Squatting and blogging, blogging and squatting.
Waiting on printing master to assist me with the inking of silk and placing of template. Last time, I'm hoping, that I require his assistance and from then on I'll be independently printing up a storm, a squeegee in each hand, making art like the wind.
Yesterday's Polaroid booth was a flop as all concession tents were about half a mile from the stage action and the geniuses that set up the event had all stages in a line on one end of the large park. No matter, I had to hop off to another event for an hour or so, returned, asked the twinnies how it had gone, they said lamely so we broke it down, I hijacked a golfcart of drunk boys who then drove me and my large plastic crate of items to my car, nearly creaming about a hundred dazed festival attendees in the process. They were about to drop and dash when I said Hey wait, I want a ride back. So back we drove to the venue/park, again making wild turns and scaring youngsters en route.

Shot my pet band, Last Conservative, who played first - for paper and for cash money. They absolutely fucking rocked.
I got that butterfly feeling that they'll make it and my butterflies are never wrong.
Afterwards they went to the autograph tent and I finished Mike's smoke as I grabbed Roger's smoke out of his mouth as he was signing away for young thrilled girlies.
It's bad for your image I stated, most big sister-like.
I moved on.
Later I had lunch with the band and Roger told me that he got to sign his first boob. Congratulations, I said, Now it's official - you're a rock star.
He described how the girl asked Can you sign my boob and flopped it out.
It was big, he said.
The other guys said it was the first one he'd ever touched.
Later in the day Lead Boy Colleague and I were waiting for The Tea Party to get going before we ran off to shoot Peter Frampton (ahhhh, early rock memories) about two miles away at a free downtown concert.
As we stood next to the stage a security clone shouted into my ear Hey, there's a girl without a top. He then radioed the other security clones to dispatch them for a good gander.
We three stood and watched her toplessness float above the hands as the hands worked to remove her jeans. They nearly did before she was dumped in the midst of the hands attached to a whole messa testosterone.
Lead Boy Colleague had galloped toward this action.
The security man said Well, they'll help her up now, pick her up just like a 6-pack, motioning his fingers down like they'd go into a bowling ball.
'Tis better to be one of the boys than to be a girlie-girl at all-day gritty music fests.
Onwards.
My love.

Forget WWJD.
WWPBT?
As in What Was Pat Benatar Thinking?
Had to shoot her last night for a university gig and out she trounces in cheezy auburn extensions, a bandanna on her head, bulky plastic hip hop boy pants and - get this - platform sneakers.
I nearly screamed but then I recalled that I never liked her or her music so I let her look completely odd, shot a quick 40 or so frames and split.
Her tshirts now have her and her hubby's name on them... like they're this equally hot pair of stars like Siefried and Roy or whomever those scary, Dr. Smith-looking guys are with the white tigers in Vegas.
And why do all men of a certain age who wear mascara come out looking like Dr. Smith of Lost in Space?
Another memory of last night.
Went to shoot Buckwheat Zydeco and in front of the stage was an errant blonde, also of a certain age, in 80s-era little layered dress and biking shorts underneath. She was out solo and was dancing for the band. I watched in great amusement as the guys watched each time she flipped her dress up and sent meaningful glances her way when they performed a song basically entitled 'She's My Little Hot Pepper.'
Two large drunk guys behind me decided to love this song and quickly caught on to the song's repeating of the key phrase so they grasped the two words - hot and pepper - and shouted that at appropriate intervals.
Tomorrow, Edgefest 9.
And amongst my photographic duties and such I'm running a Polaroid vending tent like ones I've previously fashioned with this one being more rock-related. I've got my 6' twin models running the show. I'm hoping that they'll know how to handle drunks that traipse in. Crowd control is key.
All for now.
Onwards.

This is when one knows that one has perhaps spent entirely too much time in front of a computer -or- that technology, like it or not has infiltrated one's fine mind.
It's late, you've worked an 18 hour day but managed to meet pals out for salads at some point to create much-needed levity. So after calling it a day's wrap at about 3AM you watch MSNBC or whatever the hell it's called and think Hey this is much better than CNN and think (pay attention, here comes the computer-infiltration part)
Oh, I'll just BOOKMARK this station so I know where to find it.
As in bookmarking an item online on your mac, dig?

