One never knows when one will encounter a closeted hipster, now does one?
Had a freelance dropoff today out in the farout suburbs at a private catholically-infused college. My next stop needed to be a post orifice and, not knowing this suburb very well, rolled down my passenger-side window to ask an ultra-average middle-aged guy in the bland american car how the hell to get there, wherever it might be. He rolls down his window, is immediately smirky and ridiculous, and suddenly speaks as if he's a computer searching the internet for information. I'm processing, one moment please, he actually said. OK, got it...make a left then a right, etc. etc. (he was wrong, but after some vulture-style circles, found the damned place). As I'm thanking him he holds up his thumb, Fonzi style, and shouts ROCK ON. I am still amazed.
BSB (Backstreet Boyz/Bootie-Shakin' Boys/Butt Sucking Boobs) turned down my request to photograph them for my column. Oh well, no ringing ears later tonight from a sell-out teenaged crowd screaming their growing lungs out.

Still have the borrowed/dropped-off dog, Henry, and tomorrow is the day that his owner picks him up after nearly two weeks at Auntie Nancy's Spa for Pets. Brita pitcher water, Iams, healthy biscuits, grooming, a flowery yard in which to romp, rock & roll education - it's every canine's dream.
Last dusk's rah-rah-rah Peace is Over candlelight vigil was an odd contrast of iconography. The three fates in the form of habited nuns sat dourly on lawn chairs front & center in the off-limits (except to media, special guests, the handicapped... and the fates) section. Each held a flag, and a candle.
One of my boy colleagues said to me You know you're up for something interesting when even the nuns are out for blood.
At the end of the programme I felt suddenly like I had been jettisoned onto ground zero of a 1950's war-era movie replete with the patriotic chanting, bunting, plump babies, etc. There was one rotten apple which I noted, a drunk kilt-clad veteran who was groaning and shouting hoarsley either THANK YOU or GOD BLESS AMERICA. And we all know there's no way in hell he could shout GOD BLESS MY UNDERWEAR as men in kilts like to swing free & easy.
Walking back towards the vehicle with a small entourage of two, the throng rediscovered a downtown monument to veterans and there left multi-scented candles at the base of it and around its grass triangle, a sight which reminded me of the John Lennon 20th anniversary death vigil which I attended in Strawberry Fields.
All in all, great pictures. Especially the moment when I spotted a stepladder alongside the large stage, climbed up and shot from the side of the platform, my invisibility costume rendering me unseen by politicians, the lady signing, and the onstage troops. HOORAY FOR BEING INVISIBLE.

Mad as a man falling in yoga's tree pose upside down on a sunny day.

Drove out to the exurbs Friday night for a concert at the area's most difficult venue where photographers are subject to astronomical obstacles in the act of making pictures. And, as I am wont to say, when life gives you photo-related lemons do your damnedest and make lemonade. Specifically: Saliva and Godsmack at Darien Lake. Lighting minimal. Pyros terrifying. Sight lines difficult. Me and boy colleagues grasped at arduous moments and fading possibilities and I left growling.
But the night's most visually arresting snippets were guys and boys and men and jocks in starspangled jackets à la Evel Knievel and Old Navy shirts and bandannas on heads, waving old glory and hootin' & hollerin' underneath a suspended flag mid-venue/amphitheatre the size of which is only seen in front of that chain diner which discriminates against minorities, has lost court cases, and which serves food never resembling that represented in menu photos. So these guys were chanting USA USA USA !!!!!!! over and over and their fists pumped the air and if they had flags those were in their fists. These flag wavers were drunk, furious, and about to rock the fuck out. Before Godsmack's fairly amazing set a local dj came out, referred to 9-11, said Godsmack is making me do this and then, over the p.a., came the world's scratchiest rendition of the national anthem, so scratchy at first I couldn't tell what it was.
Later in the night, inner-city rambling, a few party stops, more of that rock & roll and party and art opening business on Saturday, and a yet more more more today. Off to another art function before a dinner gathering and then a candlelight vigil afore City Hall, already cardoned off in anticipation of thousands upon thousands.
Radiohead plays on in the background, a lush wall.
Pink Floyd lyrics sprung forward as I drove to a freelance gig this sunny day:
(stop here if you don't dig Pink Floyd, can't groove on their 70's and early 80's pomes, and never come back to epinw, fercrissakes)
So you think you can tell heaven from hell, blue skies from pain. Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail? A smile from a veil? Do you think you can tell?
Onwards to images in the making, to be made, which must be made, by me, the handmaiden of imagery - your beloved, fav blogging Nancy.

