hand gestures and good light, for a change. The stage at the venue, Darien Lake - a park of amusements, has been raised one foot. Security is now half the usual crew and half off-duty prison guards who are testy to talk with. Buzz-cut guys with no humor. And handcuffs. Wanted to work on my freaking story and made my way to the catering tent backstage which is no big deal. BUT apparently Liv Tyler and Kate Hudson were floating around - I really couldn't have been less interested as the boulder of deadline hell was upon me. I was harangued by my pal Chip, head of security, who was then was not then was going to kick me out until I stood up, threw the laptop on sleep and made my way out into the rain. It was the first date at this venue this season and it got off to a bit of a bumpy start. There's no place for working media to sit between our first three song allotment per band, no place to leave gear safely and in a dry place, and we're no longer allowed to leave via a handy gate to get to our cars and must walk a half-mile around a lot to our cars carrying all our stuff, etc. etc. I'll be cutting the amount of shows I'll be covering at this venue as a result of all of this hassle. Last night there was an attitude hovering about that members of the media, specifically photographers, are trying to pull a proverbial fast one and need to be treated like dishonest children. None of this makes sense to basic concert attendees who plop down money for ticket and for beers, then sit in a seat for a few hours with friends. But my Oasis and Black Crowes images which I made, and which will be appearing in my column, made up for all the officious muck.

Last night Artists & Models was a shitload of fun, my photo booth made a goodly amount of cash and after I figure out my materials costs I'll fork over the rest to the sponsoring arts org, Hallwalls. A lot of people said that they thought it was one of the best installations as it was interactive and humorous. All of my little helpers helped people select their fav secret and then they posed for a Polaroid which was $5. Most favored secrets were "I'm hung like a horse," "these aren't real," "I have a yeast infection," "I'm a true brunette," and "I love Billy Joel." There were about fifty secret choices. A gaggle of drag queens swiped "I dig internet porn" for a while and my helpers got incensed and hunted it down. Later, I was roaming for my photo column, and missed this melee, but three of my girlie friends were in an altercation with a drunk guy who took off with "I'm hung like a horse." They were, quite possibly, fueled by the shots of tequila which I had been plying them with all evening, served in film canisters in a smart and handy box. I'm not so sure I would want to wrangle a man who's hung like a horse. So at 2AM the house lights came on - show over - and me and the (unruly) gang broke down my photo booth in what seemed like a few minutes. The beau drove my car into the convention center and we loaded it up - as much as we ourselves were loaded. Earlier in the day, whilst setting up, I scouted out the p.a. system in the massive concrete space - a really hip-looking 70's mic of stainless on a very ergonomic base. So as we were all about to depart I swooped into the "command center" and my pal Steve B (musician & Hallwalls' music programmer) was sitting at the desk. I walked in and very quickly and calmly picked up the mic, pressed the large rectangular button for speak mode, and belted out about four lines of "Feelings" before another Hallwalls pal came RUNNING in to grab the mic out of my hands. Then out for more cocktails and further mayhem.
ps: Did run into my mag editor and instead of strangling me, she shook her finger at me for what seemed a long time. She said: "we've got black & white proofs coming on Monday and I'll have some explaining to do as to why your piece is not sitting in its space." I've been in this crazy racket to know that if that were really the case I would have received a dunning/serious/threatening/authoritarian phone call earlier in the week. If any editors are reading this, be up front, specific even. We writer/photographer types are a wily bunch, trained in information suppression and phrase turning. Dissemination is power. Procrastination is an art. Adrenaline is responsible for most of the activity and productivity in the whole huge world.

OK, I never ever, once claimed to not be a procrastinator and if you hire me to write a snappy/snazzy mag article you might just have to wait on it a while. But when you DO have it in your editorial hands, it'll freakin' rock.
PJ Harvey was superb, I think she was wearing Jimmy Choo shoes - they were that whack. One was stars, one was stripes, they were rhinestones & anklets. My boy colleagues informed the tour p.r. lady who looked a lot like Annie Lennox that I was the biggest baddest PJ Harvey fan and she regarded me. After shooting she asked if I'd like to watch the show, I said I've got a ticket and she said I can get you on the floor. Guess which rock & roll avenue I motored down above-average speed? I was at PJH's feet and nearly screamed at some double-fisting beer-toting bitch who would not shut up, so I had to move. The set was perfect, the crowd was non-surprisingly lukewarm about her. U2 was powerful.
Tonight I'm an artist participating in Artists & Models at the convention center and have created a "Trade Secrets Photo Booth" in which you select a laminated cartoon bubble of a secret, pose in front of a backdrop for a polaroid for sale, and move along. The booth is 20' x 20' and it looks great. I burned incense in it all day to give it another dimension. I've also prepared my customary tequila shots (just short of a shot) in Fuji film canisters, special treats for people I like.
Off to points beyond.

