My slide talk was stellar, no technical glitches. Small group of inner city h.s. people and mid-talk one of the boys had his head back, mouth ajar. I had to restrain myself from bursting out laughing. His eyelids were even fluttering, REM sleep, quality snooze. I kept it more of a dialogue, asking them questions periodically. I was surprised at one point when a teacher from another class meandered in to make copies on the loud copy machine in the room. Q&A was fun, I passed around my equipment and they marveled at the weight of it all. After that a lunch engagement and then I photographed an immigration attorney. Specialty: sports stars & executives. One of her co-workers came in to offer a facial expression critique and it was revealed that she's a closet BSB (that's Backstreet Boys/Boyz to those of you not in the teen loop) fan.

Tomorrow I am participating in a collective show & tell - I am the show & tell item du jour at a local high school. I'm recycling a tray of slides for this and I have to go through and make sure the material is appropriate, I suppose. Slide talks are like weird dreams: dark room, your images are really big and disjointed, and all you can hear is your voice speaking out into the darkness for what seems like e-ter-ni-ty. Note for tomorrow to self: no swearing, no swearing, no swearing. One section of the slide tray is editorial and one image is from the clinic protests a while back. The image is kooky Rev. Schenk holding "Tia," the fetus, in his hands. This school is Catholic and the students will have just come from lunch, maybe not.

Yesterday I had a great freelance gig for a film production studio, as the still shooter. The event was a massive car auction for dealers (cars, not drugs) and among the several secret things I learned about the world of auctions was this: auctioneers, even the ones who auctioneer so fast it's not English, go to school for two weeks. That might be only ten days if they have weekends off for age old cramming. And another thing: car auctioneers don't use gavels, they use rubber hoses from engines to whack at each deal's end for drama.

A woman in the car next to me on the early morning expressway was very busy curling eyelashes as I passed her in my car. I did not pass in fear but in pure haste. I am also an auto-multi-tasker and would like to ask all anti-auto-multi-taskers to accept that some drivers are individuals with special skills who can safely accomplish much more than operating car & radio before park mode. In one of my prescribed magazines I saw an ad for a DVD player designed for dashboards (as in for driver and passenger, not a back mini-van seat DVD): the guy in the photo is having someone pump his gas as he watches a scene in which a meta-car is in the midst of a yellow fireball. Apparently intra-car amenities are acceptable as long as they're hands-free. This rankles my driving+cell-phone using self. Even with my snazzy ear piece I have to dial, yikes, and close my phone! But, wait a second, the DVD user has to, like a CD listener, eject, FF, etc. Ban my cell phone and I'll ban your cup of coffee, takeout, and drivesmokes.

The last post was written back before my facial skin was treated to 3.5 hours of roasting as I forgot to slather on the usual SPF 615 lotion before yesterday's FTAA rally & march & belly-to-belly protesters/cops standoff. Headed via thruway to the international border/Peace Bridge and then ended up on the wrong side of the law/police barricade of nose-to-tail garbage trucks, and dozens of units of marching (and chanting) SWAT team members, State Troopers, border patrol, and policemen. After much confusion and conflicting advice from aforementioned as to where to park my vehicle, I intended to leave it somewhere near the garbage trucks which greatly upset a little officer in huge orange rain coat (note: not a cloud in the sky). He yelled, baton up, as if to batter my vehicle. He screamed so loud it was rather amazing, his eyes had that glazed look of someone post-drinks & pre-fight - or someone who's had way too much uppity substances. He told me to remove myself and my vehicle and gave me vague directions, shouting "DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, MA'AM?" When I heard the ma'am part I sort of chose to ignore him and kept driving, and thinking 'Fuck You, Sir.' Well that wasn't a wise, but rather a wiseacre, idea as he then yelled even LOUDER and ran towards my vehicle (note use of vehicle rather than car) with his baton higher. That made ten others in similar attire run towards me and the vehicle. I stopped then. He leaned into my car, his scary little face very near mine. I thought, ever so briefly, that I wanted to tell him never to call me ma'am again. "Ma'am? Did you not hear me yelling for you to stop?" I finally ditched the car and trotted to the march, shooting various people in both the legal and arrest-friendly zones. I saw Ani's mother and told her that she was marching along into non-legal rally zone and she came to a screeching halt, especially after I told her about the armies I saw marching minutes earlier. Got to the bridge and talked with several of my photo colleagues, and some protesters I know. Didn't know any of the cops, but who the hell could tell when they were behind scratched plexi shields, plexi face shields, and gas masks? Only one arrest happened, some skinny punk rocker with an anti-FTAA rag pinned to his filthy wife beater and sporting a skillful mohawk. He was later graciously released and I was the only media hack who did not run after him to make him hero for a day (I got him when he was wrassled to the ground). At one point I was nearly pressed against a SWAT guy when I turned and whacked my head on his shield. I then asked him some small-talk-style questions about the weight of his shield, etc. One of several weird moments: it's typical for the authorities to be irked by pressing media but suddenly yesterday the protesting mass was asking media to get out. One of my pals said his feelings were hurt. A revolution without still and video cameras is not only foolhardy, but suspect. 3.5 hours and then the protesters turned to go to another rally, and I made my brunch engagement, regaling some non-media friends with snippets which I washed down with strong coffee.

