Defiantly not following my own (now seemingly) ridiculous rule of Thanksgiving hostessing, stayed out and had a good old fashioned rock and roll Thanksgiving Eve evening – ie: to HELL with staying in and prepping, get out there and do it up, pilgrim.
Yesterday had the Exclusive photo op with the band The Sheila Divine at Albright-Knox Art Gallery, shooting them looking at art, loving art. A few of them talked with me about harrowing life on the road, fighting jadedness and mutiny.
The AKAG pr girlie, Maureen, called to inquire if I was into a photo op with the band and I agreed only if she didn't call the daily, which would have run the image (maybe) yesterday whilst my image will appear on December 5th. So I got my way and the Universe rejoiced for the world is best when Your Perfect Nancy has her way with it.
Shot them later in concert, in a mellow college auditorium, adequate yet teeming with sit-downess.
Finally Aaron said Hey Buffalo, will you please stand up?
They were, of course, excellent and had behind them ongoing video images that were actually good, not just that Here's the band way closer thing you see from time to time.
Afterwards rolled on to Robbie Goo's recording studio for a private Studiowarming party and marveled at his multi-colored hair, truly more interesting than I've ever seen it. His breath was loaded with cigar aftereffects and he was his usual gracious funloving self.
The rooms were filled with Middling City rock types and it was mega.
Then on to meet up with members of Janet Reno Fan Club and Annie and Mary et al et al for a dual band extravaganza and bought an Iriving Klaws shirt, way too gigantic so I wore it over my jacket and loads of people said That's what's so great about you, Nancy, you're not afraid of looking HUGE.
Fear. No, thanks.
Huge, why yes I am, although not in size.
Off to continue slicing and dicing for in six or so hours there will be a warm house filled with people who I will entertain like Martha Stewart on too much Oban.
Lights...
cameras...
stuffing.

Apparently several of you were frightened by the last blogpost about mean-spirited Freckleface. Do not despair, she's only a poseur whose boobs are wrapped too tightly in synthetic fabrics, thereby resulting in a most negative purview. Plus, I can be ferocious when need be and when my camera equipment is imperiled.
Interesting sidebar of sorts:
On a gig a few summers ago I was hired to photograph several buildings for a developer and I was using my trusty Subaru as a stepladder, as I do from time to time. You get the car into position and climb on top.
So during this gig I was up and down, up and down and on one of the ups I came crashing down on the hood and my instant thought was to protect the camera, not me and my bones.
That's being a pro.
To hell with personal injury - it's a lot cheaper to fix my biological contusions than those injuries to a delicate electronic machine.
Talked to Canadian Georgie last night who said that sometimes he can't understand the American jargon of epinw. So I regaled him with my best Canadian impersonation:
Let's get some Timbits and crullers, ay?
Canadians, they look so much like us but are so... different.
Still shocked by the Missy Elliott song Let's Work It which they play on top pop radio. As I wrote to my pal Matthew Guru it puts that Tootsie Roll song of yore to absolute shame.
Tomorrow I'm attending the grand ol' opening of Robbie from the Goos' recording studio opening and before that I have an exclusive with Sheila Divine (or so I made the p.r. lady promise me) at a to-be-divulged -tomorrow location.
I'm breaking my past rules and will be out all day tomorrow/T-G Eve, shooting like a madwoman and perhaps tippling a few to boot.
All.
Turkey & all those starchy fixins of love.

Goth girls and boys crowded around a stage at last night's final stop as Janet Reno Fan Club were out on a musical tear. And what angry Goth girls and boys they were. As I shimmied between them to get closer for shooting Rasputina (3 of similar batcave persuasion, looking like withered Courtney Loves from her babydoll dress phase - including the boy in the band) one of them, with faux freckles on her face the size of dimes turned and looked at me and hissed And where do you think YOU'RE going? To work, I snarled into her freckled direction. Well, we're all working here = the puzzling reply. I was lifted off my feet and sucked into the vortex of hate by my temples and left her with these choice and unoriginal words - Fuck off, asshole. It should be noted that as I shot away several around me respectfully arched out of my way and one guy in heavy eyeliner shouted at Freckleface to shut the fuck up and to stop talking to the guy in the wheelchair she was leaning on.
So then I waded back through the vinyled and corseted crowd, went backstage where I was met by a true VIP scene of sundry band members and promoters and one of them handed me a joint on a long pin. Then I went to the back curtain, stood next to the Rasputina drummer boy and put the flash on nuclear to flash and flash and flash into the languid eyes of the watchers.
It was then that I noted that Freckleface was involved in a volley of fists, actually in a fistfight with another audience member.
We backstage people were very loudly cavorting and I said You know what? I think all those Goth people are going to start chanting SHUT UP at the stage.
Earlier JRFC convoyed up to toxic Niagara Falls, NY to see Doug's band of confusing sibilant name - Saw Secret Scene, really hard to say after a few scotch & soders.
It was their first gig in an elaborate old theatre, Pleasuredome 2, not to be confused with Pleasuredome 1 where I shot the Goo Goo Dolls in '92.
Saw Secret Scene's (or is that Saw Secret Seen?) lead singer, Todd, had never hit a stage before but is the equal of the other musical pros.
For a joint in NF, NY the stage, lights and sound were impressively mega.
Downside, of course, is the location.
Oh, and the bartender. Laura and I watched in amazement as he had difficulty finding bottles and I wondered if I should offer up this helpful hint: the bar is a mirror image on the other side, ie there are two topshelf setups in your bar so stop running in a gigantic circle to find the proper scotch you nincompoop, it's about 3 feet from your face.
Please address all mixology and musicology and humorology requests to Yours Truly.
Love.
And loads of that.

Filth from the top to bottom of a 16-story apartment building, and surrounding awnings, washed in raindrops and down my face last night as I stopped to think amid the shine of warmer spaces and reflections of walkers.
Out again in the anonymous dark of the city that envelops in a sense of purpose.
The MOMAqns space is industrial and never lets you forget that with ugly Starbucks-type ceiling busy with pipes and ducts and an unforgiving floor that one security man said he hates.
The works on paper show worth the travels and there was a catastrophe on Line 7 so travel back to the Promised Land was hard, took a train in opposite direction several stops to get off, run topspeed across platform with the others and get back down to downtown.
Today went to look at the show of Sylvia Plachy images at Bateman and it was grand - her usual quirky ways in black & white. Her prices were surprisingly low but I bought nothing.
Came very close to buying a new Me & Ro ring but did not, and now maybe feeling a small slice of regret.
So back in Middling City and it's nearly time to hit the highway and partyway again.
My one small obsession this time around in NYC was to be jettisoned from bars so I requested a jettisoning from the bartendress at Big Bar on 7th St (a longtime fav) and she complied with a gentle push.
Last night cavorted with Jason and Dorota at Clay and asked Edward to do same so he picked up up and carried me out. When we got to the doorway I stuck out my legs to thwart him and when I landed on the sidewalk I did so dramatically, so dramatically that a cabbie stopped to see what in hell was up.
Today my cabbie out to LaGuardia was way chatty and trying to be flirty, of all things.
All for now, rainy love.