Filled with such glee as I'll be hearing PJHarvey and photographing her in now about two and a half hours. I'm listening to her latest cd and I must recommend it to everyone, go quickly, run, and buy it, now. Now. U2's label lady fedex'd me a ticket to the show tonight, but one, and I'm going to shoot, run to seat, run to security area where I'll stay in a holding pattern with colleagues until we're ushered out to shoot U2. Then I don't think I'm staying for their set and will pass my ticket off to another so that I can rush (rush?) home to finish my article for the magazine - the one that happened after Ani's big Dis and the one that, unless it's done tonight, will mean I'll be seeing my editor pal at my door, her two hands firmly grasped about my neck, ringing all the while. Well, time to do some more karate kicks to Polly Jean Harvey before I ferociously make my way through this frenetic night of music, of art, of power! (oh, the boyfriend thing will be fine, he read my blog, oopsies, and thanks for your emailic concern, it means a lot to me). Parting shot/thought: if I knew a goddamned thing about this web business I'd have all sorts of great links and images, but I'm busy and you have to simply amuse yourself with my musings. Rock on.

When it rains it not only pours in Nancy's world, it's a freaking monsoon. First the erasure of years of work off of the old-school computer and now my boyfriend is doing what he needs to do, and move far away from here. Apparently he's about to get offered a job for one year, someone just left a message on our answering machine. Maybe I should have picked up and said "listen, he said you can take that opening and stick it where the Buffalo sun never shines." This is something he needs to do professionally but which further sends me into an odd dark despair I haven't felt in a long time. I've just outlasted another man in this city.

After my last, Neil-loving post, all the shit in the epinw galaxy hit the proverbial fan. Just as I was completing six hours of my newspaper column (scanning, lay-out, writing) an evil message came up on one of my computers which, in a nutshell, meant I was FUKT. The hard drive is a thing of the past. I'll have someone try one more intervention but I think I've been jettisoned into having to spend more money to make this iMac my everything for the newspaper gig. So I had to rebuild everything after a brief personal meltdown. Then I got to the office at 5 or so and there was our art director who had had a panic attack and ran to work. It was very lucky for me as some other minor fiascoes came up. She said, "Nancy, you amaze me that you always keep going." I said "there's no choice." So the column was rebuilt, I was sleeping at about 8AM until Mr. UPS started banging on my back door to hand me a package from Gear Magazine, my returned Rolling Stone contact sheets. What's that saying, there's no sleep for the wicked? Back to new, exciting, post-meltdown deadlines. This is all almost funny, it's getting there. It's a real Over the Rhine moment.

Working on multiple deadlines of every genre to the point of absurdity. And I'm out of scotch. I'm listening to Neil Diamond, loudly, and if I had to hear one song for eternity/perpetual cd replay I would choose "Cherry Cherry." (Or "Blue Thunder" by Galaxie 500) If you don't like Neil Diamond you're reading the wrong blog - he's the fire in my medulla, the o's in my photography, maybe the i's of my writing. OK, so he's made some really Bad movies but his music, if you have an open mind, rocks. Here's a Neil memory for your perusal. When he was last in this city I photographed him for my column and for some reason felt I had to get dressed up for him, which I did - and which shocked my colleagues. I had invited a friend and she missed about half the show as she forgot about it. Then she showed up and was not into it one teensy weensy bit. By the time she showed up I had already bonded with a woman next to me who was with another also not into Neil so we sang - no, make tht screamed - all the words. OK, back to deadlines.

Today, I was a SUMMER GIRL. This exciting transformation of my tomboy self happened at the all-day Kiss the Summer Hello x-travaganza at the triple-A ballpark. I was backstage with all my boy colleagues and concert types and there was a gaggle of true Summer Girls with their red sashes and each had TWO beachballs in her arms. After a while there was a new gaggle - with sashes, and with beachballs. I became a bit jealous and kept saying, a la Veruca Salt, "I want to be a Summer Girl" until one Summer Girl whose time on stage had come and gone said "take my sash and go BE a Summer Girl." So quickly I put that thing on and blended into the new girls, all by the side of the stage. I hung in the back. I told one of my fellow Girls to give me one of her beachballs and she said "No we're supposed to each have two beachballs." I said "Look, I'm trying to blend over here," and turned to another besashed girl who said yes. So we pounced onstage between acts and acted all exuberant, bouncing and screaming before 15K spectators. Then it was time to throw our beachball(s) and the Girls all tossed theirs out in girlie fashion but I kicked mine triumphantly. I loved being a Summer Girl, and three of my boy colleagues documented my triumph over law and order. Of course I had to give the freakin' sash back. The Go-Go's played, by the way, and most of the under-21's HATED them and could not wait for 98 Degrees who were okay, if you like faux cornball romantic sagas between four bandmates and four girls. All in all, a damp day, many laughs with phello photogs and other fellow media hacks.

