The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame is tres mall-like and shiny and full of people you would never invite out for cocktails. BUT: the Lennon show, extended is great. It begins with showcases containing his personal artifacts, his glasses that he wore when he was killed (I always wanted to see these), and the paper bag which Yoko was given after his death containing his clothes. Me and the beau watched a two-hour doc on him, Imagine, and I wept like nobody's business and am certain I was the only sobbing person in the whole damned theatre. And, of course, the song Imagine makes me cry every time and I've been wandering around Cleveland, partying and such, with the eyes of someone who's been chopping onions all the day long. Two thoughts: the Beatles were a rock flash, their rise and superstardom came quickly and just as quickly they ditched it. Other Beatles-era thought: watching footage of them performing some of their songs made those songs suddenly seem much more real and I wondered if that's because I'm a product of the MTV era or if it was because I never saw them perform.
And I'm still cemented in my belief that John Lennon is an awe-inducing artist and his loss still tragic.
One last thought: after meeting some really outgoing people I think the Great Lakes inspire such friendly behaviour. A cab driver wanted to marry me and beau but only if we would do it nude so he could get on the Howard Stern show. He gave me his card.
OK, here's last thought: what's travelling sans shoe purchasing? Got the greatest shoes on two soles today. Over and out.

Everything is so freakin' perfect right now in MY world it's crazy with a capital K. Checked in to the Cleveland Ritz-Carlton and there seemed to be a bit of mayhem behind the desk as Gary in the blue jacket said there was a problem with our appointed room, supposed to be a suite. I imagined a crime scene and housekeeping frantically readying the room. I joked with Gary that if he bought us a round of drinks all would be grand and we would gladly wait and wait. With a few more clicks of his mouse, puzzled looks as he peered into his computer screen, I ended up on a passkey-only floor in what we could call the Presidential Suite and which could comfortably sleep eight adults. Two bathrooms, dining room area, dozens of tasteful lamps, hi-speed internet access (how I'm writing to your fortunate self). And Gary tossed in two drinks each for two of us into a passkey-only bar two floors up. This is the rock star suite, screw that Presidential shit. Well, off to secret floor 14, and subsequent hitting this town which has welcomed your favorite Nancy with open arms, and bar tabs. Yippee.

As I worked diligently, of course, on my Warped Tour photo layout, ever mindful to leave myself a few inches to fill with quippicisms, I had this important thought: in the future, at these all-day music festivals involving musicians of similar ilk who may be sporting similar hairstyles, attitudes, and fashions, that they be required to wear Nancy-issued self-adhesive nametags much like the stickers we press photographers must wear saying that we're a-ok and not some deadbeat with a camera. This way, when I'm flailing away and looking at bassplayer B I'm not going to confuse him with a bandmember from band G who may have played moments after band C on stage H. Dig? Most bands are completely distinguished/distinguishable but there's always an unruly bandmate who falls through accuracy's ass crack.
Note to self: howsabout a break from writing deadlines.
Other note to self: you decided to be a photog and not a writer for a reason. Remember that.

Cheese & crackers, a few of you have wondered where I've been - sometimes the Perfect World involves a tad more carousing than blogging. I'm imagining the mayhem which would ensue if I was able to post as I was out and about. Oh, wait, I've heard about wireless blogging but I can't even spell html so it seems a bit of a stretch for Palmless me. I'll be making another John Lennon pilgrimage tomorrow for a few days so you'll have to live without my quippy wit until Friday or so you poor poor mopey online darlings.
So listen how my newspaper publisher/pal/big brotherly figure torments me so: Saturday, flailing away (REALLY) on the fuckin' story of the elusive artist for the paper when publisher calls to invite me to the beach with him and his girlie, also my friend. What's the world's most supreme procrastinator going to do but pitch responsibilty out the speeding car window as it crosses into Canada? So mid-Peace Bridge I had this elated feeling like I was an escapee and, just because I have my lingering eldest child syndrome, brought the laptop and tape recorder along, as well as some ketchup flavored chips, dill pickle flavored chips, coke, trashy mags, etc. Guess which saw more beachly action? If you say the former you must never visit epinw.blogspot.com ever again because you just aren't getting it, and you're resistant to all things Nancy. After beach, ***** Chinese food with the duo and then photographed the Knack of "My Scuh-ro-tem" fame.
Photograph Matchbox Twenty tonight and here's some really shocking news for you - Rob Thomas is only 4.5 feet tall. No, maybe 5. Doesn't he seem huge in the videos? He's not. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Over and out.

