Here's some solid irony. Yesterday I had had enough of getting no return calls from Righteous Babe Records for my possible Ani DiFranco story for a local shiny magazine. Rather than calling her lead handler myself at his home or on his cel I decided to go the Professional Route and called their office - for four weeks. No yes, no no, no thing. So I called yesterday morning and, in a spicy nutshell, said I've been trying to contact the handler (who I've known for perhaps 15 years) via your office and is this the way your company handles media requests? I went on (and on) and said that if the answer was a big fat NO I would like to know as the magazine would be going to press shortly. The woman said she would have someone get back to me. I explained that I was on my way into a meeting and couldn't talk to anyone for about an hour. Within one minute I got a call from RBR's v.p. (oh hell, his name is Scot), the lead handler, who rambled a bit until I said look, it's been on & off four weeks of calls, yes or no? He explained that Ani had just finished all interviews and now there was a "media blackout" and that RBR is opening an office in London and she's about to embark on another tour. So if they had called me back aeons ago I may have had an interview. Irony: (which I detailed to the magazine's editor) RBR staffers make much of the fact that they've remained in Buffalo to do business yet give local media a difficult time. If CNN or SPIN were sniffing around for a story you can bet your sweet media credetials that they would have called back. So Scot was all mopey-voiced and I said look, I really don't care, but now I've got to call the editor. He said you can blame it all on me. Onwards and upwards, I'm onto another story which will actually be more fun to write. Ani says to hell with local media. I say how about a local media blackout of RBR/Ani? Off for a weekend of work and work-related fun.
Later in the day yesterday took a close friend out for sushi for his b-day and the sake flowed like the tears of Jesus in an onion patch. We moved over to a lounge and had yet more sake until the voluminous band chased us away, to another joint across the street where we proceeded to drink a hoary Australian from Adelaide under the proverbial table. He was amusing until he went very stooped and sleepy. His tag line, pre-snooze, was I love your work. Upon hearing that me and my friend are artists. Today I called him and shouted I LOVE YOUR WORK. He said that now we could add to our c.v.'s that we drank an Aussie under the table, 2001.

Today. Got to bed at about 5AM after working on my column and AOL deadline all day & night and upon arriving at the newspaper orifice found those machines in a state of chaos. Still managed to squeak in some VH1 before ensuing zzz's and re-arose at 10AM to reconfigure and meet my friend Catherine Parker to begin work on our dual exhibition which opens in exactly one year - a year minus one week. All grain elevator images. I drove us to Concrete Central and we meandered, I shot and she sketched for two and a half hours. We lost each other for about an hour which was scary as the grain elevator is huge and parts of the ground are sunken in and some of the concrete is worn thin. And, as Brucey said, you never know when you might bump into Boo Radley. When I began photographing grain elevators 6 or 7 years ago I did so with the intent to show the opposite of cold and formalist images that always seem to get made. Life is moving and grooving all around these stoic beings and I jump in for symbols left behind by workers, and document plants taking over. Today I imagined the ghosts of every past reveler at this grain elevator, hanging off of metal ladders, pissing in corners, the air full of spray paint fumes, fires all around, and dozens of rock & roll radios playing all different classic rock hits through the ages. I walked across metal grating bolted over rotting train ties of a r.r. bridge up about 50 feet to get to the site and at one point I froze with fear. I asked Catherine to tell me about her martial arts studies (she's now a yellow belt), to take my mind off of possible mishap. Walking back over the bridge was not much easier - I forgot to get a super criss-crossed bridge beam with view of C.C. behind it and my huge desire for this image overcame fear. Art/photography won. We saw a blue heron.

Two wondered whose email I copied, pasted, and posted yesterday. Some things in this world have to remain a mystery, and besides, you don't know him. He's the person I took to the abso-freakin-lutely amazing Roger Waters show a few summers ago. And he's married to the woman who I consider to also be one of my best friends. And if he's reading this, hello and you made me feel like I was floating along on a puff of pink smoke after reading such poesie. Oh yeah, speaking of smoke, I just returned to my deadline miasma from shooting craggly mime superstar Marcel Marceau, at his tech rehearsal. Understanding French I knew that he was really bitching out the people in the wings, hating the lights, and especially the very rock & roll puff of smoke which someone belched out onto the stage and which hung over MM's head. Me and two of my colleagues were dismissed after a few minutes with many apologies from some p.r. people.