Forgot to mention this yesterday, a post-wedding noticing: I changed out of wedding photog ensemble into street clothes in my car after the portraits were done and the wedding party and family and friends split. I was done changing and I looked over to the smokestacks over the chapel, there are three as it's a chapel slash crematorium. I noticed that some of the leaves above one of the smokestacks were all undulating which meant that the whole time during the wedding ceremony, bird seed tossing, post-ceremony ceremonial lighting of cigarettes, well-wishing, and photography smiles someone was being transformed into ash. Ash to ash, fun to funky. I'm the only family member who has in my possession my grandmother's ashes which are sealed in a marble box and which sit on one of my work tables, directly behind me where I'm now typing this, and next to my favorite portrait I made of her. So tomorrow I'll be shooting some mega-popstars at a festival, from noon to six or seven in the pm. The Go-Go's are my major attraction. I can't wait to hear "Alex the Seal"/"Our Lips are Sealed" LIVE!

I saw a neighborhood kook who had a dead-ringer current event 60-year old Bob Dylan face and I'm not sure she knew it. I didn't tell her. At this moment I'm pondering writing about my feelings about camera-shy and petulant Dylan but will move along. I will mention however that I was asked to dinner at a loose cannon pal's house and she asked me to leave after dinner - after she put on some Dylan and I made a surly comment about the aforementioned. I trampled on sacred terrain.
Planned on having a normal night out last night with friends, dinner and such, and it turned into one of those peer pressurized non-stop cocktail ordering and the haziness of next day memory. As I laid in bed with a most wanging headache at 9AM I wondered (not aloud) what the couple whose wedding I was documenting in about three hours would think. But, being an absolute pro, I was there being my charming usual self.

Tonight photographed Mighty Mighty Bosstones, Dicky Barrett et al hit the stage in black suits and his matching hyper-dyed hair. I was in the security pit and to my left were screaming teenaged girls who did nothing but scream through the set - one of them screamed "oh my god, I see them" when she saw them backstage. To my right was a group of boys (same age/genre) who sang all the lyrics, fists flailing. Dicky spotted a boy, maybe seven, who was pressed against the barricade and had security lift him up and place him on the stage - where he sat for the rest of the gig, looking highly dazed.

Yikes, the beau returns tomorrow night and my bachelorette pad has to be disassembled: the vacuum cleaner is ready for action but I can't seem to take the final step of plugging it in and all. This is the sound I make when I vacuum: "fricka fricka rissa rassen." I HATE cleaning and have found that if I put on some ass-kicking rock & roll, like PJ Harvey, on cordless headphones really loud it becomes more tolerable. FedEx'd off contact sheets to Phish's office and their p.r. guy, Jason, told me a HUGE secret which I abso-freakin-lutely can't tell anyone. I'm wondering why on Earth he even had to tell me. Hoping they dig the images and want to buy one for the BIG secret that will have all Phish phans the world opher peeing in their phreaking pants. Whereas once you could take a blood sample from me and find that it was composed mainly of photo chemicals, these days you would find mainly coffee in the sample. Off to more writing, off to more deadline state of mind, not off to more cleaning.

The theatre marathon turned out to be better than expected - sat next to a delightful guy who took notes as I did through the show but he was rating the dresses glimmering onstage. Several girlie friends took pity upon me for not being able to do my characteristic rabble-rousing and kept coming to the table I was sharing with the dress judge and leaving me scotch and sodas. Thanks to Ramona, thanks to Deb, thanks to Jen, and thanks to Kara for keeping spirits high.
Just returned from shooting a conference. Apparently the hotel had their ventilation units on reverse and the oxygen was being sucked out of the room, I nearly slipped into a coma between speakers. The keynote is a former FBI man who served for "9 years, 8 months, and 9 days." Heh heh heh. At break time I had to photograph his phony baloniness and he's one of my pet peeve kind of guys who says one of three things to me/photographers...but his repartee had an interesting new twist: "that lens is as big as Dallas." Heh heh heh. The complete pet peeve list: 1. Are you the official photographer? (inflection on adjective); 2. Hey is there film in your camera -or- Hey your lens cap is on; 3. Whoah, that's a big lens.
This man would have never made my secret FBI guy series, he wasn't good looking enough. I've got a collection of stealthy shots of on-duty FBI men, so damned handsome in suits and ties, with arched eyebrows, and wires coming out of their ears. Once I was schmoozing two FBI men before Clinton showed up with Gore, Hillary, and Tipper and all was fun and games until I asked this horrifying question:
"Are you all listening to the same thing?" They backed away and that was the end of that.

One parting thought before I part & pout my way to the marathon night of theatre hoopla...those cute and nice boys from Phish's office in Burlington VT called to ask me once again for my images of the band for their web site - they've used my stuff before and this would be from their latest WNY appearance. So here's a simple addition to the deadline miasma - fedex (their account) some contact sheets of them, for them. A woman called the other day about using one of my images on the front of the phonebook, not even the one that I like and use. Her message mentioned no comp but she was sure to mention that they publish 68K copies and "it would be a nice coup." I'm self-editing and withholdng my usual salty adjectives and such. And another procrastinational thought: coups make this exuberant, current event-following photog think of two things - our childhood heroine Patty Hearst/Tanya and messy political acts in faraway lands we would not like to visit.

