OUTRAGE
Last night had to turn in my photo pass after shooting Dave's first three songs. This has only happened at one other concert, at Britney's Extravaganza where we had to be lined up extra early and be issued a double-sided photo id and turn that in upon leaving. So no new DMB sticker for the iBook. Pourquoi? He looked good, of course.

Second-hand sightings of rock stars:
1. Whilst waiting for creds and the walk-through to the pit to shoot DMB one of my colleagues reported, most excitedly, that his buddy works at Buffalo Athletic Club and Dave - thee Dave - came in to work out. The buddy was assigned to stick by Dave's side so nobody bothered him while he sweated those handsome beautiful drops of DNA out of his melodic body. He and bandmates were also spotted buying clothes at a mall (hello! personal shoppers!) and out and about on Chippewa Street. Assumedly nobody could tell them better joints to foray for cocktails.

2. Called Dorota yesterday on her cell and she called back from her workplace to report thusly: Jason, who works at Michael Werner Gallery a stone's throw from the Met saw Johnny Depp. Johnny walked into the gallery to inspect some Captain Beefheart drawings on view. Vicarious joy.

Over and out and time to rock.
Love.

Going to, but not staying for, Dave (as in Matthews Band) at Darien Lake tonight. Finally heard from Donna at Clear Channel outta Albany that I have a big yes to shoot DMB as well as opener - moe., formerly of the Middling City.
I wrote back to Donna that the first time I recall shooting moe. was at the shithole Essex Street Pub back when they were allowed to have live music. Haven't seen the moe. newsletter in a while, a full-colored something that rivals in apostledom the newsletter of Ani, Righteous Report. Opening up this trifolds and polyfolds one realizes in a flash that these acts have a whole slice of the universe mapped out for listeners, followers, merch gobblers.
Last night shot 54-40 at Thursday at the Square, a mediocre moment in time, to be sure.
They had a sub guitarist and quite frankly I'm not sure that I noticed.
Saw Boy Colleague Marky there who asked what the lead singer's name is.
Fer crissakes, I said, go on the internet system and find out.
Don't know if tonight I'll have my fourth annual shot at shouting DAVE, I LOVE YOU, YOU ROCK at poor, unsuspecting Dave. The last time that was shouted by most Perfect Me Dave looked amazed.
Hope the shirts are good, I'd like a new model.
Wore my red one yesterday and Bad Penny's words afloated into my mind, spoken in a post-cocktail rasp:
You're such a pretty girl, why don't you ever wear anything other than concert tshirts, you could be so attractive?
Got a message that Martin called today from Japan/Tokyo/the other side of the Planet, sorry to have missed his call.
Thinking now of how my brain will be filled with exciting new technological information starting in three days or so.
Technology... my friend.

Happy soft shell crab season to one and all! Praise be Neptune.
Crunched the guts out of two of them this evening when Jen and Eric took me out to Bon Voyage to Grad School dinner on a private, desolate patio.
Afterwards headed to the Dicky Betts gig downtown to make his second set.
You know you're in for a surreal night when there's a line of 40 guys waiting to pee and it's clear sailing into the ladies.
I encountered a few people I know, already past the oblivion bend. I saw Nick the security man who I talked with once but who seemed oddly hostile, perhaps his biker braid was too tight. Shimmied up to the front of the stage moments before Dicky and his cowboy accoutrements (boots, hat, band) hit the stage.
Dicky Betts Illuminati Strange Quip 1:
(woman, age perhaps 50, eyes unfocused, reeling on feet as she asks)
Who're you shootin' fer? Oh, well if you're writing an article you can use my quote, use it anonymously. (pregnant pause, mustering up her best serious quote-time voice)
When I go to a Dicky Betts concert I feel like I'm in joint custody. Afterwards I have to go to see Greg Allman.

