Who the hell's idea was it to mix scotch, tequila and Jagermeister all in one night?
Abso-freakin-lootly could not have been mine.
Went out to see Jennie Stearns and backing band of boys and they were surprisingly wonderful. Every band that promoter pal Blair Woods recommends is always good and I think he's managing them in addition to Over the Rhine and a few others.
If not for these smallish gigs the Middling City would be completely bereft of rock activity as no chart-topper seems to be darkening these city limits.
Other bigtime promoter pals, Artie and Marcel, bring acts to Syracuse, Rochester but not here as often. Even beloved Dave Matthews has skipped here this next concert foray. His people have extended me tix and asked if I'd prefer Syracuse or Roch. Hmmmm, drive 4 hours or 1 to see lovely Dave.
Off to temple pressure-relieving measures and a plethora of deadlines to accomplish on superspeeeeed as Tuesday at the asscrack of dawn I'm on a plane to cavort in NYC. Dorota my love, ready your liver.
Rockingest rollingest love.
ps: forgot to mention the GWAR show and it was juicey. Within a minute I was drenched with "blood" by the headless man. Ran a shot of ersatz Saddam H., holding a huge rubber dick in his hands, shooting a giant stream of "pee-pee" into the crowd.
pss: bought the most bitchin' green metal tripod last night, made in Italy by a Bogen subsidiary and I cannot wait to use it. Artwork, still-life, wildlife, holding still wild people can all be tripod victims.

Minding my own business, walking briskly and looking sideways whilst addressing an official type guy from the university this fine evening I nearly ran into NYC's 107th mayor – His Honor Giuliani, one-time TIME Man of the Year.
When my eyes alighted upon his friendly, over-tanned and long face I was momentarily stunned, let out an OHHI as I stopped seconds before crashing into him. When thinking back to that moment a few hours ago I wonder how the nearby ring of secret service agents speaking into their cufflinks allowed my photog self to get that close to the former tabloid hero.
After photographing Mayor 107 at the private mega-donor party where I was hired to shoot I borrowed a tripod from a boy colleague, sped off to the cross-town rival college and shot slides of an artist's installation in a library when, suddenly, I heard my name and turned around to see a loose cannon acquaintance wandering through the lobby en route to internet fun.
Two fun facts about this guy: I made an image of him a long-ass time ago when he was in drag for Halloween and every time I see him I see him in blonde wig and trashy dress, red lipstick smeared about his big guy mouth.
I wasn't surprised a while back to hear that he'd gone off to join the INS. That was an image that I truly found disturbing, him kicking in doors and tossing unfortunate immigrants out of the USofA.
As I'm setting up lights and tripod and making long exposures I'm really indulging in a string of nosy questions about the INS gig and about the firearms he carried and here's what I learnt: One doesn't need any sort of permit to pack when they've signed on for Team USA. It's issued to you. When you leave, you un-issue it.
Without prompting he neatly printed out the supersecret codes I need to get onto the rival college's free internet access computer bank and sped off to go do whatever online instead of enduring more questions by Yours Truly.
Another thing I learned today: Giuliani is as tall as I am and wears good shoes.
L'End.

Standing in the elementary school office waiting for a Miss Wexler or someone to escort me to the dance studios where I was being paid to document an African dance co. teaching the local students I began messing with a computer touchscreen contraption as a secretary jumped out of her seat surprisingly quick to assist me. Whereas I thought I was goofing around with a machine to make kid safety kind of MacGruff items it was actually protocol for visitors to have temp badges and this had been forgotten. Right, she said, swipe your driver's license (whoah!, I'm thinking, just to meander to a dance studio) and then input who you're seeing and the reason. My reason? NEWSPAPER. That is always a grand reason for anything I do.
The shooting was great, the light was great, the sounds were great. I asked my editor at the university news bureau if ever the online edition might have sound files which would be way fab.
For the last two days, as a mental respite, I've been thinking how Elvis and Michael Jackson have similar star-turned-nut qualities.
This began while I was looking at an artist's work whereby the artist pairs oddball Elvis belongings, most notably an image of his handgun and his honorary narc badge from Nixon.
I'm going on the record as a person in the I Don't Get It column re: Elvis.
And Vegas didn't help matters.
Nor the VH1 ads that discourse at me that if not for Elvis there would basically be no rock and roll universe, no rock and roll photography, no rock and roll wardrobes, drugs, drink, mayhem and the like.
Tonight: Robert Creeley poetry reading then... GWAR.
Can I be smiling any larger?
I don't think so.
Toothy love.

