Who dyes the eyebrows of aged rockstars? That was my lone thought as Marky Ramone took the stage in the overcrowded downtown club last night. He looked so detached from his drumming, which he did after muttering This goes out to my other Ramone brothers, naming them for our erudition. The Misfits, despite Marky's distracting dye job, rocked. Bodies flew through the air. A shirt was ripped from Jerry Only's sweaty torso. Black Flag songs (.5 of the band are Black Flag men) were grunted. Afterwards, some mediocre & neck-vein-popping local metal. I was greeted at the door by a bandmember who couldn't believe that I was there LAST night when HIS lame pop band performs there tonight. That is shameless self-promotion of the worst sort.

Lest you think the life of a photojournalist is all fun and games and non-stop deadlines here's a tiny tale of woe: today, mid-press conference early afternoon was caught in a rainstorm and was, as were other media types, soaked. So was my camera which is now recuperating nearby.
Melissa Etheridge never happened and all media were sent away from the venue that night. Two wimmin at the fan club table greeting concertgoers who had shelled out their $75 per ticket informed me that there were no media creds to be had - which I didn't believe. As someone wisely pointed out later that night an artist on tour and hawking a book should be welcoming all media with open arms. Oh well, I say to that.
A second Beatle has passed away. I imagine John Lennon was waiting for George at the big recording studio in the sky. He died of throat and lung cancer and I'm wondering if anyone will mention his heavy smoking and use this as an anti-tobacco platform.
Now off to several places concurrently and with documenting in mind.

I had a pretend chastisement today after I used a flash to capture the middling city's orchestra playing behind a group of signing & singing students at a school for the deaf. The leader of the musicians approached me and berated me for nearly throwing her off course during the classical rendition of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" or some other such carol. I pretended during the pretend chastisement by my orchestra pal that I was rubbing very real tears from my eyes.
I left and moved onwards to a cover shoot with five individuals - one about an hour late, diva style.
A phenom: people can be upset with one another but a photographer can become a conduit for aggravation and it's part of the gig some days. Now I am leaving to shoot that Kansan, Melissa Etheridge.

As an experiment of sorts on Sunday I went to a 300+ cat show in the exurbs. At one moment I actually saw cat hair floating through the air - a non-treat to one with the most Perfect cat allergies (Yours Truly). Rows and rows of cat cages decked out with colorful blankets and whimsical cat toys. Eight judging rings and I photographed the grand champ of the premiership, whatever the hell that means. It apparently meant any cat that is inactive, caged, oversized and way fluffy.
Tomorrow night I will (hopefully) be shooting Melissa Etheridge who I've photographed probably five times thus far in my lifetime. I think back in the day (her pre-makeup and pre-failed marriage days to Julie Cypher... and pre-faux-impregnation of Julie C. with David Crosby) her shows had more pizazz.
Back to deadlines du jour.
My plumber pal asked if I'd like to adopt his dog Henry, who was my visitor/pet for two weeks in September. I think the answer, given the epinw lifestyle, will have to be a sad and sorry No.

Time slowed to a non-rock & roll crawl as I watched two underfed Cutty (as in Sark) girls roll duct tape in their hands, stick them to the bottoms of tiny goldfishbowl-type candle holders and affix them to the tops of amps and other onstage electronica at the Cold show last night. Like other somewhat frenzied roadies they took their tasks very seriously, as if the awaiting crowd or sound men were watching and judging them. Rolling. Sticking. Affixing. Moving. And then the lighting of the little onstage candles. Cutty Girl #1, in cowboy hat, before the band lumbered to the stage, announced that if the crowd "drank a shitload" of Cutty then they could meet the band. I wondered if the band knew about this. Cutty Girl #1 chewed her gum and talked. One of my security buddies commented that collectively the Cutty Girls were "not the brightest lights in the harbor." Which harbor, I wondered. The band came out and it should be noted that they drank Molson Canadian and crappy bottled water - not a glass or bottle of Cutty Sark in sight.
Today I shot a fun and happy wedding. I was booked via a brotherly referral and correspondence but when I saw the bride I felt like I knew her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. A whole bunch of Mexicans were at the wedding and, as luck would have it, I mentioned to one of the groomsmen that I'd do a shot of tequila with him at the end of my gig. Word quickly circulated that this photog indulges in tequila and then I'm talking to the Mexicans and I mention that I dig Herradura but I say it like a Yankee and they say OHHHHH!!!!!! Herrrrrr------ahhhhh-doooooo-rrrrrrrrrrahhhhh.
Then, next thing I know, I'm doing shots of some primo Agave with the lot of them - and the bride. Did I mention that I told them and the bride I don't drink a drop when shooting a wedding? Well then we all did another Agave shot. Life is good.