Yesterday went down to see Mr. Avedon's show at The Met and was not surprised and not titillated but still a worthy destination. The mainest of reasons to see the show, in my Sam-loving mind, was to see the Beckett portrait and I was happy to see it was a diptych, double the Sam Power.
The show was also good for framing ideas as they had Avedon's images floating many times on foamcore inside steel shadow boxes about an inch deep.
Also, how he and his techs put rolls of paper together to make one big long image area. This is what Chaz Burchfield did during one of the big wars when he couldn't get paper large enough for big paintings. A little overlap. A little glue.
Today is the day to throw myself back down into the subterranean world to get to MOMAqns to see the much-vaunted works on paper show.
And eat more sushi, and slargle more scotch and laugh a few more laughs and dream a few more dreams.
I am the dreamer of dreams, to quote Willie Wonka quoting another who might, in fact, be quoting another.
Good writers borrow but fab bloggers steal.
Outta-sight/outta-town Love.

NY NY big city of dreams but sometimes NY ain't what it seems.
And so goes that ol' wrap.
Wandered through Chelsea just moments ago looking looking looking.
The new Inka Essenhigh oils are smart and odd and leave a rather positively grotesque feeling.
Last night wandered into Portale's joint again to deliver an art piece, handed it to the front of house staffers and then sat at the longass bar to await Dorota's arrival for vino. Chef Portale came out to say Hello and we talked, he and I, about him designing furniture and about the small framed piece I gave him - an image from the Conflagration series, a silver print about 4x5 inches and in a very wonderful wood frame, painted silver.
He dug the piece completely and I hope he hangs it in Gotham.
Dorota arrived, we had vino, more vino then the maitre d/Charles asked if we'd be staying for dinner. I said possibly. Then after a while Yes.
So they sat us at a table for 2 near the bar, elevated and looking out over the dining room. We had, of course, a perfect dinner followed by perfect confections tiny and midsized.
Then they came to say Portale was - unbelievably - picking up the bill so I/we left a very generous tip.
Onwards to cocktails.
Onwards to art.
I'm in NY and it's time for more art.
More more more.
How do you like it, how do you like it?
Days and nights, nights and days.
Consuming love.

Well, as I am wont to say, at the asscrack of dawn I'll be sprinting out of bed to gather up camera gear, clothing and a few other small items (cd's of choice this trip = DJ Shadow/The Private Press, Tricky/Blowback & Daft Punk/Discovery, usually travel with Radiohead but I'm trying to be inciteful), what you others call "packing" and then driving to that hospital-aroma-ridden place full of treakly art and goofballs that they call the airport.
Lead Boy Colleague said that if I get to the USAir gate and there's a certain guy working I'm supposed to say that I know him and all that jazz. Why, I asked, so I can be graciously bumped up to first class?
I know Hillary C flies first class between the Middling City and Warshington, but does anyone else partake of the joys of inflight segregation besides politicoes on such short trips?
Hey, welcome to first class to NY Miss Parisi, here are some extry peanuts for your pleasure.
Still not sure about flying to Seattle for a gig after NYC to shoot the disco event at EMP.
If I end up doing that that'll be one primo primo tale.
Whirlwind Love.

Surprised to hear earlier one of the most perfect new Flaming Lips songs on the "new rock alternative" radio station, Wayne's voice warbling amongst the sno-globe flakes coming down as I drove down Main Street from a meatloaf engagement in renovated 50s diner to newspaper office for late late late workings.
(Nearly walked into the diner wearing my bunny ears as I had been working hard at the home orifice and needed to keep these freaking tresses out of the way lest I chop them off like a time-waster at the pass.
So I'm strolling away from car and catch the bunny ears before I hit the door and tossed them onto the front seat. Did wear them into the paper office and my publisher/pal Jamie gave me a withering look which only he can raygun.)
There's so much mundane crap in Music Land and then whoosh, there are the Lips to explode your heart in joy, nearly enough to make you cash in your chips and follow them on the road for a good long while.
Attorney Tom finally called back and there were details bandied about about how & why my car insurance company could – and did – drop me like a nuclear potato. Sometimes, when speaking to Tom, my mind is wandering and I'm realizing that as soon as I hang up the phone all he mapped out for me will evaporate.
Onwards.
Was there fine music in the Middling City this weekend? Well, gosh, not really.
But on AOL assignment I plunged into a new dance club, solo, really fashionably sticking out like a sore thumb with my photog-wothy HH way-green jacket, legal pad in hand and a haughty air of detached critique. But, ultimately, the place won me over and I'm thinking How in HELL do I get members of Janet Reno Fan Club into this joint, what with its $6 cover, lines down the block and inside ignorable yet annoying mall-clad clones. But it's two stories of flash and there's a sideroom all white and luxe.
Worth a spin, I say.
Life, a big tangle of details just waiting for writing. And sipping.

Who the hell's idea was it to mix scotch, tequila and Jagermeister all in one night?
Abso-freakin-lootly could not have been mine.
Went out to see Jennie Stearns and backing band of boys and they were surprisingly wonderful. Every band that promoter pal Blair Woods recommends is always good and I think he's managing them in addition to Over the Rhine and a few others.
If not for these smallish gigs the Middling City would be completely bereft of rock activity as no chart-topper seems to be darkening these city limits.
Other bigtime promoter pals, Artie and Marcel, bring acts to Syracuse, Rochester but not here as often. Even beloved Dave Matthews has skipped here this next concert foray. His people have extended me tix and asked if I'd prefer Syracuse or Roch. Hmmmm, drive 4 hours or 1 to see lovely Dave.
Off to temple pressure-relieving measures and a plethora of deadlines to accomplish on superspeeeeed as Tuesday at the asscrack of dawn I'm on a plane to cavort in NYC. Dorota my love, ready your liver.
Rockingest rollingest love.
ps: forgot to mention the GWAR show and it was juicey. Within a minute I was drenched with "blood" by the headless man. Ran a shot of ersatz Saddam H., holding a huge rubber dick in his hands, shooting a giant stream of "pee-pee" into the crowd.
pss: bought the most bitchin' green metal tripod last night, made in Italy by a Bogen subsidiary and I cannot wait to use it. Artwork, still-life, wildlife, holding still wild people can all be tripod victims.

Minding my own business, walking briskly and looking sideways whilst addressing an official type guy from the university this fine evening I nearly ran into NYC's 107th mayor – His Honor Giuliani, one-time TIME Man of the Year.
When my eyes alighted upon his friendly, over-tanned and long face I was momentarily stunned, let out an OHHI as I stopped seconds before crashing into him. When thinking back to that moment a few hours ago I wonder how the nearby ring of secret service agents speaking into their cufflinks allowed my photog self to get that close to the former tabloid hero.
After photographing Mayor 107 at the private mega-donor party where I was hired to shoot I borrowed a tripod from a boy colleague, sped off to the cross-town rival college and shot slides of an artist's installation in a library when, suddenly, I heard my name and turned around to see a loose cannon acquaintance wandering through the lobby en route to internet fun.
Two fun facts about this guy: I made an image of him a long-ass time ago when he was in drag for Halloween and every time I see him I see him in blonde wig and trashy dress, red lipstick smeared about his big guy mouth.
I wasn't surprised a while back to hear that he'd gone off to join the INS. That was an image that I truly found disturbing, him kicking in doors and tossing unfortunate immigrants out of the USofA.
As I'm setting up lights and tripod and making long exposures I'm really indulging in a string of nosy questions about the INS gig and about the firearms he carried and here's what I learnt: One doesn't need any sort of permit to pack when they've signed on for Team USA. It's issued to you. When you leave, you un-issue it.
Without prompting he neatly printed out the supersecret codes I need to get onto the rival college's free internet access computer bank and sped off to go do whatever online instead of enduring more questions by Yours Truly.
Another thing I learned today: Giuliani is as tall as I am and wears good shoes.
L'End.