Dorota, Supersonic Gal Pal, read yesterday's post and emailed that she wished that she could expense a table for the honorific lunch to her display company in NYC.
Public note to Dorota: reserve 11/23 as the Experience Music Project gig is fersher happening in Seattle, The Land Where Starbucks Began.

Off to printing studio, encore.
TMBG cancelled, due to the monsoon that spread through the Middling City.
Tonight it's Pat Benatar for the university, a pep rally.
Pep, my secret middle name.
Love.

They Might Be Giants play a free Middling City gig outdoors and it's raining. Peggy from Buffalo Place hangs a rosary out in the bushes and every Thursday it's rainy but then the Almighty Gods of Rock & Roll see that rosary and haul off the rain so the throngs can drink their beers in a dry state and the performers onstage don't get electrocuted.
I shot TMBG at Hallwalls when I was a baby intern there for a whole year, either in '84 or '85, with a borrowed camera, a song in my heart, a dollar in my pocket and a dream.
Oh, the newspaper publisher (Mr. X) where I work says he won't be buying a business-financed table for the luncheon that's honoring me as a 40 Under 40 on 11/7 as someone who has contributed to the community via the column I've been printing in aforementioned for 13 years - amongst other things.
Other honorees will have companies that have bought tables.
He said I can't afford a table... maybe me and (Ms. X) will go to the lunch... how much is it?
Yikes-a-roni!
This is a guy I call somewhat of a pal, whose pre-baby's shower I hostessed at my home and spent a fast $400 on, who just bought a Victorian home and is having beaucoup expensive improvements done to it as I write this.
Well, some things never do change.
Onwards.
Onwards to Rigidized Metals to pick up my stainless steel plates, to university's printing studio, They Might Be Giants and many points beyond.

Love.

According to the Ansel Adams calendar the full moon happens later this week but today right now feels very loonie.
Called my beloved former dentist's "replacement" and his bitchy secretary told me that Chester died and that I couldn't get my teeth cleaned for six months... then I could arrange to have fillings six months after that.
I processed this and just about screamed That's completely ridiculous (and my favorite word when dealing with the world's nincompoops) AND UNACCEPTABLE. And a slap in the face to Chester who dug this guy and handed him his clients.

Chester Memories:
1. the faux lemon tree in the waiting room
2. the mod lemon yellow vinyl setees in the waiting room
3. his rambling stories (my mentor!), that would have him leaning back against the counter, pulling his mask off of his face so you could understand the rambling better
4. the rubber animals and fake ring after-visit prizes

When I finally get to speak to my attorney I have this giant question:
Is it customary to receive letters (not one but two) stating that I must appear before a doctor chosen by the defendant's insurance company with ALL of my accident-related medical records at a designated time and date as if I were a small child or someone trying to rip somebody off rather than a person coping with the aftereffects of nearly getting cremed by a drunk driving an 80s sedan at top speeds?
Please, someone, pass the Oban and tell the moon to behave.
Love.
ps: Andrew WK, if you're reading this, I think that you might be dreamier than Johnny.

Arms pumped out of a small American car on the expressway as I headed back to the Middling City from shooting white-trasherific Allman Bros.
I (as were the driver & passengers of the small American car) was listening to the ye olde classic rock station with BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY in full throttle. Voices were high as were pumping fists. They had spotted my singing and acknowledged the joint rock moment with aforementioned out-window gesture.
At Allman Bros. I had a tiny window of op to shoot the remaining A.Bro. at organ/keyboards and, thanks to a kindly video guy atop a platform, captured the shaggy rock star. Afterwards me and Boy Colleague Mark drank a few large-scale draft Buds and watched the staggering, tattooed masses until it was near concert end and it was time to beat everybody out onto the roadways.
Back into town headed into a bar reviewing assignment, a joint called Classic Roxx, in the suburbs and reviewed whilst simultaneously enjoying a cocktail and, apparently, the final 10 minutes of the evilness of The Bachelor on t.v. where an ugly man selected one of two finalists to be his maybe future lucky lady. The girl bartender was angry because she had endured ten whole weeks of this ridiculousness for this most, in her words, unsatisfying ending.
Onwards to live music shooting with girlie pals in tow, some celebrity guest bartending, some celbrity guest price fabricating, some celebrity guest schmoozing and shot sipping.
One final weekend thought: the one-armed bartender at another suburban bar that I AOL'd has completely captured my roving imagination. My two companions hadn't noted his missing arm. When we were leaving and I said Wow, did you watch how he changed the bottle pourer with one hand they were perplexed. How do you miss a missing arm? How do you lose a missing arm? His absence throws him off balance and therefore, I duly noted, he pours drinks slightly stronger to compensate.
Love.