Pat Benatar can still rip the chords out of her vocal chords and has, according to my calculations, about 8million times the talent of her daughter in a head-setted and lip-synching girlie band called GLO. Pat did all her hitz and the way-over-cap. crowd was absolutely claustrophobic: I wanted to leave and had to stay until post-encore backstage as it would have been impossible to get the backstage gate open, let alone leave. A man with a mullet was carried out by security for being drunk and disorderly but everyone backstage felt it might have been due to his unfortunate hair styling choice. Another man was taken away and one of the techies yelled What's wrong with HIS hair? (He had no mullet, lest you're not getting this rock and roll humor) Before her encore Pat, ten feet from me, floofed her hair and reapplied make-up. That's a chick rocker, to be sure. Tonight I photographed Janet Jackson and dig this: SHE WAS LIP-SYNCHING. Sad but true. How do you think these artistes can dance so hard and sing? They aren't. Believe me, I'm standing within lip-synching-detection's distance from these moments. Tomorrow: more musical mayhem. To boy colleague who left fresh new bottle of beer on my car - mercury buckets. Bye now, your favorite and funniest N.
ps: celebrity guest bartending last night meant more than my fair share of tequila, just the way life should be - more more more for me.

Had a great Warped Tour kind of day cavorting with the boy colleagues and other backstage acquaintances. The nephew, I don't think, realizes his special condition at concerts and will one day when he arrives with his little pals and makes his way to the backstage area where a security man will put out a hand barring his assured small entrance. Henry Rollins, for some unknown reason, hit the stage at 1PM so most people, including Yours Truly, missed his bossiness. I imagine, as WT hits Toronto in two days that he wanted time off. PennyWise was great, and I admired the onstage bar of Me First and the Gimme Gimmies. Not too many chick rockers, which, I suppose, is why they have the ground level Ladies Lounge. Shot from the top of the 1/2 pipe and got especially grand images of a motoX boy up up up and away! One of my boy colleagues was afraid to come on up so he didn't. Pussy. The Fire Department had gushing hose on a throng of people who quickly became Mud People and then they had a tremendo mud slide going. The only mud slide I ever came into involved Bailey's, Kahlua, and vodka. To hell with the other sort, I say. Shot the self-flung mud sliders from atop and watched one gal slide right under the tent of a sound man working stage C. After Warped Tour headed up to Canada for a summer house party on the beach and did something very Nancy-like: took a running jump at a hammock and ended up twisting about on it and flat on my back with a huge WHOOOMPHF. My friend who was grilling nearby thought I was letting out the WHOOOMPHF with joy other than proverbial wind being knocked out of my proverbial body. All day Warped Tour and only one major arm bruise from crowd rider/security man/me collision. Tonight I shoot Pat Benatar who is, I say, Drag Queen Rock. Very uninspired and I'm now listening to PJ Harvey as a pre-anecdote to the banal 80's rock about to assault my poor failing rock star shooting ears.

As the rock & roll sages of yore said: "Hell hath no impatience like a nine year old boy awaiting Warped Tour." The sibling/sole sister dropped off Nephew at the crack of dawn en route to her job and he's been klanking about waiting waiting waiting. But enough about youthful waiting. I am looking forward to an entire day of rock & roll onstage exuberances, x-treme affletes flying through the air, climbing the ladder once again to shoot from atop the 1/2 pipe, the t-shirts, the sights, the sounds, the throngs, the thongs (ok, no thongs), the feeling of being THERE. Long live outdoor rock & roll.