In honour of my wondrous and childish ways I'm redubbing this hardcore American holiday ***SPANKSGIVING***: a day whereby each person expresses gratitude and happiness and fledgling consternation via either lighthearted or full-throttle SPANKS to posterior regions of those worthy and deserving.
No non-manual implements are to be employed on ***SPANKSGIVING***.
Although they're so handy on a day devoted to food & hearth, no spatulas or any domestic devices may be utilized. Hands. Butts. Spanks.
Spank you and happy epinw-sanctioned holiday.

A shockingly gullible epinw reader queried So you finished your story for the magazine, Perfect Nancy? Do not believe everything that you read. Especially when it comes to deadlines for magazines and you read that I'm flailing away.
I had a gig tonight documenting a party held in honor of last year's blizzard which had most of this middling city shut down and buried and looking for good times.
Non-ironically I was in this very spot, with this very same mid-article-write feeling washing over me, when the skies farted open with thunder, lightning and snow. I was here. I was fed a surprise chicken dinner and .5 bottle of wine by Nate who had surprised me that he was in this house, waiting for his upstairs and stranded beloved. I was deadline stranded - for the first time in my life happy to be stuck.

The most arousing, spiritually, music I own is playing as I work into what will be the most wee hours plus. The track is off of a compilation of contemporary Japanese music and if I knew how to link I'd send all ears to it.

A happenstance: I spoke with a blind blues guitar player a few nights ago. I asked if it bothered him. To be blind? he asked. Yes. He said sometimes and then said You know we all, no matter how rich or good or bad, talk about other people behind their backs. Twice I've been talking about someone and didn't know that they were standing next to the person I was talking to. We were standing at a bar and he pulled money out of his pocket to order a drink and asked me what sort of bill he was holding. I wanted to ask him if he knew that there was a super-special way that blind people fold their money to tell the 5's from the 20's and so on.

A few days after I was called to a last-minute gig at a blind school and had to gently lead my subjects around for a group photo. They were embarassed and/or worried that they would knock my lighting over and I told them not to be worried, that plenty of sighted people knock them over.
Maye the blind blues guitarist would ask Hey, Nancy, did you every hear that they sell little sandbags so's your lights don't tip over?

In Charlie Hunter's direction I arrived, unannounced. And it was swell.
Thinking This is an artist who is of the tapers-friendly genre, I wung it.
The last time I photographed Hunter - as part of the quartet - I was practically in his lap in a much smaller venue and was asked by his road manager to not use a flash - which I had thrown on for a few frames as the club has annoyingly uncooperative light and I'd rather get a wrist slapped and get something for publication than not.
Last night's venue is a cavernous mod stage where lighting is usually dim at best. The opener, Motet, was losing my huge interest until they did a number which was so deliciously drummed out into the primitive and then one which had two bandmates double drumming - very Japanesearific.
Charlie Hunter was fab and his happiness at the enthusiasm rushing towards him was visible. For Hunter I was tight tight on face and hands and instrument - not breathing. The light was that poor. Finally, flash time. All set up and waiting waiting anticipating and then (knowing only one flash looks like an ardent fan with a point & shoot to a backstage road manager and inhouse security) one frame explosion for insurance purposes.
One negative from the show: his concert shirts are lame.
Also, the unshaved rim along the jaw beard and sideburn connector borders on the country & western.