Standing in the elementary school office waiting for a Miss Wexler or someone to escort me to the dance studios where I was being paid to document an African dance co. teaching the local students I began messing with a computer touchscreen contraption as a secretary jumped out of her seat surprisingly quick to assist me. Whereas I thought I was goofing around with a machine to make kid safety kind of MacGruff items it was actually protocol for visitors to have temp badges and this had been forgotten. Right, she said, swipe your driver's license (whoah!, I'm thinking, just to meander to a dance studio) and then input who you're seeing and the reason. My reason? NEWSPAPER. That is always a grand reason for anything I do.
The shooting was great, the light was great, the sounds were great. I asked my editor at the university news bureau if ever the online edition might have sound files which would be way fab.
For the last two days, as a mental respite, I've been thinking how Elvis and Michael Jackson have similar star-turned-nut qualities.
This began while I was looking at an artist's work whereby the artist pairs oddball Elvis belongings, most notably an image of his handgun and his honorary narc badge from Nixon.
I'm going on the record as a person in the I Don't Get It column re: Elvis.
And Vegas didn't help matters.
Nor the VH1 ads that discourse at me that if not for Elvis there would basically be no rock and roll universe, no rock and roll photography, no rock and roll wardrobes, drugs, drink, mayhem and the like.
Tonight: Robert Creeley poetry reading then... GWAR.
Can I be smiling any larger?
I don't think so.
Toothy love.

Jeez, it's been... millennia... since I was sexually harassed whilst shooting a wedding such as last night's fiasco of Manhannite Diva Bride & The Hatfields & McCoys. It was my drag queen diva pal/florist who pointed out that the families were Hatfield/McCoy combo to perfection. All started out swell when Bridey called to see if her 90 folks at church could be photographed on the front steps of the church after their (let us not forget the pussy-flagellated guy/lawyer she bagged who bought her a yellow diamond and diamond-encircled wedding band, that, Diva Bitch told me, earned her a spot at the stove for the duration of her life, cooking him dinner) 530PM service. Uhhhh, I began, flabbergasted, have you seen the light at 630 these days? Thinking, suddenly, I'm dealing with an ADD type and ohno.
Then she asks for me to be at her mom's house at 330PM for getting ready shots. But you're getting married at 530, that's way too early. I relented, was greeted by sister/co-Diva Bitch at the door in bathrobe and proceeded to wait a good 45 minutes for the gals to get their bridal day shit together.
And the weird uncle sexual harassment thing happened approximately 7 unfortunate and interminable hours later in a hallway dotted with relatives and friends as equally redfaced loaded as this geezer who inquired Yours Truly thusly: Has anyone told you yet tonight how beautiful you are? (To which I'm choking back vomit in my throat) Give me your right hand. I with much trepidation handed over the hand which he stroked roughly along his left cheek. Several relatives, including co-Diva Bitch are watching as he yells And I don't leave whisker brushburns. I'm still disinfecting my hand.
Thank goodness for the filmmaker chainsmoker and occasional wedding video guy who I've worked with before for the humorous breaks where we'd chat about how fucked up the crowd was and how we'd never touch weddings again if all weddings were like this one.
Onwards.
Afterwards a quick change in the car and sped off to music, mayhem, a party stop and more mayhem.
Shared the wedding horrors with three drinking buddies at the nearest of favored watering holes and slargled down a few or more scotches before I felt like my most Perfect self again.
Liquid refreshment, liquid therapy, liquid forgetfulness.
In two nights I'll be shooting GWAR again and I abso-freakin-lootly cannot wait. All my little concert promoter pals were asking if I'd be there, as they know I completely dig that spectacle.
I am the smart photog in the pack who comes donned in clear plastic garbage bags - one for me, one for camera/flash. One time I shot GWAR and forever after that one particular flash was impregnated with their red faux blood. Another time I went the rest of the night with dried red/blue/yellow smears of their 'bodily fluids.'
Spectacles, what life is made for.
What life is made of.
What photogs thrive upon.
Water cannons of fluid love.

All attempts every made by Yours Truly to be, to exude, alternativeness is blown to smithereens as tomorrow roughly at some moment between noon and 1:30PM EST I'm receiving a coveted civic awars: Business First's 40 Under Forty Award. Or is that Forty Under 40?
1K+ attendees will watch me + 39 stand before them (I'll be the one with the really flushed face as I'm more accustomed to being in front of such podiums being all snap-happy) as we one by one, alphabetically, have a verbal and slide presentation of ourselves, receive a plaque, get a good handshake, some ovations (I'm freakin' flushing thinking of that part) and then walk offstage to our tables of attendees, friends, family.
OK, so these award people must not have ever read epinw.
Don't they know?
I dance in my bra in lezbo bars, drink Oban at times like it's purified water (oh, wait that's pretty close), act out badass ventures and the like?
Well, from now on I would appreciate one and all addressing me as Honorable.
As in Honorable Yours Truly.
Honorable Perfect Nancy.
Dig?
Onwards to listening to more Sonic Youth, loud like.
Favored song du semaine: Sunday.
Love.
Awards of love.
Bushels of respectable love.

She's wearing turquoise leather pants, the tightest pants I've ever seen, and she's this big around (hands gesture to a separated width of, oh, 10 inches) and she has breasts the size of MUSK MELONS.

This is how the tipsy white suburban lady tonight at the godly college described Ice T's girlfriend, Coco, about half an hour before he hit the badly-lit stage in front of an estimated crowd of 500.
She continued:
And wait Nancy (I don't know this woman, please add her to the list of unknown knowers in your epinw workbook, page 18, righthand side of the page) until you see what HE'S wearing – a jogging suit.

Before Ice T arrived I floated near the corner of the stage at the edge of the seats and overheard another couple of suburban folks discuss the rap star and meeting him at the godly college president's house, querying if Ice T had been Agreeable. Then they raised eyebrows that he and Coco actually wanted the college to pay for them to go out to dinner following his lecture/presentation/rap about worldly matters.

The suburban banter was disturbing, whiffed from gin-soaked mouths fresh from the college president's rez and Ice T had only nice things to say about these conservatives who he had found, he said, actually engaging. And he stated that he was impressed that the college was liberalminded enough to not censor his speaking engagement, hand him parameters.
There is no free speech, he said, but maybe there is in here tonight.
I glowed up at him and he was surprised to see me sitting on the floor, legs akimbo, in the gulf between stage and seating, camera standing up on its lens as I intently watched him and wished, between my watching shooting, that the lighting was not so drastic and miserable. Knew the sound and lighting guys and should have asked if they could adjust them but oh well.
Onwards.
Onwards then to The Donnas where I stood stageside with my erstwhile and ersatz husband, Ronald of the band Bad Ronald. If you're a rapt follower of epinw you may (should) recall that I was married to Ronald on The Greg Sterlace show by attorney Ross Runfola of ersatz tan.
The lighting at the venerable Continental also was lacking, like as in was hardly turned on.
The Donnas shirts were Bo-RING.
Club owners of the universe:
Media photographers are trying to do a job. When you hit the stage with no light it makes the job of press photographers very very difficult. It is bad karma to thwart the work of hardworking press photogs and God, in his infinite and media-savvy wisdom, will punish you with fruitflies in your topshelf booze, underage kids passed out under your pool table and ongoing toilet paper pilferage.