As I just told my friend in Toronto, if you check your lexicon entries for the words lunacy and overcommitment you'll see my likeness. He offered me tickets to see PJ Harvey & U2 in TO but I can't go - I'm more interested in seeing her skinny talents than them. I saw U2 during the mid-80's when Bono had a broken arm and they weren't a high-powered & socially aware & prop/pop-driven ensemble. The minutes are counting down to the time when I must begin five (unfortunate) hours of photographing a local theatre awards ceremony, attached to my newspaper gig duties. I usually wear a dress but tonight, in my curmudgeonly and stressed state of mind, will show up in slacks, accoutrements and snazzy shoes. It's all just about the shoes anyhow.

I was considering the cheeseball Bronski Beat song on the car radio moments ago (en route back home/here) an interesting exercise in strange self-reflexion when I realized about one minute into it I could stand it no longer and reached for the last preset, a classic rock station halfway through "After the Goldrush." Thank heavens for classic rock.

Also en route I spotted a DMB billboard on Main Street and quickly zoomed like a movie on Dave's adorable face. My first thought was that I needed to steal it. Second thought was how do I get up there? Third thought was where would I prominently display this ginormous piece of Davey plastic?

I am going to write a letter to Mac h.q. to proffer them this important idea which maybe I should trademark first, but hell, here goes, and don't steal it stickyminded reader: an exciting new laptop accessory...the tabletop screen which doesn't shield the computer's screen from pesky radiant light but shields the computer user's identity from pedestrians, onlookers, and general dufuses. Today, practically in another county, I hunkered down for some extra-home writing and nearly screamed when a person who's probably never seen the likes of my ridiculous agenda of commitments and overcommitments spotted me and sauntered over to my (unfortunately public) coffee joint table. This is the time of year when my life becomes an extreme sport and I have no free time.And, as I am wont to say, I don't have time to fart. Tabletop screen. Or maybe an XL sombrero.

Here's some solid irony. Yesterday I had had enough of getting no return calls from Righteous Babe Records for my possible Ani DiFranco story for a local shiny magazine. Rather than calling her lead handler myself at his home or on his cel I decided to go the Professional Route and called their office - for four weeks. No yes, no no, no thing. So I called yesterday morning and, in a spicy nutshell, said I've been trying to contact the handler (who I've known for perhaps 15 years) via your office and is this the way your company handles media requests? I went on (and on) and said that if the answer was a big fat NO I would like to know as the magazine would be going to press shortly. The woman said she would have someone get back to me. I explained that I was on my way into a meeting and couldn't talk to anyone for about an hour. Within one minute I got a call from RBR's v.p. (oh hell, his name is Scot), the lead handler, who rambled a bit until I said look, it's been on & off four weeks of calls, yes or no? He explained that Ani had just finished all interviews and now there was a "media blackout" and that RBR is opening an office in London and she's about to embark on another tour. So if they had called me back aeons ago I may have had an interview. Irony: (which I detailed to the magazine's editor) RBR staffers make much of the fact that they've remained in Buffalo to do business yet give local media a difficult time. If CNN or SPIN were sniffing around for a story you can bet your sweet media credetials that they would have called back. So Scot was all mopey-voiced and I said look, I really don't care, but now I've got to call the editor. He said you can blame it all on me. Onwards and upwards, I'm onto another story which will actually be more fun to write. Ani says to hell with local media. I say how about a local media blackout of RBR/Ani? Off for a weekend of work and work-related fun.
Later in the day yesterday took a close friend out for sushi for his b-day and the sake flowed like the tears of Jesus in an onion patch. We moved over to a lounge and had yet more sake until the voluminous band chased us away, to another joint across the street where we proceeded to drink a hoary Australian from Adelaide under the proverbial table. He was amusing until he went very stooped and sleepy. His tag line, pre-snooze, was I love your work. Upon hearing that me and my friend are artists. Today I called him and shouted I LOVE YOUR WORK. He said that now we could add to our c.v.'s that we drank an Aussie under the table, 2001.

