Was Malcolm this ecstatic post-Hajj? I think not.
My face is still sore from smiling, basking in the love vibes of Neil.
I love him. I love him.
Oh, and you should be so happy that you're not my neighbor as I went from blasting Chemical Brothers until I thought What the hell am I doing? and then ran over to the stacks of cd's to gather forth Neil discs. Now playing on 8.
The road manager told us 30' from the stage for shooting songs 1 & 2 and then a guitar moment during song #3. So he walks us back to the floor for a pow-wow about documentary matters, why I have no idear. So I said 30', RIGHT? He gave me the loving eyeball, knowing I might be a press photog but I GOT THE NEIL LOVE. Yes, 30'. Right on. So whilst waiting for Neil to come onstage talked about Neil Love with fans all around me in rows 3-5: couple wearing Mardi Gras beads, girlies in handmade Diamond Girls t-shirts (I asked if those were a tshirt option this tour but no so I'm wearing a Neil-issued white shirt with pink and spangly letters, hey HE designed it, I sure didn't), couples, pals... all of us talking about how much we love him. A group of women were saddened as they had flowers to toss to him but were told firmly NO GIFTS. Someone asked me if I was tossing my bra onstage but I said NO, I didn't plan ahead, I'm wearing a sports bra. So more waiting.
Then... Neil. In more of those troubling poly slacks I'd like to see him dispense with amid a roaring bonfire, boring black shoes and a white sequined shirt. I'd like to ask that he wear low-rise pants of better shape. And Neil should be working out, his ass needs some definition, which it's been lacking for a long long time.
So I'm of course watching his face intently while I'm shooting and note that he's doing this new thing between phrases, licking his lips. Neil needs chapstick road manager. He is scowling more than ever. But oh, the voice.
So a so-called pal decides she can't go and I've got ***** tix and I'm sitting, post-shooting, in press section between two boy colleagues who generally LOVE NEIL so I had a great time, singing along and me and the one boy colleague would say what song was coming after notes 1 or 2 and also do whatever hand gestures he was doing onstage. This boy colleage is also in a rock ensemble and I said, You know what? You need to say Thank you SO much, like Neil does.
During Girl, You'll be a Woman Soon Neil singles out a femme in front row and sings to her in a Bono-esque fashion, lying on the ground like a jungle cat, and mid-song this front-row woman actually touched Neil's face - to wipe away a drop of sweat. I shouted OhMyGod, she touched his face, which startled one of the boy colleagues. Why, what's wrong with that? I said WOULD YOU just reach up and touch the face of GOD?
And he did Shilo. I said to rock star boy colleague You have to love a man who writes a song about his dog.
Neil is perfect. And all is perfect in Nancy's world, post-haste.

Tonight is Neil's night. Turn on your heartlight. I need to call one certain pal who hates even saying Neil Diamond, play maybe Cherry Cherry into her answering machine. Called X-Boss in NYC to ask him If I asked you to go to Neil Diamond with me tonight your answer would be? He said Well, I would go for kitsch value.
Now he is firmly planted onto my list of questionables.
No matter where you go remember this: it's all fun and games until you put a star where one should not be. In other words this: my sister and I worked on the gallery showcase which is to hold hundreds of my archival photos with information and I placed a border of stars along the top and, on a whim, placed one solitary star (a north star if you will) OUTSIDE the showcase. This morning I received two phonecalls regarding this errant star. All should be inside the showcase to preserve the integrity of the space, etc.
Stars, know your place.
Last night popped in to shoot Henry Rollins and yet once again observed the phenomenon of how he appears to be about seven feet tall. I've stood next to the man and he's a bit shorter than my average American womanly height.
Stars, know your place - and your height.
Over and out, pressing and impressive deadlines usher me forth.
Love, always.

Justice is blind. So are cops. And judges.
My diagram sketched on photo lab envelope, pal's witness statement and my explanation weren't any match for the titanium resolve of the little man in the uniform.
I watched him as he spoke and came to the following conclusions: 1. he has no friends; 2. he has no sense of humor and; 3. he shaves badly (should have mentioned that to the judge. Your honor may I approach the bench? Sir... this officer has missed huge areas on the left side of his face whilst shaving this AM. Now I ask you, your Honor, how can an officer of the law and peace and such shave so horrendously and claim to have seen that my light on the zigzagging street was red as he raced towards me? I rest my case.)
Everyone said it's your word against his and he will win. Rah-rah for the other team.
Left traffic court and watched as a minivan sped through an ultra-red light.

Called mentor artist/private guru today to tell him our wakt and forgetful waitress from last night, who brought 10 sugars for my coffee and no cream (foisting her obvious sugar-addlement upon me), is an artist-in-training. Saw her today outside the art school as I made a photo delivery, her smoking furiously and still looking slightly out of control.
Slipped by discreetly without her dropping anything else on me.

Neil Diamond is getting closer.