Ice T parting shot/thought:
No matter the race, the sexes are on different teams and will fight Until the wheels fall off.
&
When he was approached about starring in Tank Girl he misheard what the part was and instead of hearing Ripper (the cute kangaroo morphed being with dreads) he heard stripper and started doing scads of crunches to ready himself. When they showed him a storyboard for the part and he saw the kanga-ears, etc. he thought it was his kanga-pouch that would reveal his juicy bits.

Fun fact I cannot shake: kangaroos have joeys and they are born into the world and crawl up to the pouch. They are the size of a teaspoon or so. The end.
And love.

(Is it my imagination or did I just spend half an hour of my life filling out the 'MTV Blue Book' for freelancers? I had the standard standardized test-taking anxiety as I penned in my info to get paid whenever the mood strikes the ViaCom gods and godlettes and shrews and shrewds and accounts payables.)
So after freelancing Saturday away, and shooting for the column, met up with members of Janet Reno Fanclub at a bistro-style Italian joint and then headed out with the willing to hit rock venues beyond, and worthy dance floors.
Second-last stop was a bar of dyke variety, Adva's special request, and after we all paid the nominal cover she circled the room, determined that nobody there was thrilling and was ready to leave only to find that Yours Truly + 3 were engaged in the act of freeform Dancing - in what was once the dining room of a stately Middling City mansion but what is sadly now decorated in the style best described as gay bar bunker.
So dance, dance, dance, then I said to Doug Let's jump on podium and go-go, baby, those two boring gay boys have hopped down. So up we hopped. Then, as the boys had been half-nekkid I whipped off my top to dance - en bra - and Doug removed his top. Adva fumbled with my camera bag to attempt some social documentation, NJP-style, and I laughed at her, mid-gyration, as she tried to shoot us sans flash. Then she got wise to the lighting situation and then fumbled to throw on the flash and, I am still astonished, got off two decent frames of us. None of which will be posted on epinw as 1. who in hell knows this html crap to make it happen and 2. your imagination is a powerful tool, so fucking use it, s'il te plait.
Tomorrow night is a gourmet buffet of events, first Ice-T at a local godly college then badasses The Donnas at the venerable punk club.
Off to deadline points beyond, catching up on things to clear the way for more mad fun, and go-go lifestyle fun.
My unabashed love.

Fuckhead du jour, experienced this AM at the ungodly and gray hour of 6.
*Changed background soundtrack music from glorious A Thousand Leaves via Sonic Yoof to its equal (albeit way more mellow) So Tonight That I Might See by Mazzy Star with the universe's most deft tamourine player, blowing Laurie Partridge out of the lake, Hope Sandoval.*
So I'm driving.
Driving home from all-night journalism following all-day shooting and earlier deadline and a few errands.
It's gray, as I mentioned.
And it's 6.
At a light from a one-way to a one-way I'm at a red light, not going left as I don't think there's left on red at this corner and you cannot see here what might be coming down the pike at you there - much like the nearby corner of similar format where I just missed the Xpress shuttle to meet my maker on 4/21.
So I'm sitting in the car, blinker on, waiting for the light to go left when suddenly from nowhere is an SUV, big and red. A woman is obviously in a mad dash and goes around me and makes the left on red from the center lane. As I see her moving about I'm looking around to see if maybe turning on red at the corner is ok.
Not like I'm all about following rules and such, but it's 6, it's gray, I've been working all night and there's a station teeming with cops literally inches away.
So the SUV lady goes around me, in a puff.
Light finally changes, turn and as I'm driving up to the next red light (because we're within Middling City limits where lights are timed to infuriate rather than ease along commuting) I see red SUV aggresive driver.
I'm chuckling. Ha ha, hurry up to that red light, hardy-har, moment of levity this gray 6AM.
So I pull up to the light, now on her right side, shooting her a quick glance and there, just for me, your precious and Perfect Nancy, was her manicured finger, center one, right hand, red nail polish, up in the air! For me!
And her lower jaw was sticking out an unnatural three or so inches from her face. Defiance! Anger!
This, of course, made me burst out laughing, that this woman was sitting here waiting for me, this gesture for me nearly missed, like death at a nearby corner.
So now we both traverse along the street to the green to the next red light.
She's noticed I'm having barrel of monkey laughs.
At this next light she's gesturing her car towards thinking of cutting me off and I'm thinking in a flash Cheez and crackers does this crazed bitch have a gun? What's she going to do, run into my car because she's provided me with a great 6AM package of guffaws?
So onwards to sleep. And, I suppose, a fine story.
Moral: don't fuck with me. It's only fodder for epinw.
My absolute, safety-minded, ironic, workaholic, deadlined, tar-pit-hearted Love.

I am proud to report that your favorite, Perfect Nancy has been spoofed in the infernal Middling City newspaper The Beast. They made an ELKHASHAPPENED column by Elk J. Elk – in honour of my WHATHASHAPPENED, replete with three snaps of elk as a quarter page spread, unfortunately way in the rear of the paper. I'm going to take EHH to Kinko's to have it fashioned into a tshirt.
Now I am forced to remember the tshirt shoppes of yore when you went into a joint and there, before your marveling eyes, were seemingly hundreds of decals to choose from and the scent of scorched poly-cotton fibres hung in the air (and let's fabricate, too that the scent of cheeba did, too, as it was the 70s for mulletted Christ's sake).
A favored shirt in the 70s: a photograph of two lions and bubble letters stating Let's Snuggle Up!
Today one of my favored shirts is the new Flaming Lips tshirt of multi-colors and also my Paul Frank how-to shirt detailing how to turn two socks into a freakin' sock monkey.
Plus ça change c'est le meme chose.
For you non-Frenchyphiles that means as Perfect Nancy gets older (and surlier) she's realizing that she really is the same ol' lovable madcap kid inside that she was in the early 70s when she was, oh, about 10 and more thensome and Danny Gare of the Buffalo Sabres was her favorite celeb and her first glass of Oban was about two decades away.
Still marveling over the conversation at a wedding I shot this past Saturday, had with a very average-looking woman who works at a very nondescript diner in the exurbs that I had the misfortune of visiting recently on an AOL foray. I asked her if she and her sister on my other side were, in fact, sisters, as I was just meeting them. She said, eyes widening, OH NO, we're not sisters... we're TWINS.
It was one of those moments where I tell myself in a flash to be diplomatic, that if I were in a foreign land and some foreign chick said this to me so earnestly and stupidly I'd be thinking Geeee, this is so charming.
We talked and she revealed to me that she is a gigantic Dave Matthews fan so then we had a zillion things to talk about, including how he raises his one eybrow and also (for this part I got up from the table and behind my chair did the DM kicky dance) how he gets ovations for the kicky dance.
Moral: in every cloudy wedding scenario you're shooting for ca$h money there is a silver DMB lining in the form of a twinly woman.
Love.

Apparently I was on television looking like I was walking alongside Richard Gere, today all day people (mainly women) came up to me asking (before any other sort of salutation)
Is he as good-looking in person as he is on camera?
At an art opening yesterday evening I began to tell people that he and I are dating, that the relationship has been happening for 24 hours and it's flourishing.

