Digital. My photo life is now officially digital. Dig that.
Yesterday's stranger moment happened as I was breaking down a gig at the famed Roycroft Inn and one of the CEO's in attendance asked me to help him trim a gag brunette wig to 'look like a regular guy haircut.' I said Well, let's do this out on the veranda. He asked why. I said Because that's traditionally where one gives haircuts in the warmer weather - on the veranda. So I trimmed this cheapo wig to resemble a man's haircut, sort of. I asked why we were doing this.
He was going to put it on in about half an hour for a super visual joke about a famed, not toupee, wearer, but a wearer of a bad dye job.
Hardy-freakin-Har.
As I was cutting Mr. CEO's hair two other CEO's walked onto the porch/veranda and, as I looked up at them, scissors wavering over the millionaire's head, one of them said
I don't even want to know.
The haircut CEO turned around and the other guy said Oh... Paul, it's you. Wow, I still really don't wanna know.
The end.
Moral: even CEO's can be wacky. Put that in your funny little pipe and smoke the shit out of it.

Conversation I overheard on June 15th still absolutely, completely haunting me:

Note: We are standing in a chain pharmacy/dodad store, they are lo-budg-appearing people talking near the checkout center where I am idly fondling tabloids.

Woman #1: Yeah, I was gonna go visit you but I missed my plane.

Woman #2: Oh, I was gonna visit YOU but I missed MY plane.

Secret #1:
Saturday, whilst minding my own business, I drank a bucketful of tequila. Well, I had help with a few select others. This was at Doug/Steve/Josh's joint and a party was in full effect. I drank Guinness interspersed with tequila.
I learnt that this makes a beverage we'll call Milkshake from #9 Ring of Hell.
There was mad dancing. There was touchy-feely dancing. There was by the fire talking out in the yard.
The next morn, en route to brunch with the usuals (those of Janet Reno Fan Club) I had to pull over on Elm Street for a little barfulation. At the restaurant (they ordered for me because my restaurant orders are as predictable as... Old Faithful... Bush the Younger's language flubs) I had to immediately request a doggie bag. Then chatted.
No food for your dear sweet, tequila-loving, Perfect Nancy.

Secret #2:
Shot a supersonic watery, pre-mentioned news story with Lead Boy Colleague last week. Afterwards, as we passed a centre of golfing activity, we stopped to whack the shit out of a bucket of balls. We are both lefty golfers and can share a club.
Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack. ka-fling. Whack. Whack.
The ka-fling is when LBC hit the side guard scaring the living be-Jesus out of the guy next door who I (incrediby to me now) asked if he ingested steroids as he hit balls so effortlessly. I then asked him for a golf tip to force him to like me after the chem accusation. Well that glorious meta-sporting moment, I believe, may have undone two or so months of physical therapy for the post-accident shoulder. If you read this please don't tell P/T Mike at University Orthopoedics & Sports Medicine. Thanks bushels. Thanks buckets of tequila!

My LOVE.

I am in the process of moving and will be unable to change anything on
lilydale until I am able to access the internet through my own computer.
Lucy

OK, so the mystery person who acquired my image of Natalie and Mary wrote back but neglected to add how or why the image is on the site. How... appropriate.
Speaking of Natalie, shot her show mere moments ago and the venue was at 1/3 capacity. As is customary for her lights were dim and she was highly introverted of body language, seated at a piano for songs 1-3. Song 4 and VOILA!!! Lights, camera (no, no camera(s), action... lots of moving about and happiness!!!!!
Atta girl, way to make love to the press photogs.
All.
My love.
Off for more rockstar-style action.
Ding-Ding.

Today, and what a day.
Early was sitting wishing I had my big laptop-compatible sombrero on as wouldn't you know all sorts of people trundled by my restaurant worksite this AM to chat, chat, chat, chat, chat.
The last chatter was a really impressive musician - Joe - impressive for 3 reasons:
1. his long Lennonesque nose,
2. his breadth of musical knowledge - including the fact that, he says, the first time he heard Mahalia Jackson he thought immediately Paul Rodgers... DIG IT
3. his sense of humour.

Found myself at about 430PM today in a canoe with the famed ladies kayaking about the Greatest of Lakes... after, of course, sucking down a comp soymilk provided by one of their corporate sponsors. Both are very nice and how in hell do they do all that paddling? The world is different from the perspective from a sloshing canoe. That reminds me of the time I had to arise for a college gig at 4 to be on the waterfront for rowing shots and I'm thinking Cheez and crackers, hope the sun's up by the time they're done. It was and the whole event rocked.
Waterways, your path to transcendental thought.

Was looking for info to contact a psychic and made a guess as to the URL and came upon this site which has a stolen/pirated/usurped/appropriated image made by Yours Truly. I emailed the person to inquire How'd you get your greasy grimy hands on this image? The image of Natalie Merchant and Mary Ramsey, I believe (in love) was never in print and I gave a copy to each of them. I said Put my name on the image or I'll seek you out and rock & roll karate kick you or send bad karma your way - your choice.

Please, no more talk of dirty bombs. A dirty bomb-mentioning respite of a few days would be nice, conducive to collective mental health. But, oh wait, one more mention. Bush the Younger said of the dirty bomb planner He's a bad man. Won't he ever stop being our smug Texas daddy? Those poor twins, imagine having to hear this crap with more frequency.

Several nights ago Your Perfect Nancy had this dream:
I planned a Samuel Beckett event, after his April birthdate, and made the crowd in attendance say Happy Birthday! 83 times in a row, for the age he would have been. I haven't checked his birth year but I think he'd be slightly older than that now.
In the dream I was onstage, tipsy from the celebrating, and gushing to all how every spring I read his play for three voices, That Time, reciting part of it so one and all would fall in love with it, too.

Even in my dreams I am the boss.
Dig?
My love.

I say it was a turtle crossing the road.
Laura says it was an already-deceased bird.
Whatever it was I ran it over returning from Letchworth State Park on Saturday afternoon for a couple AOL assignments. Best part of Letchworth journey, well, one: bought a super flask, plastic, wrapped in a light brown suede pouch embossed with words 'Little Buckaroo' and an iconic cowpoke on bucking animal. It has fringe. It rocks. I didn't bring it to BadCo who, btw, abso-fuckin-lootly rocked. From the pit the surge of passionate rock ovations was incredible, like an ocean on 10. Paul Rodgers looked down at me in the pit shooting and said 'Hey Honey,' picking up on my beaming love vibes. He looks and sounds great. Foreigner was awful. Shot them and scrammed quickly.
Things I saw sitting in my excellent seats after shooting from the pit -or- casual observances of my fellow BadCo fans:
1. looking back see guy with big scrape on nose, obviously to-sted. He's holding his BadCo cap towards Paul Rodgers, about 100' away.
2. Several couples of all sizes dancing, slow dancing, in the aisles.
3. Requisite guy looking back at his fellow audience members, arms up, conducting others to get on their feet and raise some hell.
4. Requisite girl at railing puking her guts out, back being rubbed by a pal.
5. Most excitingly the first thing I saw was a man having a psychotic episode, being pinned down by 4 cops, him beyond wild-eyed screaming that the cops are communists, faggits, etc. Another cop or emt was rushing towards the guy with a plastic mask attached to some medical equipment and I thought Now wouldn't it be wacky if they gave this freaked-out guy some laughing gas instead of oxygen.

This AM stood at the brink of one of the world's largest MRI machines, on yellow tape with the strong suggestion to not get any closer. Wondered if my camera would be affected. Wondered if the change in my pockets would get me sucked in. At one point I felt my right leg moving toward the opened door towards the doc sitting on the edge of the bed smiling away, proud of his upcoming big story, patient with the photog having him smile every which way but loose.

My love.

Well I'll take whatever I want
and Baby I want cheww
You give me something I need
now tell me I got something for you
Come on - come on - come on - and do it
come on and do what you do...

Be o-so glad that you're not my co-dweller or upstairs neighbor at this moment as, with tequila + hangover on this fine sunny Saturday AM, I'm blasting BadCo getting, as we say in the music biz, pumped for tonight's big show.
Glee has never been more experienced. The concert t's better be interesting. And the show, too. And I'm hoping that Foreigner is on last as I only want to shoot them and scram. But, for the record, I'm there, so there, for BadCo. Dig?

Fortunately last night I bumped, nearly literally, into the most boyish boy colleague who handily reminded me that I had a group show art opening in a few hours. Ran to opening (after running home for descuzzing and equipment changes) for fun and frivolity (and dinner = cheese, crackers, beer).
It was unmarred good times until a brat, dragged into a photo op by artist pal Matt, decided it'd be really groovy to have her back to me/camera, to make faces, to be just a general pain in the ass.
I had to say this: COOPERATE or get the hell out of the picture - a first.
Onwards then to other events, including a benefit with a M*A*S*H theme which happened under a mildewy tent so intense I had to curtail that stop.
Then to the disco step-by-step hoopla and that scene of well-matched dancers and a section for freestylists. Marty Angelo bought me a shot of tequila and I believe he told JP/bartender to supersize it. Through the strobing of lights I saw a second cousin on the dancefloor doing her thing, and, I'm proud to say, she didn't disgrace the family.

Onwards to AOL assignments, freelance matters, and then.

Almighty God who knoweth all please kill or cause the demise of the big crow outside my house, specifically my bedroom window, who crows every fucking AM really early causing me to wake to its Hitchcock strains. Thanks in advance.

Ben Folds is playing this week's freebie en plain air concert downtown. And could I be more un-psyched? Yes. I've seen him before, when he was Ben Folds Five. Today on the radio an astute station employee (I believe there are hardly any live humans on the air and now it's all prerecorded... I heard the fake woman's voice blip and it was onto an 80s Police song this afternoon) played that godawful song that Ben F wrote about taking his girlie pal to the abortion clinic and all the attendant psychodrama that accompanied that. Suh-nooze. He might need pyrotechnics to jazz up his set.

Speaking of exploding devices I can hardly contain my excitement for the pending Day of Independence as I have a supersecret cache of pyros... and Eric has an equal cache imported from out west. I'm skipping crossing the Canadian border this July, I'll be adding to the collection (one can never ever have enough explosives on hand) via a drive to Pennsyltucky.

I love tradition. And what do I love more than the good ol' tradition of eating white trash food, drinking too much and exploding shit? Shoe shopping in NYC with Dorota. Now that's a perfect freakin' day.
Over and Out.
My love.