Dicky Betts Illuminati Strange Quip 2:
(man with really sweaty hair, yes, hair. smiling, shouting, standing behind me)
Hey, who're you shootin' for? OHHHH, are you Nicole?
(where's that secret button for the trap door he's standing upon, I thought. I'm thinking he's thinking of Nicole Peradotto but she's no shooter so I just say Nope).
He pursues this. Nicole... Nicole Parisi? I say I'm Nancy Parisi.
(pause, pause, pause, I'm waiting for the light on Dicky's body to shine more red and yellow as The Tralf suddenly remembered that they do, in fact, have other than purple and bue gels on lights)
(pause)
Is that N-A-N-C-I? he shouts into my right ear.
Nope, that's N-A-N-C-Y.
I am so sorry, Sweaty Head says, I look at your photographs every Thursday, I love your work, you're almost famous.
Suddenly I think this drenched mis-speller is allright, event after he creates a bit of chaos with a carafe of red wine which he topples and tried to sponge up with his hands.
As soon as Dicky sang and played at the same time and I was ensured I had the true and desired IT, I was gone like an Arizona tumbleweed blown across the night highway and a speeding range of headlights.
Snakebite love.

Had a hit & run meeting at the paper on using iPhoto, a consumer piece of software created for grandmothers to email jpegs of grandkids to family members far and wide. Tried to tell publisher that both PhotoShop AND the software I use to turn jpegs into the magical tiffs all beautiful - PhotoStation - have caption writing capabilities.
At the sort-of stag for Mike Groll, getting married on Friday, I met a person who is a techie for the Dallas daily, John Herrick, who switched from shooting to computer nerding. Told him of the iPhoto situation and his response was... I don't think it's ROBUST enough for archiving for a whole newspaper. Alas. So my iBook and iMac have to both be restored and have OSX installed with OSX PhotoShop and sundry other items. Fun? No fucking way. Well then with OSX my iPod will be more than a neat little paperweight... at least.
Johnny Depp turned up in Random Notes in RS (which, btw, I still don't want to get yet they keep sending it here) looking really awful. And they compared him to Keith Richards, saying his pirate role in some upcoming celluloid disaster has him in bandanna, braids - hence the Keith ref.
Johnny, please call, you need my help to get you back on the Shining Path of Beauty.
Off to deadines far and wide with a song in my heart.
Note to self: you need more practice to perfect the Bach-harmonica project you're working on.
Love.

Yesterday's Robby Goo Allentown-time Music as Art Fest was excellent with Robby froclicking about, painting on the art wall with his wife Miyoko and then playing a whole mess of Eddie Money Covers with the band The Ifs as Robby Money. Bongoes, Robby, who would have guessed? Worked through the volunteer logistics to get into the studio while bands were playing all wired up in front of the Chameleon West windows to the adoring masses outdoors - Last Days of Radio and Girlpope. The Allentown neighbors, a vocal and somewhat ornery bunch, should have been pleased that the fest was contained, respectful and not teeming in decibels. Allentown Village Society, the org that runs Allentown Art Fest, had two of those cheapo signs on wheels directing people to the AAF a block away, at the corner of Allen and Franklin - within mere feet of Robby's event. A gesture at non-unity, for sure. The vendors, apparently, usually on that one block of Allentown, didn't want to be anywhere near Robby's event, fearing the worst.
Met a dj from Cali who spun between bands, and we discussed the new iPod. He told me he's going to put his entire collection on cd's and vinyl on them and use them through a mixing board. I told him I'm going to use mine to transport my digital art files, that conventional art students will use traditional art portfolios whereas I'll be carrying around something the size of a pack of smokes... until I make big ass prints.
Speaking of art school, that starts soon. A new art journey, a new art plan.
Love.

