Last night Thurston Moore (of Sonic Youth fame, lest you are not acquainted) mesmerized. A drunk comrade, front row, off to the side, caught me as I was passing and was nearly shouting I can play guitar betther than that. Thurston is not only beautiful with the most kissalicious lips, but his solo guitar work was gorgeous pared-down SY-style resonance. His writing was okay, mostly youthful ramblings about the burgeoning and innocent days of Patti Smith-era punk rock. In his early writing he used the phrase raunch & roll - a lot. The readers of writing preceding Thurston were weak and everyone who hit the stage discussed 9-11 and tragedy.
Off now to draw grain elevators for an art benefit so I'm dusting off my pencils.

Voyaged to another land yesterday for a day off of sorts with a friend. Realized I hadn't called my parents to wish them a happy (?) new year of marriage together and phoned them via cell from the car. As I was leaving a typical Nancyesque message Thanks for both being born, for having me, for meeting each other and marrying each other, and then, having me, the most wondrous product of your marriage, my friend's face was priceless as he glanced at me and I burst out laughing. When I returned home way late I had a message from my father What was so funny? There's another phonecall to make - not your marriage pops. . .
So no Kim Gordon tonight, only Thurston et al, and a few poets. Kim Gordon, I learned moments ago, is still in the NYC area as their daughter Coco is still freaking from 9-11. I am thinking now of one of my most fav rockstar images ever - Thurston Moore in front of me, caught in such a moment of rapture with his guitar, head and face gone in sound, it's very very sexy and hangs somewhat prominently on a nearby wall.
I want to find an extra copy and give it to him.
Off to a full late afternoon and night of freelancing, shooting, meeting, and driving driving driving into the wee hours of lively Nancy activity.

Post of shoulds. Not coulds. And definitely not woulds.

Should I admit that I'm now listening to a sonic cure, Deep Forest, from a past moment now frozen in faroff and embellished perfection.
Should I be astonished that the nervous lady at Victoria's Secret referred to my rack as IT when I inquired if she could glance at them and tell me their collective size.
Should I think it's disgusting that I lick the Oban bottle when I'm pouring myself a creativity enhancer and some drips down the side.
Should I refuse to give the two week visitor Henry the Dog back to his errant owner.
Should I sharpie the deadline application for the photo grant on my forehead, which now has a huge bump on it from a workout mishap.
Should I get back to work.
I shoulder deadline responsibility in this perfect world of mine.

One never knows when one will encounter a closeted hipster, now does one?
Had a freelance dropoff today out in the farout suburbs at a private catholically-infused college. My next stop needed to be a post orifice and, not knowing this suburb very well, rolled down my passenger-side window to ask an ultra-average middle-aged guy in the bland american car how the hell to get there, wherever it might be. He rolls down his window, is immediately smirky and ridiculous, and suddenly speaks as if he's a computer searching the internet for information. I'm processing, one moment please, he actually said. OK, got it...make a left then a right, etc. etc. (he was wrong, but after some vulture-style circles, found the damned place). As I'm thanking him he holds up his thumb, Fonzi style, and shouts ROCK ON. I am still amazed.
BSB (Backstreet Boyz/Bootie-Shakin' Boys/Butt Sucking Boobs) turned down my request to photograph them for my column. Oh well, no ringing ears later tonight from a sell-out teenaged crowd screaming their growing lungs out.

Still have the borrowed/dropped-off dog, Henry, and tomorrow is the day that his owner picks him up after nearly two weeks at Auntie Nancy's Spa for Pets. Brita pitcher water, Iams, healthy biscuits, grooming, a flowery yard in which to romp, rock & roll education - it's every canine's dream.
Last dusk's rah-rah-rah Peace is Over candlelight vigil was an odd contrast of iconography. The three fates in the form of habited nuns sat dourly on lawn chairs front & center in the off-limits (except to media, special guests, the handicapped... and the fates) section. Each held a flag, and a candle.
One of my boy colleagues said to me You know you're up for something interesting when even the nuns are out for blood.
At the end of the programme I felt suddenly like I had been jettisoned onto ground zero of a 1950's war-era movie replete with the patriotic chanting, bunting, plump babies, etc. There was one rotten apple which I noted, a drunk kilt-clad veteran who was groaning and shouting hoarsley either THANK YOU or GOD BLESS AMERICA. And we all know there's no way in hell he could shout GOD BLESS MY UNDERWEAR as men in kilts like to swing free & easy.
Walking back towards the vehicle with a small entourage of two, the throng rediscovered a downtown monument to veterans and there left multi-scented candles at the base of it and around its grass triangle, a sight which reminded me of the John Lennon 20th anniversary death vigil which I attended in Strawberry Fields.
All in all, great pictures. Especially the moment when I spotted a stepladder alongside the large stage, climbed up and shot from the side of the platform, my invisibility costume rendering me unseen by politicians, the lady signing, and the onstage troops. HOORAY FOR BEING INVISIBLE.

Mad as a man falling in yoga's tree pose upside down on a sunny day.

Drove out to the exurbs Friday night for a concert at the area's most difficult venue where photographers are subject to astronomical obstacles in the act of making pictures. And, as I am wont to say, when life gives you photo-related lemons do your damnedest and make lemonade. Specifically: Saliva and Godsmack at Darien Lake. Lighting minimal. Pyros terrifying. Sight lines difficult. Me and boy colleagues grasped at arduous moments and fading possibilities and I left growling.
But the night's most visually arresting snippets were guys and boys and men and jocks in starspangled jackets à la Evel Knievel and Old Navy shirts and bandannas on heads, waving old glory and hootin' & hollerin' underneath a suspended flag mid-venue/amphitheatre the size of which is only seen in front of that chain diner which discriminates against minorities, has lost court cases, and which serves food never resembling that represented in menu photos. So these guys were chanting USA USA USA !!!!!!! over and over and their fists pumped the air and if they had flags those were in their fists. These flag wavers were drunk, furious, and about to rock the fuck out. Before Godsmack's fairly amazing set a local dj came out, referred to 9-11, said Godsmack is making me do this and then, over the p.a., came the world's scratchiest rendition of the national anthem, so scratchy at first I couldn't tell what it was.
Later in the night, inner-city rambling, a few party stops, more of that rock & roll and party and art opening business on Saturday, and a yet more more more today. Off to another art function before a dinner gathering and then a candlelight vigil afore City Hall, already cardoned off in anticipation of thousands upon thousands.
Radiohead plays on in the background, a lush wall.
Pink Floyd lyrics sprung forward as I drove to a freelance gig this sunny day:
(stop here if you don't dig Pink Floyd, can't groove on their 70's and early 80's pomes, and never come back to epinw, fercrissakes)
So you think you can tell heaven from hell, blue skies from pain. Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail? A smile from a veil? Do you think you can tell?
Onwards to images in the making, to be made, which must be made, by me, the handmaiden of imagery - your beloved, fav blogging Nancy.