And how did I begin the week? Thusly:
At 4AM Monday/yestiddy I was awakened by Precious Jen knocking on my bedroom door, then racing out of house to drive her to the downtown train station and, upon surveying the bleak scene, stated 'Let's wait in the car, I'm putting my seat back, DON'T TALK TO ME.'
Then the train came and I sat up, we joked about her not talking to any more murderers on the train (she met one en route to Middling City) and I returned home for a nap. Upon rising a few hours later I surveyed the various cuts and contusions on both of my legs and thought Now that's a damn good baby shower = hostessed one on Sunday which throttled through the day from 2-9PM and (nearly) no ladies left sober, no rolls of toilet paper were harmed during the shower as there were NO GAMES and a mountain of gifts was dispensed to Deborah. At the end, in the night hours, a co-ed bunch of us (boys were invited at 5) sat about the garden, cocktailing and when we were cleaning up I attempted to pull a heavy market umbrella out of one of the tables and landed in a heap like a crashed kite, tumbling over a lawn chair and lying on the grass laughing until somebody noticed and came over to vertical me.
*Ron, hi. You said you are never epinw mentioned. Now you are.
Who else might not be reported upon at moments: significants, passersby, pals, irkers, the cursed, the crushes.
Deadline onwards.

Yesterday (in huge nutshell) was a diverse and perfectly chaotic day beginning with lots of coffee and ending with other refreshing liquids.
The other, crazier Jen is in town and this I know for sure as I collected her from train station at 4AM yesterday. I instructed her thusly: if your train is late do not despair, I'll be sleeping in a gold Forester. I awoke to a train whistle and peered through the misty darkness. There were many. Then Jen. Hooray.
Made us Dorota-style coffee later in day = any normal person would expel their intestines after drinking one or two cups.
But not extra-human girls with hearts and such of gold.
Picked up artwork from show, shot a bunch of daytime activities, freelanced at a college whereupon I met their small (of # and stature) first-ever graduating class, attended the downtown photo auction (where I bought a colleague's piece for a non-pittance), cavorted thusly, and oh yes... took Jen on a few AOL-related excursions to Niagara Falls and could not ((**%$)) locate any more nudie pens - the kind that, when you click the top, the man's drawers disappear like MAGIC. But Jen bought a pooping cow keychain for her man. In goes the belly and out blops the faux poop. A triumph!
Then later we went to another Wal-Mart to see if I could find 10 more pots to match the 20 other for favors for today's baby shower HERE in about 6 hours.
First I went into a plastic garden shed and Jen followed me in. We were hiding in there as I told her how beau and I got into trouble in that very same Wal-Mart for kissing and an old guy shuffled by and said THIS is a FAMILY store.
So as Jen and I are standing inside the shed with the door closed another geezer goes by and says Is there a lock on that thing? So we burst out and got on with the baby shower matters at hand.
Auction was okay but wish my piece went for a higher price, think Biff was right, they should be donated not under glass so you can see them better when they're on the block.
Ended night at The Plant, underground club scene, watching King Sunshine who combine a live techno vibe, disco/70's jubilance and street sense.
Off to pot plants, get the house shower-ready, have a caffeine, have another Motrin, think about waking Jen with a beer in bed, put photo items and delicacies away, chop up some fruit, etc. etc. etc.
Sunday love.

Today. Day of adventure, and of discovery.
Physical therapy is wearing a little thin. This AM asked one of the ultra-fit guys that runs the joint (sidenote: my sister works there, at medical complex) if I could perhaps use the trampoline (just tramp to those in the KNOW) to spice things up. Sure, one of the guys said, just be sure to take off your shoes. A woman, there to work on her knees, heard Take off your shoes and started to do so. The guy said No, I was saying that to Nancy. So blah blah rubbing big green ball on wall, blah blah working out slowly with giant rubber bands and then... TRAMP TIME. Kicked off shoes and was sort of disappointed that the thing didn't have more... lift.
Had lunch with sister and then she assisted me with several errands, including a stop to get a Starbucks-worthy market umbrella. Upon loading it into Forester I nearly decapitated a yuppie out with her fellow yuppie/girlfriend and shouted, inexplicably I'M SORRY. In the car I said to my sister I have absolutely no idea why I shouted at that woman like that. So we kept yelling I'M SORRY in my car until the next stop.
Siblings, they always get the joke.
Next stop I was shocked and amazed to see that there is, in reality, such a thing as black pantiliners. Why. Just when you think nothing on this earth can surprise you there they are, black pantiliners.
Off.
Blood Sweat and Tears, band, not my day, must be photographed and I'm the Perfect Nancy for the job.
My love.

Clues that your favored and perfect Nancy has been merrily gardening:
1. pine sap in hair, sure to be there for weeks to come
2. dirt rubbed into other side of head
3. sunburnt scalp due to forgetting hat
4. slight hangover from sippin' on the Mike's Hard Lemonade whilst gardening
5. sunny disposition
6. really cruddy fingernails
7. did I mention my fucking sunny disposition?

As I was gardening my little neighbor pal Andrew showed up, scaring me. He said That's funny, I just scared a girl down the street. Are you out making the rounds scaring people, Andrew, I queried. He, not always, sadly, catching onto humorous intent, said No, but this is how I scared the other girl, holding out a snake for my perusal. A corn snake. He went on (and on) telling me about his various interests and I was surprised to hear that at 15 in 8th grade he's heading off to a summer program to see if he's got the makings to survive a full-throttle boot camp for the Navy. This is all he's excited about, leaving his wacked parents behind. Although I think this is somewhat of a tragic life choice I tried to encourage him and kept mentioning the groovy perks... like world travel. He wants to go to Australia because he thinks they're untouched by the world war. I asked if he thought they were part of the world and perhaps they were not only aware but part of the war. He said No, it's too nice a country, they don't want it to get messed up in a war.

What did I learn at Kiss the Summer Hello?
That O-Town was very tired. That they pray before each set. That up close they're very tired looking. That little girls hunting for luvv and autographs don't give a flying fuck. That Michelle Branch really does kick ass, like Reese says.
That Vanessa Carlton was as good live as in her video.
That Tone-Loc needs to rejoin the music world, and the world in general. Wild Thing just ain't cuttin' it like it usta.
That the world's oldest stage hand works in Buffalo, that he's 84, named Pete, Uncle Pete, and that he snuck out of the hospital to go place bets at OTB in his hospital gown and slacks.
That cops acting as security guards in the pit enjoy looking at young girls, those that are cute and those about to blow chunks!
That some of my boy colleagues have egos the size of Rhode Island and don't seem to notice.
That rum & cokes on a hot day make you happy even though you thought it'd be a cold day in hell before you willingly drank one but perhaps all of the above sped the concept along beautifully.

All for now.
My love.

Leaving NYC grabbed a cab careening through SoHo, driven by a man with both language and attitude barriers to understanding my drive to get to LaGuardia in a timely manner. He would not take me to LaGuardia. Fine, I said, take me to the shuttle stop at Penn Station. Where? Penn Station. Where at Penn Station? The east side of the station. We had this conversation three times.
The last time we had the Penn Station exchange I said, rather loudly, I DON'T KNOW, SIR, YOU'RE THE NEW YORK CITY CAB DRIVER AND I AM THE ONE WHO'S IN FROM OUT OF TOWN... THE SHUTTLE STOPS ON THE EAST SIDE OF PENN STATION.
En route to Penn Station the cab driver suddenly announced I'll take you to LaGuardia. Thanks, I muttered.
What do you prefer... tunnel or bridge?
I don't know... tunnel... how about the tunnel.
The End.
ps: sorry to all the Middling City people who unwittingly encountered my post-NYC self on Friday night. No, not sorry.
Onwards.

Sitting in Dorota's big time office on 5th avenue, corner office, dirty windows, nice plant and mere inches from the FlatIron Building. Had another foray into B&H where I purchased my 2nd EN-4 (code name for a d1 camera body battery to you uninitiated) and another memory card. As I left I noted there was a new product, something that goes on-camera that is a powerful light output that's a cinematic effect for a flash. That's on the to-do list.
So yesterday filed, no wrote, AOL items at Cyber Cafe and burnt them onto a cd. Then the CC worker bee said Nope, the cd reader's not readin' so back to Dorota's joint to email them virtually miles away to 18th Street to AOL editor Lia.
Technology, my friend.
Tonight, in about one hour, I'm meeting in SoHo with Ted and Josh to discuss our collaborative project, opening at Carnegie Art Center in September 2002.
It's all about conflagration and that's what I'd like to call it as we're going to burn images to a virtual crisp. And I will shoot it all. Burnt to high heavens.
Now I have to get the Alpha Teammates to dig the title.
Saw on the front of Mary Boone's space some workers affixing stainless steel panels to the building and thought That's exactly what I want to silkscreen images onto for Conflagration - wonderful smooth stainless.
My energy matches here.
The Middling City pales.
Thought Gregory Crewdson's show was decadently over-produced.
His production credits run to two pages.
Off for more.
Love.

Ya-frickin-hoo, the annual theatre awards night is over, I made digital images of it and nothing blew up, not even my mind. During intermission sat in the venue's cozy box office and put the images onto my laptop and did the same when the event was o-ver. Couldn't remember one secret step only so had to go back to the pad for the lost step. This was a big day in this Perfect life, technology is my friend. Not my foe.
Off to the Big NYC Apple today in a matter of hours and o-so many things to wrap up. Looks like I'll be napping all over the place.
Can't wait to be there, to cavort with Dorota as nobody else can exude such cavortedness as the two of us. In my non-humble estimation.
Big question: can I walk down Elizabeth Street without venturing into Me & Ro and buying a ring? I think not.
One of the Alpha Team boys, Josh, is having an opening tonight and sev Middling City people will be there. I'm planning a post-op gathering at Double Happiness. Oh, first session of Physical Therapy happened today and I sat for what seemed to be fifteen minutes with heat on the bad shoulder. Then some stretchy moments and I could not help not following instructions, try as I might. I got into a little hot PT water by clean-sneakered Mike who called across the room Nancy, a little smaller with those wall circles.
At that moment, roughly at 10AM, I found myself looking deep into a big green ball which I was instructed to place both hands on and roll in small circles. That got old real fast. I was on to bigger circles. Mike wasn't diggin' it.
Will be missing Cowboy Junkies on Thursday at the free gig. Over the Rhine, I heard, is off the bill anyhow. And plus, Margot Timmins is not the most exciting performer to shoot. Only her bro Michael makes for compelling spectating.
Off. Happy. Love.