Finally heard from my trader friend. She left me a message last night, her voice not sounding at all like usual. Elba hoped that she never had to go through that again... this lifetime. She was in the World Trade Center, working for Smith Barney, when it was bombed in 1993 and I spoke with her while she was on the rooftop before being led down the stairwell by flashlight by the Red Cross. She's been through, like thousands of others, two bombings. I wonder how many people will be moving out of Manhattan after the dust settles. My friend Dorota was attempting to leave the city to spend time away from the flying debris in her neighborhood. And she's concerned about airborne asbestos. Had dinner last night with three friends and one amongst us had such an incredible America-bashing take on things it shocked (and saddened) me, at one point he sneeringly asked if I am a flag-waver. He soaks in history and fancies himself a tried & tru intellect but is ignorant and outdated. Normally I excuse his eccentricities but will be taking a break from his company.
I bet most of the rock extravaganzas inked into my book will be not happening this weekend. Invited to a soirée this evening and would enjoy not talking about the international tragedy for one night. I've been burning a candle in my house for all the dead. And yes, I am a flag waver.
And so, too, is my friend Kenneth in Amsterdam. Be strong.

Because of the World Trade Center bombing I am, for the first time in my life, not thinking about my perilous fear of needles and blood and am giving blood this afternoon. Terror would be a good word to describe my thinking of the Red Cross visit but it seems like a grand thing to do being cross-state and helpless to do much else to help post-tragically. I'm looking at this foray as a personal challenge Oh, you think you're so tough Nancy, strap yourself in and let those nice people take some nice juicy (wooziness starts now) B+.
Be positive and spill loose your B+.
Canceled excursion to Toronto today as reportedly the traffic to cross is hours long. Aftermath of tragedy, most of the world in a numbed state. And some celebrating in sunny streets as if it were a holiday.
Is this karma? Why do wars involve pedestrians? Will the site of the WTC become a field of daisies? Will everyone in the US know someone or know someone who knew someone who died yesterday?
Will I faint at the Red Cross. Will I keep you posted?
You bet.

ps: went to the red cross and started crying when I saw all their flags fluttering in the breeze and a dozen volunteers collecting money on the avenue and handing out flyers to a line of cars which I was in. The man who handed me the flyer said they were so inundated with blood donors that I should return at another time. Then someone told me that they only want O now and non-first-timers. Off the hook/needle I suppose.

Happened to have the tv on this am in between workout tapes to see footage of the World Trade Center in flames and I thought it was archival from when bombs were driven into the garage and detonated. I realized it was live and in those few minutes the second plane flew into the second tower and blew up. The newscasters were dumbfounded and two of the three regained some composure while the third, a woman, was absolutely beyond comprehension and words. I watched until the tower crumpled and decided I could watch no longer. I thought about putting on my L7 tshirt with the skeleton hands but opted instead for my John Lennon shirt. I'm wrapped in a wish for peace. Yesterday I bought the NYTimes and there was a full page ad from an international Jewish org praising both our retarded president and Colin Powell for their support and rejection of the world council on racism. And today this. Are these related?
Dorota, who lives in SoHo on Broome Street, this morning heard a jet flying over her building and then an explosion and watched the towers collapse from her rooftop.
This is the only time I am glad to be in Buffalo and not NYC.
Moment of silence. Moment of silence. Moment of silence.