Jeez, it's been... millennia... since I was sexually harassed whilst shooting a wedding such as last night's fiasco of Manhannite Diva Bride & The Hatfields & McCoys. It was my drag queen diva pal/florist who pointed out that the families were Hatfield/McCoy combo to perfection. All started out swell when Bridey called to see if her 90 folks at church could be photographed on the front steps of the church after their (let us not forget the pussy-flagellated guy/lawyer she bagged who bought her a yellow diamond and diamond-encircled wedding band, that, Diva Bitch told me, earned her a spot at the stove for the duration of her life, cooking him dinner) 530PM service. Uhhhh, I began, flabbergasted, have you seen the light at 630 these days? Thinking, suddenly, I'm dealing with an ADD type and ohno.
Then she asks for me to be at her mom's house at 330PM for getting ready shots. But you're getting married at 530, that's way too early. I relented, was greeted by sister/co-Diva Bitch at the door in bathrobe and proceeded to wait a good 45 minutes for the gals to get their bridal day shit together.
And the weird uncle sexual harassment thing happened approximately 7 unfortunate and interminable hours later in a hallway dotted with relatives and friends as equally redfaced loaded as this geezer who inquired Yours Truly thusly: Has anyone told you yet tonight how beautiful you are? (To which I'm choking back vomit in my throat) Give me your right hand. I with much trepidation handed over the hand which he stroked roughly along his left cheek. Several relatives, including co-Diva Bitch are watching as he yells And I don't leave whisker brushburns. I'm still disinfecting my hand.
Thank goodness for the filmmaker chainsmoker and occasional wedding video guy who I've worked with before for the humorous breaks where we'd chat about how fucked up the crowd was and how we'd never touch weddings again if all weddings were like this one.
Onwards.
Afterwards a quick change in the car and sped off to music, mayhem, a party stop and more mayhem.
Shared the wedding horrors with three drinking buddies at the nearest of favored watering holes and slargled down a few or more scotches before I felt like my most Perfect self again.
Liquid refreshment, liquid therapy, liquid forgetfulness.
In two nights I'll be shooting GWAR again and I abso-freakin-lootly cannot wait. All my little concert promoter pals were asking if I'd be there, as they know I completely dig that spectacle.
I am the smart photog in the pack who comes donned in clear plastic garbage bags - one for me, one for camera/flash. One time I shot GWAR and forever after that one particular flash was impregnated with their red faux blood. Another time I went the rest of the night with dried red/blue/yellow smears of their 'bodily fluids.'
Spectacles, what life is made for.
What life is made of.
What photogs thrive upon.
Water cannons of fluid love.

All attempts every made by Yours Truly to be, to exude, alternativeness is blown to smithereens as tomorrow roughly at some moment between noon and 1:30PM EST I'm receiving a coveted civic awars: Business First's 40 Under Forty Award. Or is that Forty Under 40?
1K+ attendees will watch me + 39 stand before them (I'll be the one with the really flushed face as I'm more accustomed to being in front of such podiums being all snap-happy) as we one by one, alphabetically, have a verbal and slide presentation of ourselves, receive a plaque, get a good handshake, some ovations (I'm freakin' flushing thinking of that part) and then walk offstage to our tables of attendees, friends, family.
OK, so these award people must not have ever read epinw.
Don't they know?
I dance in my bra in lezbo bars, drink Oban at times like it's purified water (oh, wait that's pretty close), act out badass ventures and the like?
Well, from now on I would appreciate one and all addressing me as Honorable.
As in Honorable Yours Truly.
Honorable Perfect Nancy.
Dig?
Onwards to listening to more Sonic Youth, loud like.
Favored song du semaine: Sunday.
Love.
Awards of love.
Bushels of respectable love.

She's wearing turquoise leather pants, the tightest pants I've ever seen, and she's this big around (hands gesture to a separated width of, oh, 10 inches) and she has breasts the size of MUSK MELONS.

This is how the tipsy white suburban lady tonight at the godly college described Ice T's girlfriend, Coco, about half an hour before he hit the badly-lit stage in front of an estimated crowd of 500.
She continued:
And wait Nancy (I don't know this woman, please add her to the list of unknown knowers in your epinw workbook, page 18, righthand side of the page) until you see what HE'S wearing – a jogging suit.