Two Canadian conversations of yesterday, with (slight) apologies to George:
1.
Heading into Canada yesterday I was pulled over by the man in the booth for carrying artwork in the back of the Forester, my pieces from Conflagration.
Was sent over, with slip of paper, to be examined. I was there for 40 minutes explaining to a man whose face said I've eaten entirely too many doughnuts/Timbits this lifetime, that the pieces had no value as they were not for sale, were not sold, were not being sold and sundry other fun facts about the show.
He said:
They must be worth a pretty penny, ay?
I nearly burst out laughing.
Then I did some careful explaining of how the silkscreen-on-metal thing was not my usual métier, that the image size was this and my usual photographic price was that... etc. until I thought I had lulled him into a stupor of pricing and art making and transporting and art storage.
I asked Would you like to hang onto them here, all 13, and I'll come back and get them later? Rather snarky, I must say, but it fit the moment as I was realizing he was somewhat putty in my earnest little hands.
No, he said, I can't do that. Would you like one of them? I was really pushing things. No, he said, I can't do that. So, 40 minutes later, I was on my way, again.

2.
Was magnetized into a true blue, mapleized surf/board shop up there, mesmerized by the thoughts that my dollars were being stretched internationally to greater proportions.
Have been noting those with Helly Hansen jackets and doing some serious coveting.
Bought a lovely sage green one with more secret compartments than George Bush's odd persona.
I was playing with a do-dad on the hood when the intense little salesguy said
Oh, that's for making sure that your tuque doesn't come off.
I stopped playing with the hoodal do-dad, trying to make pretend I wasn't so amazed by the word tuque.
I guess now I have to go tuque shopping.

Morals (and I have a few): Canada is a different land, full of pretty pennies, tuques, loonies and toonies.

If I had a dollar for every time I wrote Geee, if I knew the html code for inserting my photos into epinw I could run down and get myself a boutique coffee or something.
So instead here's Imagination Time: your favorite Nancy arm in arm with Richard Gere, honest-to-goodness smiles on our shining faces. And why are we having such a fun glowy moment? Because Richard, after talking to him and after witnessing some of my shenanigans out of the corner of his soft warm brown right eye (youngest boy colleague, Derek, had my d1 and was awaiting a turn by RG towards me, standing behind RG for the perfect snap of me and superstar when, getting rather feisty as the throng who had paid $500 each for a moment of Gere gladhanding was closing in and my photo op chances were looking slim so I shot up a double rockstar ILOVEYOU hand gesture behind Gere and Derek shot that and then a body guard near Gere stepped towards me, pushing me ever so slightly saying DON'T DO THAT with the most derisive disgust in his voice like I had just shot Gere the moon or was about to banana creme pie him or something) and then I got to stand alongside him and he took his right hand, cupped it around my neck and, in true friendliness, gave my neck a little throttle, said Hey, you're the photographer, what're you doing on this side of the lens, we commented on the tv anchor, Helen, manning my d1, both wondering aloud if she knew what in hell she was doing, then we wrapped our arms around each other as if we were former neighbors and I wondered if I should show him my most prized, well, one of my most prized possessions (my thoughts race to quickly index the most prized possessions and I wonder how and if some friends can count amongst the list), my Me and Ro rings on my middle finger of right hand, especially the one that says Compassion in Tibetan as I decided against wearing the Tibetan word Love and I'm wearing the other with the rubies and seed pearls but I think, No, fuckit, forget the rings so the photo op is done, I step back, get the camera from Helen and make several images of others aglow near the celeb and then step back to where Derek is hanging in the shadows and watch the throng press against, all around, Gere as he makes his way from the $500 reception to the $250 per person reception.
He has nice eyes. His hair is all gray. His manner was placid and for the Love of God (to borrow one of my father's pet expressions) I could not think of one of Gere's movies, well, except that godawful one with Julia Lips Roberts that I saw one night with other administrative staff of summer camp and I was truly horrified (think now of the Bongwater song about this movie... to quote Ann Magnuson That's all women really want... sucking and shopping, sucking and shopping, etc.)
at this smirky crap. Gere has not made great movies. There's the one with Debra Winger, that perky little thing in cowboy hat and boots. And then my mind goes blank.
Does this guy make movies any more?
Is he famous for being famous?
How tall is the Dalai Lama?
Will I ever learn the html code for inserting images?
Will you ever stop learning epinw code for inserting joy?

If I had a dollar for every time I wrote Geee, if I knew the html code for inserting my photos into epinw I could run down and get myself a boutique coffee or something.
So instead here's Imagination Time: your favorite Nancy arm in arm with Richard Gere, honest-to-goodness smiles on our shining faces. And why are we having such a fun glowy moment? Because Richard, after talking to him and after witnessing some of my shenanigans out of the corner of his soft warm brown right eye (youngest boy colleague, Derek, had my d1 and was awaiting a turn by RG towards me, standing behind RG for the perfect snap of me and superstar when, getting rather feisty as the throng who had paid $500 each for a moment of Gere gladhanding was closing in and my photo op chances were looking slim so I shot up a double rockstar ILOVEYOU hand gesture behind Gere and Derek shot that and then a body guard near Gere stepped towards me, pushing me ever so slightly saying DON'T DO THAT with the most derisive disgust in his voice like I had just shot Gere the moon or was about to banana creme pie him or something) and then I got to stand alongside him and he took his right hand, cupped it around my neck and, in true friendliness, gave my neck a little throttle, said Hey, you're the photographer, what're you doing on this side of the lens, we commented on the tv anchor, Helen, manning my d1, both wondering aloud if she knew what in hell she was doing, then we wrapped our arms around each other as if we were former neighbors and I wondered if I should show him my most prized, well, one of my most prized possessions (my thoughts race to quickly index the most prized possessions and I wonder how and if some friends can count amongst the list), my Me and Ro rings on my middle finger of right hand, especially the one that says Compassion in Tibetan as I decided against wearing the Tibetan word Love and I'm wearing the other with the rubies and seed pearls but I think, No, fuckit, forget the rings so the photo op is done, I step back, get the camera from Helen and make several images of others aglow near the celeb and then step back to where Derek is hanging in the shadows and watch the throng press against, all around, Gere as he makes his way from the $500 reception to the $250 per person reception.
He has nice eyes. His hair is all gray. His manner was placid and for the Love of God (to borrow one of my father's pet expressions) I could not think of one of Gere's movies, well, except that godawful one with Julia Lips Roberts that I saw one night with other administrative staff of summer camp and I was truly horrified (think now of the Bongwater song about this movie... to quote Ann Magnuson That's all women really want... sucking and shopping, sucking and shopping, etc.)
at this smirky crap. Gere has not made great movies. There's the one with Debra Winger, that perky little thing in cowboy hat and boots. And then my mind goes blank.
Does this guy make movies any more?
Is he famous for being famous?
How tall is the Dalai Lama?
Will I ever learn the html code for inserting images?
Will you ever stop learning epinw code for inserting joy?

In one hour I'll be freezing my ass off shooting 50 rescue workers in orange jumpsuits with a helicopter. Who looks good in orange? I'll tell you.
Nobody on this planet looks good in orange.
When Dorota and I were in gai Paris I bought a great top, it's orange. Does the fact that it's Parisian make it less orange? No.
I rest my case.
Then, after the helicopter moment, I'm traipsing across town to shoot Richard Gere of gerbil (or was it hamster fame?) who's in town supporting Louise Slaughter, Dem Congressman.
Gere - provider of love vibes from soup to nuts... from Dalai Lama to Slaughter.
Gere and Slaughter are appearing in an elegant, restored nightclub from Middling City heyday, a business too large and lavish and destined for a short life unless they proverbially hop into bed with every rock promoter in town to get mid-sized rock acts booked into the mid-sized venue.
But tonight the joint's a venue for a political act.
The act of schmoozing, my fav.
Love.