What a weekendous cavalcadous as to make even our block-rich lifetime both marvel and amaze. Met up with City of Light authoress Lauren Belfer this afternoon as she sketched with a local artiste and, as we reporters are wont to do, asked about her upcoming project which at first she abso-fuckin-lutely would not discuss. OH PUH LEEZ I wanted to shout into her facialed face, a response to her finishing school dusky come hither voice. Finally: she IS working on something, mucho research involved and it's not about Buffalo as if I would break down that it was not about this middling city. She mentioned the notion of the advance. I asked. Advance? To which her dusky voice responded I cannot discuss that but I will say that I am under contract. She is pleasant, beautiful, dusky-voiced, and cannot draw to save her life.
My Perfect Weekend, in a nutshell:
The Hipster Police patrolled the venue where Lee Renaldo et al performed seriously as mediocre video footage played and stage lights rested, unused. Squonky noise jazz. People, affeared of the Hipster Police, muttered into my small ears that they were unimpressed, that they felt ripped off. I eagerly await the appearance of Kim and Thurston soon, my money's on that being the show to be at, to remember and remember.
Guess Who and Joe Cocker: night of puffball XY rock. I took an informal survey in the security pit as I shot away with the boy colleagues: Burton Cummings's hair, real...or fake? Joe Cocker opened for G.W. (?)
Shot a wedding last night and the video gal was a psycho. Me and the dj and the caterers plotted her untimely death over the side of the balcony. At the reception met a few highly interesting men, and had a lengthly discussion with the groom (of all people) on the dancefloor about single malt scotches that we know and love. One of their guests kept staring at me and so I went up to him and gave him a karate chop in the head. Afterwards went about my photo beeswax and ended the evening behind the bar celebrity guest "bartending" and trying to remember was that vodka and tea or tonic. Had a two hour talk with friends in Louisville as in KY Jelly and nearly, during convo, lost my right thumb to a circa 1940 fan, learned to love the dog and his gang of fleas while sipping Oban, and shot the proverbial shit. And so much much more happened this weekend which will only come out in spurts along this rock and roll highway called my perfect life.
Oh, I think I want to write a novel like every two-bit journalist this side of Paradise. Rented house, coast of Maine, jugs of Oban, sporadic visitors, sushi takeout. Wow. And maybe a novel would usher forth. Maybe not, maybe cirrhosis...or minor misdemeanors instead. Story for future: brushes with law in the state of Maine in states of bliss. All for now, love.

Blasted a harmonica tune into the receiver and, subsequently, the answering machine of Dorota to usher in her birthday today and I'm sure that she had no idea of my special talents in that Hohner field. The rock star's dog has been working away on his cow leg bone still and every little itch I feel on my body I look to see if I can spot a flea as Henry the Dog periodically scratches himself with fervor and the rock star said I don't think he's got fleas but I put flea drops on him. Can one sue another for fleas and necessary fumigation? If fleas are on my person and hop into my imac can they gunk up the works? A full night of activities both artful and musical await me and the camera. My lifetime motto: Veni Vidi Shooti.

Today busted out a tennis outfit, the lucky raquet, and the new high-tech tennis shoes and met a pal over at the public courts where we were neck & neck with good solid rallies for each point. Then his g.f. showed up and she's my pal, too. As I was serving I heard her cheering me on at a volume he couldn't hear over the din of traffic on the expressway alongside the courts. I knew I was going to kick his ass at that point and had one of my classique shit-eating grins on my mouth and then I wiped him all over the court, forcing him into unforced error motifs. Despite all my self-back-slapping we ended tied at five games to five and decided to break for dinner. Photographed a social event this evening at the art gallery and spent a moment talking to Ani DiFranco's mom and hubbie - her mom looks just like her and they have the same effervescent way of shining at you. Her husband Andrew now has manic panic red hair. I got my images, talked to an archaelogist about digging holes here & there, and scooted away into the night - my leather-bottomed shoes slipsliding me down the stairs and into the night.