Today. Got to bed at about 5AM after working on my column and AOL deadline all day & night and upon arriving at the newspaper orifice found those machines in a state of chaos. Still managed to squeak in some VH1 before ensuing zzz's and re-arose at 10AM to reconfigure and meet my friend Catherine Parker to begin work on our dual exhibition which opens in exactly one year - a year minus one week. All grain elevator images. I drove us to Concrete Central and we meandered, I shot and she sketched for two and a half hours. We lost each other for about an hour which was scary as the grain elevator is huge and parts of the ground are sunken in and some of the concrete is worn thin. And, as Brucey said, you never know when you might bump into Boo Radley. When I began photographing grain elevators 6 or 7 years ago I did so with the intent to show the opposite of cold and formalist images that always seem to get made. Life is moving and grooving all around these stoic beings and I jump in for symbols left behind by workers, and document plants taking over. Today I imagined the ghosts of every past reveler at this grain elevator, hanging off of metal ladders, pissing in corners, the air full of spray paint fumes, fires all around, and dozens of rock & roll radios playing all different classic rock hits through the ages. I walked across metal grating bolted over rotting train ties of a r.r. bridge up about 50 feet to get to the site and at one point I froze with fear. I asked Catherine to tell me about her martial arts studies (she's now a yellow belt), to take my mind off of possible mishap. Walking back over the bridge was not much easier - I forgot to get a super criss-crossed bridge beam with view of C.C. behind it and my huge desire for this image overcame fear. Art/photography won. We saw a blue heron.

Two wondered whose email I copied, pasted, and posted yesterday. Some things in this world have to remain a mystery, and besides, you don't know him. He's the person I took to the abso-freakin-lutely amazing Roger Waters show a few summers ago. And he's married to the woman who I consider to also be one of my best friends. And if he's reading this, hello and you made me feel like I was floating along on a puff of pink smoke after reading such poesie. Oh yeah, speaking of smoke, I just returned to my deadline miasma from shooting craggly mime superstar Marcel Marceau, at his tech rehearsal. Understanding French I knew that he was really bitching out the people in the wings, hating the lights, and especially the very rock & roll puff of smoke which someone belched out onto the stage and which hung over MM's head. Me and two of my colleagues were dismissed after a few minutes with many apologies from some p.r. people.

Dropped boyfriend at the mid-international airport (flight to Atlanta, six hour wait, flight of about same hours to Barcelona) a while ago and this means unabashed and repetitive Dave Matthews Band listening, Pink Floyd blaring, all-night VH1 watching, guilt-free workaholism, and above-average staying out late. Bye honey...I'll miss you...sniff...where's the Oban? Just bought Reveal, the new R.E.M. - it's soft and I'm digging it already but I haven't heard a high-kick-inducing rock song yet. Every release I find myself holding back before succumbing to their new twist on their genius. And the Stipe voice is still as sexy/earthy resonant.

Here are some special Nancycentric thoughts from the head of my secret fan club:

Course-o-course I have read your blogspot. All the damned time I read it!
Nearly daily. Daily, I nearly have enough time to write to you. Missive
thoughts are constant but not in cyberspace to you. Hello to you. How can
you/how do you/who allowed you enough time to do what you do and write
bloodspots'? I don't get it. I am beyond impressed. You truly are a goddess!
I praise thee oh Nancy, goddess of all that I believe to be. Zen one who is
chaos in nature but centered with a flow of the wind and stars. And flow you
shall, with the worms lifting the earth to your feet as you walk. No cold
alabaster benches for you bottom, no!!!!! Only love, love, love and, happy
thoughts and, free bowls of tummy love for you. You may rule the world but, I
quit smoking.

Saturday night arrived at a friend's all-gal b-day party late as I had been scampering about covering a fashion show, some music, and an art opening. Upon starting up the front steps of the respectable home in the respectable neighborhood I thought I heard a just-fired gun and imagined that it was another friend brandishing one of her cache of inherited items. It was two summers ago when me and this same woman, at another even more respectable home, thought about firing the handgun nestled in her handbag in the backyard - but thought better of it amid the brick courtyard setting. I imagined the terror of a ricocheting bullet and having to hit the dirt so to speak in my great outfit. Upon hearing about the backyard firearm antics that hostess went really pale in the face...that was also the party when an out-of-control acquaintance crashed the party, got drunk, got violent, and was taken away in a shiny ambulance. Sometimes I go to festivities which aren't tainted with lawlessness and the like.