Well here's one for the in-basket lest you need hard evidence that shooting, attending rock and roll events causes hardness of hearing, deafness, lack of understanding.
Listening to far-superiour Canadian radio today I heard an advert for a six-metre container of beer. Holy shit, I thought, driving at the speed limit, fyi, that's a lot of cubic beer. So I'm making cursory calculations before I realized Nope, that would be six liters. Onwards.
After being completely computer-paralyzed yesterday as the iBook isn't always able to keep up with the rigors of my demanding digital image needs, I ordered a 40-gig external harddrive from the nice tech boy in Austin, TX. I wanted to grill him on the local music scene but thought He's probably all paranoid because these calls are all taped so he won't open up about thrilling new acts and going out on the live music prowl. Or, perhaps more likely, he's a cute-sounding, white sock wearer.
I'm nearly finished with the Venti six-metre cuppa joe from Starbucks, following the massive university delivery of information and I'm firing on all 8.
Back to deadlines. Back to deadlines. Back to the ever-informative, yet with delicate snarky undertones, of writing me. Perfect stringer-together of adjectives and the like.
No love today, just coffee, my heart pumping and spewing coffee, not B+ today.

Massey Hall, despite being a popular venue in TO, was fraught with beacoup sound troubles last night for the Beck/Flaming Lips gig.
Scored five-star ticket last second, obviously comp seats unused and released just hours before all they rock mayhem began - second row center balcony, mere feet from where my pals sat.
The Lips were, of course, absolutely amazing, Wayne Coyne had one of those spycams on his mic stand which distorted his face, projected disconcertingly above him - twenty feet of tangled hair, haggard eyes, Okie voice and interesting nose.
He was, as usual, obsessed with gadgets and there was plenty of bright light waving, recurring spinning of a worklamp from an extension cord, two gaggles of people dressed in mascotwear (bunnies, bears and a goldfish who sadly stepped on a cord which began the deluge of sound troubles) onstage at all times. And the non-Coyne Lips were dressed in animal costumes, heads human, free to see chords, etc.
I was so happy to be seeing the band that twice my eyes filled with tears of absolute and complete joy.
And then intermission to buy a supersonic shirt of theirs for $30 Canadian which equals $7.15 American!
Two other surprise Buffalonians were in attendance, in addition to me + 2 pals. The others, assumedly, were happy-go-lucky Canadians, proud hosts.
Beck. Oh, Beck. His much-publicized superstar girlfriend breakup has seemingly sapped the joy from his soul, his performance was earnest, competent and the first 3 songs nearly had me napping in the historic Massey Hall aisle.
The Flaming Lips (ya-fucking-hoo) are his backing band this tour and they bound onto the stage to much applause and joy. And I think they stole the show, at least Wayne Coyne did.
At one moment, my fav part of the show, Beck wandered over to WC and tossled his mad curly hair because it had glitter and crap in it. And then just wandered away. It was a pure yet odd childlike rockstar moment.
Beck, of course, played the radio songs.
We all left happy.
Every last one of us.
Then back to the USofA, the Middling City, responsibility, work, deadlines.
And the rockstars (touring in the bus of Dave Matthews) roll on to more play.
Oh, I watched my Canadian colleagues wander over to stage right to wait their time and noted this: 4 out of 5 Canadian shooters choose Canon.
Love.

Lead boy colleague asked today Where's the blog progress?
Today, amongst other things, shot the Middling City University homecoming football major Loss in the autumnal sun, making Norman/l Rockwell-quality images of ye olde crowning of the king and queen, university president with his face painted and the marching band. Amongst the clubs marching into the stadium at half-time was a gay club with gigantic rainbow flags and I was struck that they had the courage to markedly march in amid a throng of chowderheaded sporty fans.
I am now back to freelance gig, back into the car/home-away-from-home.
And then to shoot the lead singer of my pet band, more music and then Simon and the Bar Sinisters... where I'll meet my fellow members of Janet Reno Fan Club, where the bartenders know my name, my drink, my proclivities.
Tomorrow interesting potpourri of happenings, including hanging of mine art at a bookstore, meeting up with out-of-town pals, working on freelance orders and then...
then...
TORONTO road trip to see Beck and Flaming Lips.
I am much more ecstatic about seeing the Lips, who I've seen since the mid-80s, who confound me as a photographer (as they usually dig going apeshit with bubble and/or fog machines) and who were pals of my most recent ex.
Beck I've seen twice and live he's enchanting and such but the openers (openers!) are the shit.
Rock & roll t-shirt purchase for sure.
And to be proudly worn Monday, here, there, everywhere and then some.
My rock & roll heart full of rock & roll love.

Lady, wake up, I'm going to flag down a Yellow Cab to take you the rest of the way.
So began the beginning of the chaos of getting out of NYC on 10/11.
I was moved from cab #1 to cab #2 amid a throng of cars meandering out to JFK on a Boulevard as all biways were still lifes. The car service ordered by Dorota was late, then not really ever coming. So the cab.
In cab #2 I sat next to the driver while in the back seat were two well-dressed and handsome businessmen, one French and one Brit but living in Paris. I was third to be dropped off, a mistake by cabbie #2 as I was to be, at Brit requested, dropped to not miss my 515.
So I missed the 515, The flight's closed, said the JetBlue guy with the wandering eye. His legs wandered off with my passport to inquire if I could get onto the flight, which hadn't left.
I snapped as loud as the doors of a JetBlue plane shutting hard, Nancyless, for him to hand over my passport. I snapped even louder as he put me on standby for the next and last flight in 1.5 hours. I asked where I was on the list of waiters and he said he couldn't tell me that priviledged info. And why not, I asked, eyes shooting flames into his wandering and non-wandering eyes. OK, you're #5.
Off I ran to the ground transportation centre to reserve the last car Budget had.
Then 4 hours of jams, bad rain. Then highway action, good ol' 87. Then another hour waiting.
Two naps, one snack, one pee, one mission later and I was in The Middling City at 530, at the airport dropping the rental, getting into my awaiting car and then awaiting bed for a brief snooze before shooting freelance gigs and rock shows.
The Mooney Suzuki. Tall boys in black spending much of their set time in the midst of their fans, lost in a sea of smiling heads and still playing guitars. I was standing on the edge of the stage shooting into the crowd. I had gone backstage, grabbed some Marty-made snacks en route, and skittled over the stage like a cockroach for the vantage point. There must have been 400+ people in Mohawk Place, a place that can comfortably hold 100.
Chameleons were also grand that night.
Today, in a few hours, I'm off to a New Orleans-style jazz funeral for Tim Switala, a great multi-media guy who was married to one of my former editors at UB Office of News Services.
A sunny day for a funeral.
A march of sadness.
And memories now of the jazz funeral I shot in thee N.O. for Ernie K. Doe -- raucous and equally sunny.
Love.