The taste of an expansive/expensive cigar fills my mouth, still, the day after shooting a wedding. Two pals married each other (Rick + Jen) and there were loads of people that I know at the hoopla so it was a bonus & a half for me and, contrary to my usual practice, enjoyed cocktails as I would have absolutely stuck out like a sore, Prohibition-era thumb had I not. And then Mark said Hey, Nancy, I've got cigars and held out three for me to pick and I picked out a torpedo. A nice stanky affair.
A bunch of musicians were at the wedding and spent a portion of the evening discussing press photography/photographers/complex inner-workings of the minds of freelance photographers.
As I was having the above conversation a very drunk man came up, I thought, to talk to one of the musicians as she's very fetching. But, while looking at her he's telling the story of seeing me at the doctor's office for my shoulder injury as he read Sports Illustrated. He said, Yes I knew you were shooting Rick's wedding and I was concerned that you were injured. Talk about Middling City 2 degrees of separation.
After leaving there documented Middling City musical happenings and, last stop, saw a disoriented guy who was in the vestibule of Mohawk Place. He had soaked a Florida into the front of his shirt and I asked Marty, What's up with him. He said Oh, he claims he got mugged but I think he's just drunk and was fighting with someone. The usual bunch of ruffian musicians and music scene types were there and was happy to have seen +/- or whatever the hell they're called.
The shoot today with Last Conservative was supersonic. Afterwards they lolled about my joint listening to music, especially the new Wilco, as I burned their stuff onto a cd for them to take back to their rock & roll lair.
Onwards.
Love.

Today my sister called from her gig at the medical office, where my head was CAT scanned yesterday at 8AM. Yet more post-crash fun.
Nan (only three human beings call me this), it's about your CAT scan.
I felt a bit nervous, she sounded nervous.
They found Mickey Mouse in your head, she said.
I said That's impossible, I've never been, and never want to be, in DisneyLand.
Yesterday for Brucey's birthday took him to Star Wars and beforehand we got nice and stoned. Pot? Yes. Plot? Nope.
While we waited for the movie start in a nearby bar we watched a British guy, drink in one hand and mic in the other, doing a fab karaoke Louis Armstrong/What a Wonderful World. That was more entertaining than Star Wars.
I need to ask a geek what's the difference between light saber colors.
Four days until my temporary Middling City escape. Oh, speaking of Middling City matters, y-o-y does the weekly I work for keep putting City Hall on the cover, only mildly altering the same view of it. Its Deco-ness has been on the cover I think 8 times in the last four months. Are we becoming more like the Middling City daily?
Skipping out into the Friday night to document madness & badness.

Scheduled a bandshoot with the guys of Last Conservative, one of the pet bands, as they need something more... compelling to show the industry moguls and mavens.
What's great today: Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot but that should be not coming as any surprise. There's a nice meandering, jangly storyline quality to the entire disc.
And the new Moby is out and about and it's time to pay another visit to that nice place where the haughty boys (and a few girlies) do their thing beyond, behind the elevated counter. We all traipse through for their slight amusement.
What's not great today: having to drive out to the suburbs to see a specialist about a left shoulder rearranged internally by the 4/21 bad driver.
The summer is filling in with fine festivals, calendar heavy with dates of rock stars and waning rock stars and soon-to-be rockstars.
As I told a boy colleague yesterday If it weren't for outdoor summer gigs (and a smattering of gardenening moments) I'd never be in the sun, being a sun-shunning type.
Who else have you met, I demand, who carries a bottle of SPF 50 (suntan) lotion as well as a backup bottle in their car & in their camera bag during aforementioned rock & roll engagements?

Most of this past weekend was infused with a light dusting of surrealism.
As I like to do in NYC most times I tossed myself out into the Middling City night on Saturday with a plan but with a welcome to serendipity, good old-fashioned Zen.
And where did I find myself on my last Saturday stop, dually documenting for the column and taking care of some AOL beeswax?
A comedy club rumored to be way closed. It wasn't, though it wasn't very obvious from the roadway.
As I pulled into the lot I got a long distance call from Jen B, tipsy and wandering as we spoke out into a dark country night outside of Troy for better cell phone reception. There were several I MISS YOUs exchanged before I heard the drama of her situation as she was left behind by a carful of pals as we talked and then her fear as she stood in the middle of the black road and then the sighting of headlights as the pals realized her absence in the car and returned for her.
Then into the comedy club.
I believe comedy clubs are for those less fortunate than me who are NOT funny (or can't make themselves laugh at their own expense) and can't find humor in their own lives. Poor, cover-shelling, bad-food-ordering watchers.
Many moments follow in comedy club... I find myself standing next to a biker type, with charming eyes that glint with malevolent wit and twinges of dangerous high times. He and I are laughing at the scene before us, a hypnotist in full biker regalia and holding a cordless mic who has a dozen watchers hypnotized and doing all sorts of demeaning things.
The charming biker type and the hypnotist know each other fairly well... and loathe each other. Hypnotist motions over heads of watchers and hypnotized watchers, fingers spread about 3" apart. Oh, says biker type, he wants another shot, he can't have another shot. Biker type nods a huge NO. Hypnotist looks dejected, lunges for his Yukon Jack & Diet Coke (I guessed Jack and Coke - biker fav) on a nearby table and goes about demeaning the dozen.
Biker type can't wait to tell me this:
Now look at him, all tough looking. Would you ever imagine that he HAND SEWS ELASTIC ONTO THE BOTTOMS OF HIS PANT LEGS SO THAT HIS PANTS WON'T RIDE UP ABOVE HIS BIKER BOOTS? IT'S ALL SHOW BUSINESS. IT'S ALL A SHOW.

I leave you with these words. It's all a show.
Love.

Apparently there are three things about me that the Republican National Committee knows for certain about me that I, in truth, never knew myself:

1. That I'm married. They sent me a 2002 Republican Party Platinum Card yesterday addressed to and imprinted with Mrs. Nancy J. Parisi.
2. That I'm Republican. Contrary to my personal belief that I emerged into this great land a Democrat (despite ushering forth from a Republican, married to same), the RNC has me down as one of them.
3. That I, in my "exemplary record of loyalty and patriotism" that so obviously proves that I am of "the caliber of leader President Bush can count on in this historic struggle" helped somehow to elect (but doesn't this RNC chair Marc Racicot recall the recalled ballots, those pregnant and dangling chads... and that I wept when Gore lost?) this Yaley. "You and other distinguished Americans... helped elect President Bush to the White House and can be trusted to help him keep America's flame of freedom burning bright in this time of adversity." S.O.S.

If I spot my Republican parallelled universe self strutting about, she will get a good tongue-lashing for identity-thieving me. Or else we can swap platinum cards because she must have my Dem card.

In the Day-Timer (as opposed to Day-Tripper) it states that today is Ascension Day. I have no idea what this means exactly but if I had to guess I'd say that it's when somebody rose on up to the grand Celestial Night Club in the sky. Do they serve single malt scotch? Is it an open bar? Cash bar? Are there colorful video games sucking in quarters. Who ascended? Wasn't that an Easter-related event?
On April 25th Day-Timer printed ANZAC Day (Aust, NZ) and I called my sole Australian friend, Sionen, to ask What in hell is HAZMat Day and her response was that it's the commemoration of a big battle/death scene. Or something to that effect and she managed to slip in one of several New Zealand digs, stating that the poor NZ people always feel slighted and at that point she lost me, my ever-fleeting interest soaring up and away like an ANZAC balloon.
After last evening's inspirational photographic lecture I'd like to un-name this day Ascension Day and have it become Photographic Discussion Day.
Perfect suggestion: have at least one discussion today with a professional photographer, read a photo-based magazine and discuss image making.
Forget ascension. Bring on images.
How many ascensions affect you every day. I rest my gleeful photographic case.
Love.

Scene: Your fav Nancy/me/post-insurance b.s. & litigious-minded me and youngish attorney in his cluttered office, above both of our heads the hum and noxious output from a bank of flourescent lights. We look like corpses. Corpses with overly-caffeinated faces. Behind his head is a wall of snazzily-framed credentials. Your fav Nancy feels like any moment she might burst into song/tears/uproarious laughter.

Attorney: Well, looking over all this paperwork I think it's a good case. We'll get replacement of your damaged equipment, reimbursement for your out-of-pocket expenses.

(NO! let me begin at the most wondrous thing he said)

Attorney: You can tell by how the cop wrote up the accident report that he didn't believe her (the other driver's) story.

Me: (ever untrusting) How?

Attorney: He wrote her up as Driver 1, that's the person that caused the accident. And he writes that she said she ran a yellow light but he wrote that she ran a red light. (apparently spending most of his time in Accident Land he's a pro on secret signs of cops... as well as doctorly and injury matters)

Me: (mulling, wandering in attention) Did you go to UB?
(then I grill him on his credentials and learn that he's a partner at the firm. I stop cross-examination)

Attorney: Most attorneys take 1/3 of the settlement no matter what. If you're reimbursed only I won't take any of that.

Me: Then try to get more from their insurance company so you get something. (thinking: contingency, a wacky thing)

After I give him my social security number and sign some pieces of paper saying that he's the legal boss the attorney calls in a twiggy paralegal who copies all of my accident documents and then I am free to roam the rainy streets again, camera bag on wrong shoulder.

Upon returning home I am greeted by a neighbor kid on rollerblades who feigns no involvement in the dismemberment of a Sanford and Son car in the yard next door. The new SPIN, sitting in the mailbox, features Cover Boy Moby with foil stars licked all over his head and some crappy photos of obnoxious-yet-talented Courtney Love inside. The love of Andrew WK meanders through my thoughts and the record store boy has called to say The Hawksley Workman you ordered is in. So I can hand that over to Laura as hers was lost in the big C.
Over and Out, on to deadline trenches of happiness.