Rock & Roll travel works - if you've got the right attitude. Mazzy Star's "She Hangs Brightly" was this adventure's soundtrack which worked well on both flights, and in MOMA as I looked at the annoyingly new DIGITAL and huge people-infested images of Andreas Gursky. Got to this city's airport with wet hair, blouse all mis-buttoned, and bag ajar. And, quite possibly (but I was in my zone and beyond noticing), fellow travelers agog. The air personalities stated "you must be Nancy" and then I stumbled towards the shitty little prop plane. Note to self: jets = less inner ear mayhem. Other note to self: car service = less post-ride barfiness than bouncy cabs. Made the to-NYC flight by some miracle (I was showering, oh, forty minutes before takeoff) and met up, serendipitously, with a pal on the very same plane en route to moving to France (Land of Perfection/Delicious Johnny Depp's home). Bought her and I some kir royales at JFK and went along my way to meet my AOL/outtatown & outtasight editor in the big M. Many other NYC adventures ensued with several friends & acquaintances & artworks including: near-knockout bump on head from steel girder badly positioned on stairwell of Dorota's new art studio; ferocious bite mark on right arm from same; scratch on face from god knows what; great new me&ro ring; blackened khaki knees from fake fall with a pal's non-fake cane in middle of a crowded SoHo restaurant; wounded feet from wearing beautiful new shoes for miles and miles of smiles; and residual hangover molecules floating throughout my artfully-stimulated brain. I returned to this fair city Friday afternoon after a near-debacle with American Airlines in NYC at their gateside counter. The on-duty officiates announced casually that my flight was oversold 100% and that I was on a waiting list and would be "rolled over" to a later flight. Visions of pre-air rage and attendant shocking acts floated before my hateful eyes - I had a gig in four hours. Nancy's World is a happy world when all goes my way. I watched the odd work of the two women in front of me, remaining a hunkering presence until I had my hands on my fucking little green boarding pass. In a few hours I was back at work, socially documenting a VIP et al dinner at which Rita Moreno was a guest of honor. Me: unfamiliar with her work on television and B'Way, being a non-follower of both. Rita: petite and well-dressed and a spicy starry presence who likes to jibe, apparantly, with photogs. Me: hanging back as dinner was being served to see if the little star of tube & stage wanted to actually eat or schmooze the night away. Rita: graciously throwing her arms around anyone who wanted to pose for a photo with her, all the while informing that person that I was the city's most famous social photographer. Me: slightly amused.

As I'm skedaddling out of town for some artsy matters for a few moments I thought I'd leave you another post, a juicy succulent glimpse into my complex and convoluted psyche. Yesterday I photographed a hoopla-rich parade and, as usual, found myself in tears. I told some people recently that parades make me cry and someone suggested that perhaps I was a majorette in a past life. Another offered a kind, sentimental comparison - she cries at the first hint of "Silent Night." I've cried at parades in Japan honoring spring, Mardi Gras in New Orleans, NYC, wherever. I think someone (H) should do a picture story of me teary-eyed at these grand occasions.

Between shooting some excellent regional/local bands at a local joint where I occasionally do some celeb guest mixologizing I was called behind the bar as they were slammingly busy. Being a pathetically bad fast adder of integers I usually make up prices and cocktail totals: one guy unsmilingly ordered three drinks and when I delivered them with my customary big smile I told him the fabricated total which surprised him. It turned out, after consulting a real mixologist, that I had greatly overcharged him, oh well. I decided it was time to start a little arm wrestling fun and did so with one guy who sort of let me beat him. Then I challenged another guy who didn't see the comedy in this and was going to try to slam my photographic hand into the bar - so I started biting his clasped fingers until he relented. All's perfect in my world when I: a. get my way; b. win; and c. find a great pair of shoes. One parting thought: I think I greatly distressed my mentor artist friend when I told him that Timothy McVeigh is being put to sleep on his birthday.

Broken Nose #2 Story: shooting some local bands on ground floor of a dance/music club decided between sets to go upstairs to watch dance activity. I was standing on the side of the dancefloor when suddenly a tall, lanky guy in a ball cap grabbed me by the wrists and pulled me into the middle of the happy lights and post-mod movement. I was trying to see under the cap for an i.d. and never got a good look. I could tell he was drunk as he stumbled about - and I couldn't get away from him because he had my wrists and all. Suddenly he lost his footing and all 6' or so of him came crashing onto the bridge of my nose. He scooted away as the yellow lights of pain come racing towards my face. I staggered over to the upstairs bar holding my bleeding nose, for some ice in a filthy bar rag. When I collected myself I went downstairs and asked the person at the door if they saw this lanky accident on two legs and he said "oh, he just ran out of here." Weeks later I was speaking with another photo colleague and mentioned what happened and he said "that was my friend Chris and he feels really bad about that." He was absolutely not lying. And I've never talked with Chris about this, I think I like to let him think that I don't know that he broke my nose. Maybe I don't want to admit such nasal fallability. FYI: broken nose #1 I sort of deserved...I grabbed a ball away from a boy and cruelly ran away taunting him and straight into a brick wall. I was ten.

Psychedelic Furs was the band in my crosshairs last night: it was a case for lip-synching I have to say. But nobody seemed to notice, it was like the 80's were floating happily and heavily through the air and nobody gave a shat that Richard Butler was not really ever too on (or near) key. But I have to admit, hearing "Ghost in You" again live gave me a few goosebumps. After I was finished shooting (3 songs & you're out, general rule) I stood on the sidelines surrounded by several friends and acquaintances and marveled at a few guys who moved up to the edge of the stage completely enraptured. About song 6 or 7 a guy came over who knows me and one of my colleagues, a fledgling and lanky photog who broke my nose the second time at a dance club. I'm not sure that he knows that I know that he broke my nose.

