Still, still working on the prints for the show, opening in about 20 minutes or so.
And I'm writing this from the handy open office with iMac and t-1 line that grad students have access to... as well as errant photojournalists on time-consuming art quests.
The images look great and there are only two out of thirteen that still need to be worked on, needing to be re-outputted onto acetate, re-exposed and re-printed. This can all be done, theoretically, by Tuesday night and that leaves Wednesday, Thursday and Friday AM to put these fuckers in their frames that I am NOT calling frames.

Today.
Awoke happy in Chautauqua (after late gate crashing a wedding there as guest of guest Matthew XBoss - and seeing rock star pal Reese Campbell there), community of elder crunchy goodness on a long skinny lake. I looked across the lake and for a moment believed I was looking at Canada, a byproduct of growing up, living in the Middling City where across the lush green & mighty Niagara rests our polite neighbors = Canada.

Stopped in the grand Westfield Diner, where I have consumed many cups of their awful coffee, lumpy meatloaf and other items. Today it was an omelet that came after an undinerlike interval.
A chainsmoking waitress, hard to ignore, was pondering the artist responsible for the song I Love Myself Today that she heard on a tv commercial, wrongly assuming that it was Joan Jett. I had to intervene. It's Bif Naked, she's from Canada, I tossed in her direction. Bif Who? And so that went. I said I'm 99% sure (actually more, but why say that? I photographed Bif Naked at some music event last summer and her live rendition was, how do you say, kickass?) that that's who that is. I said If you have a computer you can always do a search for the song by title. Blank stare through the cig haze.
A lunkheaded-looking young fellow to my left, eating and staring blankly into space, sometimes at another, younger and non-cahinsmoking waitress, when I asked him how far something in Dunkirk was from Westfield queried? Do you drive like it's Sunday morning or Tuesday evening?
I said, well, today I'm driving like it's Tuesday at 5:05PM.

Diner Zen and wisdom is part of what makes our country so wondrous, a small surprise in every road trip.

One more tale. En route to printing studio did some AOL writing, researching and happened upon an exurban faire (not fair) devoted to gardens, etc.
In the midst of it sat an older woman making hats and giving them away. I photographed her, asked her name, she's the mom of famed artist Charlie Clough and she gave me a golden metallic rain hat festooned with all sorts of silk flowers that she insisted on plunking down upon my sweaty mind and head.
She took my face in her hands, looked at me hard and said You do good work. You never say anything negative about anybody. Why is that?
I said There's already enough negative energy in the world.
She said Keep on doing what you do and I then floated away back to my car that matches my nouveau chapeau.
Love.

"I dreamed of a circle, I dreamed of a circle round. And in that circle was a face. Her eyes looked upon me with fondness. Her warmth coming near, calling me 'sweetness,' calling me 'dear.' But I whispered 'no, I can't rest here.'" - Merchant

So I'm brushing all of my teeth, last night or early, they all blend together, and VH1 is on as the news is insufferable as of late, and there on the screen is a man who I swear is Rob Buck, but from three or four or more years ago when he was plump and seemingly healthy and I'm amazed, thinking I'm watching a televised ghost until the end of the video and the info-area says it's Uncle Kracker's lead singer. Not Rob.
That leads me to thinking about old, ancient 10KM Days and all my compiled band stories and experiences which leads to the reaching for Our Time in Eden before all hell broke loose with Her/Merchant leaving, the band imploding for a while, grabbing a hold of Mary and John who were doing just fine without them, ensuing small and large chaoses and then Rob's untimely, tragic death.
Circle Dream is a compact and effective Her/Merchant item.
And art moves on.
Old stylish shoes get dated and beat to shit, prized guitars get auctioned off, new methods of image making are explored, art openings are imminent and dreams crash with wake.
Love.

Ponderments du jour:

1
Will my new cut-down-on-caffeine-you've-got-enough-adrenaline-teeming-through-your-veins stance render me less a merry workaholic.

2
Will the nightshade growing through the torn screen of my living room window latch onto a house plant. Could it survive the winter in some greenhouse way and cheer me with its determination.

3
Will people love this new work I'm making in the printing studio.

4
Will I care if the charred remains look of it confounds them.

5
Will my post-carcrash driving anxiety and shoulder pain ever leave me.

6
Will I ever remember to purchase a new bottle of Oban for the work station.

7
Will I ever stop procrastinating or is it my truest occasional self.

8
Will the Middling City implode.

9
Will this blog end.

10
Will your love end.

Ye Olde Encapsoulation and Odd Thoughts for Greater Joy:

1.
I am in blissful, greater-than-ever adrenalized art mode and have been subsumed in the basement of the art building in a printing studio where my cell phone does not work (immediate sidenote: today, at newspaper office, whilst talking with two collegial colleagues, I mentioned a moment of anxiety when I realized this past weekend when I was shooting a wedding and noted my cell wasn't working, etc. They said that they wish to do an intervention for my work-addicted ways. I said Interesting, today NPR was all about people of my ilk... but overall it was agreed by 'experts' that those, like me, who run their own businesses are slightly in different work-addict categories. Then I karate chopped them in their heads and they laid off.) and the only thing that arrives in the radio in the studio is an all-talk AM station upon which the world's most arrogant and conservative man bloats about his opinion until I can't take it any more, attempt to massage some music out of the dial and then give up and return to my ink-covered project.
What am I making? 13 16x20 images printed on sheets of stainless steel that I had custom-cut with pre-drilled holes and these images are from the famed Conflagration photo shoot of about a month ago whereby I had the 6' twins interacting and posing in the midst of a kitchen on fire.
These 13 images (I chose 13 as the opening happens on Friday the 13th of September and numbers have always been my secret passion in my photography and poetry) are screened in blackest black and look, I hope, like charred image remains.
These sheets of steel will be set onto a field of cherry red rimmed with wood strips of a darkish green stain and these are being made by another artist, Penny Wyatt, and I've given her complete artistic freedom so I won't see them finished until they're finished.

2.
The last little bit of hearing that I had in ears left & right was decimated after last Thursday night's gig at the University at Buffalo homecoming football game when, during halftime entertainment moment, I thought it'd be really neato to get closer to Rocket Man - a U.B. Engineering grad student strapped into a real-live jet pak. So I'm on the field with Rocket Man, 5 techs wearing airport-grade headphones/protectors (should've been Perfect Nancy Hint #1) and a kooky video guy. So they make an announcement to the folks up in the bleachers This'll be REAL LOUD so you might want to cover them there ears...
I'm on the field, a camera in my hands. Rocket Man lifts off about 20 feet from me. I can feel my ear drums vibrating. I don't know whether to cover my ears or shoot but, being photojournalistically sound, I shoot.
Did you just say something? Oh, I thought I heard something. Then again, maybe I didn't hear anything.
If only I chronicled the hilarious mis-hearings this past weekend. Too many, way too, to remember.