Warped Tour highlight was Andrew WK's set, of course.
Who doesn't or can't love a man who hasn't done laundry in maybe a year and is wearing an ensemble (white t-shirt and light jeans) to prove so?
I followed my 6th or so sense and meandered over to a lesser stage after his set and noted his guitar player, James (in embarassingly tiny shorts of near-Speedo proportions) shooting away. Then onto the stage bolts thee Andrew WK to play a final song with The Casualties.
At the end of the song I said to James Give me your email address and I'll send you a couple of jpegs.
His response?
OK, then we can be friends!!!
These guys are a cross between Barney and rock & roll high times.
Speaking of jpegs, shot a university prof yesterday and those jpegs within a few hours were e-catapulted over to Business Week Online and India Abroad which supposedly has the largest circulation of any pub in the universe.
Technology rules.
Love.

Look, I never thought for one micro-moment that it's easy to be my sister, sister to the most Perfect Nancy... ME. But really. I called her today at her office job to query OK, so the kid's been tortured enough, can my nephew come to Warped Tour with me today? Forget this goofball punishment for some bad grade, this is a fucking family tradition, baby!!! (not in such language, but smooth-like)
And the answer, most mom-like, no, prison warden-like was:
And what about Katharine (his 5 year old sister), what about her? And we mean business with this punishment for he's to learn that school... (blah, blah, blah)
I hung up.
I thought about kidnapping the kid. But I'm off to Warped Tour now, nephew-less.
Love.

The mud, the mayhem and the all-day music that is Warped Tour is tomorrow. The day that ends with a plethora of images and high times as well as fine dust over all of my camera equipment. The park, LaSalle, has an off-lake breeze and during the day all the dirt molecules float into the air and throw themselves into eyes, pores and electronic equipment.
Still hoarse from moments ago when I called my dad/pops/father to sing at the top of my strong lungs and intersperse the song with some wailing harmonic riffs for the occasion of his birthday. Please pass the lozenges.
Wondering if the Bosstones feel like ancient farts for still doing WT but they do seem to be its anchor. So refreshingly non-flavor du jour.
Ordered my steel (not aluminum) for my art project and had a panic when the guy helping with the order started going nuts with numbers and lots of zeroes. All is coming to $100 and I'll have custom-cut pieces of stainless steel with pre-drilled holes to my specs.
Then it's onto, later this week, the printing studio where I'll be attempting to recall all I gleaned in my 5 or so hours with printing master Jeff.
Art is so not easy to schedule.
Art is so easy to make one feel happy and balanced.
Art is so shiny when made on steel plates.
Art is so beautiful when it sells off the walls.
Art rules.
Art rocks.
Rock stars are art.
Love is art.
Art.
Love.

Yesterday's many tiny journeys included a stop at Middling City's 2nd annual Karibana Festival with a parade, allegedly, down one Delaware Avenue. Went with Lead Boy Colleague at appointed midday and at about 130 a micro-parade went creaking by featuring a non-drilling drill team, a convertible from which an elderly lady waved and a bunch of cops leading the way and then a fire truck signalled that all was micro-over. We were told that Karibana Parade pt. II was to take place at 2 so we booked over to another event, returned at 2 and then at about 4 (mind you all sorts of impromptu meetings and media gatherings are taking place during this time as well as a hearty ingestion of caffeine) IT happened with loads of skyhigh streamers, half-nekkid people and razzly-dazzliness.
Towards the end of the night stood backstage with most of the Boy Colleagues at HSBC Arena awaiting the Goo Goo Dolls late appearance and was surprised that we were all sent packing to the sound board to shoot from that mega-distance. Last time I shot them was from the stage and anywhere during their surprise engagement at Albright-Knox Art Gallery. Now this. This rivalled Rod Stewart Aging Rockstar Syndrome as we were all practically outside the fucking venue. But long lenses, slight riser, holding of breath and patience prevailed and some images happened.
Still haunted by the image, mid-wedding shoot, of a preteened guest of the B&G dancing solo on the dance floor. She, clearly Britneyed beyond belief, was doing one of those choreographed pop dance routines she had seen on cable and didn't realize that solo and on the dance floor of a wedding banquet hall she looked like a demented stripper. I watched as an older, non-hip and obviously cable-less couple watched in rising horror and embarassment. In her preteened mind, I imagine, she was in belly-baring spandex and surrounded by a plethora of buff young things. She was not.
It was a beautiful moment.
You are all my beautiful moments.
My love.
My camera-centric love.

