Eddie Money, who I shot in the filmic sense last night, is the sweatiest man in show business: in the space of four songs the tie-wearing performer soaked through his shirt and also the knot of his tie - sweat was accumulating at the top and soaking downwards. Another word on sweat: I'm still rather impressed with myself for being so diplomatic on Wednesday night when I hugged a rather large acquaintance at a benefit and it was like grabbing hold of a six foot damp sponge. He looked at my face waiting, I believe, for me to scream. I did not. A local singer songwriter femme of impressive talents duetted with Mr. $$$ on "Take Me Home Tonight" and I awaited this moment for what seemed an eternity. Finally It was happening. I was off to the side, not getting anything great, so I went onstage and squatted (not to pee) behind an amp for a moment when ironically-nicknamed Tiny came to take me away. As we walked down the ramp I asked Are you sure about this? Meaning = It's only Mr. $$$ and a local act and I am not in view of any audience member and I sure the hell don't look like I'm about to toss a bra or myself on Mr. $$$. The guitar tech squeezed me into another tight spot which was adequate. Special note to Mr. $$$: cool it on the anti-x-wife and divorce and rehab inter-song banter, it gets sort of old.
Thanks for your 80's-esque attention in this matter.
Your pal and apparant onstage nuisance, Nancy. XO

Satan sent me an email a few hours ago. Basically it said Hey, Nance, there's a special place here reserved for you. You'll be locked in a room for eternity with people eating popcorn and nacho chips with their mouths open, and you'll have to listen to cornball country western straight outta Nashville all the while. And you know why, missie. All those poor frantic editors whose lives you made so miserable with blatant disregard for their jobs, their deadlines, their sanities, and their happinesses.
One of my boy colleagues, when he phoned tonight, said How are you, my sister which took my ears by surprise: usually the boys refer to each other as brothers while I am uncategorizable. I thought.

Planning my next rock & roll pilgrimage, a drive to Cleveland to see some John Lennon remains at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Somehow I've managed to avoid that institution thus far and have heard from trusted others that it can be an annoying place. Hopefully it will be empty when I arrive. If only I had the star power of, say, a Madonna, or Christy Turlington, that when I entered a joint I'd have the authority (and staff on metaphorical board) to shut it down with a snap of my self-driven, manicured & well-moisturized fingers so I could peruse free from flotsam and jetsam. Sooner rock extravaganza is the all-day Warped Tour, a pleasure to photograph at as nobody onstage has a raging ego problem. Will be taking the nephew again - I've been taking him to WT since he hit the wizened age of six.

My Scare-o-Meter was off register when, while covering a food-related event in a park, I photographed an older couple who own a food-related downtown business. They asked Are you Nancy? I gave appropriate answer (ie: who the hell wants to know/are you writing a book/etc etc=kidding, sort of) and they said Oh our son talks about you all the time (yikes) and HE CALLS YOU HIS GIRLFRIEND (super YIKES). His mother said this with a little hand gesture subtly indicating Oh you crazy kids, god only knows what REALLY goes on in your lives. Thoughts not immediately - but gradually - turned to my concert security guard acquaintances who have, on occasion, offered their services as "private protection." I have one of the the business cards of a "private protection" purveyor and it features a prowling panther on it. Maybe I should hire him to rough-up my psycho "boyfriend." All in all a fab weekend of music photography, general mayhem, some sloppy celebrity guest bartending, and standing in a yurt for a wedding I shot on a beach in Canada on Saturday. It's not every day one gets to stand in a yurt in bare feet in Canada. I live a charmed life. All for now, Your Favored Nancy.