Proof enough, dig, that there's a God/god: my deadline for story about reluctant artist whose chest I sat on was EXTENDED ONE WEEK. Yes, extended, as in more time to beat quotable moments out of her, to sip turbo-powered wine with her, and make her bend to my wishes. Met with three boy colleagues today and we're going to be members of a team (GO TEAM) shooting for a wire service. Photos of wired people, stray wires on the ground, wires sticking out of odd places, etc. I'm currently spewing thoughts one mile per minute as I made some good ol' fashioned joe with way too many beans and way little coffee. Where did I park that Oban? Peace & Love, your favorite Nancy.
ps: the reluctant artist's name is Nancy, too, but she is NOT your favorite.

Spent the better part of yesterday in a foreign land, in NYC-inspired Toronto. Before embarking with two others after traditional fun-filled brunch the post-brunch krewe called after me to "avoid international incidents." On the way back, perhaps flashing back to a much earlier blog time when I was scrapping with border patrolmen during the FTAA protests, I was (I admit) snarky with the border man in the box. When he inquired what were you doing in Toronto I was a bit gruff. When he asked me to repeat what we were doing in Toronto I barked ART!!! which took him and my passengers a bit aback. Oh, I should mention here that we had just been sitting in return-to-USA traffic for about one hour. I also quipped that we had nearly spent as much time in traffic jams as in TO which was not at all true but charmingly funny nonetheless (I thought). Warped Tour in two days. ya-hoo.

Worked on my artist profile, another freakin' piece of lit by your fav Nancy, on Friday and had to quite literally chase my subject up her aluminum ladder as she had tired of talking about herself and her art and had gone up said ladder. Put the recording device around the ladder into her face to catch a few more quotes. Towards the end of the interview in the public park where, I should have already mentioned, she was working on her public art piece - an arch with figures atop - an assistant pal of hers showed up with a gallon of turbo-powered homemade wine. I'm certain it was about 300 proof. After a few tumblers of aforementioned we all sort of lazed about and, needing a few additional quotes, I sat on the unsteady and uneager subject. Sat right on her chest, recorder in her face. Thanks, I said, I think NOW I've got my 2,000 words. What we journalists must endure.
Last night, speaking of the newspaper world, attended a sit-down-and-be-good traditional wedding reception for one of our staffers. To lively up ourselves we got trashed on weak cocktails, tossed about handfuls of those nightmarish jordan almonds, danced madly, got up on chairs (ok, I was the sole chair topper), and I entertained TABLE 3 with my famed "Everything's Perfect in Nancy's World Dance" - where I sing that phrase whilst arching my back and kick my feet back there, too. They were impressed. We danced more and left for one of our group fav hangouts where we had more drinks and, just before departing, I tied my silky hose up in the arbor over our heads. The End.

Eddie Money, who I shot in the filmic sense last night, is the sweatiest man in show business: in the space of four songs the tie-wearing performer soaked through his shirt and also the knot of his tie - sweat was accumulating at the top and soaking downwards. Another word on sweat: I'm still rather impressed with myself for being so diplomatic on Wednesday night when I hugged a rather large acquaintance at a benefit and it was like grabbing hold of a six foot damp sponge. He looked at my face waiting, I believe, for me to scream. I did not. A local singer songwriter femme of impressive talents duetted with Mr. $$$ on "Take Me Home Tonight" and I awaited this moment for what seemed an eternity. Finally It was happening. I was off to the side, not getting anything great, so I went onstage and squatted (not to pee) behind an amp for a moment when ironically-nicknamed Tiny came to take me away. As we walked down the ramp I asked Are you sure about this? Meaning = It's only Mr. $$$ and a local act and I am not in view of any audience member and I sure the hell don't look like I'm about to toss a bra or myself on Mr. $$$. The guitar tech squeezed me into another tight spot which was adequate. Special note to Mr. $$$: cool it on the anti-x-wife and divorce and rehab inter-song banter, it gets sort of old.
Thanks for your 80's-esque attention in this matter.
Your pal and apparant onstage nuisance, Nancy. XO