I had a series of nightmares last night starring the Dixie Chicks. Why? Well, for one, they came out in faux punker outfits, replete with bondage chains at knees and slicked-back tresses to resemble mohawks. e-fuckin-gads.
I forgot to point out to Boy Colleague Marky that when you looked up at the video monitors the lead singer with the faux mullet/mohawk looked like a strange tropical fish as her face was divided down the center by a black piece of metal, each side of her face projected onto two different monitors.
A most creepy effect.
Their soundboard wasn't half a mile away (calling to mind Rod Stewart, that saggy aging rock star) but was more like 80 feet so it wasn't as horrific as we imagined and the trio came together at the end of song three for us. It would have been a most picturesque photo op if not for the two hundred fans standing in front of us with fists waving in the breeze. Some of my Dixie Chicks together shots look they're getting puched in the chins by large black tentacles but I have gorgeous shots of the three separately - same for Joan Osbourne.
Saw Don Keller meandering through the security holding pen and asked whatinhell he was doing there. Retouching photos of Joan, he said. Met up with several members of Janet Reno Fan Club afterwards and Allison, who does film and video in SARS-ridden TO, said she shot a video of Joan O and her weight (and hiding same) was a huge issue. So I imagine Don was PhotoShopping pounds off.
Ended up at Americanarama at Mohawk Place, and dove into a long conversation about the Middling City's way-illustrious alternative musical past when The Pipe Dragon was operating full steam ahead on Ellicott Street. Impressed Mohawk by showing him my Pipe Dragon membership card (#0082) which I always carry. We wondered where David Baker is now - founder of the first incarnation of Mercury Rev and my former roomie and darkroom partner. The man, I divulged, was hopelessly addicted to Alf.
Rockstars, a mystery a minute.
Onwards.

I have spent way way too much time on the phone today with p.r. types, setting about getting my photo credentials squared away for the future to make all the photo magic happen. The behind-the-scenes crap that makes people's eyes glaze over quicker than you can say public relations nonsense.
But, at the risk of glaze, here's a super-primo example of the types of malarkey phonecalls I field from biased interested parties:
Ummm, hi, NAN-SEEEEEE, this is (X) I'm so excited (first tip-off that the b.s. will be flying shortly) about this opportunity and I KNOW (yikes, presumptions make my skin absolutely crawl) that you'll be excited about this opportunity.
(more details, more details)
Thee Jared, the guy who lost 245 pounds eating Subway sandwiches, is coming to town and... he's very structured... and I can get you an interview with him.
I had to get an okay with him first and then call you, so the time is 8:45AM on the 26th and you can have a few minutes with him and I know that you love people and what makes them tick and this is such a great human interest story... he's really such a motivated man.
(incredulity had, of course, set in a while back, but, summoning all of my diplomatic molecules forth I said)
Well, thanks for thinking of me and it is a great story but I'm not interested in it for my column.
(secret thought: Guess what Media Lady? Everybody in this fair land, even those that barely know what television is, knows the story of Jared, carbon dated now at about five years - call me when Johnny Depp rolls into town and I'll meet his jet/plane/bus/limo at any ol' hour, thanks and buh-bye!)
Love.

Off to the race! The big race when all sorts of corporate and office types gather under tents, do some stretches and then hit the roadways of the Middling City = Chase Corporate Challenge. Tent shots of university types then the quick trot to the viaduct for the overall of the throngs, running in thongs.
Then downtown to witness the Patio Lantern Magick of Kim Mitchell.
This morn I, and Marky Sparky of AV and Donny of Clear Channel (rulers! of the musical! world!) selected 30 Middling City bands to hit three stages, in stages, during the ARTVOICE Street Fest to happen on a Sunday in June. The ebbs, the flows, the avoidable genre conflicts - we discussed, we listened to cd's, we nearly threw cd's against the walls, we selected.
Now Marky S sends out letters of rejection and calls to say OUI OUI, we want you.
Running to shoot runners.
I dream of running often.

Spandex, spandex, spandex as far as the eye can see - that's what I expect at tomorrow's Kim Mitchell concert at Thursday at the Square. Lots of that miracle fibre as well as motorcycles... and mullets.
Got the final big okay to shoot Dixie Chicks from Lanie, their p.r. person - one song, song #3 only, from the soundboard as rumor had it. The opener is Joan Osborne, the woman who big fame has eluded.
Ron emailed me this morning to comment upon my Metallica purchase yesterday, he was incredulous that my metallic side wanted THAT and not Bucket Head. Perhaps I shouldn't mention right here that I'm right now listening to White Zombie, to avoid another torrent of musical opining from down south, where Ron lives.
Ron, btw, wrote to me recently that he may have an op to run a grappa farm. To my thinking that'd be like someone coming up to me and stating Nance, we'd like you to run the Oban plant.
At that time I wrote to Ron and shared one of my fav grappa tales, about having some of that and much later in the evening being awakened by a security man whilst I snoozed, all dressed up in finery, on a bench in Toronto, unable to awaken my pal/grappa sharer.
The end.
For now.