Last night I did some google self-searching to see if epinw came up and yikes almighty it was the first thing, and my wacky baby photo where I'm poking my finger into my Aunt Marion's shoe. Now I'll really have to be careful not to name names. I'm watching a dog owned by a local rock star and in the middle of the night woke up to him giving my face one fast lick across the cheek and maybe he was tasting me to decide if I'd make a suitable late night snack. I didn't pass with muster and wasn't condimented with mustard. The big Friday night question: shoot Godsmack out in the exurbs...or an I'm still here Joe Cocker in the middling city. Planning a seasonal escape to NYC for debauchery you just can't find in these parts.

To webcam or not to webcam...that is today's techno question.
Mr. X (as in ex-boyfriend, x-tra fine rock guitarist, and ex-patriate) last night phoned late/early and we talked for a long-ass time about his x-pat lifestyle and his outlaw band which plays in parks, and his band's name - Captain Zipper - and what the hometown ferners make of them.
At one point he X-pounded upon how superb it would be for me to have a webcam installed high above the imac to capture myself. (I'm thinking of director Roger Avary's blog and how his Rogercam points downward at his desk chair and when he places his gluts there he is so virtually there.)
I think a webcam would necessitate a Judy Jetsonesque mask to be worn in the event of spinach in teeth, over-Oban indulgence, or moments when I'm wearing my pink fuzzy bunny ears and don't care for errant followers of epinw to know my headgear secrets.
Mere moments ago I gleefully ran towards the hi-fi to spin fine new purchases - Stereolab's "Sound-Dust" is raucously constructed landscapes and the silly compilation "Cosmic Funk" is as cross-over and light-spirited as I had hoped - both excellent for work and parties.
John Cougar Mellencamp has what I've named Aging Rock Star Syndrome (ARSS) and wouldn't let us press photogs within 6 miles of his puffy, incessant gum-chewing, spitting self. Managed to scrape by with an image. Him and Jacob Dylan...what a fuckin' difficult pair.

The Palace of Youthful Shoe Desire, aka my neighborhood childhood shoe store,
closed recently as the octogenarian shoe-pushing owner retired. I regretted that I
had no souvenir from the joint and, while driving past on Saturday afternoon, noted
that the door was wide open and visions of antiquated shoes and signage flooded
my mind and I slammed ferociously on the brakes. I walked into the shop, in the
process of being painted garish colors, and spoke with one of the new shopkeeps.
As luck would have it I've photographed her band a number of times and she
seemed somewhat eternally grateful. I explained that this was where I fell in love
with shoes and that if she concentrated hard enough she could see the ghost of
young me with a baloon string tied around wrist, jumping about in new two-toned
pigskin saddle shoes. The woman looked bemused, or scared. I offered to buy a
hand-painted sign off of her. She said she'd locate something else from the
basement and I waited upstairs, wondering if I shouldn't barge down there to
assist her. She reappeared with two four-foot by one-foot plastic signs meant to
cover fluorescent light fixtures - one reading SNEAKERS and the other TEEN-AGERS
in 50's-style red plastic letters. These were once on the back wall and now they're
mine all mine all mine and will be hanging high above the archway in my studio and
will shine down upon my ever-footwear-acquiring self.
And what a past weekend of odd musical situations. And tonight, John Cougar
Mellencamp, and I reflect back upon his Labor Day BBQ appearance a number of
years ago when my VH1-hired pal got me in and VH1 filled my gas tank, I met
Martha Stewart (crabby bitch with a beer belly), and I talked to Elain Irwin (Mrs.
JCM) for a long time.
Little pink houses for you and me...not the hippest or coolest, but still a bad-ass is
John Mellencamp (Martha, gagster that she is, fashioned dishes out of melons
during the VH1 affair which greatly annoyed the rock star).

Whoever thought that having a gaggle of children in YMCA t-shirts in front of the Village People stage had a bad idea. Before the "band" began a techie handed me a set of earplugs, after giving a campus safety man a set. I asked if he thought I would need them. He did. I did. I watched the faces of the kids grow from wow my first concert elation to perplexed. Why, they may have wondered, were construction man and cowboy touching each other? Why was leather man gyrating like that? And so on. Something valuable I learned at football game. The second quarter of a football game lasts about twice as long as the first. The visiting team cheerleaders were more peppy and I watched as the home team cheerleading boys nearly dropped the brave girl who was sailed up into the air like a sack of oversized potatoes. Met up with some people. Fun.