Much like a Perfect Nancy dream the rich voice of Neil Diamond floated out of the façade of a pizzeria as I walked by. There's nothing quite like the Zen of a song matching a mood in a public aural venue - a soundtrack moment. At lunch table today I asked what kind of movie our various lives would be.
It was decided that mine would be shot with a hand-held camera. I said it would probably be all jump cut and after a half hour or so people would either be diggin' it or saying Ohhh, I feel squeamy with all this non-stop.
Last night, whilst in the epicenter of a party, someone asked Do YOU still write, Nancy? To which I responded I write every day.
Someone said, No, she is the sort of person, Nancy, who thinks that writing is solely poetry and fiction, non-commercial expression.
I then said Yes, I do still write.
And why isn't it public? Because there's no public forum in this middling city whereby I would be happy to plan to stand atop a stage reading emoting effusing dissecting.
It would have to be the right sort of event, not a barfly-infested (yum) poetry event typical of here.
I told the questioner that I write pieces, print them out, scotch (yum) tape them to the wall and look at them periodically until a new one comes.
Off to yet more points beyond, including a sale of beloved John Lennon objets d'art. I have an inkling that tonight a JL piece will be hanging in my happy barely live/majority work space. Onwards.

What is that low moaning like pained ghostly presences I hear rushing at me from each direction? Oh, it's you, Nancy Nancy Nancy where are yoooooooooooo?

Well nope I did not perish back & forth from Plasticville = Las Vegas.
I did my thing there, wandering the strip and into a selection of wedding chapels with camera, tape recorder and beloved legal pad - and ideas abrew. I witnessed two weddings on Wednesday, one featuring Elvis in the role of officiator.
Here's an insider's fun fact: when a couple is married in Vegas they are first actually married by a judge in robes and then Elvis does a ministerial thing "for entertainment." Three songs is the norm and a certain Elvis of the Elvis Fleet gives the new bride a complimentary satin scarf atop his usual $100 fee. Anyone can have Elvis show up at their nuptials if they throw a little Ben Franklin luvv about.

At wedding #1 I was one of five people in the chapel - b&g, reverend so&so, photographer and Your Fav Nancy. At wedding #2 I was one of ten. At wedding #2 a girl who was shooting with a funsaver until the official photographer told her to stop, told me in a near whisper before the ceremony that she hoped to exchange vows with her honey, the best man, one day at Viva Las Vegas Chapel. But she wants a goth wedding. That means the reverend pops out of a coffin at the center of the altar to begin the proceedings. Dracula and Bride of Frankenstein-esque apparel are optional.

What is Vegas? A fantasy strip of plastic and scads of money tossed into the wind in the wrong direction: casinos are the gas-guzzling fuel of the city which rests in a prehistoric bowl of mountain and rock and long-gone critters. Casinos spend billions on the right faux looks, fabrics, dusky sky ceilings, training for employees to effuse whichever themed jubilance is necessary and not more than a smittance goes to anything an uppity Easterner might refer to as culture.

I did manage to sniff out the only bit of major culture in the joint, The Art of the Motorcycle, at Guggenheim Las Vegas - and I have the bitchin' $38 t-shirt to fuckin' prove it. What gorgeousness $20 million can be gleaned from the brain of Frank Gehry. Why is there not more of that? I wondered that a lot.

I took snappy photos of the backstage crap going on - with lovely Diana and with an unobtrusive Olympus.

Being me and loving the idea of tesing fate in a smirky way, I pumped some bills into the slots and second ass-hitting the front row seat doubled my ca$h. Did I stop? Silly question. It took about two hours of up and down before I was over and out.

So now my head is swilling with impressions and facts and near-facts and off-record back-stabbing accusations of wedding chapels and tomorrow is designated as Barf Out the Story Day. And I know it'll be grand. Like the Grand Canyon, another desert point of interest.

And let's move on to last night, which followed the morning of my return flight which led into immediate work, and Madeleine Albright's visit. MA = well-dressed and hates the photojournalist. Her assistant was a nuisance and at one point, as I kept gently nudging her out of my goddamned frame, she said You're KILLING ME with the camera. I had not a nanosecond to look in her way (as Albright was working through the crowd steadily and had but 300' of floor before she was leaving via back door) and kvetched out I'm just doing my job. Then she abated her press hatred. Only I was not press at that moment but a paid photog to document glad-handing of former Sec.of State and High Rolling university donors.

Albright was preceded by a big psych-out. At dinner with two pals my caller id on cell showed a Chicago-area number. It was not. It was Artist Kenneth from Amsterdam, who is an epinw FAN.
Albright was followed by a big freak-out. After attending a warbling and disconcerting Music Awards ceremony felt a need to be with My People so headed to the local gin mill where I sporadically find myself behind the bar as celeb guest bartender, which again transpired. Another night, another fresh bottle of Cuervo. Me and the bargirls did our best to evaporate that liquid refreshment and it was good. It was also a night of 3-D on-velvet paintings which I looked at with one of the bargirls.
Tequila + 3-D goggles + 3-D paintings - disconcerted feeling x82 jubilance = big yes.