3.
This new Coldplay cd is perfect, as far as I can tell.

4.
The scent Ylang Ylang is also perfect, as far as I can smell.


My Love.

Squatting and blogging, blogging and squatting.
Waiting on printing master to assist me with the inking of silk and placing of template. Last time, I'm hoping, that I require his assistance and from then on I'll be independently printing up a storm, a squeegee in each hand, making art like the wind.
Yesterday's Polaroid booth was a flop as all concession tents were about half a mile from the stage action and the geniuses that set up the event had all stages in a line on one end of the large park. No matter, I had to hop off to another event for an hour or so, returned, asked the twinnies how it had gone, they said lamely so we broke it down, I hijacked a golfcart of drunk boys who then drove me and my large plastic crate of items to my car, nearly creaming about a hundred dazed festival attendees in the process. They were about to drop and dash when I said Hey wait, I want a ride back. So back we drove to the venue/park, again making wild turns and scaring youngsters en route.

Shot my pet band, Last Conservative, who played first - for paper and for cash money. They absolutely fucking rocked.
I got that butterfly feeling that they'll make it and my butterflies are never wrong.
Afterwards they went to the autograph tent and I finished Mike's smoke as I grabbed Roger's smoke out of his mouth as he was signing away for young thrilled girlies.
It's bad for your image I stated, most big sister-like.
I moved on.
Later I had lunch with the band and Roger told me that he got to sign his first boob. Congratulations, I said, Now it's official - you're a rock star.
He described how the girl asked Can you sign my boob and flopped it out.
It was big, he said.
The other guys said it was the first one he'd ever touched.
Later in the day Lead Boy Colleague and I were waiting for The Tea Party to get going before we ran off to shoot Peter Frampton (ahhhh, early rock memories) about two miles away at a free downtown concert.
As we stood next to the stage a security clone shouted into my ear Hey, there's a girl without a top. He then radioed the other security clones to dispatch them for a good gander.
We three stood and watched her toplessness float above the hands as the hands worked to remove her jeans. They nearly did before she was dumped in the midst of the hands attached to a whole messa testosterone.
Lead Boy Colleague had galloped toward this action.
The security man said Well, they'll help her up now, pick her up just like a 6-pack, motioning his fingers down like they'd go into a bowling ball.
'Tis better to be one of the boys than to be a girlie-girl at all-day gritty music fests.
Onwards.
My love.

Forget WWJD.
WWPBT?
As in What Was Pat Benatar Thinking?
Had to shoot her last night for a university gig and out she trounces in cheezy auburn extensions, a bandanna on her head, bulky plastic hip hop boy pants and - get this - platform sneakers.
I nearly screamed but then I recalled that I never liked her or her music so I let her look completely odd, shot a quick 40 or so frames and split.
Her tshirts now have her and her hubby's name on them... like they're this equally hot pair of stars like Siefried and Roy or whomever those scary, Dr. Smith-looking guys are with the white tigers in Vegas.
And why do all men of a certain age who wear mascara come out looking like Dr. Smith of Lost in Space?
Another memory of last night.
Went to shoot Buckwheat Zydeco and in front of the stage was an errant blonde, also of a certain age, in 80s-era little layered dress and biking shorts underneath. She was out solo and was dancing for the band. I watched in great amusement as the guys watched each time she flipped her dress up and sent meaningful glances her way when they performed a song basically entitled 'She's My Little Hot Pepper.'
Two large drunk guys behind me decided to love this song and quickly caught on to the song's repeating of the key phrase so they grasped the two words - hot and pepper - and shouted that at appropriate intervals.
Tomorrow, Edgefest 9.
And amongst my photographic duties and such I'm running a Polaroid vending tent like ones I've previously fashioned with this one being more rock-related. I've got my 6' twin models running the show. I'm hoping that they'll know how to handle drunks that traipse in. Crowd control is key.
All for now.
Onwards.

This is when one knows that one has perhaps spent entirely too much time in front of a computer -or- that technology, like it or not has infiltrated one's fine mind.
It's late, you've worked an 18 hour day but managed to meet pals out for salads at some point to create much-needed levity. So after calling it a day's wrap at about 3AM you watch MSNBC or whatever the hell it's called and think Hey this is much better than CNN and think (pay attention, here comes the computer-infiltration part)
Oh, I'll just BOOKMARK this station so I know where to find it.
As in bookmarking an item online on your mac, dig?

Dorota, Supersonic Gal Pal, read yesterday's post and emailed that she wished that she could expense a table for the honorific lunch to her display company in NYC.
Public note to Dorota: reserve 11/23 as the Experience Music Project gig is fersher happening in Seattle, The Land Where Starbucks Began.

Off to printing studio, encore.
TMBG cancelled, due to the monsoon that spread through the Middling City.
Tonight it's Pat Benatar for the university, a pep rally.
Pep, my secret middle name.
Love.

They Might Be Giants play a free Middling City gig outdoors and it's raining. Peggy from Buffalo Place hangs a rosary out in the bushes and every Thursday it's rainy but then the Almighty Gods of Rock & Roll see that rosary and haul off the rain so the throngs can drink their beers in a dry state and the performers onstage don't get electrocuted.
I shot TMBG at Hallwalls when I was a baby intern there for a whole year, either in '84 or '85, with a borrowed camera, a song in my heart, a dollar in my pocket and a dream.
Oh, the newspaper publisher (Mr. X) where I work says he won't be buying a business-financed table for the luncheon that's honoring me as a 40 Under 40 on 11/7 as someone who has contributed to the community via the column I've been printing in aforementioned for 13 years - amongst other things.
Other honorees will have companies that have bought tables.
He said I can't afford a table... maybe me and (Ms. X) will go to the lunch... how much is it?
Yikes-a-roni!
This is a guy I call somewhat of a pal, whose pre-baby's shower I hostessed at my home and spent a fast $400 on, who just bought a Victorian home and is having beaucoup expensive improvements done to it as I write this.
Well, some things never do change.
Onwards.
Onwards to Rigidized Metals to pick up my stainless steel plates, to university's printing studio, They Might Be Giants and many points beyond.

Love.