Dropped boyfriend at the mid-international airport (flight to Atlanta, six hour wait, flight of about same hours to Barcelona) a while ago and this means unabashed and repetitive Dave Matthews Band listening, Pink Floyd blaring, all-night VH1 watching, guilt-free workaholism, and above-average staying out late. Bye honey...I'll miss you...sniff...where's the Oban? Just bought Reveal, the new R.E.M. - it's soft and I'm digging it already but I haven't heard a high-kick-inducing rock song yet. Every release I find myself holding back before succumbing to their new twist on their genius. And the Stipe voice is still as sexy/earthy resonant.

Here are some special Nancycentric thoughts from the head of my secret fan club:

Course-o-course I have read your blogspot. All the damned time I read it!
Nearly daily. Daily, I nearly have enough time to write to you. Missive
thoughts are constant but not in cyberspace to you. Hello to you. How can
you/how do you/who allowed you enough time to do what you do and write
bloodspots'? I don't get it. I am beyond impressed. You truly are a goddess!
I praise thee oh Nancy, goddess of all that I believe to be. Zen one who is
chaos in nature but centered with a flow of the wind and stars. And flow you
shall, with the worms lifting the earth to your feet as you walk. No cold
alabaster benches for you bottom, no!!!!! Only love, love, love and, happy
thoughts and, free bowls of tummy love for you. You may rule the world but, I
quit smoking.

Saturday night arrived at a friend's all-gal b-day party late as I had been scampering about covering a fashion show, some music, and an art opening. Upon starting up the front steps of the respectable home in the respectable neighborhood I thought I heard a just-fired gun and imagined that it was another friend brandishing one of her cache of inherited items. It was two summers ago when me and this same woman, at another even more respectable home, thought about firing the handgun nestled in her handbag in the backyard - but thought better of it amid the brick courtyard setting. I imagined the terror of a ricocheting bullet and having to hit the dirt so to speak in my great outfit. Upon hearing about the backyard firearm antics that hostess went really pale in the face...that was also the party when an out-of-control acquaintance crashed the party, got drunk, got violent, and was taken away in a shiny ambulance. Sometimes I go to festivities which aren't tainted with lawlessness and the like.

Rock & Roll travel works - if you've got the right attitude. Mazzy Star's "She Hangs Brightly" was this adventure's soundtrack which worked well on both flights, and in MOMA as I looked at the annoyingly new DIGITAL and huge people-infested images of Andreas Gursky. Got to this city's airport with wet hair, blouse all mis-buttoned, and bag ajar. And, quite possibly (but I was in my zone and beyond noticing), fellow travelers agog. The air personalities stated "you must be Nancy" and then I stumbled towards the shitty little prop plane. Note to self: jets = less inner ear mayhem. Other note to self: car service = less post-ride barfiness than bouncy cabs. Made the to-NYC flight by some miracle (I was showering, oh, forty minutes before takeoff) and met up, serendipitously, with a pal on the very same plane en route to moving to France (Land of Perfection/Delicious Johnny Depp's home). Bought her and I some kir royales at JFK and went along my way to meet my AOL/outtatown & outtasight editor in the big M. Many other NYC adventures ensued with several friends & acquaintances & artworks including: near-knockout bump on head from steel girder badly positioned on stairwell of Dorota's new art studio; ferocious bite mark on right arm from same; scratch on face from god knows what; great new me&ro ring; blackened khaki knees from fake fall with a pal's non-fake cane in middle of a crowded SoHo restaurant; wounded feet from wearing beautiful new shoes for miles and miles of smiles; and residual hangover molecules floating throughout my artfully-stimulated brain. I returned to this fair city Friday afternoon after a near-debacle with American Airlines in NYC at their gateside counter. The on-duty officiates announced casually that my flight was oversold 100% and that I was on a waiting list and would be "rolled over" to a later flight. Visions of pre-air rage and attendant shocking acts floated before my hateful eyes - I had a gig in four hours. Nancy's World is a happy world when all goes my way. I watched the odd work of the two women in front of me, remaining a hunkering presence until I had my hands on my fucking little green boarding pass. In a few hours I was back at work, socially documenting a VIP et al dinner at which Rita Moreno was a guest of honor. Me: unfamiliar with her work on television and B'Way, being a non-follower of both. Rita: petite and well-dressed and a spicy starry presence who likes to jibe, apparantly, with photogs. Me: hanging back as dinner was being served to see if the little star of tube & stage wanted to actually eat or schmooze the night away. Rita: graciously throwing her arms around anyone who wanted to pose for a photo with her, all the while informing that person that I was the city's most famous social photographer. Me: slightly amused.