Thanks Almighty Ruler of Rock & Roll Situations for not having me be booked for the date that BAD COMPANY hits the Middling City's exurban concert amphitheatre. And a double-header with Foreigner to boot. That's easily $50 in merch moola in one fell swoop... unless the Foreigner shirts are hideous. I rifle through the index cards of my mind to procure a visual of the band's logo. And all I'm coming up with is the cheezball AWB naked booty logo. Foreigner logo... Foreigner logo. Not Foghat. Not Falco, Foreigner. Oh well. Maybe just a BadCo t-shirt will suffice.
Saw a movie last night and actually didn't take a delicious snooze duringst it. There is nothing in the world sweeter than a nap during a feature film after plopping $6 or so on the greasy counter. An Oh-I'll-just-close-my-eyes-for-a-moment-and-not-miss-anything-in-the-plot, five-star zoo snooze.
Tomorrow's intensity includes a meeting with an attorney about the big C (it's C for CrAsH) as there are now, I see, reasons one grabs the services of a big A for a big C because there are loads of BS and N (as in nincompoops) out there who stress you out and make you reach for the big T (as in tobacco) to quell that. Dig?
Love.

The art show's opening was, as they say in movie review parlance, a Triumph with 250+ sardining into the art space at the zenith – an attendance record. I had pals armed with fifths of vodka to "fix" the punchbowl situtation but the gallery director's mother was too surly a presence. Instead, there were special "pourers" going about the room fixing individual beverages. Each of us three artists sold two pieces and hopefully more will sell. I was very happy at the opening. Lots of people dug the work, especially the Holga images, squarely imperfect & perfect.
In the midst of freelancing marathonness yesterday volunteered for an Earth Day event at a Girl Scout camp out in Holland, NY, home of the world-renowned Holland Speedway. The GS camp is on Savage Road - coincidence? I think not.
Helped with the planting of a 9/11 memorial garden and many little girls lost their little boots in the savage and deep mud. A big burly landscaper named Jeff would wade out into the mud and extricate what was stuck.
Ended out the evening motoring to see a girl band who performs in duct tape brassieres and then me +3 sang aloud a fab Lionel Richie superset in the new golden auto.
Our version of "Hello" unforgettable, a Triumph.

Perhaps evidence that I'm not as genteel (as that lezbo said in the bar that night) as I appear to be. If I were a blind person and, say, it was 4PM, the appointed time for my seeing eye dog pal Rocky to poop I would state so thusly:
Tell me when it's 4PM so I can walk Rocky to take a dump/shit/poop.
Contrast with how an actual blind person said same to me yesterday, in a very soft voice.
Please tell me when it's 4PM. He seemed anxious about this so I asked why.
Well, he said, Rocky was trained for a whole year before I got him and he's so trained that he does his business exactly at 4PM.
Business.
And, being like I am (non-genteel) I asked, So what happens if Rocky isn't ready?
Oh, he's always ready at 4PM, was the big steaming answer.
Today, shooting sports second day in a row at the same tiny college I saw this guy and Rocky again.
It was 345PM.
I said, HI, it's Nancy, we spoke yesterday. It's nearly 4PM!!!!!!
He said, Oh we took care of business a bit early.
I think he's fucking up all that special training.
I amazed myself today by becoming so lost in the suburbs/exurbs that I drove for I think an hour in that condition. I saw a thrift store and pulled into the lot.
Almighty God in His Infinite Thrift Store Wisdom wanted me to find this item and that's why I was lost:
an ashtray featuring a small Chinese tot (clothed) perched at the edge of the ashtray as if the ashtray were a giant pillow with indentation for ashes and butts. It's painted a complicated swirling array of purples, lavendars and yellows. It rocks.

To go with my new goooold-colored Forester, to replace the one rearranged and obliterated by Ms.Drunk, I'm getting my left front tooth coated in shiny shiny gold. I don't understand, clearly, how these insurance things motor along but the nice Subaru saleslady said that on Tuesday I can pick up a new one. hooray.
An interesting blend this past weekend of documenting musical activity in the Middling City and working on the art show. Dropped the artwork off today and it fills the eastern room/my room completely. 29 pieces in all, and I did all of the framing. Please, someone, remind me that in the future I don't have this kind of time. Thanks. However, the sense of completion and relief is immense. It is done. And, I might add, it's a good show. Unfortunately the show, a threesome of artists, has a way-unfortunate name: Trilogies. Cor-nee.

In the midst of today's AOL gig writing kept getting phonecalls re: last Saturday's big CRASH. Got the call that They deem my car 100% totalled. All $22K shot to hell with only 2K miles on the sparkly new odometer. Oh, and Laura's Hawksley Workman cd is still in the cd player. I'll be replacing that. Tomorrow the car goes to salvage, the drunk that ran the red knocked my engine's block off, or, rather, knocked the engine off of its block. New Forester heading my direction, hopefully, next week.
Today's surrealism:
went into the dealer's body shop to fetch a receipt for picture frames for upcoming art show and bumped into my car saleslady, Caren. She, I thought, recognized me but she was talking about me as if I were not there. Yes, she said, we're looking for a new car for her... and it was too late in the dialogue to correct her so I went along with it, playing my sibling, who I assume Caren thought I was. Yes, she said as "I"/"my sister" was departing, tell Nancy that I said I hope she's doing okay and... have a Nice Day!
She also asked "my sister" if I'd/she'd like to see the totalled car. "I"/"she" did not.
Off to the Art Land, where magical exhibitionistic things happen.

Nancy's Great Entrepreneurial Idea #78:
What the world needs now (in addition to Love Sweet Love, as it's the only thing that there's just too little of... ), I have determined in my post-Crash (no ref to JG Ballard here) and enpained and ensnared situation, is a Post-Accident Coordinator. A PAC.
You are in a Crash. You hurt. You are weepy the first day. The second day, just like everyone predicts, your body is hurting like the jaws of Hell are nipping at your being, and you have to enter the bureaucratic maze of information, laced with landmines.
Here's are 2 of my fav landmine examples from yesterday:
Insurance "Agent": WHAT? You rented a car from Hertz? Oh, that was a mistake. Go get one from Enterprise. (PAC would know this and save you the wasted time and money of dealing with the Hertz nincompoops)
Enterprise Lady: WHAT? You talked to your insurance agent? You should have contacted the other party's insurance company. (PAC would spare you such inane commentary - would say on your behalf You know what Fuckhead? My client was injured, she didn't seem to have the time to chat with the other injured party about insurance matters, etc.)
The PAC would tape record your answers to all Crash-related questions, gather paperwork and run towards all the sharks whose careers are based upon accidents, momentary lapses of luck.

Took Laura, who had addressed all of my art exhibition p-cards today on her half-day off (point towards Heaven, I'd say), to Daisies for lunch and there I saw they had posted my review of their joint on the cash register. I said Oh, I wrote that. The waitress said, Wait, don't move! Then shouted into the kitchen's small window (where the circa 1972 heat lamp sits and mesmerizes me) Hey, that reviewer is here. They were so happy about the writeup. That made me happy, as did getting yet more work done on my upcoming art show. Note to self: call gallery maven to work upon his no-booze stance on openings. No vino = no saleso.

I refuse to believe that the bloody image of Andrew WK's face had a thing to do with my car crash on Saturday night/Sunday morn.
Minding my own business, heading home after a longass day of freelance work and newspaper documentation, I was broadsided (as they say in the calamity biz) by a drunk driver running a red light. Hello airbags!
Next thing I knew I was looking down a street I had not been driving on, fondling the airbags, thinking how the smell was choking and the white plastic had a neat texture and the bags an impresssive thickness.
Thanks to driving a sturdy Forester I'm writing epinw today with minor aches and pains fixable by Motrin and Oban.
The other driver +3 were taken away on stretchers. Laura, who I called as I'd just seen her, was at my side as were several empathetic emergency fixer-uppers all saying You've been in a very serious car accident, forget about the car, how are you?
After three hours in the hospital I was free to leave with a handout about head injuries/bumps on heads. Before leaving Laura said Let's take a photo of you on the hospital bed so I held up my wrist showing hospital bracelets (one bright orange telling of my PCN = penicillin allergy) and holding up the pee sample they asked for as I headed off to restroom and which nobody seemed very interested in. A nurse came in as we were taking the photo and she seemed annoyed.
Other than THAT the weekend was great, eventful, musicful, socialful, artful.
I may be the next poster person stating how Subaru completely rocks.

Nothing I read about Andrew WK prepared me for his gig last night at Showplace, a fist-pumping lovefest celebrating the party possibilities in us all.
I was tipped off by promoter that he'd be on first, at an ungodly 8PM and I counted three songs with the word party in the title. His band looked like your average metal rock geeks and he was even more handsome in the flesh than in photos. His music is techno-embracing pop-metal and he was all high-kicks that would be the envy of David Lee Roth, to be sure. And he's all long sweaty dark hair that he flips up from time to time to spread Andrew WK smiles of fan appreciation when possible. I looked at him and thought Holy Rock & Roll Hell, this is the closest I might ever get to Johnny Depp. During his set he wrestled with security to get his stageriding fans onstage, at which point he'd hand over the mic and smile at their lyric-spouting selves like a proud parent. Afterwards my security pal Paul told me that that was part of the schtick: Andrew WK's management said He'll try to pull fans up on stage - DON'T LET HIM. Then there got to be a dramatic tug-o-war, do you follow? This happens all the time in the rock world.
After his set (at 1 point power went off and the guitarist said Well, we are professionals, so we lost some power - let's DANCE!!!) Andrew WK went out into the crowd and then signed autographs for over an hour. I had my photo taken with him, TWICE. The first one was like hugging a wet stage towel. The second one, at the merch table, he was slightly drier. During the second snapfest security pal Dino had my camera and Andrew WK had me in a bear hug - fingers out in metalILoveYou gesture, tossing his hair to the front. I asked Should I rumple my hair, too? So I did, and we crossed our metalILoveYou fingers. Rock completely on.
I bought his t-shirt which shows him with bloody nose, a mere $15. The merch table guy, also Leo Buscaglia-ish in genuine love and hugs, informed me that for that photo Andrew WK smashed himself in the face with a cinder block. I am still confused by this. With the amount of faux blood available everywhere, why would a beautiful, Johnny-Depp-esque rock star have to go to such lengths?

Interesting snippet of Perfect Nancy time, 11AM today:
me in a Starbucks bathroom, using the toilet scrubber to get mud caked on shoes off before returning to freelance gig, after photographing Oozfest (muddy volleyball). I meant to bring snowpants and boots, forgot, traipsed to Oozfest in suit and kickin' shoes, got muddy and good ol' Starbucks came to rescue. Now I'm slightly horrified at thought of toilet molecules on my shoes.
The tink thank was thinkful, enjoyable.