According to the Ansel Adams calendar the full moon happens later this week but today right now feels very loonie.
Called my beloved former dentist's "replacement" and his bitchy secretary told me that Chester died and that I couldn't get my teeth cleaned for six months... then I could arrange to have fillings six months after that.
I processed this and just about screamed That's completely ridiculous (and my favorite word when dealing with the world's nincompoops) AND UNACCEPTABLE. And a slap in the face to Chester who dug this guy and handed him his clients.

Chester Memories:
1. the faux lemon tree in the waiting room
2. the mod lemon yellow vinyl setees in the waiting room
3. his rambling stories (my mentor!), that would have him leaning back against the counter, pulling his mask off of his face so you could understand the rambling better
4. the rubber animals and fake ring after-visit prizes

When I finally get to speak to my attorney I have this giant question:
Is it customary to receive letters (not one but two) stating that I must appear before a doctor chosen by the defendant's insurance company with ALL of my accident-related medical records at a designated time and date as if I were a small child or someone trying to rip somebody off rather than a person coping with the aftereffects of nearly getting cremed by a drunk driving an 80s sedan at top speeds?
Please, someone, pass the Oban and tell the moon to behave.
Love.
ps: Andrew WK, if you're reading this, I think that you might be dreamier than Johnny.

Arms pumped out of a small American car on the expressway as I headed back to the Middling City from shooting white-trasherific Allman Bros.
I (as were the driver & passengers of the small American car) was listening to the ye olde classic rock station with BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY in full throttle. Voices were high as were pumping fists. They had spotted my singing and acknowledged the joint rock moment with aforementioned out-window gesture.
At Allman Bros. I had a tiny window of op to shoot the remaining A.Bro. at organ/keyboards and, thanks to a kindly video guy atop a platform, captured the shaggy rock star. Afterwards me and Boy Colleague Mark drank a few large-scale draft Buds and watched the staggering, tattooed masses until it was near concert end and it was time to beat everybody out onto the roadways.
Back into town headed into a bar reviewing assignment, a joint called Classic Roxx, in the suburbs and reviewed whilst simultaneously enjoying a cocktail and, apparently, the final 10 minutes of the evilness of The Bachelor on t.v. where an ugly man selected one of two finalists to be his maybe future lucky lady. The girl bartender was angry because she had endured ten whole weeks of this ridiculousness for this most, in her words, unsatisfying ending.
Onwards to live music shooting with girlie pals in tow, some celebrity guest bartending, some celbrity guest price fabricating, some celebrity guest schmoozing and shot sipping.
One final weekend thought: the one-armed bartender at another suburban bar that I AOL'd has completely captured my roving imagination. My two companions hadn't noted his missing arm. When we were leaving and I said Wow, did you watch how he changed the bottle pourer with one hand they were perplexed. How do you miss a missing arm? How do you lose a missing arm? His absence throws him off balance and therefore, I duly noted, he pours drinks slightly stronger to compensate.
Love.

Warped Tour highlight was Andrew WK's set, of course.
Who doesn't or can't love a man who hasn't done laundry in maybe a year and is wearing an ensemble (white t-shirt and light jeans) to prove so?
I followed my 6th or so sense and meandered over to a lesser stage after his set and noted his guitar player, James (in embarassingly tiny shorts of near-Speedo proportions) shooting away. Then onto the stage bolts thee Andrew WK to play a final song with The Casualties.
At the end of the song I said to James Give me your email address and I'll send you a couple of jpegs.
His response?
OK, then we can be friends!!!
These guys are a cross between Barney and rock & roll high times.
Speaking of jpegs, shot a university prof yesterday and those jpegs within a few hours were e-catapulted over to Business Week Online and India Abroad which supposedly has the largest circulation of any pub in the universe.
Technology rules.
Love.

Look, I never thought for one micro-moment that it's easy to be my sister, sister to the most Perfect Nancy... ME. But really. I called her today at her office job to query OK, so the kid's been tortured enough, can my nephew come to Warped Tour with me today? Forget this goofball punishment for some bad grade, this is a fucking family tradition, baby!!! (not in such language, but smooth-like)
And the answer, most mom-like, no, prison warden-like was:
And what about Katharine (his 5 year old sister), what about her? And we mean business with this punishment for he's to learn that school... (blah, blah, blah)
I hung up.
I thought about kidnapping the kid. But I'm off to Warped Tour now, nephew-less.
Love.

The mud, the mayhem and the all-day music that is Warped Tour is tomorrow. The day that ends with a plethora of images and high times as well as fine dust over all of my camera equipment. The park, LaSalle, has an off-lake breeze and during the day all the dirt molecules float into the air and throw themselves into eyes, pores and electronic equipment.
Still hoarse from moments ago when I called my dad/pops/father to sing at the top of my strong lungs and intersperse the song with some wailing harmonic riffs for the occasion of his birthday. Please pass the lozenges.
Wondering if the Bosstones feel like ancient farts for still doing WT but they do seem to be its anchor. So refreshingly non-flavor du jour.
Ordered my steel (not aluminum) for my art project and had a panic when the guy helping with the order started going nuts with numbers and lots of zeroes. All is coming to $100 and I'll have custom-cut pieces of stainless steel with pre-drilled holes to my specs.
Then it's onto, later this week, the printing studio where I'll be attempting to recall all I gleaned in my 5 or so hours with printing master Jeff.
Art is so not easy to schedule.
Art is so easy to make one feel happy and balanced.
Art is so shiny when made on steel plates.
Art is so beautiful when it sells off the walls.
Art rules.
Art rocks.
Rock stars are art.
Love is art.
Art.
Love.

Yesterday's many tiny journeys included a stop at Middling City's 2nd annual Karibana Festival with a parade, allegedly, down one Delaware Avenue. Went with Lead Boy Colleague at appointed midday and at about 130 a micro-parade went creaking by featuring a non-drilling drill team, a convertible from which an elderly lady waved and a bunch of cops leading the way and then a fire truck signalled that all was micro-over. We were told that Karibana Parade pt. II was to take place at 2 so we booked over to another event, returned at 2 and then at about 4 (mind you all sorts of impromptu meetings and media gatherings are taking place during this time as well as a hearty ingestion of caffeine) IT happened with loads of skyhigh streamers, half-nekkid people and razzly-dazzliness.
Towards the end of the night stood backstage with most of the Boy Colleagues at HSBC Arena awaiting the Goo Goo Dolls late appearance and was surprised that we were all sent packing to the sound board to shoot from that mega-distance. Last time I shot them was from the stage and anywhere during their surprise engagement at Albright-Knox Art Gallery. Now this. This rivalled Rod Stewart Aging Rockstar Syndrome as we were all practically outside the fucking venue. But long lenses, slight riser, holding of breath and patience prevailed and some images happened.
Still haunted by the image, mid-wedding shoot, of a preteened guest of the B&G dancing solo on the dance floor. She, clearly Britneyed beyond belief, was doing one of those choreographed pop dance routines she had seen on cable and didn't realize that solo and on the dance floor of a wedding banquet hall she looked like a demented stripper. I watched as an older, non-hip and obviously cable-less couple watched in rising horror and embarassment. In her preteened mind, I imagine, she was in belly-baring spandex and surrounded by a plethora of buff young things. She was not.
It was a beautiful moment.
You are all my beautiful moments.
My love.
My camera-centric love.