A new day. Is it time for coffee yet?
Back in Middling City where I do and must hit the ground running.
The M.C. can learn a lot from Portland, ME. For a small city, with a generous heaping of travelers spending wads of cash, there is an impressive amount of restaurants - most better than here and in an unpretentious way. There is a greater sense of design and artfulness in Portland. This I always attributed to artists who have remained in the community and that the city embraced creative types rather than trying to squeeze them out of the scene via attitude and fire codes.
Portland has better restaurant selections (more sushi joints, more vegetarian and healthy places to eat), a busier downtown art film house, small businesses selling clothing and shoes (basically an impossibility in most of Buffalo) and an accessible waterfront.
Minus, and this is a giant one: bars close at 1AM.
When I worked at the non-profit summer camp for 10 years (and roared out of camp with my NYC pals) this took a whole lot of getting accustomed to. You want to say Hey, look, I'm from Buffalo and I'm a grownup and I will NOT be leaving at 1AM.
Other Portland Maine minus: too many pairs of comfy sandals. Sure, the cobblestones rival the ankle pain-causing ones of Rome, but what about fashion?
Love.

Attempting to blog from a Mac I spotted in the "lobby" of my former hotel in Portland, Maine (where I'm confronting ghosts of my Maine self from a decade or so ago), I was tossed off by an insistent girl.
But nobody is using this iMac, I stated, and I'll just be a sec...
Off I was tossed.
As I'm allegedly on vacation, you know, unwinding as the masses do (a concept completely foreign to Yours Truly), I didn't stand up and karate chop her.
Why did I unbook, unlatch, from the so-called *** hotel where I was attempting to blog? How about dead flowers in the lobby. How about unkempt staffers? How about armoire in the room with the doors missing! Three STRIKES and goodbye. While meandering about the Old Port streets in search of high times and Oban I spotted a true hotel, a brand new **** joint where I will be, the rest of this sojourn, resting my unweary head and enjoying the subtle tinkling of their Zen-like garden.
Caveat: when in Portland as in Maine do not wander into Eastland Park Hotel. It totally sucks.
Portland Harbor Hotel rocks, that's where you should rockstar stay.
I'm now on a rented Kinko's computer, typing fast as the meter is ticking.
Off for more salty good times.
Love.

Two stories.

1
The departed Beatles and I were hanging about and they were both moody. I was surprised by their sudden needs to cry and be sad. I'm not sure if the garden was celestial or Earthly but suddenly I glance over and John is raking a very lush garden and as I'm thinking Holy Shit, why is John Lennon doing garden work, he throws down the rake and is despondent as George comes up and says Hey, remember that old blues song we sang a long time ago, about the tree buried six feet under the ground?
At that point they walk away, arms about shoulders singing the song.

2
The man whose weiner I now know too much about was sitting in front of a, for lack of more suddenly polite and available term, café, with his date and was complaining about his dinner, Too fishy, he said. What type of fish was it, I queried. Haddock was the answer and I commented that haddock should not be fishy and did he feel well? He and his date said, in unison, that he had just vomited on the sidewalk and pointed at it about ten feet away. I was shocked that I didn't vomit myself at the sight of the fresh puke as I'm a complete lightweight at the sight of bodily fluids - snot, earwax, puke, piss, shit, blood, especially blood, on the scene and your Fav Nancy is a puddle of... all of the above and bones and such.
So as we're talking and I'm facing them - and the puke - a woman walks down the street with a puppy on a leash. As she's busy window shopping the puppy is busy eating up the puke. She notices this, screams, and yanks the puppy away. Weiner Boy and the date don't notice this and when she's out of earshot I replay the scene most vividly. Of course.
Onwards.

