Last night Thurston Moore (of Sonic Youth fame, lest you are not acquainted) mesmerized. A drunk comrade, front row, off to the side, caught me as I was passing and was nearly shouting I can play guitar betther than that. Thurston is not only beautiful with the most kissalicious lips, but his solo guitar work was gorgeous pared-down SY-style resonance. His writing was okay, mostly youthful ramblings about the burgeoning and innocent days of Patti Smith-era punk rock. In his early writing he used the phrase raunch & roll - a lot. The readers of writing preceding Thurston were weak and everyone who hit the stage discussed 9-11 and tragedy.
Off now to draw grain elevators for an art benefit so I'm dusting off my pencils.

Voyaged to another land yesterday for a day off of sorts with a friend. Realized I hadn't called my parents to wish them a happy (?) new year of marriage together and phoned them via cell from the car. As I was leaving a typical Nancyesque message Thanks for both being born, for having me, for meeting each other and marrying each other, and then, having me, the most wondrous product of your marriage, my friend's face was priceless as he glanced at me and I burst out laughing. When I returned home way late I had a message from my father What was so funny? There's another phonecall to make - not your marriage pops. . .
So no Kim Gordon tonight, only Thurston et al, and a few poets. Kim Gordon, I learned moments ago, is still in the NYC area as their daughter Coco is still freaking from 9-11. I am thinking now of one of my most fav rockstar images ever - Thurston Moore in front of me, caught in such a moment of rapture with his guitar, head and face gone in sound, it's very very sexy and hangs somewhat prominently on a nearby wall.
I want to find an extra copy and give it to him.
Off to a full late afternoon and night of freelancing, shooting, meeting, and driving driving driving into the wee hours of lively Nancy activity.

Post of shoulds. Not coulds. And definitely not woulds.

Should I admit that I'm now listening to a sonic cure, Deep Forest, from a past moment now frozen in faroff and embellished perfection.
Should I be astonished that the nervous lady at Victoria's Secret referred to my rack as IT when I inquired if she could glance at them and tell me their collective size.
Should I think it's disgusting that I lick the Oban bottle when I'm pouring myself a creativity enhancer and some drips down the side.
Should I refuse to give the two week visitor Henry the Dog back to his errant owner.
Should I sharpie the deadline application for the photo grant on my forehead, which now has a huge bump on it from a workout mishap.
Should I get back to work.
I shoulder deadline responsibility in this perfect world of mine.

One never knows when one will encounter a closeted hipster, now does one?
Had a freelance dropoff today out in the farout suburbs at a private catholically-infused college. My next stop needed to be a post orifice and, not knowing this suburb very well, rolled down my passenger-side window to ask an ultra-average middle-aged guy in the bland american car how the hell to get there, wherever it might be. He rolls down his window, is immediately smirky and ridiculous, and suddenly speaks as if he's a computer searching the internet for information. I'm processing, one moment please, he actually said. OK, got it...make a left then a right, etc. etc. (he was wrong, but after some vulture-style circles, found the damned place). As I'm thanking him he holds up his thumb, Fonzi style, and shouts ROCK ON. I am still amazed.
BSB (Backstreet Boyz/Bootie-Shakin' Boys/Butt Sucking Boobs) turned down my request to photograph them for my column. Oh well, no ringing ears later tonight from a sell-out teenaged crowd screaming their growing lungs out.

Still have the borrowed/dropped-off dog, Henry, and tomorrow is the day that his owner picks him up after nearly two weeks at Auntie Nancy's Spa for Pets. Brita pitcher water, Iams, healthy biscuits, grooming, a flowery yard in which to romp, rock & roll education - it's every canine's dream.
Last dusk's rah-rah-rah Peace is Over candlelight vigil was an odd contrast of iconography. The three fates in the form of habited nuns sat dourly on lawn chairs front & center in the off-limits (except to media, special guests, the handicapped... and the fates) section. Each held a flag, and a candle.
One of my boy colleagues said to me You know you're up for something interesting when even the nuns are out for blood.
At the end of the programme I felt suddenly like I had been jettisoned onto ground zero of a 1950's war-era movie replete with the patriotic chanting, bunting, plump babies, etc. There was one rotten apple which I noted, a drunk kilt-clad veteran who was groaning and shouting hoarsley either THANK YOU or GOD BLESS AMERICA. And we all know there's no way in hell he could shout GOD BLESS MY UNDERWEAR as men in kilts like to swing free & easy.
Walking back towards the vehicle with a small entourage of two, the throng rediscovered a downtown monument to veterans and there left multi-scented candles at the base of it and around its grass triangle, a sight which reminded me of the John Lennon 20th anniversary death vigil which I attended in Strawberry Fields.
All in all, great pictures. Especially the moment when I spotted a stepladder alongside the large stage, climbed up and shot from the side of the platform, my invisibility costume rendering me unseen by politicians, the lady signing, and the onstage troops. HOORAY FOR BEING INVISIBLE.