A new day. Is it time for coffee yet?
Back in Middling City where I do and must hit the ground running.
The M.C. can learn a lot from Portland, ME. For a small city, with a generous heaping of travelers spending wads of cash, there is an impressive amount of restaurants - most better than here and in an unpretentious way. There is a greater sense of design and artfulness in Portland. This I always attributed to artists who have remained in the community and that the city embraced creative types rather than trying to squeeze them out of the scene via attitude and fire codes.
Portland has better restaurant selections (more sushi joints, more vegetarian and healthy places to eat), a busier downtown art film house, small businesses selling clothing and shoes (basically an impossibility in most of Buffalo) and an accessible waterfront.
Minus, and this is a giant one: bars close at 1AM.
When I worked at the non-profit summer camp for 10 years (and roared out of camp with my NYC pals) this took a whole lot of getting accustomed to. You want to say Hey, look, I'm from Buffalo and I'm a grownup and I will NOT be leaving at 1AM.
Other Portland Maine minus: too many pairs of comfy sandals. Sure, the cobblestones rival the ankle pain-causing ones of Rome, but what about fashion?
Love.

Attempting to blog from a Mac I spotted in the "lobby" of my former hotel in Portland, Maine (where I'm confronting ghosts of my Maine self from a decade or so ago), I was tossed off by an insistent girl.
But nobody is using this iMac, I stated, and I'll just be a sec...
Off I was tossed.
As I'm allegedly on vacation, you know, unwinding as the masses do (a concept completely foreign to Yours Truly), I didn't stand up and karate chop her.
Why did I unbook, unlatch, from the so-called *** hotel where I was attempting to blog? How about dead flowers in the lobby. How about unkempt staffers? How about armoire in the room with the doors missing! Three STRIKES and goodbye. While meandering about the Old Port streets in search of high times and Oban I spotted a true hotel, a brand new **** joint where I will be, the rest of this sojourn, resting my unweary head and enjoying the subtle tinkling of their Zen-like garden.
Caveat: when in Portland as in Maine do not wander into Eastland Park Hotel. It totally sucks.
Portland Harbor Hotel rocks, that's where you should rockstar stay.
I'm now on a rented Kinko's computer, typing fast as the meter is ticking.
Off for more salty good times.
Love.

Two stories.

1
The departed Beatles and I were hanging about and they were both moody. I was surprised by their sudden needs to cry and be sad. I'm not sure if the garden was celestial or Earthly but suddenly I glance over and John is raking a very lush garden and as I'm thinking Holy Shit, why is John Lennon doing garden work, he throws down the rake and is despondent as George comes up and says Hey, remember that old blues song we sang a long time ago, about the tree buried six feet under the ground?
At that point they walk away, arms about shoulders singing the song.

2
The man whose weiner I now know too much about was sitting in front of a, for lack of more suddenly polite and available term, café, with his date and was complaining about his dinner, Too fishy, he said. What type of fish was it, I queried. Haddock was the answer and I commented that haddock should not be fishy and did he feel well? He and his date said, in unison, that he had just vomited on the sidewalk and pointed at it about ten feet away. I was shocked that I didn't vomit myself at the sight of the fresh puke as I'm a complete lightweight at the sight of bodily fluids - snot, earwax, puke, piss, shit, blood, especially blood, on the scene and your Fav Nancy is a puddle of... all of the above and bones and such.
So as we're talking and I'm facing them - and the puke - a woman walks down the street with a puppy on a leash. As she's busy window shopping the puppy is busy eating up the puke. She notices this, screams, and yanks the puppy away. Weiner Boy and the date don't notice this and when she's out of earshot I replay the scene most vividly. Of course.
Onwards.

Finished mere moments ago shooting a wedding for a boy colleague who got all traditional and such with the big T reigning supreme.
Last night was a flurry of art opening activity which included Albright-Knox's WNY Show, a solid crowd and nothing but cookies (cookies!) for snaxx... yikes.
Shot a bunch of the artists individually and talked to my printing guru about assisting me with coating my screens for the big printing days to come.
Last night, amid the flowing of scotch, someone pointed to a better-known writer type and said... I have photos of him dancing naked. More details followed like that this writer type has red pubic hair and then a full description of the involved, exposed you-know-what. Yet another assembly of fun facts to clog my Oban-soaked mind.
Speaking of such...
don't the people of the sponsoring newspaper know all this? Don't they read epinw? Well, guess snot as I've been named to the 40 Under 40 annual list of overachievers. I was nominated and Annie called to tell me that I'm on the list yesterday AM. A bunch of people congratulated me last night and this AM I panicked that a speech might be involved so I quickly lined up three people* I would have to thank, etc. and then - RELIEF - found out that there's no speechmaking involved only a slide show and fun facts about Your Fav Nancy and the others.
Getting my pop music fix before heading out this afternoon to document the sunny, soon-to-be-sunstroked, culturally-enjoying masses.
Love.


* Tony Bannon, director of Eastman House, Charles Rand-Penney, art collector, and Jamie Moses, publisher of ARTVOICE. Tony + Charlie = ardent supporters of my society page-style column What Has Happened for the past 13 years and helping me see how it fits into Middling City's social/historical context. Jamie = space giver to voice.

This post will read much like the one on July 5th.
Well, it's August 1st and nobody lost any fingers, hair, sanity, etc. at the happening yesterday-at the making of Conflagration by Team A.
Arrived at designated shooting spot @ 5PM with Laura (after AOL deadline, after prop shopping and loading table, chairs, etc. into car), who I asked to come with as she's a great frazzlement antidote.
So we arrive out in the country to find Josh (1/3 of TEAM A) still sanding, compiling, listening to James, cranky and I felt a sweat of panic. A short walk into the middle of an overgrown field, like wading into a body of water, was wonderful and I said to myself You have to make this work, this has to work.
Onwards.
Models arrives with their brother, people trickled in and Josh was still building. Light was still good. As things were being constructed I talked with the twins about what I wanted them to do and we did some practice setups.
Finally all was built and gasoline was sprinkled on the kitchen set and things began.
Two hours or so later my shots were made that I had desired, the kitchen was completely torched, my metal vase of white lilies in the set was trashed, cabinet doors dropped off, the window popped and then broke and the group of us watched the hot fire. It was beautiful. No police showed up. The East Aurora fire department drove by and did not stop. Perfect shoot.
Now these images will be made into black & white 5x7's, scanned, made into 16x20 transparant positives and silkscreened onto sheets of metal and then framed.
Love.