The mascots, the jock straps, The Village People, the popcorn, the tailgated beers. Oh, I'm nearly peeing my pants with anticipation.
My rock star/plumbing pal was here with his dog, Henry. I fed Henry three dog biscuits which I happened to have on hand and then we moved on to grapes. There's nothing like watching a large dog bounce little green grapes on your floor, I'm still floating in a pink fog of dog adoration.
Time to prepare myself for football's opener...and cocktail-oriented points beyond.

A boy colleague cursed me recently by inquiring not once, but twice, as to whether I would be photographing the Village People at a football season opener.
Harummph, I harummphed, only if the college hosting said event is paying me to be there. And then I must have, knowing me, made a few other disparaging comments. So, today, leaving a political gig, I got the call. Could you please go shoot tomorrow's season opener, tailgating, general merriment, and ... THE VILLAGE PEOPLE?
Once upon a time your fav Nancy was backstage with the aforementioned costumed "singers" at a local club and I don't quite recall why. I was speaking with leather guy, the only original member, as Indian guy, not yet in full headdress, was doing pushups on some portable 'U's' devised to I'm not sure what. They were charming. I photographed them. People loved them, and still do. Sure, they're fun, but I wonder, as I am wont to do, does their booking at a football season opener mean that the university acknowledges that players might be gay and it's okay if they are? That friendly little fanny pats meaning "Good effort, pal" could mean "Nice booty"? As the crowd gestures collectively from wave to YYYYYMMMMMCCCCCAAAAA will they ponder our general societal non-acceptance of alternative lifestyles?
Will leather man remember me?

Twelve years of Day-Timer-enhanced memory celebrated today with the arrival of 2002's neatly-awaiting months, advance planner, and address entry ops on the rainy doorstep.
Had hair trimmed today by my rockstar hairstylist Jon, his soloist salon a den of boy toys - vintage jukebox, coca-cola dispenser, fish tank, small frigerator stuffed with champagne, swanked-out sound system, and whimsical halogen lights. He told me all about his '62 stratocaster and all of his other guitars, mainly '62 models, as Ron Jeremy porno soundtrack selections played overhead. Bought some glow drops to make my hair rock star/super model shiny (as opposed to just-fukt look). See if you can catch the recuuring theme du jour.
Ate lunch with a pal in a band, and talked about music, among many other things - most notably, Wilco. As we ate, two musician acquaintances came in and sat next to us. One of them came up to my friend singing a melody of a song which my band friend couldn't id. I suggested an Alice Cooper selection. It was something else.
Bring on the deadlines, I say. Now strapped into friendly ergonomic work area for a night of...fun. I end abruptly though I could share my world for longer. Over & out.

What a fine laminated creds day that was - yesterday. It began with some shaky service in the usual brunch spot with a waitress burdened with pregnancy and I discussed with those at the table what a dilemma it is to feel like an asshole because you're asking the waif with the bad memory to Pleeez get the hot sauce that she's forgotten for the third time. I mean, shit, it was so stressful. And I have enough stress in my life, thank you very much. Do you think it's NOT stressful having such a perfect world?
Well, Edgefest was also perfect and it began rightly with a friendly moment or two with my pal Tom Calderone who is now one of the MTV emperors. And then some fine sets and Snapcase (if you live in Buffalo, I told some rock boy acquaintances, it must be pronounced thusly: Snnneee-uuuhp-kase, dig?) blew my head off. Their reverb moments between songs approached otherworldly techno. Everyone in the band was so on, more onner than I've ever seen. And I pasted gold stars on the foreheads of Our Lady Peace, Jackdaw (from Buffalo), and The Sheila Divine. Silver star to Good Charlotte because they were so damned handsome. Poop brown star to Jimmy Eat World for playing before I arrived. The nerve.
Note to worldly self: no more drinking that SOBE Energy shit with garana and other secret spices as you like to feel connected to head (Energy shit + coffee + festival photo shooting adrenaline = wayway too much).