The State Trooper tale makes me think of my George Bush story (not W, that's the dumb puppy eyes story for another time). I was yanked into a green room scenario with U.S. President #41 as one of my colleagues flaked. Secret Service had cleared me before the event so I was A-OK: for a Hillary Clinton gig before that I had received a Secret Service pin (which I kept) which says G-3. So I'm in the room shooting away, various portraits of former Prez with whomever, when suddenly the ex-President says "let's get a photo of the two of us." The President of the university where the cozy green room is located takes my camera and takes my photo with George non-W Bush. He's got his arm around me like we're super-pals. One, two, three frames and then he puts his arm in the small of my back and shoves me full-speed ahead away from him. I think "I guess he can smell a Dem."

Cops have senses of humor, too (proof): Upon hearing of an in-progress FTTA protest I raced towards it in my reliable, air-bagged vehicle. I saw the protesters, put car in park, grabbed camera and one extra roll of film, saw State Troopers and said "I'm media, I'm shooting this, and I'll only be a few minutes." I only wish I had said, in retrospect, "I'll just be a jiff." So I run ahead of the LLBean-outfitted group, and photograph State Troopers with thick calves on mountain bikes and in windbreakers which say State Trooper on the back. I run, I shoot, I take notes, I ask questions, I shoot, I sweat, I talk, I listen, I shoot, and start returning to my car (which I realize I haven't locked). State Troopers in enormous SUV see me and say "I thought you were only going to be a minute." I say "Well, I was waiting for things to happen." Like the line of policemen in a straight line to break out of their perfect synchronized swimmer formation. I said "and I didn't even lock my car." One of the Troopers said "the tow truck driver appreciated that." My car was still there, blocking one lane of traffic and everything unstolen inside. Hardy-har.

Famed illustrator Philip Burke has said no (via his soft-spoken wife) to an interview I was pre-yes contracted to do for a shiny happy mag. Does't he know that everything cannot be perfect in my world if I don't get my way? So now the periodical is sicking me on rock star/little folk singer Ani DiFranco, who I painted houses with before we were grownups. If she grants me the big I I'll probably have to assure her that our Scruffy Dog Painting Co. past will not see the light of day in ink.

What would be more shocking to you - that I'm listening right now to the Bad Co. Anthology or that I'm doing so whilst wearing my pink fuzzy bunny ears? The bunny ears are why the neighbors are sort of afraid of me - I forget I have them on as I go outside to check the mailbox sometimes. Secret fantasy: that I'll be at a wedding one day and the "lucky" couple will have selected as their premier dance together "Feel Like Makin' Love"-one of Bad Co.'s most famous numbers. Slow-dancing interspersed with karate-kick-inducing riffs as the chorus wails and elderly relatives drift away from the dancefloor, funsavers in hands.

I've been examining the fine blogs of others and I'm impressed yet unmoved from my minimalistic approach which asks you readers to simply bask in my posts and to use your imaginations. And did I mention that you're lucky to even be reading these snippets of my inner machinations? A friend who I renamed Julian ages ago sends a jpeg of me and now readers, imagine this - a special part of my blog where you can go to an online gallery of odd photographs that people take of this photographer. Rock on.

My pager is still soaked from last night's Dyngus Day festivities, to which I had my friend Jennifer escort me. She had never been to a DD event and at first was timid about hitting guys with her pussy willow branch. Science experiment: will several beers and a few shots of Krupnik speed a usually pleasant woman down Sadist Highway? Experimental answer: yes. I was talking to some people and caught a glimpse of Jennifer running through the crowd, screaming and brandishing her branch. I left our last stop looking like I fell into a swimming pool, hence the unusable pager. This morning, driving to a photo gig, there was evidence of a raucous Dyngus Day: Jennifer dropped a completely shredded branch, sans gray fluffies, on the floor of my car.