Today is a day of firsts.
But first let me tell you. I am so hooked on my images, so obsessed with the ideas. I will talk privately to my models tonight to tell them my ideas so they are it. It makes a difference.
Firstly it's the premier time I'll be photographing twin six foot girls who are my models and current muses as their brother, I believe an even seven feet, et al (especially boys with heightened interest in my art project after hearing about the twin six footers who are 22) watch.
Second first is that I'll be shooting with such an audience out in the woods as the models do my thing in a burning set. All watchers will be put to good use, be asked to hold reflectors and the like. Thanks to parents (Thanks Joe. Thanks Annette) for making me an eldest = perfect practice for bossing. I told someone today That's why I became a photographer, to be able to boss people around the rest of my life:
SMILE! Look here. Avert gaze there. etc.
Third first is the shooting as the set burns.
Fourth first is the shooting in a set I'm not creating. Secret hope: that Josh is right now ingesting large amounts of caffeine to finish building.
Fifth first is that the shoot will end with 'smores as Josh and I discussed how there'll be huge amounts of fire and then embers and what better thing to make than those little campy treats?
Will my life ever be normal, full of expected happenings and not serendipitous oddities?
Dangblamit, I hope not.
My distracted love. My art-infused and directorial mind says so long.
At all moments ask yourself:
WWJLD*



*What Would John Lennon Do?

It's nearly August and why haven't I been launching my balloon launcher (gift from Kunji) at unsuspecting sweaty people.
Saw beautiful Sarah for first time yesterday as she only emerged from Deb at yesterday's 1AM. I held her warm, breathing and squeezed her a couple of times and then felt a newborn butt rumbling. I looked at Deb and said I think I broke Sarah... or she just pooped. Then it happened again. I can tell Sarah when she's much older that I squeezed, quite literally, the shit out of her when she was brand new.
New silkscreening trails were blazed yesterday by your fav Nancy.
Five hours of my life evaporated in a schoolish time vacuum and the forces of the universe conspired against me and my cell phone was little more than injected plastic and an lcd screen down in the bowels of the art building.
$400 & 1 ink-spattered DMB tshirt later I reconnected with my screening Zen and now feel set for turning tomorrow night's photo shoot/production into twelve photo silkscreens on either steel or anodized aluminum - set lushly into velvet-lined shadowboxes of flaming libido red.
I brought my '93 pre-headlost image of Kurt Cobain (scanned at 400dpi and a 16x20) as a test image and left yesterday with a stack of silkscreened Kurts, one on metal, and must say it's gorgeous.
As, hopefully, gorgeous as two twin 6' models in a burning set deep in the country perhaps ringed with semi-drunken assistants and onlooker pals.
Conflagration.
Love.

The foot was not real.
And I was slightly disappointed.
As I was Middling City returning last night, oh at about 9PM if you need such timeline clarification, from the traditional Greek Orthodox wedding I was hired to socially document (and at which the priest, Fr. Jim - who looks like a 70s rock star - forgot, I mean completely FORGOT, to do two whole portions of the wedding ceremony so that it wasn't legit and the couple, me and the priest had to go back into the church and do a few little maneuvers), I spotted a foot lying in the street.
William Street just under the 190 overpass. I thought OH wow, a foot.
I mean how David Lynch, non?
I turned around onto a deadend and went back and yup, a foot.
Met some people out for drinks and general merriment and said Oh, I saw a foot. And the filmmaker in the bunch (of course) expressed the most amazement.
I returned to the site.
I had my camera.
I parked this time and walked over.
Standing over it I still wasn't sure.
I, of course, took lots of dramatic photos, some showing oncoming traffic up William Street.
I got braver and then touched the foot with my foot.
So plastic.
So bummed.

This week is the artmaking with Team A boys. I have to rustle together my twin girl models and assure them that they will NOT be naked, in peril, and will look great.
I am going today to private silk screen printing lessons.
Wednesday it better not *bleeping* rain.
This week is also Lenny Kravitz. And Pink. And a big photo no to Creed as I think Scott's face is probably as wide as a billboard now and his chest hair is probably overtaking his arms and his J.C. poses are now impossible so therefore no snaps.
Dorota and Jason were in town and that meant that the upstairs rooms were actually occupied, my personal happiness levels were increased and the liver is crying for mercy.
Love.

The possibility of Papal infusion, of being engulfed by Pilgrims, was great enough to keep me out of Toronto and merrily in rural Orangeville yesterday after having a series of acupuncutre needles needling my shoulder. The pints of Sleeman's are just as sweet. The Canadian sun just as bright. In Orangeville by the River Hockley. When I read Hockley I think drunk Canadians mis-spelling Hockey, their national pasttime.
Off on another loaded weekend adventure of loaded behaviour.
Love.

(Written whilst listening to the best remnant of the most recent ex - Jesus and Mary Chain... one of the universe's most challenging bands to shoot - up there with Dinosaur Jr., Flaming Lips and Neil Young)

Everyone got boned tonight, said head of Metropolitan security, Chip, with an extreme sunburn all over his face except where his aviator framed sunglasses had been on his head. I snapped into OHNOMYDEARFUCKINGGODIDON'TTHINKSO Nancy. One of the creepiest Boy Colleagues was slumped into a corner, resigned and accepting that he would probably not be shooting Dave Matthews Band while I was on a supersweet pushy bitch tear. So, after half an hour of dangling over fate and waiting in our little chain-linked pen outside of the side willcall window watching a few drunks get arrested (one dramatically thrown against our chain-linked pen) and some girls stumble and stagger inwards we were walked in by Chip, following behind him like hungry little ducklings through the DMB throng. My teammates? Have a little difficulty alligning myself with the fratboys and fratgirlies who follow Dave. Although I have liked talking to a few tapers I've met at his shows.
So he starts and he looks down and sees me in the pit a magma blob of love looking up at him, hands clasped together with camera & 80-200 a-danglin' and I startled him... he looked at Perfect Me and did a little jolt and during the first 3 he periodically looked at me and by then I was shooting, hands unclasped and working.
The weekend's shooting ended with me in the celebratory roped-off area of Greased Pole Competition guys covered in axle grease, me shooting the exuberance and trying not to get slathered by the 15 or so guys hootin' and hollerin.'
Love.