Photographed They Might Be Giants last night and I realized that they were the premier, or if not first then near-first, band that I ever photographed. It was a small concert in an art gallery in the mid-80's and there were maybe one hundred people there. Last night there were more than the two Johns on stage, a light show, and hundreds and hundreds of watchers. And it was still a great show even though I wasn't sitting on a wooden art gallery floor at their feet. One thing I bemoaned today: the lack of the exchange of mixed tapes. I know there are snazzadelic ways to burn cd's and all that jazz but it's not nearly as romantic, as labor intensive, and low-tech.

Working for the weekly alternative to a small to middling city daily oftentimes means that you're not on the A list for info dissemination. Today by sheer accident I discovered that thee Sarah Ferguson/Fergie/Budgey Creator was in town promoting a new book and the glee of personal weight loss. I was about to do some quick phone calling, driving, self-credentializing, and documenting when I recalled something: Fergie borrowed a pair of Di's shoes and later said that she caught warts from the shoes. This so enraged Di that she cut off Fergie forever - and they didn't reconcile before Di's irresponsibly chauffeured/papparazzi-induced death. To lend a pair of shoes is a great gesture of kindness and to repay that gesture with the accusation of foot warts breaks the girlie code. I stayed away.

I'm not sure what bad karmic thing I did but earlier I was on the phone with a high school pal from it seems three lifetimes ago who is all rah-rah-sis-koom-bah about our class' pending reunion. I told her that I had worked long and hard to become one of the mailing list lost. I wasn't joking. She laughed. My life is full of fun and satisfying adventure and I can't imagine how seeing a roomful of people I haven't seen since graduation day will enhance it (the curmudgeon growled). I see a select handul of other, like-minded artful individuals from those teen days. High School me: voted most talented, played tennis a lot, set a tardy to school record, rowdy and zany (recollected teacher phrases), drove for years without license (or permit), babysat, A- student. Our class was renowned for cliques and I was one of the few who floated freely between them. Apparently the invitation makes reference to the clique situation which fascinates me.

As I noticed a moment ago that tomorrow is May Numero Uno I thought I'd add an on-the-verge-of-summer-anxiety post. Working daily, sometimes 12-18 hours, most summers are nearly over before I notice it's Labor Day and I have to pack away my white shoes (NB: I don't own a single white shoe, oh, one pair of white bucks). I always tell my colleagues that if it weren't for the occasional outdoor concert, music festival, and other outdoor cultural happenings to shoot I'd never see much sun or summer. For this inception I think I'll attempt more excursions out of town, maybe a trip to the beach, (okay, maybe no trip to the beach where my ADD completely shines), and one run through a sprinkler.

Daily words of wisdom, provided today by a wandering neighborhood crazy man: "Be careful. Be careful driving out there (we were both outside), there are a lot of crazy people out there."

Went to socially document a huge annual event at el grande Albright-Knox Art Gallery after suburb party. Thousands of revelers were milling about, listening to several bands, and occasionally knocking into a piece of art on the walls. Note to self: no more reading event program while walking towards a set of interior marble steps, it hurts. No equipment damage - camera or limbs. A man picked me up at the bottom of the steps and his name was Brooks, he and his wife were very hip and nice and I shot a picture of them for my column. Yay, Brooks. Realizing I was going to be aching I decided it was time for some pain management in the form of scotch & sodas. A rock star friend of mine asked if I'd like half of her pot chocolate chip cookie so I crunched that down although that's not my usual substance I choose to abuse. After a while I felt even more vibrant than normal and approached another rock star pal (formerly of national fame) and told him that I had just eaten a pot cookie (he's a proponent of all things marijuana) and that all of my amoebas were undulating. I kept walking, thinking, what the hell did that mean?

A truly surreal episode in the car happened last night with two friends. Mission: get to a suburban bon voyage party, deliver gifts, have some drinks, and make return drive within an hour. Drive time from city to sub/ex-urb is about fifteen minutes. We were in my car for two hours and never got to the party (none of us were under the influence of anything, lest you're wondering). We passed the football stadium three times, certain other landmarks a few times. Maps were consulted. We stopped and one passenger asked directions from a bar full of regulars. We called various people on our cell phones. The whole time we were searching for a Potter Avenue and ended up on a Potters Road about five miles from where we started - there was a house of the same number and I suggested that, because now we were hurrying to get to other events, that we slow the car and throw our gifts for the bon voyagee out the car windows onto their lawn. After dropping my two passengers off I decided to make another attempt and did make it to the party that time in the fifteen minutes, phoning my friends to tell them so so that they could share in my pride and jubilance. I regaled, or attempted to regale, the suburbanites with the tale of the two-hour drive but they just didn't find it nearly as hilarious, as eye-wateringly gut-busting as we had. But it was a swell party, lots of people, lots of wine, lots of snacks.

My slide talk was stellar, no technical glitches. Small group of inner city h.s. people and mid-talk one of the boys had his head back, mouth ajar. I had to restrain myself from bursting out laughing. His eyelids were even fluttering, REM sleep, quality snooze. I kept it more of a dialogue, asking them questions periodically. I was surprised at one point when a teacher from another class meandered in to make copies on the loud copy machine in the room. Q&A was fun, I passed around my equipment and they marveled at the weight of it all. After that a lunch engagement and then I photographed an immigration attorney. Specialty: sports stars & executives. One of her co-workers came in to offer a facial expression critique and it was revealed that she's a closet BSB (that's Backstreet Boys/Boyz to those of you not in the teen loop) fan.