As I took the side alley into the venue for Headstones shooting (past hundreds of sweaty drunk people shoved in) I looked up from the front of the stage into the crowd, mostly male and mostly waving cans of beer. One guy said something crude to me which a HUGE security guy with a bizarre hairdo overheard and this is what he said:
"I'll tell everyone that he pulled a knife on you if you want to hit him."
Despite the fact that I'm 5'6", a woman, and was carrying 50 pounds of equipment, I have to admit for a brief moment I thought about what damage his head would sustain if I met a corner of it with my heavy F5. Although I had carte blanche to do so (the security guy told his colleagues to forgive me in case shit went down), I didn't hit Mr. Tipsy.

Sad about Joey Ramone's death. The first time I ever slam-danced (pre-mosh, with more love for your fellow slammers) was at a Ramones show. I once rode on the back of a boy's motorcycle for over one hundred miles to see the Ramones, leather jackets a-flappin'.
Headstones show on Saturday: band onstage and as Hugh the lead singer takes the stage I recall he's the fuckhead (his fav word for his fans) who kicked the shit out of my SB-28 (flash) during his last Buffalo appearance, I think on purpose. As I'm noting where he's spitting onstage and slightly off, to steer clear, he and I lock eyes, stare at each other for a moment, and then he points at his nether regions. I think how Sean Penn taught every asshole in the world how to behave in front of a camera.

When I left the venue I saw Mr. NFL pulling up to the side door in his coupe with a huge grin on his face. Went to shoot a few local bands (Americana & punk, what a combo) and ended the evening behind a bar as a certain local joint likes to ask me, from time to time, to do some spontaneous celebrity guest bartending. I did this for a bit, making great tips but gave them to the non-inept barkeeps who actually do this for a living. Here's a moment of my bartending last night:
Customer: Can I have a drink with milk and ...
Me: (glaring) NO. Next . . . (looking to next customer). After band #2 I went back behind the bar and at the end of the bar I saw a guy who said 'you lectured me about using this coaster and you never brought me anything to put on this coaster.' oops.

Last night: Monster Magnet, ugly guys in sexy leather pants. Backstage at the venue was far more interesting that activities onstage (including "Erotic Price is Right") with strippers wandering and lounging about and an NFL star looking pleased with life. I nearly took a wrong turn backstage and ended onstage with six strippers: there's no way I could have blended sans high-altitude shoes and microscopic bikini. Monster Magnet put on a to-be-expected loud show with lots of bumps & grinds - the simulated ejaculation with water bottle really irked the front row of post-teens and they threw whatever was in their hands at the band. The barricade looked like it was going to collapse, calling to mind the NIN show several years back at which I thought I was going to get crushed as it moved forward a few feet.

(I had another post which evaporated) Imagine that when you open this there's a quick time movie of me standing and kicking my feet back while I'm singing the title of my blog. This may never actually materialize (as I'm not very good at reading or following directions) here so imagine it. The post before the That Time quote was about Samuel Beckett who alway claimed this date as his venerable birthday, which, because of bad records, may have been accurate, or not. He's an overwhelming fiction writer who was born in Ireland and hightailed it to Paris and lived happily ever after writing the likes of That Time, a short play for three voices.

That Time quote:
A: that time you went back to look was the ruin still there where you hid as a child that last time straight off the ferry and up the rise to the high street to catch the eleven neither right nor left only one thought in our head not a curse for the old scenes the old names just head down press on up the rise to the top and there stood waiting with the nightbag till the truth began to dawn.

Well, off to photograph Monster Magnet etc. and then to points beyond.

Friday the 13 is a fine starting point for these rambling recollections. And an appropriate start is to roll out the rock & roll carpet of memory about Nirvana and Kurt Cobain (who strode off for eternity about this time of year). I photographed, in black & white, the band's appearance in Buffalo New York at University at Buffalo in November of 1993. Surprisingly, there weren't throngs upon throngs of students or public rock appreciators there. Meatpuppets opened, hiding under thick knit caps, and I watched from the sidelines where I encountered Mrs. Cobain as well as shellshocked U.B. students who had been dealing with her diva ways all day. A juicy later post will be my story about her, her handbag, and the tale of her leaving the handbag behind as she drove over the Peace Bridge into Ontario, Canada for her Hole gig in Toronto. But back to Kurt et al. The set was powerful, Kurt wore a trademark tattered cardigan over an Olympia Beer t-shirt. At show's end he destroyed an "In Utero" life-sized figure.