Suddenly the grande black coffee togo cup is empty and life doesn't seem quite so Perfect any longer.
Well, the knowledge that I now own not only the supersonic new iPod (external harddrive! music storage! car-adaptable portable songs!) as well as the new Radiohead makes everything sweetened with a golden glow of consumer happiness, audiophile bliss.
Missed the midnight Radiohead sale at New World Record where they gave out 7-inchers until they ran out. Was there this AM and bought a limited edition version with lyrics and the nice boy gave me the cover art, vinyl sized placard.
But, strangely, when I arrived at the counter I first said this:
The new Metallica, pul-leez. (as I had glanced down and seen the new Metallica)
Oh, the boy said, it's right here, moving one from my left shoulder to the cash register.
See, I was working on auto-pilot. My inner Metallica fan (and if you are a true epinw sport you know I'm one) and thrashing self was bursting onto the scene.
You own enough smarty-pants rock, it whined, you need some head-bangerific music, too.
Complied.
Rock steady.

Pertinent shoe information, lite enough for a Monday:
Despite the swearing that I'd never own a pair of trashy Candie's after the rather unfortunate ownership of a certain pair of 80s-era Candie's (tan "suede" mules with the plastic or whatever the fuck that material was) worn on the nightmarish date with John Meegan, bro of Amy Meegan, a high school pal, to the now defunct Aud Club of Memorial Auditorium. Somewhere in the family archives is horrid, hard photographic evidence:
Me: taller than John Meegan, winged hair, some sort of polyester separates including a-line skirt, Candie's.
Him: tan (not khaki, khaki was not invented yet) suit, no tie, openwide collar and brown clogs on his feet.
Background: a trellis festooned with fake flowers.
So, minding my own business, I'm shoe shopping accidentally when I spot some four inchers of wood, top stitched black leather and so I gave them the clomp test, clomping about the store in them before shouting out to nobody especially YES.
Candie's. Slutty Candie's. Candie's that have you strutting Candie's. Candie's reclaiming your unfortunate shoe past back in the dark ages of high school Candie's.
Shoe love. Ah yes, shoe love.

Pertinent shoe information, lite enough for a Monday:
Despite the swearing that I'd never own a pair of trashy Candie's after the rather unfortunate ownership of a certain pair of 80s-era Candie's (tan "suede" mules with the plastic or whatever the fuck that material was) worn on the nightmarish date with John Meegan, bro of Amy Meegan, a high school pal, to the now defunct Aud Club of Memorial Auditorium. Somewhere in the family archives is horrid, hard photographic evidence:
Me: taller than John Meegan, winged hair, some sort of polyester separates including a-line skirt, Candie's.
Him: tan (not khaki, khaki was not invented yet) suit, no tie, openwide collar and brown clogs on his feet.
Background: a trellis festooned with fake flowers.
So, minding my own business, I'm shoe shopping accidentally when I spot some four inchers of wood, top stitched black leather and so I gave them the clomp test, clomping about the store in them before shouting out to nobody especially YES.
Candie's. Slutty Candie's. Candie's that have you strutting Candie's. Candie's reclaiming your unfortunate shoe past back in the dark ages of high school Candie's.
Shoe love. Ah yes, shoe love.