Before Ice T arrived I floated near the corner of the stage at the edge of the seats and overheard another couple of suburban folks discuss the rap star and meeting him at the godly college president's house, querying if Ice T had been Agreeable. Then they raised eyebrows that he and Coco actually wanted the college to pay for them to go out to dinner following his lecture/presentation/rap about worldly matters.

The suburban banter was disturbing, whiffed from gin-soaked mouths fresh from the college president's rez and Ice T had only nice things to say about these conservatives who he had found, he said, actually engaging. And he stated that he was impressed that the college was liberalminded enough to not censor his speaking engagement, hand him parameters.
There is no free speech, he said, but maybe there is in here tonight.
I glowed up at him and he was surprised to see me sitting on the floor, legs akimbo, in the gulf between stage and seating, camera standing up on its lens as I intently watched him and wished, between my watching shooting, that the lighting was not so drastic and miserable. Knew the sound and lighting guys and should have asked if they could adjust them but oh well.
Onwards.
Onwards then to The Donnas where I stood stageside with my erstwhile and ersatz husband, Ronald of the band Bad Ronald. If you're a rapt follower of epinw you may (should) recall that I was married to Ronald on The Greg Sterlace show by attorney Ross Runfola of ersatz tan.
The lighting at the venerable Continental also was lacking, like as in was hardly turned on.
The Donnas shirts were Bo-RING.
Club owners of the universe:
Media photographers are trying to do a job. When you hit the stage with no light it makes the job of press photographers very very difficult. It is bad karma to thwart the work of hardworking press photogs and God, in his infinite and media-savvy wisdom, will punish you with fruitflies in your topshelf booze, underage kids passed out under your pool table and ongoing toilet paper pilferage.

Ice T parting shot/thought:
No matter the race, the sexes are on different teams and will fight Until the wheels fall off.
&
When he was approached about starring in Tank Girl he misheard what the part was and instead of hearing Ripper (the cute kangaroo morphed being with dreads) he heard stripper and started doing scads of crunches to ready himself. When they showed him a storyboard for the part and he saw the kanga-ears, etc. he thought it was his kanga-pouch that would reveal his juicy bits.

Fun fact I cannot shake: kangaroos have joeys and they are born into the world and crawl up to the pouch. They are the size of a teaspoon or so. The end.
And love.

(Is it my imagination or did I just spend half an hour of my life filling out the 'MTV Blue Book' for freelancers? I had the standard standardized test-taking anxiety as I penned in my info to get paid whenever the mood strikes the ViaCom gods and godlettes and shrews and shrewds and accounts payables.)
So after freelancing Saturday away, and shooting for the column, met up with members of Janet Reno Fanclub at a bistro-style Italian joint and then headed out with the willing to hit rock venues beyond, and worthy dance floors.
Second-last stop was a bar of dyke variety, Adva's special request, and after we all paid the nominal cover she circled the room, determined that nobody there was thrilling and was ready to leave only to find that Yours Truly + 3 were engaged in the act of freeform Dancing - in what was once the dining room of a stately Middling City mansion but what is sadly now decorated in the style best described as gay bar bunker.
So dance, dance, dance, then I said to Doug Let's jump on podium and go-go, baby, those two boring gay boys have hopped down. So up we hopped. Then, as the boys had been half-nekkid I whipped off my top to dance - en bra - and Doug removed his top. Adva fumbled with my camera bag to attempt some social documentation, NJP-style, and I laughed at her, mid-gyration, as she tried to shoot us sans flash. Then she got wise to the lighting situation and then fumbled to throw on the flash and, I am still astonished, got off two decent frames of us. None of which will be posted on epinw as 1. who in hell knows this html crap to make it happen and 2. your imagination is a powerful tool, so fucking use it, s'il te plait.
Tomorrow night is a gourmet buffet of events, first Ice-T at a local godly college then badasses The Donnas at the venerable punk club.
Off to deadline points beyond, catching up on things to clear the way for more mad fun, and go-go lifestyle fun.
My unabashed love.