Finished mere moments ago shooting a wedding for a boy colleague who got all traditional and such with the big T reigning supreme.
Last night was a flurry of art opening activity which included Albright-Knox's WNY Show, a solid crowd and nothing but cookies (cookies!) for snaxx... yikes.
Shot a bunch of the artists individually and talked to my printing guru about assisting me with coating my screens for the big printing days to come.
Last night, amid the flowing of scotch, someone pointed to a better-known writer type and said... I have photos of him dancing naked. More details followed like that this writer type has red pubic hair and then a full description of the involved, exposed you-know-what. Yet another assembly of fun facts to clog my Oban-soaked mind.
Speaking of such...
don't the people of the sponsoring newspaper know all this? Don't they read epinw? Well, guess snot as I've been named to the 40 Under 40 annual list of overachievers. I was nominated and Annie called to tell me that I'm on the list yesterday AM. A bunch of people congratulated me last night and this AM I panicked that a speech might be involved so I quickly lined up three people* I would have to thank, etc. and then - RELIEF - found out that there's no speechmaking involved only a slide show and fun facts about Your Fav Nancy and the others.
Getting my pop music fix before heading out this afternoon to document the sunny, soon-to-be-sunstroked, culturally-enjoying masses.
Love.


* Tony Bannon, director of Eastman House, Charles Rand-Penney, art collector, and Jamie Moses, publisher of ARTVOICE. Tony + Charlie = ardent supporters of my society page-style column What Has Happened for the past 13 years and helping me see how it fits into Middling City's social/historical context. Jamie = space giver to voice.

This post will read much like the one on July 5th.
Well, it's August 1st and nobody lost any fingers, hair, sanity, etc. at the happening yesterday-at the making of Conflagration by Team A.
Arrived at designated shooting spot @ 5PM with Laura (after AOL deadline, after prop shopping and loading table, chairs, etc. into car), who I asked to come with as she's a great frazzlement antidote.
So we arrive out in the country to find Josh (1/3 of TEAM A) still sanding, compiling, listening to James, cranky and I felt a sweat of panic. A short walk into the middle of an overgrown field, like wading into a body of water, was wonderful and I said to myself You have to make this work, this has to work.
Onwards.
Models arrives with their brother, people trickled in and Josh was still building. Light was still good. As things were being constructed I talked with the twins about what I wanted them to do and we did some practice setups.
Finally all was built and gasoline was sprinkled on the kitchen set and things began.
Two hours or so later my shots were made that I had desired, the kitchen was completely torched, my metal vase of white lilies in the set was trashed, cabinet doors dropped off, the window popped and then broke and the group of us watched the hot fire. It was beautiful. No police showed up. The East Aurora fire department drove by and did not stop. Perfect shoot.
Now these images will be made into black & white 5x7's, scanned, made into 16x20 transparant positives and silkscreened onto sheets of metal and then framed.
Love.

Today is a day of firsts.
But first let me tell you. I am so hooked on my images, so obsessed with the ideas. I will talk privately to my models tonight to tell them my ideas so they are it. It makes a difference.
Firstly it's the premier time I'll be photographing twin six foot girls who are my models and current muses as their brother, I believe an even seven feet, et al (especially boys with heightened interest in my art project after hearing about the twin six footers who are 22) watch.
Second first is that I'll be shooting with such an audience out in the woods as the models do my thing in a burning set. All watchers will be put to good use, be asked to hold reflectors and the like. Thanks to parents (Thanks Joe. Thanks Annette) for making me an eldest = perfect practice for bossing. I told someone today That's why I became a photographer, to be able to boss people around the rest of my life:
SMILE! Look here. Avert gaze there. etc.
Third first is the shooting as the set burns.
Fourth first is the shooting in a set I'm not creating. Secret hope: that Josh is right now ingesting large amounts of caffeine to finish building.
Fifth first is that the shoot will end with 'smores as Josh and I discussed how there'll be huge amounts of fire and then embers and what better thing to make than those little campy treats?
Will my life ever be normal, full of expected happenings and not serendipitous oddities?
Dangblamit, I hope not.
My distracted love. My art-infused and directorial mind says so long.
At all moments ask yourself:
WWJLD*



*What Would John Lennon Do?