So last night I'm all WOOO-HOOOO I'm in a think tank. I had a gig documenting a Law School event, a banquet. So there's my think tanker self sitting in a cheeseball room at an overly-decorated table waiting for something to happen for me and my camera.
I start talking with one guy to my right who, he tells me, is associated with the law school. He's one of those weirdos who can't look you in the eye as you're conversing and I determine quickly that he has a sense of humor on the negative side of the sliding scale.
He's mid-40's and his similar wife is sitting on the other side of him.
He mentions that he's into international trade law and I think surrendipity has reared its meandering head as that's basically the theme of Saturday's think tank meeting - American identity in global market.
So I say I'm in a think tank. He looks at me like I'm some crack-addled woman who has crashed the soirée. I ask him for some tips on where I can glean some background info. His response? Do you have time to read about 40,000 pages? We stop talking. I look at the program and holy guac this guy and wifey are leading national superstars in the realm of international trade theory, law, fun facts, you name it.
He might know a lot about the above but he's not trading in the hot commodities of humor and charm.
Finished the evening watching Drums and Tuba with a gaggle of friends who were happy for my new think tank status. All sort of people, save Ani, from Righteous Babe Records were at the gig - they're on her label. Bitch and Animal, another band on RBR, were there, two We're so into fashion lezbos.
Off to more photo deadlines.

Moral of following blogpost: Sometimes you never know where in hell a declaration will get you. Namely, you want something. You state it. Somebody for whatever reason remembers the statement, an occasion arises and you're en route.

A while back I was talking with a Middling City business person and said that I always wanted to be involved with a think tank and we talked about what sorts of think tank ops there are - or are needed.

I have been invited to participate in a think tank and the first meeting happens on Saturday. This doesn't make up for not getting the NYC residency (*#@) but lightens the air around me a bit. I'm in a think tank. On Saturday. A think tank. This blog is a think tank of sorts. Well, off to think. Not in a tank. Yet.

Just Experienced a very informative and semi-legal after-hours at a Middling City joint where Your Perfect Nancy et al indulged in cash registerless booze and snacks and high times. Now back to journalistic reality and the writing of the column.
Decision: (and being a Libra this is historic)
no more Zip discs. My dip drive is going to be asap subjected to the most draconian of laundry lists of punishments: running over by car, melting by cigarette lighter, stoning, spreading it with peanut butter and bird seed and letting the blue jays and robins have their way with it.
CD-roms are way more stable. Why have I been wasting time with zips? I wonder.
Back to journalistic "responsibility." Or integrity. What does integrity really mean.
My love.

Lisa, my positivity-effusing pal studying currently at Naropa U, emailed me my astrological chart earlier today. In a nutshell: I like to appear like I have a titanium nutshell but am truly emotional, I work hard, I avoid marriage and anything remotely threatening to my independence, my friends are my family and I seek power. Right on, positive Lisa. No bucolic pony rides and lolling about on the Maine coast for this adrenalized me.
Have spent the better portion of today freelancing and troubleshooting and driving for miles and miles. Back in front of machine before more of same, then resuming computer staring into wee hours. Wondering how I'm going to squeeze in some boozing time at about 930PM with Laura - the motivation to guzzle yet more coffee and hit the computer running.
I may be using my Dave Matthews image nearly half the spread. Why? Because I'm the photo editor and I freakin' SAY SO. Any further questions? Good, I thought not.
Love, your titanium-shelled pal, Perfect Nancy.

Today I have been rushing since 6AM. It's now 6PM+.
Did some food photography today out in an oddball swanky restaurant I've never ventured into and they were so nice, basically insisting that I eat lunch and sit and then a rockstar drummer who happens to work there came out and sat and talked to me about the music scene.
Last night I had dinner at the home of a manager of a few national bands, including ultra-Canadian ensemble Cowboy Junkies. A woman who works at Ani DiFranco's Righteous Babe Records was there and, even after numerous prompts from those of us in the rockstar know, wouldn't say a thing about the dark side of working at RBR. I teased her that she was fearing for her life. Or job. Her beau was one of those grad school types. The conversation was mostly dominated by rockstar talk. Fun facts. Figures. Gossip. Highs. Lows.
Got my Dave photos back moments ago, amongst hundreds of others. When I was eating at the restaurant (sort of a free lunch) the drummer/kitchen guy asked how many images I think I've made to date. A mind-boggling question. I've been shooting steadily since I was 17. I told him at the height of the season (maybe May through September) I shoot up to about 100 rolls per week.
You do the math.
Off for more more more.
Love.

Writing this from an elegant Apple shoppe in an exurban malle venue. A nice UB student returned my former cell phone so a nice reward is coming his way. I'm blogging on Apple's nickel and that seems very very appropriate.
EPINW is being written for the premier time on a huge screen on a power mac g4 priced at $3K or so. Blazing processor, too. A salesman is now telling a potential buyer about its screen, how it emulates the width of a real movie screen - 23" wow. Monsters Inc was made one one, I think he just said.
Last night Dave came out to screams. I shot from his right hand side and then shifted over to his left. Made tight images as he came down for his looking-at-hands moments, very intimate. Talked very briefly with Rudy again, his tour photog, who is very busy being important all of the time.
Stayed for most of Dave's set and marvelled at how every time he does his kicky little Dave dance now the crowd surges into an uproar. Bought the $38 model long-sleeved DMB shirt. Nice gray with yellow logo. Worth $38? Does Dave have the blackest, most miscievious eyes?
Afterwards onto other venues, other hotspots. And a reunion for a bar where I was a seasoned alum. We all talked about the good times, the past times. Then, when it occured to me it felt like a memorial service, after a few flaming shots, I split. Onwards.
Love.

Well and whew.
Have been out and kicking ass and making the dough all day and let me tell you, it's a jungle out there. Not really. I am the jungle, I embrace the jungle.

Happy birthday to this blog, and to Samuel Beckett. Respectively 1 year old and god really knows - he had no idea, why should I.

Gwen/No Doubt report: she was, according to my excellent sources, in a foul mood and not speaking to her bandmates. The opener, The Faint, left me neither faint nor running for their merch table.
ND came out to screaming throng, Gwen radiant in boxing boots, yards of rhinestones about her waist, other rock star accoutrements and that fried out hair. ouch. Press photogs were to have three songs to shoot but instead it was two - the crowd at the front of the stage was a bit out of control and the student in charge of secrity became wild-eyed and ejected us. In a nutshell the light sucked but Gwen signed a copy of a print I made of her in '97 and kept one for herself. Guess she wasn't that foul-tempered. After shooting had a police escort to my car where I left my gear and came back in, locating pals and, after doing one of Gwen's exciting new stage moves (sort of a squat thrust into a big X) I managed to lose my cell phone.
But good riddance to bad electronics.
Laura called Sean at Sprint PCS, we all had a good hardy-har and today waltzed into SprintStore and within 20 minutes had a shiny newer, smaller phone. I asked the guys behind counter Do you suppose that as these phones get smaller and smaller I'll lose them faster and faster?
Running, and I mean RUNNING, to Dave Matthews.
Love.

Tomorrow is the one year anniversary of this blog. Where has all the time gone. Procrastinatingly, I'll tell you.
What do I have to show for the year?
What did you learn in this past year?
Enough reflection.
This weekend is a marathon jamboree of rock and roll. No Doubt is tonight and then Middling City talent. And then. Tomorrow night.
Dave .
My ticket was FedEx'd to me this AM and it's a laser-printed affair. And they have me close on the floor so I will be able to lob undies up there into his smiling face.

Post-Clinton shoot wandered like a merrily lost child in an enchanted forest through Target (and like all good post-modernists I pronounce it as tar-JHAY, dig?) looking for a trash can for my highly unused kitchen. I was lost, wandering in circles. Are trash cans Domestics? Housewares? Def not Electronics. I had to ask a Target Team member for assistance. I work so much that I forget/forgot about this oddly-lit world of Barbie colors and neatly-presented items. I was out of there in 20 minutes flat. Enough of that planet, back to Perfect Nancy's Photo Universe.

Bill had a cold sore. And an odd red blemish on his forehead, upper right corner. And that nose. A nose you could fuck. We press photogs were split up into two groups - Group A and Group B and I was assigned, with a few familiar boy colleagues, to Group B to which we instantly protested. The woman in charge of herding us was perplexed. We kept saying WE WANT TO BE GROUP A. Why? she asked. BECAUSE A IS BETTER THAN B. She said, to shut us all the hell up, A is for adequate but B is for best. The boy colleagues looked at Perfect Me and asked, Do you buy that Nancy? I did. And we were escorted in our groups for 2.5 minutes of Bill proximity, at the front row. And then the shoulder tap meant go to seats, little photogs, and shoot from your seats for the duration. I was shooting, seated, next to one boy colleague who was looking at his D1's camera back chuh-chuh-chuckling. Then he showed me his image, Bill with his hands about a foot apart. The cigar I smoked was THIS long, he chuckled into my ear. There were a few other cigar jokes floating about.
I would like to hire Bill to follow me around to explain many aspects of the world in his assured and even tone. What an advantage I'd have.
My assignment editrix wanted the hoopla so I talked my way up into an office of a basketball coach, made images from behind his computer credenza, smashed into the small space, lens up to the window to get the image of long lines of students entering the building. At that point I saw a lone protester - hurray - and sped outside to get not just one but THREE protesters. The MTV generation is so in love with Bill for appearing on the network that the three protesters were 1. an ugly philosophy prof, middle-aged, 2. a middle-aged man disguised as a faux billionaire and when I asked him his political party he quipped (barf) I'm a BILLIONAIRE, it doesn't matter which party I'm in, we control it all (hardy-fuckin-har), and 3. a bald student with a GO HOME BILL sign taped to his back. Oooo, very effective Mr. College Republican.
As I was driving back from that poli-hoopla here's something I misheard on the radio:
Russia has an embargo on American poetry.
I was flustered. Why poetry? Why, only this week my former college prof won the Pulitzer and he's like so safe and nice.
Then they're talking on and on and I realized it wasn't American poetry that Russia is embargoing - it's American poultry.
There is such a difference.
Love.