Suggested listening for Sunday mornings is PJHarvey's You Said Something on the new one. Actually, the whole thing is marvelous for when you're maybe secretly punishing yourself for a night of debauchery or maybe you're celebrating kung-fu high antics before meeting up with people for the weekly sunday brunch explosion and then...a whole day of festivals - quaint neighborhood art and then touring rock varieties.
Sometimes packing up for a whole day of shooting and being on one's toes I feel like Jane Goodall traipsing off to the jungle to live with the cute little fuzzy chimps who decide that they like you after you hand them some bananas. Oh, but I don't have to worry in this park (LaSalle, not Gombe National) about fruit bats, rabies, and I just don't have seven grad students and ingratiates up my ass. Poor Jane.
Well, off to a perfect rock & roll sunday. Long live rock.

Last night didn't see college friend who's a rock star of the violin world of sorts and who lives in California and he, musician-like, made plans to meet me et al at a local joint for dinner but realized that he had a concurrent gig. It was, reportedly, important for him to see me, and I joked that he was going to propose to me at dinner. So cavorted without him, which absolutely goes without saying. Read an erudite article about Radiohead in New Yorker's Music Issue - a super keeper. Off to a high-powered day of gigs and, sadly, must change from beloved This American Life t-shirt to a grown-up ensemble. At about 10PM I'll be doing the ol' changing clothes in the car routine before heading out for more more more.

Hot and sticky lesbian sex.
Now that I have your attention, dig this. The 18-decibel evangelical church is at it again and from the sound of things there's a full-throttle revival in full effect and all I can fucking think of at this moment is fashioning a molotov cocktail out of some sadly emptied Corona bottles, an old t-shirt (not a concert t-shirt, silly), some gasoline from the lawn mower, and then a lighter from the kitchen drawer. And then, while they're all still in there, SCREAMING ON A MICROPHONE INTERSPERSING IT WITH AHHH-LAYYY-LOOOOOOOOO-YAHHHHHHHHHH, I will lob said cocktail through the window during the last syllable.
I have given this a little thought, as you may note.
Ventured aboard the Love Boat tonight as this city's premier lounge act took the stage in a suit which could best be classified as a collision between Armani and a harlequin's dream of christmas wrapping paper. Saw my sister et al and at one point my sister's beer was approaching the horizontal mark and, being the ever-responsible older sib, lunged to right it, as she lunged forward, and then... there was this horrible arc in the air, and I saw her face intersecting with that arc. And then her face, every itty-bitty milimeter of it, was dripping with draft beer. Holy farty beer bubbles on my little sister's face and shirt, batman. As luck would have it she was not mad. And then we created a two-man party train. See, with a positive attitude all is and can ever be perfect in Nancy's World.
Excuse me now, I have to look for an empty Corona bottle.
Love me, Love, ME.
ps:Don't hate me 'cuz my world is so perfectly partyrific.
Suggested soundtrack for rereading this blogpost - REM's Monster, esp. Strange Currencies. Thanks for your attention in this matter.

Freaky moment du jour, compliments of the weird church across the street.
I have a great neighbor across the way, a chain-smoking Viet Nam vet gardener named Frank and he lives/lived with his mother who sat on the front porch most days and who passed away on Sunday.
I walked across the street and left a card in the mailbox and the walked over to the weird church for the funeral. As I'm sitting in there, only for the second time, I glance over at a woman standing and flirting with the priest and realize that it's my nunly high school principal. I left the church, thinking that that horrid high school past still haunts me, that the card will do, and also that I'll talk with Frank at another, post-circumstance moment.

Looking down the pike of upcoming concerts I'm thinking the planets should try a bit harder to allign themselves more creatively. Edgefest on Sunday should do nicely and I'm looking forward to Jimmy Eat World, more Sheila Divine sanguineness (I think by law they must perform here every three months), and some good old fashioned vegan punk by Snapcase.
Here's good solid evidence of my electronic fallability: yesterday I made my computer such a tangle of lapsed neurons and such as I tried to install PalmPilot crap, and threw into the stew some AOL installing, and some other settings changes until it just looked at me and projectile vomited. I called a computer boy flusteredly preparing for a real job. He was no help. Another c.b. spent half an hour on the phone, helping me land the airplane aflame and ajar, scalding coffee carts careeming down aisles. Hooray.