Still in the city surpassing all others.
Last night, birthdate anniversary night, dined +3 at Gotham, h.q. of superstar chef Alfred Portale. Passed an envelope of two photographs I made of him, his wifey and a Buffalo restaurateur and this was handed along to him. The gift was to thank him for the rez at 8 for 4 on 10/10 and Portale in turn sent out a tray of champagne, an app and a bevy of his hand-picked desserts. We were informed by one of his on-floor eyes&ears that Portale would be out to see us between courses. And out he came his unsassuming self and I had Jason take a snap of me and Portale with my exciting and new Pop9 Lomo camera with 9 lenses making 9 images on one 35mm frame = shithole resolution. However. That is not the point.
So Portale was fascinated by the Pop9, asking where he could buy one for his photocentric brother.
I want at least one of my pieces to hang in Gotham. I'm going to send Portale a small 8x10 art print for his erudition/joy/seduction. My art must hang in Gotham.
I must head back to the Middling City today, where, I just learned, the weekly fucked with my Congressman John LaFalce images, the title and something else and the writer is fuming and has me terrified to look. But she will probably not say anything to the publisher... but I will.
So off to a hot meatloaf lunch with Dorota and then poutingly tossing myself in the back of a Town Car to be airlifted out of here to there. Sadly.
It rains.
Love.

Tomorrow is John Lennon's birthday and here's how best to celebrate it, in my Perfect opinion.
If you are in NYC lay flowers on the IMAGINE mosaic in Strawberry Fields. Yoko says we must remember his birth, not death, day.
If not in NYC, play his music, reflect on his genius and interesting nose and then, as the night rolls in, drink plenty of brandy alexanders and act like a crazed rock star. He would be, according to my calculations, 62. Would he have had a saggy old guy arse? All-gray hairs? Ridiculous facial hair that says I've made it and aesthetics can go to hell?
We will never know.
Last night dreamed a dream that there was a corpse at a wake and it was generally believed that I had been a friend of the corpse when it was a person. I had to pretend all through the wake that I knew this person, a woman, so as not to make the familiar more sad.
John Lennon was sometimes harsh to those he loved most.
Love can be harsh.
But a John Lennon lost early at the hands of a lunatic fanatic is better than not ever having had a John Lennon to love.
Love.

Well, well, well.
A weekend it was of talking and talking.
The last post was shock-driven and I retract it.
No relief, now in relationship negotiations.
Tonight is Bruce Springsteen and I sent Lead Boy Colleague to do the shooting. We photo types were to be relegated to the soundboard for working and that's not a perfect photo op, to be sure.
Flying to NYC now on Wednesday AM not Tuesday for the birthday festivities and will still be dining on 10/10, the big #39, at Gotham, hq of chef Alfred Portale - former Buffalo jewelry designer.
I sign off, stress-laden and deadline-ful.
Love.

Columbus Day, according to Your Perfect Nancy:
One day, in Spain, the King and Queen spaketh to a feisty sailor named Christopherus Columbus. He, Columbus, was hankering to set sail and find spices and high times. So, later that month, he did so aboard one of these three ships: The Don Cuervo, The Pinto Bean and the Santa Ria. After spying octopii, sirens, goblins and the like he landed upon the shores of Indian territory near the time, five hundred years later, that Nancy J. Parisi was born into the world - early October.
The End.
Historical love.

Well I think I sufficiently frightened Pete the lead singer of The Pee Wee Fist this weekend before he jumped on the Mohawk Place stage. Laura and I were having several at the bar when he ambled by in the most interesting, non-Middling City shoes which we remarked upon. I blurted at him I have a shotgun bruise. Now I'm sure he thinks all women here are all rednecked kooks. Well, that is fairly accurate.
If I knew what the hell I was Blogger Pro doing there'd be a great image of the bruise (red, blue, purple and the size of a Kennedy half dollar) on this page. Use your imagination, that's what it's there for.
Off to Sunday adventures, after the standing brunch gig with Janet Reno Fan Club.
Love.

Today was a good shooting day. Not in usual sense. In firearms sense. Got to take aim and FIRE an MP5 9mm, an MP5 10mm, a glock, a shotgun and a revolver. Hung with two Boy Colleagues, one who conveniently studied at University of Texas so he knew a shitload about firearms, or at least that's how he explained it all. I had, like darts and my profession, exquisite aim, as did Bobby Kirkham. The FBI guys were truly dazzled by our marksmanship... Bobby would have great groupings in the head region whereas my style is to group them in the belly. Women always aim for the BALLS, one of the firing range FBI guys told Bobby, watching me shoot. I thought it was more belly than balls but no matter what, the fucking evildoer I'm aiming at won't be bragging over Sunday dinner about his exploits. So I dig shooting guns. It was way better than my past 22 experiences, my cyber-gun video shooting. The FBI men saw my excitement and skill and asked if I'd consider the FBI as a career. In talking it was duly noted the cutoff age is 37 so I'm done in their eyes. I said What about Special Ops. They sort of just gazed at me unsure if I was serious or not.
There are shots of me made by Kirkham shooting all the above and then later wearing a whole load of FBI gear: kevlar vest, FBI cap, limited edition FBI jacket with special stitched-on letters emblazoned across the chest only it's hard to see the I, sort of tucked under the left armpit.
Rockstars shoot a lot of guns. Badasses shoot guns.
Of course I dig shooting.
Bullets of love.

Now I'm on Blogger Pro and that means that one day I will teach myself how to put images on epinw AND anyone can have perfect me email the blog to them as it's posted. A supersonic thrill to be sure.

Where are all the rock stars? Avoiding the Middling City, apparently.
Next big up is politicized Bruce Springsteen on 10/7.
Quick posting as I'm off to darkroom for making prints for an art exhibition, opening TOMORROW night.
Again, art kicks me in the ass and reminds me that there are but 24 hours in each and every day, no more, unfortunately.
My caffeine heart says Love.

Yesterday I attempted, with the help of a scrubbed and non-eyecontact-making tech, to send myself down the 8' cigar tube that is an MRI machine, non-open variety. Three times, no go.
Got about four feet in and said I'm not doing this.
Three times. I wept. I left. Now to find an open MRI machine, quickly.
Onwards then to a press event I was hired to shoot for the university, the big Bioinformatics Human Genome Code-Busting center groundbreaking. And the governor was there, some fake ground/dirt, some 'golden' shovels, a shitload of politicoes, every media outlet, etc. Oh, and a handful of handsome secret service guys. One I had seen before at the recent casino pact-signing affair, a compact red-headed man unfortunately sporting a wedding band.
So the event is over, I'm burning a cd in my car for my client and then I hear running. I look up to see Mr. Married Secret Service Guy running top speed towards my car (I'm sitting on the passenger side, illegally parked - of course- with the door open so I'm a straight shot up the sidewalk) and I sat there in stunned silence watching him running. Then he started banking right and just before his turn I semi-shouted I thought you were running towards me and I was going to tell you I hadn't done anything wrong. We both laughed and off he sped in his black, tricked-out Chevy Lumina to follow Governor Pataki to god knows where.
So I'm still burning my cd when the Mayor of all people and a prominent millionaire business man I've done work for are having an extremely sensitive, privee, conversation about seven feet from my car. I am trying not to pay attention and I'm thinking Surely they know I'm here, for crissakes they're politicians, they're supposed to note all people within a five mile radius of their public selves. So after about 10 minutes the business leader notes that my door is wide open and I'm in there, motions very undiscreetly to the Mayor with an elbow in my direction and, obviously, the Mayor didn't get it and there's another pantomime in my direction and then they drifted away.
I now fear that my life might have a contract out against it.
So here I say If I turn up mysteriously absent, in Photo and Blog Land, you know why.
My love.