Oversized greasy arm prints are all over the passenger side windows of my car - the unfortunate product of having a bumbling AAA person come to my rescue. And I will be suing Brooks Brothers for making women's shorts with shallow pocket which ensues in keys floating out of pockets, onto car seat - necessitating calls to big and bumbling AAA men who fail after 40 minutes of fishing around with a T-19 and keep joking about with their little buddy in the truck blocking one of two lanes of traffic and you're holding the guy's greasy flashlight shouting You've almost got it as you watch the orange-colored latch nearly pop open but then the bumbling man stops and then he and his little buddy roll up the tool kit, heading back to their truck as you ask/shout NOW What? A locksmith's coming, they announce, and wheel off into the night. So then you call AAA and say This is unacceptable, ridiculous even as the AAA men call you back and say Oh, we found a NEW tool and we're on our way back and all I can think is the dispatcher might tell them about my tirade but nope, they show up, retrieve the wedges that they left in my windows from before, fish around with the NEW tool and 8 seconds later I am absolutely free, a former LOCK-OUT.

A weekend, just as I prefer:
Concerts each and every night, including an all-day 2-day music festival and an appearance by thee Dave - as in Matthews, bien sur.
I'm shooting for a third... DAVE I LOVE YOU YOU ROCK with the Iloveyou sign language gesture backstage to surprise him. Maybe he'll recall his mad photojournalist stalker.
There's grayness hanging over the Middling City which throws little shiny and tiny wrenches into the imaging works for
(P)recipitation + D1H/camera + (E)xuberance = shorted-out camera and sadness.
Nothing goes worse with cameras than water, sand and car crashes.
Made appointment with printing guru yesterday to learn, one-on-one, the secrets of making digital files into screenprinting screens for upcoming NYSCA-funded revelry of exhibitionistic variety. Told printing guru that I'm going to print on steel, that they're monochromatic and that they will abso-fuckin-lutely rock.
I can't divulge what the images are as Team A gives up no secrets.
Our opening happens on Friday the 13th of September - come and play and see.
More details later. On to rock. On to roll. On to turbo-powered COFFEE at my favored joint where the girls are forgetful, the patio is art-strewn and the food is better than anything I'd ever muster from the dusty kitchen hellhole.
Love.

(Said Laura, I want to check out that other bar, Aluminum. She screamed.)
Dig: when I write Said Laura it means I/Perfect Nancy am saying "Laura..." but without the corny quotation marks. So Laura calls today and says I did NOT say that I wanted to check out Aluminum and I was most confused. People, work with me. Quotes begin with caps and sometimes you have to read between the proverbial lines. And another thing, if I hang with you on Saturday and have raucous good fun must I always report so? The mission of epinw is not to give away all my perfect secrets or to report all.
Oh, tonight Eminem is performing at the hockey concert complex and he said a big NO to me/my newspaper and said YES only to AP and to the musty daily. His photo documentation loss.
Onwards. Love.

430: alarm sounds
515: arrive at new Krispy Kreme in Cheektowaga, New York - built over the ghosts of the K-Mart automotive shop.
530: officially punch in after schmoozing about. Shoot two guys, one in pj's, who arrived at 4AM to be the first through the KK side doors!
545: shoot other mayhem
615: mayhem subsides
630: KK officials are visibly disappointed. Your Perfect Nancy eats a doughnut, hot off the presses.
635: some nice guy fetches your Fav and Perfect Nancy a cuppa joe and it does not suck as the last cup of KK koffee did.
640: abandon cuppa joe and schmooze about more.
700: stand with a few other media types, of the radio variety, and one of them muses This is a great country, when we can all stand around watching the sun come up, eating doughnuts and getting PAID. We all concur.
702: develop my theory that the guy sitting at the edge of the parking lot facing new KK, staring at new KK, is a stalker and his stalkee is a new KK employee inside. One of the radio types embellishes - the stalker has a rifle that will be whipped out at some point. I note that the "stalker" has only a tshirt and shorts on... impossible.
704: woman from KK, in shiny new KK tshirt, brings a dozen out to the guy in the lot = not a stalker after all.
705: I comment to Oldies radio types that I still think their station rocks as they play Neil. The most aged radio "personality" says Neil does not test well amongst their listeners. I run into KK, grab hot doughnut grease and toss it at that silly geezer. KIDDING!
707: get into conversation with another media type about piercings, etc.
715: really getting to be time to split and finish up the film, say goodbyes and at 745: hit the ol' highway for points beyond.

What did I learn from 530-730?
People love doughnuts, love freebies from radio stations, that they look sort of rumpled at 530AM, that KK tosses out the rumpled doughnuts and that all people who appear to be stalkers are not.
Love.

My big ol' corporate gig for tomorrow AM - for Krispy Kreme - has been changed from an 830 start time to... dig this... 530. I haven't seen the other side of 530 in ages. The last time I had a gig shooting another KK opening I was hired at 7+ and there CROWDS OF PEOPLE WHO HAD DRIVEN FROM FAR AND WIDE TO BE THERE WHEN THE DOORS OPENED, AND SOME EVEN SLEPT OVERNIGHT IN THE P-LOT, concert style. People trouble me. Some.
So your dear sweet tarpit-hearted perfect Nancy will begin tomorrow with a spring in her step, joy in her eyes and glistening blobs of fat and sugar in her imaging system/body.
Onwards to deadlines, more deadlines, chaos and tapas.
Love.