Fuckhead du jour, experienced this AM at the ungodly and gray hour of 6.
*Changed background soundtrack music from glorious A Thousand Leaves via Sonic Yoof to its equal (albeit way more mellow) So Tonight That I Might See by Mazzy Star with the universe's most deft tamourine player, blowing Laurie Partridge out of the lake, Hope Sandoval.*
So I'm driving.
Driving home from all-night journalism following all-day shooting and earlier deadline and a few errands.
It's gray, as I mentioned.
And it's 6.
At a light from a one-way to a one-way I'm at a red light, not going left as I don't think there's left on red at this corner and you cannot see here what might be coming down the pike at you there - much like the nearby corner of similar format where I just missed the Xpress shuttle to meet my maker on 4/21.
So I'm sitting in the car, blinker on, waiting for the light to go left when suddenly from nowhere is an SUV, big and red. A woman is obviously in a mad dash and goes around me and makes the left on red from the center lane. As I see her moving about I'm looking around to see if maybe turning on red at the corner is ok.
Not like I'm all about following rules and such, but it's 6, it's gray, I've been working all night and there's a station teeming with cops literally inches away.
So the SUV lady goes around me, in a puff.
Light finally changes, turn and as I'm driving up to the next red light (because we're within Middling City limits where lights are timed to infuriate rather than ease along commuting) I see red SUV aggresive driver.
I'm chuckling. Ha ha, hurry up to that red light, hardy-har, moment of levity this gray 6AM.
So I pull up to the light, now on her right side, shooting her a quick glance and there, just for me, your precious and Perfect Nancy, was her manicured finger, center one, right hand, red nail polish, up in the air! For me!
And her lower jaw was sticking out an unnatural three or so inches from her face. Defiance! Anger!
This, of course, made me burst out laughing, that this woman was sitting here waiting for me, this gesture for me nearly missed, like death at a nearby corner.
So now we both traverse along the street to the green to the next red light.
She's noticed I'm having barrel of monkey laughs.
At this next light she's gesturing her car towards thinking of cutting me off and I'm thinking in a flash Cheez and crackers does this crazed bitch have a gun? What's she going to do, run into my car because she's provided me with a great 6AM package of guffaws?
So onwards to sleep. And, I suppose, a fine story.
Moral: don't fuck with me. It's only fodder for epinw.
My absolute, safety-minded, ironic, workaholic, deadlined, tar-pit-hearted Love.

I am proud to report that your favorite, Perfect Nancy has been spoofed in the infernal Middling City newspaper The Beast. They made an ELKHASHAPPENED column by Elk J. Elk – in honour of my WHATHASHAPPENED, replete with three snaps of elk as a quarter page spread, unfortunately way in the rear of the paper. I'm going to take EHH to Kinko's to have it fashioned into a tshirt.
Now I am forced to remember the tshirt shoppes of yore when you went into a joint and there, before your marveling eyes, were seemingly hundreds of decals to choose from and the scent of scorched poly-cotton fibres hung in the air (and let's fabricate, too that the scent of cheeba did, too, as it was the 70s for mulletted Christ's sake).
A favored shirt in the 70s: a photograph of two lions and bubble letters stating Let's Snuggle Up!
Today one of my favored shirts is the new Flaming Lips tshirt of multi-colors and also my Paul Frank how-to shirt detailing how to turn two socks into a freakin' sock monkey.
Plus ça change c'est le meme chose.
For you non-Frenchyphiles that means as Perfect Nancy gets older (and surlier) she's realizing that she really is the same ol' lovable madcap kid inside that she was in the early 70s when she was, oh, about 10 and more thensome and Danny Gare of the Buffalo Sabres was her favorite celeb and her first glass of Oban was about two decades away.
Still marveling over the conversation at a wedding I shot this past Saturday, had with a very average-looking woman who works at a very nondescript diner in the exurbs that I had the misfortune of visiting recently on an AOL foray. I asked her if she and her sister on my other side were, in fact, sisters, as I was just meeting them. She said, eyes widening, OH NO, we're not sisters... we're TWINS.
It was one of those moments where I tell myself in a flash to be diplomatic, that if I were in a foreign land and some foreign chick said this to me so earnestly and stupidly I'd be thinking Geeee, this is so charming.
We talked and she revealed to me that she is a gigantic Dave Matthews fan so then we had a zillion things to talk about, including how he raises his one eybrow and also (for this part I got up from the table and behind my chair did the DM kicky dance) how he gets ovations for the kicky dance.
Moral: in every cloudy wedding scenario you're shooting for ca$h money there is a silver DMB lining in the form of a twinly woman.
Love.

Apparently I was on television looking like I was walking alongside Richard Gere, today all day people (mainly women) came up to me asking (before any other sort of salutation)
Is he as good-looking in person as he is on camera?
At an art opening yesterday evening I began to tell people that he and I are dating, that the relationship has been happening for 24 hours and it's flourishing.