Dashboard Confessional was a stop along the way tonight, as I speedblog. I noted the shifty eyes of Chris C, the man behind DC, the man who bit the logo of ACDC, the man, who if he had a memory seizure could safely say The crowd'll take over. He was too aware of my photographic presence in the pit, glancing down when he should have been glancing out at the sea of adoring and screaming teens. There were tears shed out of young eyes when they were not glancing through their FunSavers.
A later stop was the annual Red Cross charity MASH Bash where people cavort under really musty army surplus tents trying to look like MASH extras. Some pull off Hot Lips or Father Mulcahy fairly well.
I shot a couple in naval attire (her) and scrubs (him). I made four frames of them and moved on. The "doctor" came and tapped me on the shoulder: I hate to be a pain but she wonders if you'll come back and shoot another picture of us, she wants to do something with her leg.
As I knew one of the threesome I was then shooting I tipped her off: Something interesting is going to happen with this woman's leg, you may want to watch.
I walked over. The naval girl basically did a split on her beau, revealing all sorts of Victoria's Secret wares.
Of course suitable for publication, what do you think, I shoot for Highlights?
Disco was pumping through the musty tent and as I was leaving two girls were passing out on a curb outside the tent and one said to the other, roused out of her stupor:
Uhhhh, the BeeGees, not the BeeGees.
And I slipped off into the darkness, a ghost done with her soul-stealing for the time bean.
Love.

Firstly, how in blazes did Molly Hatchet's 'Kingdom of XII' end up within my illustrious cd collection?
Riddle me that.
Next on the agenda is this: why do not all artists have the same cavorting vibe about them that Yours Truly does? Namely, why did the artist who created the handpainted toilet (yes, I wrote toilet just then) NOT have a sense of humour about me sitting on his creation during the Take a Seat/chair benefit for the Middling City's beloved Studio Arena Theatre this evening? (Sidebar: I had a framed black & white print of one of my twinny models seated next to a furious fire, flowers in hand, for my contrib.) I handed my camera to my sister and said thusly: It's all set... get me quick. I went over, sat down on it (the art privey) with a straining look upon my (artistic/interactive) face.
The artist ran over muttering something, something about his 'Chair.'
Yeah, that and a packa smokes at a party'll get you a bunch of new acquaintances.
So during the tent party portion of this theatre benefit someone had the genius idea of hiring a really minimally-talented ROCK band in leather trousers to entertain the illuminati where a jazz quartet would have done the trick. Not only was I developing scenarios of how a certain office girl, I dubbed her MaryJo, would get canned early tomorrow AM for hiring Dirty Murphy (Ummm, MaryJo, could you please see me in my office in five minutes), but this band had a wireless mic and much later in the evening than the beginning the coiffed lead singer strolled about the tent as if this was his private karaoke time. He came up to me. I didn't know the (I think) ACDC cover that they were "performing." I started singing Yeah, Yeah, yeah, YEAH to the beat of the music and the lead singer looked at me as horrified as the toilet artist had and scurried away from me.
Oh well, we all have our strengths/talents.
Onwards to what the fuck I believe I'm good at.
Blogging, drinking coffee, making sublime images, conversing, shoe shopping and the like.
Off I speed to remedial rock audience participation classes.
My love.

Last night shooting ended with former Hüsker Du drummer Grant Hart warbling away on a guitar, his post-junkied teeth somehow still hanging on for dear life. His theme was scars (misunderstood by a Middling City listener as SARS) and at intervals he invited audience members to come up and share a scar to request a song. I was excited to show off one of several, attached to interesting stories, and had decided upon the deep right shin scar I got while shooting KMFDM and falling on a broken bottle and, standing on a barstool for a better angle, glanced down at the same time the sound guy stage right did and discovered I had bled all over my beloved soft doc marten boots acquired in Portland ME. A pool of blood, a piece of glass in my leg. I finished shooting (of freakin' course) and went to the front door where they took a shitty old tshirt and made a tourniquet of sorts. Well, I was going to share this story but by the time it could have been my turn I decided that I found Grant Hart supremely tedious. Enough, I said, and strolled back to discuss matters with others who had drifted away. The Neighbors, palsamine, sounded really great last night. Grant Hart might learn a thing or two about peppiness and delivery (and oral hygiene!) from these four.
Philip Glass's night in the spotlight actually rocked and I'm thinking of acquiring the piece performed last night, Symphony No. 3. Followed by a Q&A with PG seated front and center inviting any type of questions but that he'd probably do best answering music questions. Hardy Har, guess the comic twinge is in the Glass genes. For those of you not in the cognosenti, PG is Ira Glass's (swoooooon) uncle.
I am floating in writerly hell. Is my story too late? Will my editrix pal ever contact me? Will writing ever be an easy feat? Am I dyslexic? Am I a prognosticator? Am I a protagonist? A procrastinator? A pro-choicer?
Don't know (4x), Yes (4x).