Courage is oh-so many things but I don't think it involves arriving at an airport the day following a crash in one's hometown state.
Near-quote: You are a brave woman to travel tomorrow.
In a matter of small hours I embark for Vegas, armed with camera(s) and old-school tape recorder called a shoebox style (not those ridiculous voice-activated micro-recorders) and of course a yellow legal pad.
Hi, I'm Nancy and I'm here to document your bizarre behaviour. Thank you, have a nice day, carry on.
The story. The story. The story. 3K of my trundling-forward words.
At this time tomorrow I plan on finding myself alongside Karen stumbling along the strip under the influence of a sushi feast and god knows what else. Rock on. And love.

Last night. And what a night.
An all-star band in a dark and smoky lounge, an amalgamation of solid players culled from the top of the heap of the crop played. Their name is completely forgettable, Odiorne, and they are a former member of Mercury Rev et al. They're opening for Merc.Rev. in Spain and their drummer was nervous to fly. My Perfect advice? Whatever way you have to be sleepy on the plane - sleep deprivation beforehand, copious amounts of substance - do it, and sleep the flight away. The end. More Perfect advice dispensed from this region's most Perfect Nancy.
Any other question?
Today I'm meeting with a curator to discuss what of my brain will be on view for a superstar show upcoming. Art career? And who the hell in this mad whirlwind of a deep and wide chaos has time to even think about standing in front of her enlarger in the comfy darkroom, music softly playing and the bottle of scotch at the ready alongside the other helpful artful chemicals? Oh, how I yearn for a day when I can be there, making and doing and still (after all these centuries) marveling at the miracle of images floating up on sensitized paper in sloshing trays of chemistry.

Photographed Harry Connick, Jr. (HC, Sr. is a judge - not a hunk) last night at the landmark venue where staffers are always a landmark pain in the arse to do business with. The man with the headset welded to his head who never has a clue was there, in all his officiousness. He's the man who told lead boy colleague and I that he didn't think it was going to happen that we would be shooting BB King at his engagement there, even after explanations of faxes sent and agreements signed. So then I went to the stage door and found the tour manager who I had talked to earlier and who told Mr. Headset to back off. So Harry comes onstage and the women are a-titter. He did look pretty hot save for the embarassing bed head he had. The head of security told me and a boy colleague that when the crooner played Syracuse forty "drunk as skunks" women turned up and called for him outside of his tour bus after his show. Reportedly he preferred his tour bus to spending the night in a luxe suite at a nearby hotel and that meant that security had to keep a watchful eye on the bus all night - and the drunks as skunks. The opener, whose name (thank god) escapes me, was an odd choice - a man who wanted to show off that he could play solo guitar in just about any style. I leaned over to boy colleague and said I think the real opener stiffed Mr. Connick, Jr. and he sent someone over to the Holiday Inn lounge and grabbed this guy. Then onwards to a punk rock extravaganza where me and one pal decided to get some good old fashioned stage diving going but we were the only two - I jumped and he'd catch me. He'd jump and I'd sort of catch all 6'2" of him.

Note to self:
When you are photographing that tough-looking broad named Madeline Albright on the 15th REMEMBER YOU NINCOMPOOP TO HAVE A FEW FRAMES made WITH HER for your collection on the wall of yourself and the likenesses of famed others. Thanks, in advance, for your attention in this matter.

An interaction today (thus far) which was notable:
Me walking down street and ahead is a woman who had a piece of hemp tied around her waist, over her thickly-knit and dirty sweater. At her feet was a straggly mutt who resembled Toto a bit. As I approached the dog kept looking over his left shoulder and we connected and I asked if I could pet the dog before I lost my hand in a muttish freak-out. Woman tells me that the dog is a "pound dog" and is of indeterminate age. The dog's name is Girlfriend. Are you from around here? she asks. Nope, I say, I'm from Buffalo. Oh, Ani Country, the woman says, confirming my impression that she's a lesbian. I tell her that I know the little folk singer and that I have photos of her from the dark ages/pre-Spin mag era, etc. I did not share info that I painted houses with Ani, or that I have a photo of us dancing together cheek-to-cheek. The woman listened to my quick, fun facts and said Oh, I'm sure. In that tone that bespeaks of a distance - namely your assumed distance from reality or the truth. So now, there is woman telling her pals about a crazy woman dressed in black who bent down to pet her dog who thinks that she is a friendly acquaintance of thee Ani. Ani.