Two Canadian conversations of yesterday, with (slight) apologies to George:
1.
Heading into Canada yesterday I was pulled over by the man in the booth for carrying artwork in the back of the Forester, my pieces from Conflagration.
Was sent over, with slip of paper, to be examined. I was there for 40 minutes explaining to a man whose face said I've eaten entirely too many doughnuts/Timbits this lifetime, that the pieces had no value as they were not for sale, were not sold, were not being sold and sundry other fun facts about the show.
He said:
They must be worth a pretty penny, ay?
I nearly burst out laughing.
Then I did some careful explaining of how the silkscreen-on-metal thing was not my usual métier, that the image size was this and my usual photographic price was that... etc. until I thought I had lulled him into a stupor of pricing and art making and transporting and art storage.
I asked Would you like to hang onto them here, all 13, and I'll come back and get them later? Rather snarky, I must say, but it fit the moment as I was realizing he was somewhat putty in my earnest little hands.
No, he said, I can't do that. Would you like one of them? I was really pushing things. No, he said, I can't do that. So, 40 minutes later, I was on my way, again.

2.
Was magnetized into a true blue, mapleized surf/board shop up there, mesmerized by the thoughts that my dollars were being stretched internationally to greater proportions.
Have been noting those with Helly Hansen jackets and doing some serious coveting.
Bought a lovely sage green one with more secret compartments than George Bush's odd persona.
I was playing with a do-dad on the hood when the intense little salesguy said
Oh, that's for making sure that your tuque doesn't come off.
I stopped playing with the hoodal do-dad, trying to make pretend I wasn't so amazed by the word tuque.
I guess now I have to go tuque shopping.

Morals (and I have a few): Canada is a different land, full of pretty pennies, tuques, loonies and toonies.

If I had a dollar for every time I wrote Geee, if I knew the html code for inserting my photos into epinw I could run down and get myself a boutique coffee or something.
So instead here's Imagination Time: your favorite Nancy arm in arm with Richard Gere, honest-to-goodness smiles on our shining faces. And why are we having such a fun glowy moment? Because Richard, after talking to him and after witnessing some of my shenanigans out of the corner of his soft warm brown right eye (youngest boy colleague, Derek, had my d1 and was awaiting a turn by RG towards me, standing behind RG for the perfect snap of me and superstar when, getting rather feisty as the throng who had paid $500 each for a moment of Gere gladhanding was closing in and my photo op chances were looking slim so I shot up a double rockstar ILOVEYOU hand gesture behind Gere and Derek shot that and then a body guard near Gere stepped towards me, pushing me ever so slightly saying DON'T DO THAT with the most derisive disgust in his voice like I had just shot Gere the moon or was about to banana creme pie him or something) and then I got to stand alongside him and he took his right hand, cupped it around my neck and, in true friendliness, gave my neck a little throttle, said Hey, you're the photographer, what're you doing on this side of the lens, we commented on the tv anchor, Helen, manning my d1, both wondering aloud if she knew what in hell she was doing, then we wrapped our arms around each other as if we were former neighbors and I wondered if I should show him my most prized, well, one of my most prized possessions (my thoughts race to quickly index the most prized possessions and I wonder how and if some friends can count amongst the list), my Me and Ro rings on my middle finger of right hand, especially the one that says Compassion in Tibetan as I decided against wearing the Tibetan word Love and I'm wearing the other with the rubies and seed pearls but I think, No, fuckit, forget the rings so the photo op is done, I step back, get the camera from Helen and make several images of others aglow near the celeb and then step back to where Derek is hanging in the shadows and watch the throng press against, all around, Gere as he makes his way from the $500 reception to the $250 per person reception.
He has nice eyes. His hair is all gray. His manner was placid and for the Love of God (to borrow one of my father's pet expressions) I could not think of one of Gere's movies, well, except that godawful one with Julia Lips Roberts that I saw one night with other administrative staff of summer camp and I was truly horrified (think now of the Bongwater song about this movie... to quote Ann Magnuson That's all women really want... sucking and shopping, sucking and shopping, etc.)
at this smirky crap. Gere has not made great movies. There's the one with Debra Winger, that perky little thing in cowboy hat and boots. And then my mind goes blank.
Does this guy make movies any more?
Is he famous for being famous?
How tall is the Dalai Lama?
Will I ever learn the html code for inserting images?
Will you ever stop learning epinw code for inserting joy?