It's nearly August and why haven't I been launching my balloon launcher (gift from Kunji) at unsuspecting sweaty people.
Saw beautiful Sarah for first time yesterday as she only emerged from Deb at yesterday's 1AM. I held her warm, breathing and squeezed her a couple of times and then felt a newborn butt rumbling. I looked at Deb and said I think I broke Sarah... or she just pooped. Then it happened again. I can tell Sarah when she's much older that I squeezed, quite literally, the shit out of her when she was brand new.
New silkscreening trails were blazed yesterday by your fav Nancy.
Five hours of my life evaporated in a schoolish time vacuum and the forces of the universe conspired against me and my cell phone was little more than injected plastic and an lcd screen down in the bowels of the art building.
$400 & 1 ink-spattered DMB tshirt later I reconnected with my screening Zen and now feel set for turning tomorrow night's photo shoot/production into twelve photo silkscreens on either steel or anodized aluminum - set lushly into velvet-lined shadowboxes of flaming libido red.
I brought my '93 pre-headlost image of Kurt Cobain (scanned at 400dpi and a 16x20) as a test image and left yesterday with a stack of silkscreened Kurts, one on metal, and must say it's gorgeous.
As, hopefully, gorgeous as two twin 6' models in a burning set deep in the country perhaps ringed with semi-drunken assistants and onlooker pals.
Conflagration.
Love.

The foot was not real.
And I was slightly disappointed.
As I was Middling City returning last night, oh at about 9PM if you need such timeline clarification, from the traditional Greek Orthodox wedding I was hired to socially document (and at which the priest, Fr. Jim - who looks like a 70s rock star - forgot, I mean completely FORGOT, to do two whole portions of the wedding ceremony so that it wasn't legit and the couple, me and the priest had to go back into the church and do a few little maneuvers), I spotted a foot lying in the street.
William Street just under the 190 overpass. I thought OH wow, a foot.
I mean how David Lynch, non?
I turned around onto a deadend and went back and yup, a foot.
Met some people out for drinks and general merriment and said Oh, I saw a foot. And the filmmaker in the bunch (of course) expressed the most amazement.
I returned to the site.
I had my camera.
I parked this time and walked over.
Standing over it I still wasn't sure.
I, of course, took lots of dramatic photos, some showing oncoming traffic up William Street.
I got braver and then touched the foot with my foot.
So plastic.
So bummed.

This week is the artmaking with Team A boys. I have to rustle together my twin girl models and assure them that they will NOT be naked, in peril, and will look great.
I am going today to private silk screen printing lessons.
Wednesday it better not *bleeping* rain.
This week is also Lenny Kravitz. And Pink. And a big photo no to Creed as I think Scott's face is probably as wide as a billboard now and his chest hair is probably overtaking his arms and his J.C. poses are now impossible so therefore no snaps.
Dorota and Jason were in town and that meant that the upstairs rooms were actually occupied, my personal happiness levels were increased and the liver is crying for mercy.
Love.

The possibility of Papal infusion, of being engulfed by Pilgrims, was great enough to keep me out of Toronto and merrily in rural Orangeville yesterday after having a series of acupuncutre needles needling my shoulder. The pints of Sleeman's are just as sweet. The Canadian sun just as bright. In Orangeville by the River Hockley. When I read Hockley I think drunk Canadians mis-spelling Hockey, their national pasttime.
Off on another loaded weekend adventure of loaded behaviour.
Love.

(Written whilst listening to the best remnant of the most recent ex - Jesus and Mary Chain... one of the universe's most challenging bands to shoot - up there with Dinosaur Jr., Flaming Lips and Neil Young)

Everyone got boned tonight, said head of Metropolitan security, Chip, with an extreme sunburn all over his face except where his aviator framed sunglasses had been on his head. I snapped into OHNOMYDEARFUCKINGGODIDON'TTHINKSO Nancy. One of the creepiest Boy Colleagues was slumped into a corner, resigned and accepting that he would probably not be shooting Dave Matthews Band while I was on a supersweet pushy bitch tear. So, after half an hour of dangling over fate and waiting in our little chain-linked pen outside of the side willcall window watching a few drunks get arrested (one dramatically thrown against our chain-linked pen) and some girls stumble and stagger inwards we were walked in by Chip, following behind him like hungry little ducklings through the DMB throng. My teammates? Have a little difficulty alligning myself with the fratboys and fratgirlies who follow Dave. Although I have liked talking to a few tapers I've met at his shows.
So he starts and he looks down and sees me in the pit a magma blob of love looking up at him, hands clasped together with camera & 80-200 a-danglin' and I startled him... he looked at Perfect Me and did a little jolt and during the first 3 he periodically looked at me and by then I was shooting, hands unclasped and working.
The weekend's shooting ended with me in the celebratory roped-off area of Greased Pole Competition guys covered in axle grease, me shooting the exuberance and trying not to get slathered by the 15 or so guys hootin' and hollerin.'
Love.