Mad as a man falling in yoga's tree pose upside down on a sunny day.

Drove out to the exurbs Friday night for a concert at the area's most difficult venue where photographers are subject to astronomical obstacles in the act of making pictures. And, as I am wont to say, when life gives you photo-related lemons do your damnedest and make lemonade. Specifically: Saliva and Godsmack at Darien Lake. Lighting minimal. Pyros terrifying. Sight lines difficult. Me and boy colleagues grasped at arduous moments and fading possibilities and I left growling.
But the night's most visually arresting snippets were guys and boys and men and jocks in starspangled jackets à la Evel Knievel and Old Navy shirts and bandannas on heads, waving old glory and hootin' & hollerin' underneath a suspended flag mid-venue/amphitheatre the size of which is only seen in front of that chain diner which discriminates against minorities, has lost court cases, and which serves food never resembling that represented in menu photos. So these guys were chanting USA USA USA !!!!!!! over and over and their fists pumped the air and if they had flags those were in their fists. These flag wavers were drunk, furious, and about to rock the fuck out. Before Godsmack's fairly amazing set a local dj came out, referred to 9-11, said Godsmack is making me do this and then, over the p.a., came the world's scratchiest rendition of the national anthem, so scratchy at first I couldn't tell what it was.
Later in the night, inner-city rambling, a few party stops, more of that rock & roll and party and art opening business on Saturday, and a yet more more more today. Off to another art function before a dinner gathering and then a candlelight vigil afore City Hall, already cardoned off in anticipation of thousands upon thousands.
Radiohead plays on in the background, a lush wall.
Pink Floyd lyrics sprung forward as I drove to a freelance gig this sunny day:
(stop here if you don't dig Pink Floyd, can't groove on their 70's and early 80's pomes, and never come back to epinw, fercrissakes)
So you think you can tell heaven from hell, blue skies from pain. Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail? A smile from a veil? Do you think you can tell?
Onwards to images in the making, to be made, which must be made, by me, the handmaiden of imagery - your beloved, fav blogging Nancy.

Finally heard from my trader friend. She left me a message last night, her voice not sounding at all like usual. Elba hoped that she never had to go through that again... this lifetime. She was in the World Trade Center, working for Smith Barney, when it was bombed in 1993 and I spoke with her while she was on the rooftop before being led down the stairwell by flashlight by the Red Cross. She's been through, like thousands of others, two bombings. I wonder how many people will be moving out of Manhattan after the dust settles. My friend Dorota was attempting to leave the city to spend time away from the flying debris in her neighborhood. And she's concerned about airborne asbestos. Had dinner last night with three friends and one amongst us had such an incredible America-bashing take on things it shocked (and saddened) me, at one point he sneeringly asked if I am a flag-waver. He soaks in history and fancies himself a tried & tru intellect but is ignorant and outdated. Normally I excuse his eccentricities but will be taking a break from his company.
I bet most of the rock extravaganzas inked into my book will be not happening this weekend. Invited to a soirée this evening and would enjoy not talking about the international tragedy for one night. I've been burning a candle in my house for all the dead. And yes, I am a flag waver.
And so, too, is my friend Kenneth in Amsterdam. Be strong.

Because of the World Trade Center bombing I am, for the first time in my life, not thinking about my perilous fear of needles and blood and am giving blood this afternoon. Terror would be a good word to describe my thinking of the Red Cross visit but it seems like a grand thing to do being cross-state and helpless to do much else to help post-tragically. I'm looking at this foray as a personal challenge Oh, you think you're so tough Nancy, strap yourself in and let those nice people take some nice juicy (wooziness starts now) B+.
Be positive and spill loose your B+.
Canceled excursion to Toronto today as reportedly the traffic to cross is hours long. Aftermath of tragedy, most of the world in a numbed state. And some celebrating in sunny streets as if it were a holiday.
Is this karma? Why do wars involve pedestrians? Will the site of the WTC become a field of daisies? Will everyone in the US know someone or know someone who knew someone who died yesterday?
Will I faint at the Red Cross. Will I keep you posted?
You bet.

ps: went to the red cross and started crying when I saw all their flags fluttering in the breeze and a dozen volunteers collecting money on the avenue and handing out flyers to a line of cars which I was in. The man who handed me the flyer said they were so inundated with blood donors that I should return at another time. Then someone told me that they only want O now and non-first-timers. Off the hook/needle I suppose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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