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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2 things.

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

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

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

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