Satan sent me an email a few hours ago. Basically it said Hey, Nance, there's a special place here reserved for you. You'll be locked in a room for eternity with people eating popcorn and nacho chips with their mouths open, and you'll have to listen to cornball country western straight outta Nashville all the while. And you know why, missie. All those poor frantic editors whose lives you made so miserable with blatant disregard for their jobs, their deadlines, their sanities, and their happinesses.
One of my boy colleagues, when he phoned tonight, said How are you, my sister which took my ears by surprise: usually the boys refer to each other as brothers while I am uncategorizable. I thought.

Planning my next rock & roll pilgrimage, a drive to Cleveland to see some John Lennon remains at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Somehow I've managed to avoid that institution thus far and have heard from trusted others that it can be an annoying place. Hopefully it will be empty when I arrive. If only I had the star power of, say, a Madonna, or Christy Turlington, that when I entered a joint I'd have the authority (and staff on metaphorical board) to shut it down with a snap of my self-driven, manicured & well-moisturized fingers so I could peruse free from flotsam and jetsam. Sooner rock extravaganza is the all-day Warped Tour, a pleasure to photograph at as nobody onstage has a raging ego problem. Will be taking the nephew again - I've been taking him to WT since he hit the wizened age of six.

My Scare-o-Meter was off register when, while covering a food-related event in a park, I photographed an older couple who own a food-related downtown business. They asked Are you Nancy? I gave appropriate answer (ie: who the hell wants to know/are you writing a book/etc etc=kidding, sort of) and they said Oh our son talks about you all the time (yikes) and HE CALLS YOU HIS GIRLFRIEND (super YIKES). His mother said this with a little hand gesture subtly indicating Oh you crazy kids, god only knows what REALLY goes on in your lives. Thoughts not immediately - but gradually - turned to my concert security guard acquaintances who have, on occasion, offered their services as "private protection." I have one of the the business cards of a "private protection" purveyor and it features a prowling panther on it. Maybe I should hire him to rough-up my psycho "boyfriend." All in all a fab weekend of music photography, general mayhem, some sloppy celebrity guest bartending, and standing in a yurt for a wedding I shot on a beach in Canada on Saturday. It's not every day one gets to stand in a yurt in bare feet in Canada. I live a charmed life. All for now, Your Favored Nancy.

Today I was back out at the Camp, trying hard not to drool all over some of the boys and boyish counselors (absolutely only the OLDER sort to avoid CNN-style scandal, believe you me) and just intermingling best as I could to capture the campy moments. After that drove and freakin' drove and drove until I landed back in the city where I attended an art opening and a disco revival. And what a revival it was: man on a mic and mission who thought it wise to yell out about all things 70's. A video overhead showed some in the room in much more statuesque phases of life although their hairdo's were at embarassingly hilarious proportions way back whensville. And I saw gouchos. Don't pretend that you don't remember GOUCHOS. The yelling disco man whipped all of us into correct remembering, even though many of us were mere tadpoles during the disco era. There was a woman with 10 inch long fingernails - she's a phone sex operator for real. Disco duck/sucks.

If I had more than one plumber. I wouldn't have so many fears.
If the odor of poo wasn't repugnant. We'd probably be really sick.
Sorry, I have to go. Local wild girls are waiting to talk to me.
I love you, you are so big. Wayne.