As I'm skedaddling out of town for some artsy matters for a few moments I thought I'd leave you another post, a juicy succulent glimpse into my complex and convoluted psyche. Yesterday I photographed a hoopla-rich parade and, as usual, found myself in tears. I told some people recently that parades make me cry and someone suggested that perhaps I was a majorette in a past life. Another offered a kind, sentimental comparison - she cries at the first hint of "Silent Night." I've cried at parades in Japan honoring spring, Mardi Gras in New Orleans, NYC, wherever. I think someone (H) should do a picture story of me teary-eyed at these grand occasions.

Between shooting some excellent regional/local bands at a local joint where I occasionally do some celeb guest mixologizing I was called behind the bar as they were slammingly busy. Being a pathetically bad fast adder of integers I usually make up prices and cocktail totals: one guy unsmilingly ordered three drinks and when I delivered them with my customary big smile I told him the fabricated total which surprised him. It turned out, after consulting a real mixologist, that I had greatly overcharged him, oh well. I decided it was time to start a little arm wrestling fun and did so with one guy who sort of let me beat him. Then I challenged another guy who didn't see the comedy in this and was going to try to slam my photographic hand into the bar - so I started biting his clasped fingers until he relented. All's perfect in my world when I: a. get my way; b. win; and c. find a great pair of shoes. One parting thought: I think I greatly distressed my mentor artist friend when I told him that Timothy McVeigh is being put to sleep on his birthday.

Broken Nose #2 Story: shooting some local bands on ground floor of a dance/music club decided between sets to go upstairs to watch dance activity. I was standing on the side of the dancefloor when suddenly a tall, lanky guy in a ball cap grabbed me by the wrists and pulled me into the middle of the happy lights and post-mod movement. I was trying to see under the cap for an i.d. and never got a good look. I could tell he was drunk as he stumbled about - and I couldn't get away from him because he had my wrists and all. Suddenly he lost his footing and all 6' or so of him came crashing onto the bridge of my nose. He scooted away as the yellow lights of pain come racing towards my face. I staggered over to the upstairs bar holding my bleeding nose, for some ice in a filthy bar rag. When I collected myself I went downstairs and asked the person at the door if they saw this lanky accident on two legs and he said "oh, he just ran out of here." Weeks later I was speaking with another photo colleague and mentioned what happened and he said "that was my friend Chris and he feels really bad about that." He was absolutely not lying. And I've never talked with Chris about this, I think I like to let him think that I don't know that he broke my nose. Maybe I don't want to admit such nasal fallability. FYI: broken nose #1 I sort of deserved...I grabbed a ball away from a boy and cruelly ran away taunting him and straight into a brick wall. I was ten.

Psychedelic Furs was the band in my crosshairs last night: it was a case for lip-synching I have to say. But nobody seemed to notice, it was like the 80's were floating happily and heavily through the air and nobody gave a shat that Richard Butler was not really ever too on (or near) key. But I have to admit, hearing "Ghost in You" again live gave me a few goosebumps. After I was finished shooting (3 songs & you're out, general rule) I stood on the sidelines surrounded by several friends and acquaintances and marveled at a few guys who moved up to the edge of the stage completely enraptured. About song 6 or 7 a guy came over who knows me and one of my colleagues, a fledgling and lanky photog who broke my nose the second time at a dance club. I'm not sure that he knows that I know that he broke my nose.

Photographed They Might Be Giants last night and I realized that they were the premier, or if not first then near-first, band that I ever photographed. It was a small concert in an art gallery in the mid-80's and there were maybe one hundred people there. Last night there were more than the two Johns on stage, a light show, and hundreds and hundreds of watchers. And it was still a great show even though I wasn't sitting on a wooden art gallery floor at their feet. One thing I bemoaned today: the lack of the exchange of mixed tapes. I know there are snazzadelic ways to burn cd's and all that jazz but it's not nearly as romantic, as labor intensive, and low-tech.