Further canoeing down the techno geek river I am today. My pal Dorota (of DKNY fame) mailed me her Palm Pilot which she loathed. A new toy for a new week. I went out and had to buy a converting cable and bought it a new shoey leather wraparound. Debating whether I want to pursue credentials for YES with a symphony on Wednesday night. Sounds so...flippingly newaged.

2 things.

1. At the Lennon show in Land of Cleves R&R Halluhfame there is a top area where his lyrics, scrawled on all sorts of paper, are hanging in a circular room. At the bottom of the lyrics for Green Onion there is a number and when I read it I couldn't believe this: it was my social security number. It was an international phone number that John Lennon had written. A ss# has nine numbers in it - in this combo eight numbers were the same and two numbers next to each other (3 & 8) subtracted to equal my ninth ss# number - 5. I asked the beau to look at the Green Onion number and then said This is my ss#. Fun with numbers and your rock mentor.

2. At the Cleveland Museum of Art I wanted to look at the Japanese screen exhibition and then looked at Asian artifacts. There is a near-life-sized bronze Buddha seated with right hand out and another nearby in a half-gesture. I felt this incredible energy coming off of the sculpture and felt as if I couldn't move, or didn't want to move away from it. It was called Healing Buddha.

I think it's a perfect Sunday when you arise to a light rain, some faroff thunder, a desire for coffee, and the recollection that you haven't yet looked at your tiny little Phaidon-issued Joel-Peter Witkin book. So there you have this Sunday, looking at some images of his I am not that familiar with, reading the cornball essay, remembering looking at his work in Paris for the first time, tumbling into the large prints.
One of my new exciting resolutions: all clothing, except when it's intended for commercial gigs, must pass the rock star test. I bought some great pieces in a farout boutique in Cleveland and wore them on Friday night. First stop, art opening. Man at door, tastefully gay and who knew my cousin who owned this city's first coffee shop, said Well! Where's your whip? I'm going to get you a whip. To which I responded Okay.

Still mad at the artist whose chest I sat on and wrote about. She told the entire city that she loved the piece but when she saw me we clashed like the Clash at the end of their rock ride. I, usually a diplomatic Libran, let her have it, having had perhaps one shot of tequila at that point too many to be so.
Well, on a happier note, I'm realizing that this new Sade disc sounded better in the wine bars and shoe boutiques of Cleveland than my Sunday AM home where I'm needing something a bit more...upbeat and less stonerific, shall we say.
Love.

The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame is tres mall-like and shiny and full of people you would never invite out for cocktails. BUT: the Lennon show, extended is great. It begins with showcases containing his personal artifacts, his glasses that he wore when he was killed (I always wanted to see these), and the paper bag which Yoko was given after his death containing his clothes. Me and the beau watched a two-hour doc on him, Imagine, and I wept like nobody's business and am certain I was the only sobbing person in the whole damned theatre. And, of course, the song Imagine makes me cry every time and I've been wandering around Cleveland, partying and such, with the eyes of someone who's been chopping onions all the day long. Two thoughts: the Beatles were a rock flash, their rise and superstardom came quickly and just as quickly they ditched it. Other Beatles-era thought: watching footage of them performing some of their songs made those songs suddenly seem much more real and I wondered if that's because I'm a product of the MTV era or if it was because I never saw them perform.
And I'm still cemented in my belief that John Lennon is an awe-inducing artist and his loss still tragic.
One last thought: after meeting some really outgoing people I think the Great Lakes inspire such friendly behaviour. A cab driver wanted to marry me and beau but only if we would do it nude so he could get on the Howard Stern show. He gave me his card.
OK, here's last thought: what's travelling sans shoe purchasing? Got the greatest shoes on two soles today. Over and out.

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!