Well yesterday, what a day was that.
Full of serendipity, full of Samuel Beckett moments planned and unplanned.
As I'll be in NYC for the b-day and am hoping to see the production of his Happy Days there at the theatre where it premiered thought I'd give it a re-read. This is one of his plays I've never seen live and it's full of Sam's customary yin/yang characters (Winnie/Willie), mobility/immobility issues, reminiscences.
Towards the end of yesterday's freelance booking full of people that I like, mistook a lawyer for a guy I had just seen a few days earlier at physical therapy. Unbelievably, the lawyer had been in a bad car wreck like mine in '99 and we talked about our respective details, recovery, hauntings. I told him that I'm taking part in a car crash study at the university. Later on in the night I went to a performance by Pat Oleszko at Hallwalls and don't think I realized the magnitude of the pathos I'd be watching as she is an artist who first watched the building of the WTC towers and then their demise and then worked as a relief person. As I watched more post-crash trauma washed over me until I had to leave. I sat there frozen thinking Confront this, Nancy. But I lost. Trauma won, I left, sat in the car for a while connecting with others on the cell phone until I mustered up enough rock & rollness to move onwards to a reliable bar with good scotch, company and live music.
The night ended on a fun-loving note with celebrity guest bartending, information gathering, loud conversations with musicians about matters of the heart, matters of the world.
Heavy? Not really.
Had Samuel Beckett-inspired dreams and woke today most happy. Happy Days.
Words of love.

Well yesterday, what a day was that.
Full of serendipity, full of Samuel Beckett moments planned and unplanned.
As I'll be in NYC for the b-day and am hoping to see the production of his Happy Days there at the theatre where it premiered thought I'd give it a re-read. This is one of his plays I've never seen live and it's full of Sam's customary yin/yang characters (Winnie/Willie), mobility/immobility issues, reminiscences.
Towards the end of yesterday's freelance booking full of people that I like, mistook a lawyer for a guy I had just seen a few days earlier at physical therapy. Unbelievably, the lawyer had been in a bad car wreck like mine in '99 and we talked about our respective details, recovery, hauntings. I told him that I'm taking part in a car crash study at the university. Later on in the night I went to a performance by Pat Oleszko at Hallwalls and don't think I realized the magnitude of the pathos I'd be watching as she is an artist who first watched the building of the WTC towers and then their demise and then worked as a relief person. As I watched more post-crash trauma washed over me until I had to leave. I sat there frozen thinking Confront this, Nancy. But I lost. Trauma won, I left, sat in the car for a while connecting with others on the cell phone until I mustered up enough rock & rollness to move onwards to a reliable bar with good scotch, company and live music.
The night ended on a fun-loving note with celebrity guest bartending, information gathering, loud conversations with musicians about matters of the heart, matters of the world.
Heavy? Not really.
Had Samuel Beckett-inspired dreams and woke today most happy. Happy Days.
Words of love.

Now the FBI's gone too far.
And this proves that if a person stays in one place for long enough suddenly people think they're a person of honor, a model citizen, deserving of theoretical merit badges. The letter, dated September 12th, reads:

Ms. Parisi: On behalf of the Buffalo Division of the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), I would like to invite you to participate in the FBI's Citizens' Academy.
...
Special Agents will discuss various business and community concerns including the FBI's responsibilities in the areas of white collar crime, violent crime, drugs, couterintelligence, counterterrorism, and civil rights among others. We will specifically address areas such as our deadly force policy...

All this as the national media ring the Middling City's Niagara Square, perched under white craft fair-like tents to talk about the men of bleak Lackawanna who allegedly sent emails of 'large meals' which would overstuff their home turf with smart bomb calories and deadly goodness.
Oh, and three lorikeets at the Buffalo Zoo have West Nile croaked.
Welcome to the Middling City, international topics of conversation.

My unbadged and curmudgeonly love.

Perfect update:

Dig this, me and my paper editor are spending a day at an FBI training camp where we get to fire firearms all the day long. I'm also hellion hoping that I get deft training in the roll and come up shooting maneuver, learn to shoot a gun sideways and get to scream FREEZE OR I'LL END YOUR WORM-LIKE EXISTENCE NOW, MOTHERFUCKER.
Will they attempt to recruit us: I have a horrific memory of when Justin had a grand idea to grab a snack and get out of the rain by entering the defunct God is Love storefront (now a pseudo gay club) for shits & giggles. I said Justin, if they lock us in here I'll kick yer ass and mid-rant we heard the undeniable and ghastly click. Maybe the FBI will collar us, not let us leave until we each swear to sign our lives over for a stint short and volatile, specials ops-like and secret. I'm hoping there's a tank on the premises so I can finally drive a tank as that op ages ago never panned out via the scary, mysterious Army guy who turned up on the Icon scene and promised Yours Truly a chance at the helm of a tank for a short drive around Connecticut Street Armory.

Conflagration opening was suitable fiery. Jen drove into town and we did pre-opening errands together, including the buying of dollar store Barbies to represent the model twins Kathleen and Colleen for their b-day cake (they turned 23 on 9/13- opening night) and later I did no better than when I was eight of chopping silky Barbie hair so the dolls would resemble them, sort of.
Lopping. Regret. Fixing. Regret.
The opening was boozy and I forgot to bring b-day cake candles and Laura and Jen said Well, set the back wall of the cake (I fashioned a cake to look just like the kitchen set that Josh built for the Conflagration art shoot) on fire. And who am I not to oblige the idea and desire for fire? A paper napkin was lit, the wall was minutely torched and I have a delightful Polaroid of the twins blowing frantically on it and later shots of them licking frosting off the legs of their Barbie selves.
We drove afterwards en masse to an Irish joint and Jen and I did a spontaneous ballet to Bohemian Rhapsody and collaborative Ted pulled up, jumped out of his car and ran to join us, doing mad pushups.

Back to normal? Ha.
During the Conflagration opening a fellow artiste pressed a bunch of postcards into my hand for an upcoming show. Godammit, I thought, why can't I have a flyer-free night, esp when it's my Big Nite? Next day I glanced at the card and, get this, I'm listed as one of 15 artists in a small works show opening... September 29th.
And then I have an opening on October 4th.

My love.
My over-caffeinated heart full of love.

Joys of artmaking, continued.
Went to the framing woman's shop to pick up the empty frames/fields of cherry red. She began explaining how blocks of wood would have to be used to hold the pieces and longer screws and ...
anxiety rose and just then (of course) someone calls from the newspaper undoubtedly to ask me for something.
Do you have a minute? No. No? No. etc. etc.
After that went back to framing catastrophe (in the sense that it would be involving power tools, a diagram she prepared for me) and then she said You know what? I'll do the affixing, just bring me the stainless steel pieces.
Halle-fucking-lujah.
Brought them to her at 930PM or so after poly-oly-urethening my last two pieces, wrapping all the work, saying goodbyes to my new printing pals - and vowing (perhaps in a fit of post-polyurethene idiocy) to return for more silkscreening madness.
Oh and then. Before the newspaper call in the framing summit I received casual word that the gallery has cement walls. No artist on this dear planet wants to hear the words cement and wall in the same sentence, especially the week of their art opening.
This means war.
This means jackhammers and hardhats and determination and holes and runs to Home Depot and swearing and molly bolts and promises of touchups.
If art wasn't so beneficial, so balancing and a non-choice it would be called punishment.
Love.
And more love this 9/11 commemoration day.

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.