If I had a dollar for every time I wrote Geee, if I knew the html code for inserting my photos into epinw I could run down and get myself a boutique coffee or something.
So instead here's Imagination Time: your favorite Nancy arm in arm with Richard Gere, honest-to-goodness smiles on our shining faces. And why are we having such a fun glowy moment? Because Richard, after talking to him and after witnessing some of my shenanigans out of the corner of his soft warm brown right eye (youngest boy colleague, Derek, had my d1 and was awaiting a turn by RG towards me, standing behind RG for the perfect snap of me and superstar when, getting rather feisty as the throng who had paid $500 each for a moment of Gere gladhanding was closing in and my photo op chances were looking slim so I shot up a double rockstar ILOVEYOU hand gesture behind Gere and Derek shot that and then a body guard near Gere stepped towards me, pushing me ever so slightly saying DON'T DO THAT with the most derisive disgust in his voice like I had just shot Gere the moon or was about to banana creme pie him or something) and then I got to stand alongside him and he took his right hand, cupped it around my neck and, in true friendliness, gave my neck a little throttle, said Hey, you're the photographer, what're you doing on this side of the lens, we commented on the tv anchor, Helen, manning my d1, both wondering aloud if she knew what in hell she was doing, then we wrapped our arms around each other as if we were former neighbors and I wondered if I should show him my most prized, well, one of my most prized possessions (my thoughts race to quickly index the most prized possessions and I wonder how and if some friends can count amongst the list), my Me and Ro rings on my middle finger of right hand, especially the one that says Compassion in Tibetan as I decided against wearing the Tibetan word Love and I'm wearing the other with the rubies and seed pearls but I think, No, fuckit, forget the rings so the photo op is done, I step back, get the camera from Helen and make several images of others aglow near the celeb and then step back to where Derek is hanging in the shadows and watch the throng press against, all around, Gere as he makes his way from the $500 reception to the $250 per person reception.
He has nice eyes. His hair is all gray. His manner was placid and for the Love of God (to borrow one of my father's pet expressions) I could not think of one of Gere's movies, well, except that godawful one with Julia Lips Roberts that I saw one night with other administrative staff of summer camp and I was truly horrified (think now of the Bongwater song about this movie... to quote Ann Magnuson That's all women really want... sucking and shopping, sucking and shopping, etc.)
at this smirky crap. Gere has not made great movies. There's the one with Debra Winger, that perky little thing in cowboy hat and boots. And then my mind goes blank.
Does this guy make movies any more?
Is he famous for being famous?
How tall is the Dalai Lama?
Will I ever learn the html code for inserting images?
Will you ever stop learning epinw code for inserting joy?

In one hour I'll be freezing my ass off shooting 50 rescue workers in orange jumpsuits with a helicopter. Who looks good in orange? I'll tell you.
Nobody on this planet looks good in orange.
When Dorota and I were in gai Paris I bought a great top, it's orange. Does the fact that it's Parisian make it less orange? No.
I rest my case.
Then, after the helicopter moment, I'm traipsing across town to shoot Richard Gere of gerbil (or was it hamster fame?) who's in town supporting Louise Slaughter, Dem Congressman.
Gere - provider of love vibes from soup to nuts... from Dalai Lama to Slaughter.
Gere and Slaughter are appearing in an elegant, restored nightclub from Middling City heyday, a business too large and lavish and destined for a short life unless they proverbially hop into bed with every rock promoter in town to get mid-sized rock acts booked into the mid-sized venue.
But tonight the joint's a venue for a political act.
The act of schmoozing, my fav.
Love.

Well here's one for the in-basket lest you need hard evidence that shooting, attending rock and roll events causes hardness of hearing, deafness, lack of understanding.
Listening to far-superiour Canadian radio today I heard an advert for a six-metre container of beer. Holy shit, I thought, driving at the speed limit, fyi, that's a lot of cubic beer. So I'm making cursory calculations before I realized Nope, that would be six liters. Onwards.
After being completely computer-paralyzed yesterday as the iBook isn't always able to keep up with the rigors of my demanding digital image needs, I ordered a 40-gig external harddrive from the nice tech boy in Austin, TX. I wanted to grill him on the local music scene but thought He's probably all paranoid because these calls are all taped so he won't open up about thrilling new acts and going out on the live music prowl. Or, perhaps more likely, he's a cute-sounding, white sock wearer.
I'm nearly finished with the Venti six-metre cuppa joe from Starbucks, following the massive university delivery of information and I'm firing on all 8.
Back to deadlines. Back to deadlines. Back to the ever-informative, yet with delicate snarky undertones, of writing me. Perfect stringer-together of adjectives and the like.
No love today, just coffee, my heart pumping and spewing coffee, not B+ today.