Yesterday night Laura and I were trapped in a parallel universe of oddities, bars closed on a Friday night and other sundry head-scratchers.
I had/HAVE an AOL list of places to regard, to review and a quick glance revealed that they were not only A-list joints but ones I've hardly ever... visited. So onwards we sped on what I promised would be Loser Tour 2002. And was it. First joint, closed. Said Laura, I want to check out that other bar, Aluminum. She screamed. We walked up to the yellow-shirted buzz of borderlinely functioning guys/Aluminum bouncers and the lead guy jumped off a stool and met us halfway down their walkway. Hi, I said, wearing a summer outfit best described as Brooks Brothers meets the Gap, waving my official reporter pad, we'd like to come in and review this place. The guy nearly shouted WE DON'T LET IN OUTSIDERS. I tried hard not to burst out laughing, we turned and left and then burst out laughing a few feet away. Then the next joint was closed, tumbleweeds practically flying through the parking lot. There were a few cars also parked, I went up to the doors - locked - but all sorts of lights on inside, an LCD moving display telling me that their Buds are only $2 per bottle. But no action. We sat in the lot, planning the next Loser Tour 2002 stop when a car pulled up, sort of near us. I think the two guys in the car were going to get busy smoking pot, crack or each other's you-know-whats. Is this place still open, I asked. One of the guys, said Well, it looks pretty closed to me. Onwards. Said Laura, I won't be satisfied until we sit and have a drink in a hellhole that you and I would never be caught dead in. So we stopped at an unnamed place and had a drink after I cracked a failed joke with the bartender.
Overweight bartender lady: you need a glass for the beer?
Me: (picking up my scotch and the bottle of beer, laughingly) What do we look like?, of course we don't need a glass.
OBL: whuh?
Me: No, we don't need a glass, what do we look like? aha-ha-ha.
OBL: whuh?, sort of glancing over my shoulder.
Me: NO, we don't need a glass.
OBL: Oh, you're with someone, I thought you were saying that I was supposed to see someone standing next to you and there's nobody there...
(yikes)
Loser Tour 2002 ended on an appropriate note and then we high-fuckin-tailed it to a bar where there may be a few losers, but they're OUR losers.
Love.

Foul mood coursing through my veins can only mean one thing... back to Middling City tomorrow after NYC respite of culture and high ideas around every corner, nearly.
Spent much of today wandering and into at one point The Whitney where I looked at images from their collection including a wondrous Joel-Peter Witkin, 'Man Without a Head.' Surveyed nearly every square inch of it and there were funny tiny creases in the print.
Last night was all about the mixing of cocktails and later and late into the wee hours of AM was sitting in a silly Bowery bar, Remote, with 12 or so people of the art market world and talked with a girl Christine of interestingly tight tendrils of hair about JPW. We both remembered the print in the Whitney (I had not yet been to W show but remembered the image from a book ) and both thought the man without a head had a head in his hands. This man without a head had no head. Absolutely no head on the premises.
I thought I could nearly smell his dead skin. I want to one day meet JPW to ask him about not only the acquisition of his bodies but the touching, the arranging.
Into the wee hours were cocktails and this afternoon my kidneys rebelled and Dorota's liver cried out for mercy.
To that we both said HA, we are the bosses of you thoughtless organs.
Love.

New York Ci-tay.
Love to be here.
Was here all of perhaps 20 minutes when I found myself deep inside B&H playing with all sorts of gear... and buying some gear to boot.
The same guy was there who aided me with picking out my backpack and I bought yet another strap as the d1H comes with a neckstrap I'm convinced is modeled on sandpaper - when I wore it for the all-day music festival I thought I'd have to go in for neck skin grafting.
So I'm writing this from Dorota's swanky ACd 5th Avenue office near the FlatIron Building and I was just wandering around trying to remember the word grafting and was peering into offices all the while until I thought of the word and said 'GRAFTING' aloud.
I'm guessing I won't be allowed to squat here no mo.
Since me and boy teammates decided that we're working on theme of conflagration I see fire and flames virtually everywhere and it happily freaks me out.
Off shuttle bus (where I gained another hour+ of sleep) I saw immediately a woman with large calves and large motorcycle-worthy flames licking up her left ankle. I thought of asking her why. But I would rather imagine the why.
Love.

Perfect Nancy's Escape to New York.

Need to sit in my corner counter spot of Café Habana and read the Post and eat those odd triangles of whatever that breakfast thing I order is, slurping down a large Cuban coffee all the while. Oh, and drifting in my visual video bank to the images of Lenny in here flirting with that girl behind the counter before leaving, going to perform his rock show, flighting with his equally-luscious girlfriend, then returning to the joint and the girl's not there. Heart Break!
Need to cavort with beloved Dorota in the style that can best be described as at a rockstar level unattainable by most mortals.
Will be sitting and writing in that cyber café joint where I can write more clearly than in this Middling City for some reason.
Will be sucking in visuals for inspiration and buying more art supplies in real life simply not available in Middling City "art" stores and, dig, when you buy art supplies you want to fondle them a while. Same goes for the camera store visit, also on list.
And more pleasure. And more edification.

What I learnt this weekend?
1. Certain Rabbis hate usage of flash during wedding ceremonies but simply won't tell you so that they can openly hate you for millennia, telling many others that there's a Rabbinical thought to ban you from his temple for forever.
2. That somehow wedding cake seems to be attracted to my being and Sunday AM realized it was smeared on my suit's pants, two of my gear bags. A shoe. Why?
3. The Fixx, 80s band I barely remember, still sucks. But if you have to shoot them for your column along with two local bands, hunkering down in a nearby bar where you know Todd the barkeep, and intermittently trotting down the street to the stage and back to bar again makes the whole thing much more favorable.

On that note I race off to more more more.
How do you like it? How do you like it?

Love.

Well it's July 5th and I have all my digits.
Only mishap was when I set off a quadruple bottle rocket which slunk lower in its bottle as it was getting ready to blow up, sailing down my driveway and that of my neighbor (Frank, the affable Viet Nam vet), missing him by about 2 feet as he sat on his front porch with three others. I went over there and said Sorry Frank to which he said Good thing I changed the batteries in my pacemaker.
Then Chris's bottle rocket went awry, hitting a car passing by. They didn't stop, probably assuming that we were a bunch of drunk badasses. Oh, we were/are. Partially due to Laura's two trays of Jell-O shots. Turned my mom & dad onto Jell-O shots and I was rather surprised that my party worldly parents had never had them.
Patriotic Love.
ps: Deborah's baby didn't come out during my shift, dammit.

It's time for the annual putting on of the Budweiser sneakers as it's Independence Day. Time to have booze, snacks and blow shit up.
Slept at Deborah & Jamie's house and the baby did not come out. Today Deb took me out for breakfast and while we were sitting and talking she felt a twinge. I put my head under the table and said COME ON OUT, SARAH, WE'RE READY FOR YOU.
Deb said NO, I want to wait for Jamie.
Head back under table HOLD ON SARAH.
No baby, but Bud sneaks there are.
Flag Love.

