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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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