Massey Hall, despite being a popular venue in TO, was fraught with beacoup sound troubles last night for the Beck/Flaming Lips gig.
Scored five-star ticket last second, obviously comp seats unused and released just hours before all they rock mayhem began - second row center balcony, mere feet from where my pals sat.
The Lips were, of course, absolutely amazing, Wayne Coyne had one of those spycams on his mic stand which distorted his face, projected disconcertingly above him - twenty feet of tangled hair, haggard eyes, Okie voice and interesting nose.
He was, as usual, obsessed with gadgets and there was plenty of bright light waving, recurring spinning of a worklamp from an extension cord, two gaggles of people dressed in mascotwear (bunnies, bears and a goldfish who sadly stepped on a cord which began the deluge of sound troubles) onstage at all times. And the non-Coyne Lips were dressed in animal costumes, heads human, free to see chords, etc.
I was so happy to be seeing the band that twice my eyes filled with tears of absolute and complete joy.
And then intermission to buy a supersonic shirt of theirs for $30 Canadian which equals $7.15 American!
Two other surprise Buffalonians were in attendance, in addition to me + 2 pals. The others, assumedly, were happy-go-lucky Canadians, proud hosts.
Beck. Oh, Beck. His much-publicized superstar girlfriend breakup has seemingly sapped the joy from his soul, his performance was earnest, competent and the first 3 songs nearly had me napping in the historic Massey Hall aisle.
The Flaming Lips (ya-fucking-hoo) are his backing band this tour and they bound onto the stage to much applause and joy. And I think they stole the show, at least Wayne Coyne did.
At one moment, my fav part of the show, Beck wandered over to WC and tossled his mad curly hair because it had glitter and crap in it. And then just wandered away. It was a pure yet odd childlike rockstar moment.
Beck, of course, played the radio songs.
We all left happy.
Every last one of us.
Then back to the USofA, the Middling City, responsibility, work, deadlines.
And the rockstars (touring in the bus of Dave Matthews) roll on to more play.
Oh, I watched my Canadian colleagues wander over to stage right to wait their time and noted this: 4 out of 5 Canadian shooters choose Canon.
Love.

Lead boy colleague asked today Where's the blog progress?
Today, amongst other things, shot the Middling City University homecoming football major Loss in the autumnal sun, making Norman/l Rockwell-quality images of ye olde crowning of the king and queen, university president with his face painted and the marching band. Amongst the clubs marching into the stadium at half-time was a gay club with gigantic rainbow flags and I was struck that they had the courage to markedly march in amid a throng of chowderheaded sporty fans.
I am now back to freelance gig, back into the car/home-away-from-home.
And then to shoot the lead singer of my pet band, more music and then Simon and the Bar Sinisters... where I'll meet my fellow members of Janet Reno Fan Club, where the bartenders know my name, my drink, my proclivities.
Tomorrow interesting potpourri of happenings, including hanging of mine art at a bookstore, meeting up with out-of-town pals, working on freelance orders and then...
then...
TORONTO road trip to see Beck and Flaming Lips.
I am much more ecstatic about seeing the Lips, who I've seen since the mid-80s, who confound me as a photographer (as they usually dig going apeshit with bubble and/or fog machines) and who were pals of my most recent ex.
Beck I've seen twice and live he's enchanting and such but the openers (openers!) are the shit.
Rock & roll t-shirt purchase for sure.
And to be proudly worn Monday, here, there, everywhere and then some.
My rock & roll heart full of rock & roll love.