Did I really ever need to know that Pink fought like cats-n-dogs with her brother, who's now in the Air Force? I think not. And thanks SPIN for packing this useless info into my already disheveled rumpus room of a mind.
Last night at the Ani show shot the opener, an earnest 40 year old guy named Dan Bern who did a little Dylan channeling.
Then into the lobby to cavort with rock star men and discovered that a few guys, old hippie types/musicians/l.p. geeks who corrupted me somewhat, are friends of theirs so it was a virtual reunion (which happily involved seeing nobody from high school).
One of the guys, Kenny, lived down the street from my parents/young me and it was in his parents' house where I did my first bong hit out of a bong the size of a college basketball superstar. And that's maybe an exaggeration by about 8 or so inches.
It's always good to cavort with older guys who know their music - at any age and, having missed out on the big brother experience, it comes in musically handy.
Ani was her usual spectacular and rivetting self and I was happy to hear her give props publicly (again) to Michael Meldrum, the man about town/music joints, who taught her how to play guitar and who recently gave me a gratis copy of the latest Hawksley Workman.
Life without music would be like life without frozen organic butternut squash. Rough.
ps: one of the evening's moments exhibiting much levity was when one of my rock star acquaintances referred to me as Mary Tylor Moore at 35 playing a 21 year old. I said thanks but said I'd like to be thought of as early series, before she wore those thick polyester pant suits without irony.

Each time I attempt to write anything or think anything about NSYNC thoughts turn immediately to baby blue cotton candy bobbing along on a paper cone, held by a child in hot pursuit of good times.
Or I think of a mall fountain, there for white noise, to soothe shopping souls.
I wore my earplugs to NSYNC's show, for the screaming is not to be believed. I think even the Fab Four-inspired wails could not compete.
All the fans had their I LOVE NSYNC signs confiscated and while me and a gaggle of boy colleagues waited in the security area - pre-shooting - a security guy wheeled in a large garbage can packed with signs. I said aloud That's a huge waste of a whole lot of glitter. Post-9/11 teen schmaltz showz are signless for the "security and comfort of all of NSYNC's friends."
This just in: one of my college lit profs, Carl Dennis, it was just announced on NPR, won a Pulitzer Prize for his poetry, a far cry from There once was a girl from Nantucket...
Also in: I mean what I say... notmyprez Bush was just quoted as saying at a press conf re: Mid East problems. Just when you think you lived in a complicated yet progressive world Bush utters a phrase to remind you that Nope, you are living in a country where the Yale-educated, secret society membered, dictionless Texan leader can order other leaders, via mass media, to play nice.
Also back in: Reese Campbell, superstar, who found me via the internet system/mass media and is a welcomed addition to the select circle that makes me absolutely laugh.
Rock on world.

Whew! what a weekend for superstar merch purchases. DJ Spooky tshirt (double-sided, black, yellow logo) and last night a Hawksley Workman girlie tank top. You can tell a lot about a rockstar by their merch table.
Spooky: big tshirts, DJ Spooky-sanctioned turntable cozies/covers, cd's.
Workman: girlie tank tops, girlie undies, cd's.
The underwear was silly, and overpriced. He's not that great. I think the last band that I shot selling underwear was Aerosmith.
After Hawksley Workman zoomed over to Guided by Alcohol nearby. And, true to their nickname (band is really Guided by Voices, lest you wonder), they swallowed, according to my calculations, a case and a half of beer of assorted varieties, and a fifth of Jim Beam. The band lovingly refers to fans with smokes at the ready as Cigarette Techs. A match bearer? A Light Tech.
This week's roster of venerable shootees, in order of appearance:
Sun: Smashmouth and NSYNC (yikes)
Mon: Ani DiFranco
Wednes: Bill Clinton (hello again, Mr. Ruddy)
Thurs: Donny Osmond (kitsch value)
Fri: No Doubt
and, the cherry on top of this veritable hot fudge sundae -
SAT: DAVE MATTHEWS BAND STARRING THE ONE AND ONLY SMIRKY AND FOOT-SHUFFLING AND CHARMING DAVE MATTHEWS AND I'M GOING TO TAKE HIS PHOTO AND THEN SIT IN THE PRESS SECTION AND WATCH HIM WATCH HIM WATCH HIM SMILING AND SUCH ALL THE WHILE.
Dave, if you're reading this, I love you.

Went to an exurban art op last night mainly to speculate on how it will be much more wonderful after I and my collaborative boys (according to us, we are TEAM A) do our thing in there. That show opens on September 11th, in mere moments in art time.
After that picked up a travel companion and joined *physically, not metaphysically and certainly not scentily in the form of patchouli* the crowd at Maharishi... Mahapotato... oh whatever the fuck they're called... Orchestra.
Then onwards to the best part of the night, to bask in the vinyl luvv of DJ Spooky who was amazing though not as textural as I imagined that he'd be. It was more old school blends and starting and stopping of beats that would have your body grooving in one way and then in another completely different way. I was onstage with Spooky to get the best possible angles of him, his equipment, his laptop, his nice bottle of white wine and his floppity wool hat. I had successfully carved out an area for shooting/dancing/being in front of the stage and when an ARMY t-shirt guy wandered into the circle I looked at him shook my head and he went away. Moments later he reappeared with a candle he had found somewhere in the club, sat on a little apron jutting out from the stage, sat cross-legged and had a real moment - solo.
Spooky Moved.
and now your beloved Nancy will move herself into her darkroom to make art for the masses. Love.

Yesterday had a gig shooting the Bill T. Jones Dance Co. in rehearsal at the sprawling suburban campus of the university named for this Middling City.
In the studio I respectfully took off my shoes, in which to blend.
Was speaking with another media type when someone from the company shushed us saying Mr. Jones doesn't like it when people are talking. I looked at him, searingly.
Dancers, techies, observors, more dancers on sidelines were all talking.
Mr. Jones is one intense man and it was absolutely great to be so close to the dancers to hear them muttering things like Hands flat, open, move in closer, etc. as they interpreted their directions.
One dancer, Malcolm, was off listening to his walkman when Mr. Jones wanted him to do something and all the dancers were shouting MALCOLM until he heard.

Thursday I photographed Uber Jazz Crank Diana Krall, who sold out the 2K or so seat venue downtown. I asked the head of security if there were any good new Diana Krall stories as she's a noted crabass. He said he walked into a room to hear the singer/pianist/diva screaming I DON'T TALK TO MANAGERS .
My colleagues were photographing Krall from an odd angle, through her piano because they saw an op there. I shot from the keyboard side waiting until she turned, which I knew she would at some point. Beautiful verticals, full-length, were the result. Her, piano, her long legs, her long hair.

Tonight is a marathon night, beginning with an opulent gig at 4PM. Onwards then to art ops, DJ Spooky, more more more.
Love.

DADDIO.
I've coined yet another word. DADDIO is a condition.
Hint: It'll always happen on a Tuesday morn. And it'll always happen post-Easter.
It's Day After Dyngus Day Interior Ouch.
Minding my own business I picked up Laura. Then we proceeded to Dyngus Day party #1, a bit of a snooze but the bar owner was très excited as he'd, he felt, scored majorly by having an old time accordion star playing all night. I said to Laura Their pussy willow branches are impressive but wait until you see the next party.
A house across from DD party #1 had burnt to a crisp the night before and what I thought was a festive welcome wagon to the bar was a truck outfitted with bulbs so workers could see what the hell they were doing as they were cutting boards for all the exploded windows.
Party #2 began with Laura and I brandishing our pussy willow branches and telling the door guys that they were letting us in, pro bono-like.
Then we shimmied through the crowd to the bar where I convinced a whole lot of people that I knew and sort of knew and then knew later to do shots of Krupnik. The bartender was sad to report that the sticky, oozey-goozey Krupnik was backordered and there was only enough for one person. I made a rockstar acquaintance sip it. Laura drank the rest while we all opted for some sticky, oozey-goozey honey liqueurish thing with a little hive of holiday madness sitting atop the bottle.
Shots later, several Polish beers later, Laura was the new Dyngus Pro, squirting and swatting passersby. I photographed the polka band, convincing them to play longer as the media was in the house... a tv camera showed up... and so they launched into Roll Out the Barrel for some odd reason. Laura and I ended the evening sitting on a pooltable sipping scotch and watching a five-star Middling City rock & roll band do their impressively sweaty thing in the back room of a white trash-emulating bar. I recently hung out with these guys whilst shooting their promo shot so felt completely comfy wandering into their "stage" area and swatting the lead singer in the back of the knees with my pussy willows and he screamed lyrics into Dyngus Day night.

Basically began weekend by cohosting the cable access show again and when I walked into the "studio" there were these young pop rock-looking guys who were introduced to me as NSYNC and by golly they sort of looked like those nincompoops so I pretended it was NSYNC and we had a group hug jumping up and down. And I was wearing my beatup fuzzy bunny ears. Which I wore almost all weekend.
This band was inspired to forge a rock career after 9/11. And they call themselves State of Emergency. I kept calling them other things such as State of Confusion, etc., much to their chagrin.
At the end of the "taping" there's a customary photo shoot and this is posted on the show's website: link along here to see evidence of Your Fav Nancy as her lapindacious evil bunny alterego.
Much into the wee morning hours, when all good bunnies should be snoozing in their warrens, I was in the venerable rock and roll venue when I was approached by a boy.
Are you bringing me goodies tomorrow, Easter Bunny, he asked. I said Only if you've been a good little boy. He asked if I'd like his address. I said Sure. He shouted AHA, IF YOU WERE REALLY THE EASTER BUNNY YOU'D know MY ADDRESS. My retort: That information is all in my laptop, which I'm not carrying around at this moment. Then, traipsing along back to vehicle a big ol' station wagon slowed down... one of the Middling City's scarier-looking cabs. The cab driver unrolled his window and shouted SILLY WABBIT.
Bunny ears. What a way to meet people.

Well I suppose it's time to clear the bottle of scotch off the desk for (heraldic blasts from 1,000 angels from up on HIGH) the Shiny Mag Pieces are like so done.
Praise God, Praise Patti Smith, Praise Dave Matthews, Praise Green Tea, Praise Peeps.
NO!!!
Do not Praise those peeps which absolutely freak me out. Who eats these?
What are they? Sheep, lambs, chickens? Do not eat of their glowinthedark yellow and pink confectionary selves.
It's Easter, Holy Shit. I told Lead Boy Colleague that I think the last time I left my computer it was Christmas or thereabouts.
I am free.
Oh, I want to share with you a tale of my famed procrastinational skills.
While clearing my head of the mathematical problem that is a 3K piece I was caught by beau in this position, visualize hard:
I was singing a Meatloaf classic hit at the top of my everything, standing in front of the refrigerator, door open and my legs and arms spread in a classic rock gesture.
Time to regain my photographic composure. Writing leads to insanity. Writers are kooks. Photographers, well-balanced, and funny to boot.
Again, don't eat those fucking PEEPS.
Love.