So much Perfect News:
Just assigned seconds ago (ah! the life of a freeform freelancer) a shoot of the Philip Glass extravaganza at Middling City U tonight. They're banking on him standing up and making some sort of remarks at some point and that's not very definite so a-wingin-it I will be. If he's not onstage by, oh, 9PM, I'll hunt him down and get him backstage, lying on a divan surrounded by groupies and whatever.
Speaking of groupies spent most of Friday with The Nephew at Edgefest X at the local baseball venue, a somewhat sunny mediocre rock event. Highlight: Powerman 5000. The Nephew became Chief Little Autograph Hound backstage, politely asking playas for their autographs on his brand new SoCo bandanna. He kept wearing the bandanna high up to a point on his head, frighteningly resembling a much younger and healthier Pope. I showed him how to bestow a Papal Blessing and he gave such to several rockstars which they found charming. I had to give him Backstage Pointer #1: Don't Point and Backstage Pointer #2: Act always like you belong.
Yesterday shot an art party at an inner-city pro bono art school and there was, in a second floor art classroom, a girl holding an infant and two boys. The baby was crying. I glanced at it and thought Yikes, birth defecto... don't stare. The cry was odd. I looked more closely to discover it was a doll, one of those Baby, Don't Get Yourself Knocked and Cracked Up dolls that kids check out for a weekend and have to haul about for a weekend and a narc-like computer chip tells if this doll was left crying for long, shaken, etc.
I tried holding it and fed it its bottle. Then I looked at the kid: Do I have to burp her (its name was Jada, she said) now? I did. A few minutes of whoomping later there was sort of a breathing sound. She's done, the kid said.
Dixie Chicks management is being so obnoxious that I'm tempted to write back to their contact bitch and say You know what? I don't give a flying fuck about this show and these ladies need good publicity like mad so buzz off (or something to that effect). Four photogs only can shoot, one song only (#3), must shoot from soundboard (half a mile away), and the license and clearance agreement read like a messy pre-nup.
All in a few day's work and it's onwards for me... to caffeine, to deadlines, to images, to it all.
Love.

Suddenly readdicted to Amnesiac, Radiohead v2001 and nearly, now that I remember (this resurfacing and churned like the crockpot of chunky memory in me) it, peeing my pants thinking how there's a new Radiohead - a NEW RADIOHEAD - on the horizon.
As I write this I wonder if my editrix, my old dear friend Liz, might be reading this. Might she be gnashing her teeth with seether hate for me as I've been posessed by deadline anti-demons and have wondered where my story is much like she might be. It was derailed by her, actually, it was to be handed in two months ago. And then. And then. Tapes and notes move on their own. They shall be found, tamed, is it too late? There really is a writer down inside me, one that hates Photo Nancy for having too much the say. Then poor poet Nancy.
OK, here's a story: (omitting some details as it's not too on the import)
I am meeting some new people at a swankadelic joint when suddenly a broker of some sort introduces me proudly to a femme who's a matchmaker. She is not apparently married and I thought she resembled a psychic or aerobics instructor more than a matchmaker. But wait, I've never met a matchmaker.
Onwards. So we three now are talking when suddenly she blurts OHMYGOD she's perfect (that would be Yours Truly) for Jordan, turning to get Jordan's attention to meet me. (my cue to turn opposite direction and walk like my life depended upon the speed at which I propelled myself)
As I'm walking away the matchmaker I can hear is describing me to Jordan thusly:
Wide-eyed, virginal and WASPy.
If any of you smart, savvy, ironic and quip-filled epinw readers fucking know I'm just so not any of the above.
All.
Adjectives of unrequited Love.