Working for the weekly alternative to a small to middling city daily oftentimes means that you're not on the A list for info dissemination. Today by sheer accident I discovered that thee Sarah Ferguson/Fergie/Budgey Creator was in town promoting a new book and the glee of personal weight loss. I was about to do some quick phone calling, driving, self-credentializing, and documenting when I recalled something: Fergie borrowed a pair of Di's shoes and later said that she caught warts from the shoes. This so enraged Di that she cut off Fergie forever - and they didn't reconcile before Di's irresponsibly chauffeured/papparazzi-induced death. To lend a pair of shoes is a great gesture of kindness and to repay that gesture with the accusation of foot warts breaks the girlie code. I stayed away.

I'm not sure what bad karmic thing I did but earlier I was on the phone with a high school pal from it seems three lifetimes ago who is all rah-rah-sis-koom-bah about our class' pending reunion. I told her that I had worked long and hard to become one of the mailing list lost. I wasn't joking. She laughed. My life is full of fun and satisfying adventure and I can't imagine how seeing a roomful of people I haven't seen since graduation day will enhance it (the curmudgeon growled). I see a select handul of other, like-minded artful individuals from those teen days. High School me: voted most talented, played tennis a lot, set a tardy to school record, rowdy and zany (recollected teacher phrases), drove for years without license (or permit), babysat, A- student. Our class was renowned for cliques and I was one of the few who floated freely between them. Apparently the invitation makes reference to the clique situation which fascinates me.

As I noticed a moment ago that tomorrow is May Numero Uno I thought I'd add an on-the-verge-of-summer-anxiety post. Working daily, sometimes 12-18 hours, most summers are nearly over before I notice it's Labor Day and I have to pack away my white shoes (NB: I don't own a single white shoe, oh, one pair of white bucks). I always tell my colleagues that if it weren't for the occasional outdoor concert, music festival, and other outdoor cultural happenings to shoot I'd never see much sun or summer. For this inception I think I'll attempt more excursions out of town, maybe a trip to the beach, (okay, maybe no trip to the beach where my ADD completely shines), and one run through a sprinkler.

Daily words of wisdom, provided today by a wandering neighborhood crazy man: "Be careful. Be careful driving out there (we were both outside), there are a lot of crazy people out there."

Went to socially document a huge annual event at el grande Albright-Knox Art Gallery after suburb party. Thousands of revelers were milling about, listening to several bands, and occasionally knocking into a piece of art on the walls. Note to self: no more reading event program while walking towards a set of interior marble steps, it hurts. No equipment damage - camera or limbs. A man picked me up at the bottom of the steps and his name was Brooks, he and his wife were very hip and nice and I shot a picture of them for my column. Yay, Brooks. Realizing I was going to be aching I decided it was time for some pain management in the form of scotch & sodas. A rock star friend of mine asked if I'd like half of her pot chocolate chip cookie so I crunched that down although that's not my usual substance I choose to abuse. After a while I felt even more vibrant than normal and approached another rock star pal (formerly of national fame) and told him that I had just eaten a pot cookie (he's a proponent of all things marijuana) and that all of my amoebas were undulating. I kept walking, thinking, what the hell did that mean?

A truly surreal episode in the car happened last night with two friends. Mission: get to a suburban bon voyage party, deliver gifts, have some drinks, and make return drive within an hour. Drive time from city to sub/ex-urb is about fifteen minutes. We were in my car for two hours and never got to the party (none of us were under the influence of anything, lest you're wondering). We passed the football stadium three times, certain other landmarks a few times. Maps were consulted. We stopped and one passenger asked directions from a bar full of regulars. We called various people on our cell phones. The whole time we were searching for a Potter Avenue and ended up on a Potters Road about five miles from where we started - there was a house of the same number and I suggested that, because now we were hurrying to get to other events, that we slow the car and throw our gifts for the bon voyagee out the car windows onto their lawn. After dropping my two passengers off I decided to make another attempt and did make it to the party that time in the fifteen minutes, phoning my friends to tell them so so that they could share in my pride and jubilance. I regaled, or attempted to regale, the suburbanites with the tale of the two-hour drive but they just didn't find it nearly as hilarious, as eye-wateringly gut-busting as we had. But it was a swell party, lots of people, lots of wine, lots of snacks.

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.