Tomorrow I am participating in a collective show & tell - I am the show & tell item du jour at a local high school. I'm recycling a tray of slides for this and I have to go through and make sure the material is appropriate, I suppose. Slide talks are like weird dreams: dark room, your images are really big and disjointed, and all you can hear is your voice speaking out into the darkness for what seems like e-ter-ni-ty. Note for tomorrow to self: no swearing, no swearing, no swearing. One section of the slide tray is editorial and one image is from the clinic protests a while back. The image is kooky Rev. Schenk holding "Tia," the fetus, in his hands. This school is Catholic and the students will have just come from lunch, maybe not.

Yesterday I had a great freelance gig for a film production studio, as the still shooter. The event was a massive car auction for dealers (cars, not drugs) and among the several secret things I learned about the world of auctions was this: auctioneers, even the ones who auctioneer so fast it's not English, go to school for two weeks. That might be only ten days if they have weekends off for age old cramming. And another thing: car auctioneers don't use gavels, they use rubber hoses from engines to whack at each deal's end for drama.

A woman in the car next to me on the early morning expressway was very busy curling eyelashes as I passed her in my car. I did not pass in fear but in pure haste. I am also an auto-multi-tasker and would like to ask all anti-auto-multi-taskers to accept that some drivers are individuals with special skills who can safely accomplish much more than operating car & radio before park mode. In one of my prescribed magazines I saw an ad for a DVD player designed for dashboards (as in for driver and passenger, not a back mini-van seat DVD): the guy in the photo is having someone pump his gas as he watches a scene in which a meta-car is in the midst of a yellow fireball. Apparently intra-car amenities are acceptable as long as they're hands-free. This rankles my driving+cell-phone using self. Even with my snazzy ear piece I have to dial, yikes, and close my phone! But, wait a second, the DVD user has to, like a CD listener, eject, FF, etc. Ban my cell phone and I'll ban your cup of coffee, takeout, and drivesmokes.

The last post was written back before my facial skin was treated to 3.5 hours of roasting as I forgot to slather on the usual SPF 615 lotion before yesterday's FTAA rally & march & belly-to-belly protesters/cops standoff. Headed via thruway to the international border/Peace Bridge and then ended up on the wrong side of the law/police barricade of nose-to-tail garbage trucks, and dozens of units of marching (and chanting) SWAT team members, State Troopers, border patrol, and policemen. After much confusion and conflicting advice from aforementioned as to where to park my vehicle, I intended to leave it somewhere near the garbage trucks which greatly upset a little officer in huge orange rain coat (note: not a cloud in the sky). He yelled, baton up, as if to batter my vehicle. He screamed so loud it was rather amazing, his eyes had that glazed look of someone post-drinks & pre-fight - or someone who's had way too much uppity substances. He told me to remove myself and my vehicle and gave me vague directions, shouting "DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, MA'AM?" When I heard the ma'am part I sort of chose to ignore him and kept driving, and thinking 'Fuck You, Sir.' Well that wasn't a wise, but rather a wiseacre, idea as he then yelled even LOUDER and ran towards my vehicle (note use of vehicle rather than car) with his baton higher. That made ten others in similar attire run towards me and the vehicle. I stopped then. He leaned into my car, his scary little face very near mine. I thought, ever so briefly, that I wanted to tell him never to call me ma'am again. "Ma'am? Did you not hear me yelling for you to stop?" I finally ditched the car and trotted to the march, shooting various people in both the legal and arrest-friendly zones. I saw Ani's mother and told her that she was marching along into non-legal rally zone and she came to a screeching halt, especially after I told her about the armies I saw marching minutes earlier. Got to the bridge and talked with several of my photo colleagues, and some protesters I know. Didn't know any of the cops, but who the hell could tell when they were behind scratched plexi shields, plexi face shields, and gas masks? Only one arrest happened, some skinny punk rocker with an anti-FTAA rag pinned to his filthy wife beater and sporting a skillful mohawk. He was later graciously released and I was the only media hack who did not run after him to make him hero for a day (I got him when he was wrassled to the ground). At one point I was nearly pressed against a SWAT guy when I turned and whacked my head on his shield. I then asked him some small-talk-style questions about the weight of his shield, etc. One of several weird moments: it's typical for the authorities to be irked by pressing media but suddenly yesterday the protesting mass was asking media to get out. One of my pals said his feelings were hurt. A revolution without still and video cameras is not only foolhardy, but suspect. 3.5 hours and then the protesters turned to go to another rally, and I made my brunch engagement, regaling some non-media friends with snippets which I washed down with strong coffee.