Lady, wake up, I'm going to flag down a Yellow Cab to take you the rest of the way.
So began the beginning of the chaos of getting out of NYC on 10/11.
I was moved from cab #1 to cab #2 amid a throng of cars meandering out to JFK on a Boulevard as all biways were still lifes. The car service ordered by Dorota was late, then not really ever coming. So the cab.
In cab #2 I sat next to the driver while in the back seat were two well-dressed and handsome businessmen, one French and one Brit but living in Paris. I was third to be dropped off, a mistake by cabbie #2 as I was to be, at Brit requested, dropped to not miss my 515.
So I missed the 515, The flight's closed, said the JetBlue guy with the wandering eye. His legs wandered off with my passport to inquire if I could get onto the flight, which hadn't left.
I snapped as loud as the doors of a JetBlue plane shutting hard, Nancyless, for him to hand over my passport. I snapped even louder as he put me on standby for the next and last flight in 1.5 hours. I asked where I was on the list of waiters and he said he couldn't tell me that priviledged info. And why not, I asked, eyes shooting flames into his wandering and non-wandering eyes. OK, you're #5.
Off I ran to the ground transportation centre to reserve the last car Budget had.
Then 4 hours of jams, bad rain. Then highway action, good ol' 87. Then another hour waiting.
Two naps, one snack, one pee, one mission later and I was in The Middling City at 530, at the airport dropping the rental, getting into my awaiting car and then awaiting bed for a brief snooze before shooting freelance gigs and rock shows.
The Mooney Suzuki. Tall boys in black spending much of their set time in the midst of their fans, lost in a sea of smiling heads and still playing guitars. I was standing on the edge of the stage shooting into the crowd. I had gone backstage, grabbed some Marty-made snacks en route, and skittled over the stage like a cockroach for the vantage point. There must have been 400+ people in Mohawk Place, a place that can comfortably hold 100.
Chameleons were also grand that night.
Today, in a few hours, I'm off to a New Orleans-style jazz funeral for Tim Switala, a great multi-media guy who was married to one of my former editors at UB Office of News Services.
A sunny day for a funeral.
A march of sadness.
And memories now of the jazz funeral I shot in thee N.O. for Ernie K. Doe -- raucous and equally sunny.
Love.

Still in the city surpassing all others.
Last night, birthdate anniversary night, dined +3 at Gotham, h.q. of superstar chef Alfred Portale. Passed an envelope of two photographs I made of him, his wifey and a Buffalo restaurateur and this was handed along to him. The gift was to thank him for the rez at 8 for 4 on 10/10 and Portale in turn sent out a tray of champagne, an app and a bevy of his hand-picked desserts. We were informed by one of his on-floor eyes&ears that Portale would be out to see us between courses. And out he came his unsassuming self and I had Jason take a snap of me and Portale with my exciting and new Pop9 Lomo camera with 9 lenses making 9 images on one 35mm frame = shithole resolution. However. That is not the point.
So Portale was fascinated by the Pop9, asking where he could buy one for his photocentric brother.
I want at least one of my pieces to hang in Gotham. I'm going to send Portale a small 8x10 art print for his erudition/joy/seduction. My art must hang in Gotham.
I must head back to the Middling City today, where, I just learned, the weekly fucked with my Congressman John LaFalce images, the title and something else and the writer is fuming and has me terrified to look. But she will probably not say anything to the publisher... but I will.
So off to a hot meatloaf lunch with Dorota and then poutingly tossing myself in the back of a Town Car to be airlifted out of here to there. Sadly.
It rains.
Love.

Tomorrow is John Lennon's birthday and here's how best to celebrate it, in my Perfect opinion.
If you are in NYC lay flowers on the IMAGINE mosaic in Strawberry Fields. Yoko says we must remember his birth, not death, day.
If not in NYC, play his music, reflect on his genius and interesting nose and then, as the night rolls in, drink plenty of brandy alexanders and act like a crazed rock star. He would be, according to my calculations, 62. Would he have had a saggy old guy arse? All-gray hairs? Ridiculous facial hair that says I've made it and aesthetics can go to hell?
We will never know.
Last night dreamed a dream that there was a corpse at a wake and it was generally believed that I had been a friend of the corpse when it was a person. I had to pretend all through the wake that I knew this person, a woman, so as not to make the familiar more sad.
John Lennon was sometimes harsh to those he loved most.
Love can be harsh.
But a John Lennon lost early at the hands of a lunatic fanatic is better than not ever having had a John Lennon to love.
Love.

Well, well, well.
A weekend it was of talking and talking.
The last post was shock-driven and I retract it.
No relief, now in relationship negotiations.
Tonight is Bruce Springsteen and I sent Lead Boy Colleague to do the shooting. We photo types were to be relegated to the soundboard for working and that's not a perfect photo op, to be sure.
Flying to NYC now on Wednesday AM not Tuesday for the birthday festivities and will still be dining on 10/10, the big #39, at Gotham, hq of chef Alfred Portale - former Buffalo jewelry designer.
I sign off, stress-laden and deadline-ful.
Love.