One beautiful thing I saw today, no two:
Art gallery visit in a strange new place and 1. Amid a show of spiritually-inspired images a Joel-Peter Witkin print, a photo gravure, of a corpse resembling J.C. and so it's a post-crucifixion image - replete with dead dog with wings and his scratchings; 2. and a 19th-century Japanese screen. Two six-panel paintings of crows in trees. Left side shows five crows in a willow tree. There is white space, three panels, between the five and a lone crow in another tree. The crows were made with brush strokes, no lines made, and they show such energy.

Tattoo concept: (derived from archetypal office humor fliers)
"You want it when?"
Image is a cartoon person bent over in uproarious laughter amid stacks of work.
This tattoo will be inked onto my upper left arm. No, on my left forearm. No, on my neck, the front. That way everyone will see it better. And I'll have the nose of the cartoon person filled in with a crimson to show that the laughter is real.
Two bad things:
1. Neil Diamond is not coming to this middling city on his new tour.
2. Luna has a song called IHOP so I went to the new IHOP in town and nearly barft.

I am filled today with such utter regret.
And regret is the pale flat-chested first cousin of lust.
I bumped up against, was hired to photograph and interacted with the large Irishman they call(ed) Bush's DRUG CZAR and didn't get a portrait made of me alongside him.
Whatever was I thinking?
One super thing he revealed during speech: he calls his wife CZARLING.
So intent on my gig I forgot me, ME.
No ME and William Bennett on this studio wall and I'm now going to kick myself in the arse all about the city block upon which I live.
Live and learn.
Live and shoot.
Live and plunge.
Live and exploit.
Live and ironicize.
Live and let live.
Live and let go.

Other special thoughts from this past weekend:
1. Derek Trucks, blues guitar prodigy speeding towards adulthood, doesn't sing and I think that's great. There can only be one Jonny Lang.
2. Last time I mentioned Johnny Depp in epinw I spelt his name as Lang does.
3. Does anyone but me see that Bob Dylan is morphing into a bat? The new RS cover is still giving me nightmares and I resent it.
4. Las Vegas will enjoy my presence soon so I can make up a story about people who do it (get married) there. Me + Las Vegas + notebook + tape recorder + a little scotch = who the hell knows!!!
5. Radiohead has now surpassed REM on my list of perfects.

go to
www.pce.net/pubaccss/sterlace.html
for fun.

Of course you will have the piece on the 17th I said in my best I-am-so-utterly-indignant voice.
The suburban editor reiterated repeatedly, unnecessarily, that in no way would the shiny happy magazine pay for my travel to & fro.
I repeatedly, and necessarily, stated that the demi-reason for the voyage was to visit Vegas friends - and to investigate the wedding chapel thing.
And I feel it my duty to throw myself yet again on an airplane as a collective gesture of defiance and bargain connoisseurship.
And to show that all the ominous mind-fuck statements (last being that the big T and the big Q know the cracks in the Western economic systems as well as they know the lines in their own hands - wow, good imagery!, A-) issued forth from the cave in Afghanistan leave this hellion journalist nonplussed.
Come Hell, come high waters, come Allah-exploited chaos, the shiny happy editor will have her piece on Allah knows what on the (what was that again?) 17th.

Saw a bit of Fear & Loathing with mmmmmmmmslurp Jonny Depp last night in a drum & bass-infused nightspot, sound off. Much of it takes place in Vegas. It got me to thinking that perhaps in only a short while I will be writing my shiny happy magazine piece on weddings à la Hunter S. Thompson... in Vegas. Maybe not so many mind-altering substances of the illegal genre, however.
Mag piece due in virtually minutes.
Panic?
Me panic?
I feast on adrenaline like Halloween vampires feast on any type blood under full moons. Tonight is a full moon and adrenaline, caffeine, tides, blood are teeming at the gates of Hell.
Love and chocolate kisses from your abso-freakin-lutely fav Nancy, plotting a self-jettisoning into Vegas wedding chapel madness. It's one of those moments where I know. I know.