So April 13th, Samuel Beckett's birth date, is EPINW's one year anniversary. And I know that you'll ink that onto your calendar and such and buy me a present to thank me for all the good times and erudition.
Favorites: green, shoes, Me & Ro jewelry (spec. their 18K gold rings), Oban .
I'm planning a special bloggerific party that day and there will be festive links for your joy.

Speaking of April 13th (about the time that Cobain blew his smart head off) someone is publishing a book of his diaries and other muck and I'm going to find this person and see if they want to use my haunting images of Kurt at one of his ultimate gigs.

We are all rock stars in our own special ways. Life is better when you realize this and dress accordingly.
Love.

The seminar with the classical music listening and report writing youths went swimmingly and I kept it clean, so to speak. I realized that these teens today think that all adults are in cahoots as they looked at me and queried How long is this report supposta be, narrowing their dewy eyes into disbelief when I responded I have no (censored) idea.

Found myself at some point this weekend, Saturday specifically, at 1AM seated at thigh level of an imported stripper/nouvelle burlesque mama - jetted into Middling City for entertainment purposes only.
She took almost it all off, down to thong. But she started out with a slew of fabric on her small frame and famed 23-inch waistline. Off came the hoop skirt. Off came the fuck ME pumps. Off came the fishnet stockings. Off came the big granny undies. Off came the corset. Off came the bra (under a netty robe). And then she scampered away.
Me and a girlie pal gave an impromptu report between the two of us. We felt that a little boob flash would have been okay. She had stretch marks on her butt (vertical) and we wondered how and/or why. My pal claims that she saw cellulite but I think it was the reflection of the disco ball on the wood dance floor and then that reflected up onto the burlesque and luminous self.

Following shooting a grain elevator in toxic Niagara Falls, NY on Sunday went on a short hike on a small island located not too far from Middling City. Realizing I was near a cemetery where two people I know are in repose I drove me and travel companion there. I reported how I had nearly broken my neck at this site last winter whilst hopping the cemetery gate, and then I pointed dramatically to the section which was leaning ominously as if it had just tossed off another hopper.
It was quickly pointed out to me that there was actually a small section of gate that was truly a gate - voilà.
I tidied up the grass around the friend headstones. Their shared wintertime wreath was on a stand lying on the ground and I stood it up and pressed the tripod legs into the burial ground.
Then we wandered through the very small cemetery and I fixed things: I put a pot back together, I put lots of silk flowers back in vases and I repaired a windchime whose ceramic humming bird fell to sogginess.
The Academy Awards were playing on tv sets throughout the land last night and I could not have given one tiny flying phlegm. But today the fashion reports are inescapable and I'm so sad for Gwyneth .

Lest you think my Perfect World is all about cavorting with rockstars present & future and trading in smushed vehicles for shiny new ones, here's a little story for you.
Yesterday was my absolute least fav event - ever! - to photograph for the newspaper... an ultra-boring arts award luncheon.
Two clues when something will suck: 1. it's called a BASH. 2. it's called a LUNCHEON (rhymes avec truncheon).
So this thing crawls along for 2.5 hours and there's a platform of people, many of whom give rambling speeches, a huge roomful of art community types and corporate sponsors and banquet-style fare.
The first thing I noted upon entering the sea of tables was the absolute absence of light on the high platform/at podium. There were four tiny lights about 100' back from the platform, and gelled to boot with a nice hazy orange/pink. Oh, and the background was black. What does this mean? No ambient light is available and I had to burst forth light from the flash.
Onwards.
So, as a speaker rambled, I sat with a table full of people I know close to stage (our newspaper was table #29, a good hike from stage) and one woman sweetly approached me from this org of sitters and asked if I'd speak to some youths at risk into classical music THIS EVENING and give a presentation about writing about the arts so that they can, moments later, watch the symphony perform and, hopefully, write something snazzy about it.
Of course I said yes.
Here's what I'll tell them:
1. procrastinate, it gets adrenaline flowing.
2. either caffeine or alcohol is necessary on table/desk upon which you are writing, depending on concentration level.
3. get a thesaurus.
4. be honest, you earn street cred when you're real.
5. don't be afraid to toss in a smattering of poetry or fiction to spice up your writing about music.
and, lastly,
6. don't fucking ramble.
Maybe I'll have to edit this a bit - but basically that's it.
Over, out, about, rock on.

Jetting some images off to MTV to spread Perfect Nancy world view of rockstars. Have been slightly addicted lately to Patti Smith's Easter . Why I weep for today's concert-attending youth: as they sit stupefied by MTV (oops, today we LOVE MTV) - glitzy - stage productions as popstarz lipsynch and dance the night away they'll possibly never discover and/or appreciate the pioneering artistry of Patti who could, with one phrase from one song, rip the fake tits off of any top 40 girlie.
Tonight I shoot Wesley Willis - fat, black, heavily medicated drummer of small renown. Last time I shot him he sat on the floor of a now-defunct downtown club ringed with (drunk, equally-chem-addled) teen boys... and me. He had plumber's butt. As he reached for something from his nearby bag about 5 prescription meds bottles spilled out. He scared me. It was beautiful. And tonight I'll be back for more drumming fear. When I spoke with his press guy in LA he kept phrasing out NO WORRIES. It was equally scary. People in LA really say things like that.
NO WORRIES.
Say it.
Voice must intone on the reeze part.
NO Werrr-EASE.
Got it?
Good.
NO WORRIES.

Why I'm smiling.
Today (well, yesterday, but technically, in My Book, the day doesn't change over until one's idea-teeming head hits one's barely-used pillow) I meandered into a newer and better Subaru dealer with a dollar and a dream (OK, really a bit more than a dollar... and an abused vehicle) and left with a Deal. I think my powers of positive thought persuaded these nice saleswomen that I'm wonderful and deserve all good things, including a brand new car for perusing and abusing for a little while.
Either that or they're nincompoops. Kindly nincompoops.
Went there with beau to get a replacement side mirror (as I'm sure I reported the former side mirror was dangling after I thought I might be running over a homeless man's body wrapped in carpeting), blank check from Auto Guru Pal's business in hand. Left with a mirror. And aforementioned Deal.
I got them/saleslady nincompoops to toss in a gas card, free foot massages for a year and a cd player. I'm unfortunately lying about the foot massages.
When I returned to Auto Guru Pal's repair centre I told him about the Deal. He said Well, now that I know you're getting a new car, let's go out into the lot, walk around the car and laugh at all the damage you caused it. His skilled Auto Guru eyes noted every milimeter of despair, destruction and plain old shitty luck. And we laughed heartily.
The world is never more cheery than when Perfect Nancy gets her way and gets her self into a newer and shinier vehicle.
First cd to be played in new car. An important decision. Perhaps REM to ensure the vibes are wholesome/vegetarian (= no roadkill under wheels), from the south (= no rust on the newness) and full of indecipherable words (= Murmur for secret Zenlike chants).

COMMIT A RANDOM ACT OF NEIL DIAMOND KINDNESS

Last night, amongst other engagements and duties and social irresponsibilities, made a stop to see and hear two bands of boys I know. More importantly, following is what I wore yesterday evening. Glancing at my new DIAMOND GIRL shirt from Neil's recent Middling City show I knew it was the wise and perfect choice, worn with the SoHo gold overprinted suede jacket which glimmers like the eyes of Elvis post-pillpop. A night of rock music appreciation deserves an appropriate dual musical superstar brandishing.

But before arriving at the supersets shot a local reggae cover band and when leaving, hitting the sidewalk, passed two women. One of them turned around and said Hey, DIAMOND GIRL, still walking. I shouted after her Were you at the show? Yes, she said, but I didn't buy that shirt, I bought the one with the flag on it. Oh, I murmured, sort of slightly taken aback by this stranger's merch choice. She said I'm really patriotic. (But, I'm thinking, why a flag when one's boobies can be emblazoned with the words DIAMOND GIRL?). So then I shouted, as a parting gesture of Neil Luvv Unity, WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE NEIL SONG? Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon the answer.
Her pal, non-believing, laughed.

My suggestion to you, blogee:
Strike up a random conversation with a stranger and discuss Neil Diamond.
Or, in a public place, hum or sing (whichever seems most appropriate) a Neil song. Cover a Neil song under your breath to make others happy, spread the love. And try it with arm gestures to boot.
Love & Over & Out

In order to avoid a possible vehicular homicidal situation I veered offpath away from a rolled up carpet in my way, in front of the building I was parking in front of, last nigt. This resulted in the car's right side mirror ending up in a dangling condition. For one instant I imagined one of a bevy of homeless people near the office building wrapped up in the carpet taking a deep (perhaps booze-induced) snooze = veering. And now I am certain that my face will be hanging up any day now in Subaru leasing offices and dealerships throughout the land: DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, LEASE ANOTHER SUBARU TO THIS INDIVIDUAL. One boy colleague and boy artist assured me that it's not quite as bad as I think it is. I do not believe them. I think they wanted to avoid a non-smiling Nancy with a non-laughing face.

Today's super rock surprise is, as of noon, ultra-public.
The secret was leaked to me about a week ago that the Goo Goo Dolls were playing a free and MTV-sponsored gig at Albright-Knox Art Gallery. I contacted my MTV pal and some local rock promoting types to get a big IN, the big C(redentials).
Teenaged Middling City students believed they were on an art foray and were led into a sculpture court. The stage was wrapped with floor-to-ceiling plastic and all camera people were hidden behind curtains. I was onstage with the band, waiting for the curtain to fall, so I could shoot reactions.
A gallery docent said, This artist creates with what many feel is a difficult material to work with - they work in rock.
Curtain falls and 150 students are stunned and then rocking out (except a handful of Hispanic students with arms crossed and pouting lips).
This ("Jammin'") airs on MTV April 8th or 9th. The room was swirling with rock & roll, students having probably the best concert experiences of their teenaged lives, a dozen or so video camera shooters running about, some adult onlookers, a cranky curator thinking of asking everyone (including me) to get down off the Jenny Holzer marble benches for better views of overall mayhem and then deciding against it, one way-rocking out geeky teacher in archetypal brown cord jacket, a few boy colleagues and me (documenting more Goos history for MTV and the Middling City alterna-paper).
If you watch the show you might see me, in my excellent black fuzzy jacket and most wonderful new HYDE shoes.
All for now, love.