I, Miss Oh-my-Buddah-if-I-see-blood-I-get-all-woozie, am now officially really oncall for taking Deborah to the emergency door of the Middling City's Children's Hospital. I'll be sleeping at her house every night as my publisher/editor/pal has jetted off to NYC and I have a nice roomy Forester and nerves of steel (apart from blood issue). Today I realized that she will not be able to look into my eyes and scream LOOK WHAT YOU FUCKING DID TO ME, AS SHE WOULD BE ABLE TO WITH HIM. So, I am hoping that this baby, Sarah, comes out while he's away so I can be there, of course camera in hand(s). Come on Sarah. Come out. Ready.
Just had a freelance gig at the Canadian Consulate photographing Canadian Members of Parliament and a lone US Congressman - my pal John LaFalce. In the midst of documenting the jovial wine pouring and thumping of backs John looked up at me and said Kerry! (a woman who works at the Consulate) get a photo of me with Nancy!!! This stopped most of the activity in the room. We threw our arms around each other and that'll be one for the ol' wall of face.
MP's prefer Canadian wine over any other swill from any other rotgut country. Canadian MP's know a whole lot more about our government than I do. And they say AY just like those other million or so Canadians up there, too.
Onwards to a crushing AOL deadline and then zooming out to photograph affable Mr. Tom Petty and a few Heartbreakers.
Love.

The perfect music festival day ended in a timeless floating of friends and walking and drinks and warmweather laughing until late. Talked to John Lombardo amongst others and he said on the new John & Mary release they're using backwards guitar parts by late great Robert Buck.
Oh, had to, amid revelry, call an ambulance for a man I spotted nestling into some dirt on the outer edge of a parking lot, his cane next to him. Went over to talk to him and he suggested the ambulance. One of my pals said that the calling was unnecessary but I didn't think so. It took a while but he finally got up and went away with the emt's, who, I thought, were rather rude to the guy.
There was a mild amount of behind-the-scenes chaos but nothing too serious... a band here and there late, garbage issues, promotional banner issues, beer truck volunteer issues. Oh, and interpersonal struggles including the appearance of one guy with a stack of the paper The Beast which goes to great lengths to slam the publisher of my newspaper, the man behind the street festival. I approached the guy and took his picture and asked his name. He said (I thought, via my concert-addled ears) Lucas Fosse. OHH! I said, the CHOREOGRAPHER? (It's Bob Fosse... see, part of my charm is my mislocutions and mishearings and such and all or most of the people at this nasty little rag The Beast use noms de plumes) He said NO, Luke Fox, I'm an intern. I then shouted Well I'm NANCY from ARTVOICE and off I wandered. Now I'm wondering if there'll be a special cover drawing of ME... my likeness with big question marks coming from both ears.
So I had my premier post-festival cocktail at 830PM on the dot when I invited one and all to meet me for margaritas. After a few of those there was a pileup of three of us (of course I was involved with this) on a plastic Adirondack chair which collapsed. A nearby tippler shouted Hey, my Adirondack chair... you owe me five dollars.
Best sets: Last Conservative (well on their way), Sheila Divine, Jackdaw, Turnstones (formerly Velour).
Over and out.
Way out.

Marathons.
That's this weekend theme.
Friday marathon was non-stop bluegrass at the exurban outside venue @ the Down from the Mountain tour stop... produced by the wacky Coen Brothers. It could have only been improved by a special visit by hottie George Clooney.
And wasn't that night's treatment of photographers night to the ol' day of the Britney Spears Extravaganza for we photogs (actually only me +1 boy colleague) were not even subjected to anal cavity searches!!!
Saturday marathon schmoozing, driving, darkroom production.
Sunday/today is marathon music shooting at my newspaper's Street Festival. I wish I had a pedometer to clock the amount I'll walk between stages from 1-8PM with intermittent stops at the beer truck where pourers will be pals and drafts will be gratis. And it's a 100% digital day to boot.
Tequila in the forecast?
Does your fav Nancy bring joy to your heart?
I rest my case.
Love.

Britney briefing included the following to me + 15 boy colleagues (some mysteriously never seen before): do not put hands or cameras on stage, don't turn back to stage, don't photograph audience members, give us credit card/driver license in exchange for one-time security Britney pass which you'll turn in at end of 3 songs... and sign agreement that states all images made tonight will not be sold but may be included in your portfolio (!). What fun! At one point had to see something on my camera and, as it was very dark, turned back - sans thinking - on stage. I thought Oops (I did it again) hope they didn't see that and then realized just how fucked the whole situation last night was.
She, as in BS, had Pepsi commercials playing, the Pepsi logo on a spot that swept the arena, didn't even try to pretend that she was trying to lip-synch, changed costumes after disappearing via a trap door/Dracula-style exit system that a devil man in cape "playing" guitar had appeared in earlier as loads of pyros went off (much to my colleague Mark's chagrin) and dancers looking like voodoo mall shoppers pranced about. Did I mention the million-dollar green strobe lights, how she barely came near us photogs clutched around "Stage B" and how she kept grabbing her right tit?
Who needs surrealism with Britney Spears around.
Onwards.

Evidence that I'm an everyday badass:

1. Physical therapist yestiddy said You need cortisone injection in your shoulder (what I now refer to as my rotary cuff) to help the swelling/crap and I said nope. Then they suggested I might need eventual surgery. I said Hell no and proceeded to trash the medical office with high karate kicks.

2. As I'm being photographed this evening at 7PM for my special Britney photo id I'm going to throw up some gansta-style hand gesture that I've been practicing in the car all the livelong day - an inverted/backwards ILOVEYOU rock gesture while looking real pouty and sexy like Pink. Except, unlike Pink, I won't be captured in the middle of ripping my own clothes off. Pink, if you're reading this - stop with the self-ripping.

3. I think 2 examples are plenty. And now I sign off with Love. Oozy-goozy Britney beyond Spandex and frosty eyeshadow Love. Love that can accept the need to lipsynch one's brains out as one is dancing too hard with an ensemble of boys and girls who've practiced their lives away to join you onstage for one fleeting moment in hot lights, hoping all the while you catch the eye of someone who can make you a star and hoping not to, on the other foot, catch any sparks from any onstage pyros because nothing says unsexy like 3rd-degree burns.

ps: Whomever logged in as epinw reader #1000 you win a special prize!!!... contact me at njparisi@netscape.net for a special email from me. For you. Prized you.

Wednesday at the ol' Arena me and boy colleagues must and will check in at 7PM for our photo id photo shoot to shoot Britney. Then we must report back at 8:30PM on the journalistic dot to be ushered in for 3. Wondering what backstage mayhem led to the needing of photo id's. If this becomes de rigeur I will have a neat new collection of credential stickers/geek passes bearing my likeness!
Saturday night drove up to Toronto with Reese, beau, pal to see the post-5-year hiatus of band The Pursuit of Happiness. They officially rocked and rocked out. Many attend events in Canada for the turbo-powered Canadian beer. But guess what? Single malt scotch tastes the same, trips across the tongue and other vital organs the same.
Love.

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.