Filed under Strange Things I've Seen Lately:
As credits rolled for the mediocre Laurel Canyon (yet Frances was luminous as the rock impressario/mom) and I sat to see who sang a certain song on the soundtrack a bottle clattered. The unmistakable sound of a bottle of booze hitting a hard cinematic floor. Looking behindways there was a man with what could only be called an impish grin reaching down to retrieve his bottle. As I was leaving the theatre with a pal there was the impish grinner, in the men's room, posing and making muscles for himself in the mirror. We caught glances. He was not embarassed.
My friend V made me a copy of his dark techno cd. This is what he does farting around in his Toronto suburb basement, his subterranean sonic world. And this cd rocks, would be a hit in the clubs.
Yesterday shot the all-day Kiss My Ass Hello Concert... Kiss the Summer Hello Concert to all others.
The day's highpoint by far was the crotch-grabby, swaggering and sexy set by LL Cool J, which I watched with The Nephew. This is the only act the child wanted to watch and I give him mad props for that... he eschewed all the nouveau R&B dance crap for this old school wonderment. Rock on Jake.
Now it's back to deadline hell.
Yet in hell I am ever full of imagistic Love.

Well, as the hotsauce bottle says, slap my ass and call me Sally.
It's finally time to go and see the band Anal Pudding, an event I've been putting off and putting off for some time, ever since that boy asked me to see them and I won an Academy Award for maintaining unresponsiveness when I wanted to spit laughter into his face.
Shot Robbie Goo Friday in the midst of the Albright-Knox Art Gallery show that he narrated with Johnny (audiotour). The pr nerds promised his appearance and I saw shitloads of Monets (actually there are several 19th Century surprises and I Perfectly Nancy rec the show), roast beef sandwiches... and no Robbie. Lo and behold and finally spotted him at the back of the sculpture court and went up to him and exchanged rock-worthy hugs and kisses. Posed him on a bench with feet up looking very comfy indeed and later emailed a few jpegs of same to People Online to see if they're interested.
Tomorrow is all-day fest, the first of season, at Darien Lake, and I'll be there with bells and nephew on. Planning on a spin on a few rides until time to shoot bands or I feel like barfing - whichever comes first.
But understanding that my inner ears have never been that stable, and I've been known to nearly fall over from standing still from time to time, I am betting my own hard-earned cash on the latter.
My perfect, undying, unsettled and unsettling love.

O Mighty Rock & Roll Power in the Universe/god please let my head soon feel it's part of my body and I'll never ask for another favour as long as I live.
(Yesterday's prayer after two meetings, a brunch date and six somewhat accidental gallons of coffee)

Met up later yesterday with a former lover and his wife of several years, also a friend. This would be the wealty technocrat who once said We can't get married, we're too much alike. To which I concurred and said Could you imagine the two of us trying to hang our art collection in the house - YIKES.
So we had dinner, some laughs and I sped off to shoot that twerpy Avril Lavigne and me and the Boy Collegues had to wait a good near hour and in the interim was much jostling about.
Dave puffing on his soggy cigar, wee baby shooter Marc (a mere 16! I said to him at Fleetwood Mac Jeeez, I thought you were from Rochester... and 21!), Lead Boy Colleague (in sandals. ?), Gary (who we now all refer to as PhotoGar (as in his AOL address), Charlie (ever-smiley), Ryan (who Lead Boy Colleague called to say Ummmm, you have a photo pass here and then he made it in 20 minutes flat... sans film so a-borrowin' he had to go), Pete and a few other occasionals. Two songs and we were out. Jesse from the venue offered us (as well as the tv guys) wristbands to stay and watch the show on the floor. His wristband offer was met with a deafening silence. Then one tv guy said Well, can I take it and use it for another show? Our collective thoughts exactly.
Inside the gig I turned to Charlie and said Look at this sea of little white faces. He added Little white girl faces. I dig looking at the signs that the girlies make spouting from their hearts their burgeoning rock and roll love.
These signs always feature bubble letters and sparkles.
Question: Can their be girlhoods without sparkles?
Answer: Was it a shock to you that the ol' Poopie Pope had Parkinson's, the affliction of my beloved Janet Reno?
Signs of love, sprinkled with sparkly farty effusions.