This message is from "Wayne," a pseudonymed fan who loves me, who praises all things in special Nancy's World (it was a much longer message but some things are not made to be shared with any ol' tom dick or harry).
Spent the better part of today at a summer camp where I photographed the happy, sun burnt population of a camp out in the sticks. Parked my car on a steep hill and was most pleased to find it still there at day's end, and not in nearby lake.
Dig the kid world where conversation is free & easy & surreal in jumping from thing to subject thing. Before the adult filter of propriety gets strapped on.
Camp assistant director, TO Mike, drove me about in his golf cart and I had a sudden revelation about those who comandeer golf carts: theirs is a sadistic mission - to throw, like a bronco with a bur under its saddle, their rider, like a heap of old newspapers out of their unstructured, airbagless vehicle. We took turns, climbed hills, careened down hills, flowed under low cherry trees, sought out (apparently) ruts with such reckless abandon. Children's toes and arms and lives were mere vehicular inconveniences for sunglassed and hard-assed Mike.
One time a famous artist took me through a woods on his golf cart at a speed I thought impossible for that genre of vehicle. His golf cart had a high-pitched horn which he used liberally - he would send mid-woods pedestrians scattering as he approached them shouting 'look out!!!' as I held on, face the color of birch bark (like today at some points).

Due to the apparent dearth of writers on the planet I keep getting writing assignments from foolhardy, perhaps even crack-addled, editors. Don't they understand? I'm a photographer with heaps of deadlines. I'm a procrastinator with good intentions. Sure, you'll get the "story" and it'll fuckin' rock, whenever you get it. Why do these editorial types torture themselves with these so-called assignments? And don't they understand that I don't fall for their deadlinal ploys and threats?
And I also have that little lack of respect for authority problem.

Blink 182: pure testosterone rock in the form of adorable guys.
Blink 182 fans: raucous and tossing about inflatible sex dolls.
Blink 182 fans, femmes: see above, but add the adjective topless.

At one point at the beginning of the set the band, mid-song, shouted and pointed BOOBIES and every photographer turned to look - including me. One of my more boob-obsessed colleagues was not looking so I tapped him on the arm and said You're missing a photo op right behind you.

Bought their girl model t (you see, I am such a sucker for a good rock and roll moment) which is pink and adorable and was half the price of the Aerosmith shirt I recently acquired.

Read an email moments ago from Julian Muse (his Nancy-given name) who tells me that he just turned thirty. Day's meditation: does it make me old to have my biggest lifetime age-gap paramour-turned-pal at that auspicious age?

One of my ill-advised colleagues is about to get squeezed out of a whole lot of future concerts for being the too-squeaky wheel demanding legal WD-40, if you catch my drift. He's a known trafficker of photographic likenesses of rock starz on the internet system, too, and blabs about that to whoever will listen...despite our occasional signage of bitchy contractage.
Tonight is the Blink 182 gig out in the sticks and this is one of the summer shows I've actually been looking forward to as I've photographed them from the time they were little off-note pups. Today I have to corral five women into one photo frame which in the past proved nearly impossible - I had a cover shoot with them last year which they forgot. They were in bed. I waited. They ran about. I sipped coffee. Then they smiled.

Yesterday I photographed a motorcycle get-together and there were hawgs as far as the eye could see...and leather halter tops...and bike week t's stretched to invisibility over waxing bellies.
The day's strangest couple award goes to unnamables who I photographed for my column.
Her: blonde, petite, expensive sungoggles, Marilyn Monroe fetish - why their street custom bike features "Marilyn" on fenders and gas tank. However, there's an interesting twist to "Marilyn": her features have been melded with the petite blonde features of the wife.
Him: Overly-accessorized and he "cuts hair," so obviously gay yet married. He told me three times that he "cuts hair" as if this was a cue that he's a flamer biker. He was too tan, and art directed his wife who I had sprawled on the Marilyn bike.
Talked to some cigar-chomping bikers from outta town, met up with some people I know who I slargled hard lemonades with before my great escape from Muffler Madness.
Last night: great set by Simon and the Bar Sinisters who were playing three sets to a small yet appreciative gathering. Between sets he had some hard-luck, heart-wrenching tales about bar owners not wanting to pay the rock trio, his voice getting ruined by second-hand smoke, his other woes. Very sad, very sad racket is rock & roll.