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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

COMMIT A RANDOM ACT OF NEIL DIAMOND KINDNESS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was Malcolm this ecstatic post-Hajj? I think not.
My face is still sore from smiling, basking in the love vibes of Neil.
I love him. I love him.
Oh, and you should be so happy that you're not my neighbor as I went from blasting Chemical Brothers until I thought What the hell am I doing? and then ran over to the stacks of cd's to gather forth Neil discs. Now playing on 8.
The road manager told us 30' from the stage for shooting songs 1 & 2 and then a guitar moment during song #3. So he walks us back to the floor for a pow-wow about documentary matters, why I have no idear. So I said 30', RIGHT? He gave me the loving eyeball, knowing I might be a press photog but I GOT THE NEIL LOVE. Yes, 30'. Right on. So whilst waiting for Neil to come onstage talked about Neil Love with fans all around me in rows 3-5: couple wearing Mardi Gras beads, girlies in handmade Diamond Girls t-shirts (I asked if those were a tshirt option this tour but no so I'm wearing a Neil-issued white shirt with pink and spangly letters, hey HE designed it, I sure didn't), couples, pals... all of us talking about how much we love him. A group of women were saddened as they had flowers to toss to him but were told firmly NO GIFTS. Someone asked me if I was tossing my bra onstage but I said NO, I didn't plan ahead, I'm wearing a sports bra. So more waiting.
Then... Neil. In more of those troubling poly slacks I'd like to see him dispense with amid a roaring bonfire, boring black shoes and a white sequined shirt. I'd like to ask that he wear low-rise pants of better shape. And Neil should be working out, his ass needs some definition, which it's been lacking for a long long time.
So I'm of course watching his face intently while I'm shooting and note that he's doing this new thing between phrases, licking his lips. Neil needs chapstick road manager. He is scowling more than ever. But oh, the voice.
So a so-called pal decides she can't go and I've got ***** tix and I'm sitting, post-shooting, in press section between two boy colleagues who generally LOVE NEIL so I had a great time, singing along and me and the one boy colleague would say what song was coming after notes 1 or 2 and also do whatever hand gestures he was doing onstage. This boy colleage is also in a rock ensemble and I said, You know what? You need to say Thank you SO much, like Neil does.
During Girl, You'll be a Woman Soon Neil singles out a femme in front row and sings to her in a Bono-esque fashion, lying on the ground like a jungle cat, and mid-song this front-row woman actually touched Neil's face - to wipe away a drop of sweat. I shouted OhMyGod, she touched his face, which startled one of the boy colleagues. Why, what's wrong with that? I said WOULD YOU just reach up and touch the face of GOD?
And he did Shilo. I said to rock star boy colleague You have to love a man who writes a song about his dog.
Neil is perfect. And all is perfect in Nancy's world, post-haste.

Tonight is Neil's night. Turn on your heartlight. I need to call one certain pal who hates even saying Neil Diamond, play maybe Cherry Cherry into her answering machine. Called X-Boss in NYC to ask him If I asked you to go to Neil Diamond with me tonight your answer would be? He said Well, I would go for kitsch value.
Now he is firmly planted onto my list of questionables.
No matter where you go remember this: it's all fun and games until you put a star where one should not be. In other words this: my sister and I worked on the gallery showcase which is to hold hundreds of my archival photos with information and I placed a border of stars along the top and, on a whim, placed one solitary star (a north star if you will) OUTSIDE the showcase. This morning I received two phonecalls regarding this errant star. All should be inside the showcase to preserve the integrity of the space, etc.
Stars, know your place.
Last night popped in to shoot Henry Rollins and yet once again observed the phenomenon of how he appears to be about seven feet tall. I've stood next to the man and he's a bit shorter than my average American womanly height.
Stars, know your place - and your height.
Over and out, pressing and impressive deadlines usher me forth.
Love, always.

Justice is blind. So are cops. And judges.
My diagram sketched on photo lab envelope, pal's witness statement and my explanation weren't any match for the titanium resolve of the little man in the uniform.
I watched him as he spoke and came to the following conclusions: 1. he has no friends; 2. he has no sense of humor and; 3. he shaves badly (should have mentioned that to the judge. Your honor may I approach the bench? Sir... this officer has missed huge areas on the left side of his face whilst shaving this AM. Now I ask you, your Honor, how can an officer of the law and peace and such shave so horrendously and claim to have seen that my light on the zigzagging street was red as he raced towards me? I rest my case.)
Everyone said it's your word against his and he will win. Rah-rah for the other team.
Left traffic court and watched as a minivan sped through an ultra-red light.

Called mentor artist/private guru today to tell him our wakt and forgetful waitress from last night, who brought 10 sugars for my coffee and no cream (foisting her obvious sugar-addlement upon me), is an artist-in-training. Saw her today outside the art school as I made a photo delivery, her smoking furiously and still looking slightly out of control.
Slipped by discreetly without her dropping anything else on me.

Neil Diamond is getting closer.