Highlight of week thus far:
Yesterday (3/11, as in pop-hardrock band) shot a hockey-related media frenzy surrounding former Czech citizen, Middling City resident and Buffalo Sabre Dominik Hasek who was intermingling with inner-city youth dubbed Hasek's Heroes. Bad name, good cause. It's obvious how much he digs intermingling with the kids and he spent a lot of time talking with them and then, at the end, he handed every adult-bossed child a hockey puck emblazoned with the Olympic logo.
Now here's the highlight.
The event's emcee was Danny Gare. #18. Another former Sabre and current hockey announcer.
As a child I was obsessed with Danny Gare (this might even be at the time of my Pink Floyd discovery - unrelated I am sure) and actually knew how to forge his autograph. And, when sliding off the waterslide at our country club I'd scream at the top of my lungs DANNY GARE RULES.
So there we are within arm's length of each other and I muttered to lead boy colleague also shooting the Hasek affair Please do not embarass me and tell him how much I love(d) him. Please. So I'm talking to Danny Gare and I look over at lead boy colleague who's grinning.
I finally say hello to thee Danny Gare and in the midst of our ever-so-brief conversation I told him that I could forge his signature and then he had a very odd look on his face.
Lead boy colleague photographed us together with my camera and now me and Danny hang amid the other Perfect-Nancy-Meets-VIP photos.
What I didn't tell Danny Gare:
back in disco's heyday I was an underaged pedestrian watching the grand opening of a hot new dance joint near my parents' home. The spotlights twirled. People in polyester walked by and into the club. And then Danny Gare appeared and I screamed DANNY GARE RULES and he, an adult hockey superstar on a disco mission, shot a look of disdain over his shoulder.
The End and here's le moral du jour:
no matter who you are and whom your obsession might be, you might very well end up in a hockey rink with your arms around each other for a quick photo and the jogging of a very musty memory.

During the N's and the O's of an A-to-Z Pink Floyd playlist on the occasional classic rock oasis I drove through what felt to be a movie set for a cinematic treatment of the apocalypse in Middling City exurbs.
No people. Trees upended. Old metal hotel signs lying down. A fallen phone booth. And the sky was an orange-blue with swirling dark clouds.
And I thought of Bob. Hurricaine Bob.
How I had the night off (many years ago) in Maine @ art teaching @ camp gig and thought Fuck it, so it's a hurricaine, it's my night off and I am so like outta here. And they let me drive off in my little car, knowing there's no stopping an unstoppable woman on a mission such as myself - and they had 200 kids to worry about. And I drove into Bob, branches flying past my car windows, visibility comparable to blizzard driving conditions until I had to admit that facing the choices of 1. seeing my special pal in Portland and perhaps seeing an untimely death versus 2. heading to camp and facing disaster with a slew of hysterical 8-12 year olds, staffers, etc. choice 2 was probably a good idea.
And then me and camp foundress came up with an evacuation plan for the campers and staff, we took over the gym and offices of a public school for a day and night, I tried to jump start the school's generator but didn't know the thing needed its water replaced until a crusy old man showed up from nearby, I inadvertently set off air raid sirens when trying to pull breakers, then didn't sleep all night and then visited camp to inspect damage with foundress the next AM saw old pine trees sawed in half and wires lying on the ground and then helped ship all campers back to their respective homes and complicated lives the next afternoon.
Nothing nearly that exciting happened during this afternoon's Pink Floyd driveby but the music fit the landscape and, for a moment, I was in a 1/2 hourlong movie in which a Middling City is vaporized, the skies are troubling and the only person around is me, Perfect and intrepid Nancy. Credits roll. And no Roger Waters to sue my ass for not paying for usage of his music on my soundtrack.

Prime examples of how to make someone happy whilst speaking their particular foreign tongue and how annoying insurance salesmen can be:
1. Amid a two-part freelance gig this AM/PM had 1.5 hours and 2 events to cover for newspaper gig. Motoring by a coffee joint my car, unaided by myself, came to a screeching halt, knowing what I like. And need. Standing in line at coffee place I saw a couple and thought Now don't they look French and adorable. They spoke to cashier and lo & behold, Frenchies. The woman was having some trouble with our boring-ass bills and had handed the guy over too much money. Thought she's French, what are her shoes like and looked down to see her one shoe was way untied. So, in French, I said Excuse me, your shoe is untied. She was so happy to hear French, her face shot out a glow and she thanked me in French. It's little language things, Party People.
2. So at the panel discussion (item 1 of 2 for coverage in 1.5 hours' time) venue I am wandering through the building looking for aforementioned when I come upon a table of propaganda and six or so young hooligans. They are insurance salesman. In the space of a good fifteen seconds, involving me asking them if they knew where the panel discussion was, I was inundated with pamphlets, a business card, advice of where to call for quotes (as in premiums, not media-type) and notified that one of these people at table could help me to prepare my will. Turned the corner en route once again and ditched the paperwork with the help of a strategically-placed garbage can.
Lesson of sorts #2: the riff-raff can find you no matter where you are - how safe from it you believe you are.
And on that note, it's time to careen out the door and begin documenting more more more - with French on my tongue, a spring in my step and no will in my back pocket.
Love.

New art deadline. New stress.
Ran top-speed into the slide-making emporium with my little roll of Kodak EPY 64-T with the archetypal wash of panic over face and the reassuring Buddha behind the counter said 'Let me guess...'
Of course he was right, 5PM my little bundle of joy must be dropped off at world-renowned Albright-Knox Art Gallery: 6 slides, rez, sase, brief artist statement. Check, check, check and check.
He is a compendium of sad and engaging tales of slide rushing.
His favorite story of week:
guy rushes in... can I have this in one hour? He, famed for his withering yet Buddha-like gazes, said Well, let me just toss aside the thirty or so rush orders that people are paying rush charges for...
Middling City, capital of surly business owners.

A favored team of area rockstars, Last Conservative has released their new one.They reworked their song Out of Nowhere that appeared on an ep and I've said to them that, in my most non-humble opinion, this is their hit, à la Don King or something.
Best part of story: I get thanked on the cd - after God and before the girlfriends. That is where journalists stand, you follow the big guy (who possibly for them reps their muse) but rockstars know deep down inside that you're more important to their careers than o-so disposable lovers.
Rock on guys.

On most current ride back to the orifice I had a karaoke moment in the car. On the classic rock station was Eddie Money's Baby Hold On (to Me... the future is ours to see, etc.) and I simultaneously pictured this past summer when I photographed him at a free downtown concert and he sweated through his shirt... and then his tie. So I'm thinking of the song on the radio and realized it's a perfect karoke song = not too long, no overdone guitar parts, no spoken word moments, not built for sopranos. And it's made for some choice hand gesturing which would go nicely with its drum beat.
If I'm ever allowed to sing karaoke in the Middling City again this might be my choice.

And following is why Dorota is my favored person today and forever.
So I'm minding my own business checking the mail and I see an ominous package standing on end underneath the mailbox, the snow from the roof soaking it nicely.
Of course I didn't think of anthrax, that is so over.
Waiting package is from Dorota, priority mailed over from Broome Street to my street. And she wrote fragile on the wrapping.
And guess what the hell it is?
One of those precious bottle cap people I collect from the 50's. And she must have ordered it from eBay via Canada as the package was covered with clues in the form of Canadian stamps from when this person sent it to her in NYC.
This bottlecap man has maniacal painted blue eyes, a swooping painted smile and he's wearing a floral bow tie over tiny painted buttons.
Oh, and his maker painted I heart N Y on the base.
You know you have a supersonic pal when they send you an ominous package and upon opening it all you can say is Oh My God, Oh My God.
And then your second thought is I must blog this.

Just returned to home office hovel (aka Photo Explosion or Celluloid Cave) after disseminating smiles and prints far & wide. Was sent on a wild exurban goosechase to shoot a restaurant not listed in any phonebook and out in the next county, miles from rows of chains which seemingly soothe spirits of suburbanites. Finally found the freaking place and it was closed - a nice shot of their signage will do. They also had a wreath on their door discreetly covering the name of what the restaurant had previously been called.
Nutshell: chasing down silly restaurants for pithy moola I need like I need a bottle of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum.
While driving I heard news items via an AM NPR station:
1. Our country has a shadow government and it's staffed, loaded and ready in the event of what the announcer called "the worst." And their super-secret front door is allegedly published on the internet.
2. Scientists have discovered that acetone + electrified bubbles = a neato new way of making nuclear power.
Imagine the fun at slumber parties throughout the land when teenaged girls, bored with nail painting, rig up curling irons and the like to bottles of nail polish remover.
Listening to the brand new song - "Here is Gone"- by the Goo Goo Dolls coming out of the conspiracy theory-free rock station and it's so not great. " Pollution in me ," wow. When I logged on to AOL they claimed, erroneously, that they had the exclusive priviledge of offering a sneak listen.
Stick to blogs for news today.
Wow, the radio station is playing the Goos' song again.
Today = strange day.

Just arose from my Indigo Girls-induced coma. Experienced after shooting them for the paper, following a political event documented for the college hosting both politicians and then the set by the Boring Duo. Felt bad for a weeping lezbo who needed a ticket and, having one comp to spare, handed her one - sans thanks. In venue met up with a boy colleague whose wife was sitting in the way-back. Told him he could take my one remaining good ticket and then as I was crossing, pre-Indigo Snoozes, to other side of the room I see aforementioned lezbo squatting down between a woman's legs in the front row. Do you still need that comp I gave you? I glared. She then proceeded to pull four tix scammed from other kindhearteds so I asked for the comp back and gave it to the boy colleague.
Lesson: before handing over a good comp ticket to a weeping woman, flip her upside down and shake vigorously to see if other tickets flutter from her various pockets.
Last night, post glorious and wine-drenched art opening event featuring Yours Truly et al, popped into Gene Loves Jezebel and they were actually good. Stage was rimmed with boys and girls singing the words, one a girlie pal who has enjoyed the physical comforts of the lead singer, Michael. He caught us front row chatting about him and gave us the raised eyebrow. He might be onstage, he might be wearing leather pants, he might be in the spotlight basking in adulation, but he wants to know what's being said about him in row #1 - his women-dependent lifeforce pinpoint accurate.