The Middling City's Main Street has been littered with a wrecked red sedan for a long while. I've been to & fro from MC to Parsons several times and still it's there. Saw it last night and then again this AM en route to the photo lab. But a wondrous new twist! Some art students, I speculate, armed with day-glo pink spraypaint went to proverbial town on the car and it's entirely hot hot pink.
But now that I think of it perhaps this is a band of concerned citizens setting out to highlight Middling City eyesores. These folks will be damn busy.
Had freelance gig #1 this AM and one of the Bar Mitzvah boy's uncles remembered me, a moment which always has me feeling slightly howshallIsay under the XY microscope, and he said You're a photographer I like. After about half an hour of my guerrilla family-arranging strategies and gentle cajoling and general photog merriment (my Perfect specialty) he (jokingly) said You're the photographer I LIKED?
Off to many points beyond. But not the bigass country show tonight at Darien Lake, a gig delegated to Lead Boy Colleague, who's been making my traversing days a heap easier with his rootin' tootin' shootin'.
All.

Today in our grad seminar we spent the better part of 3 hours discussing postmodernism and the fore, modernism.
Self, noself, etc.
Saw and shot Ani last night at Central Park, part of Summerstage. It was a fabulosic night after a day resembling rain. A very mellow gig and everyone was very stonerific... yeah, like whatever.
She came out with a growl and the up and downness of the show was usual, her army out in full force, grooving on every little nuance. Always interesting to observe.
There was a girl shooting for D'Addario Guitar Strings, a German guy shooting For German television, a guy from Central Park and a random other. In the front of the crowd a few people asked who I was shooting for and when I replied ARTVOICE two people said Oh... I read AV, are you Nancy J. Parisi? There is no escaping Middling City escapees.
I am a grad student, thinking all the time, all the time, all the time. Making and doing and making and doing.
And diggin' on the whole dang thang.
My overworked and overtaxed love.

Further barrage of Photoshop information and my brain is saying Hmmmm, it's so nice and sunny outside right now, howsabout a meandering with the camera? I have a meeting in a few hours with a visiting artist to go over my newest work, all printed-out as 8x10s and looking very good, if I may say so myself.
Back in session of marathon Wired Studio class so off I go.
Braincells don't fail me now.
Love.

Right to the important part. The Perfect Nancy Johnny Depp review. Having to look at him with dreads and unsightly braids in beard is better than having no Johnny Depp to look at at all. I rest my case.
Two miraculous things about the pirate movie:
1. His kohl eyes, what's best referred to as the Keith Richards eye thing, never are diminished even after watery battles and endless rum-filled nights. And swashbuckling and general mayhem. Perma-liner. And why, I wondered, would pirates have had this like linebackers do to prevent all that pesky reflection? I need answers.
2. Even when Johnny Depp becomes an accursed skeleton (plot device!) he is still beautiful and the age-old cliché of 'jumping one's bones' sprung to mind.
Only bad part of the movie was that my PSD schoolmate I was with misplaced a wallet and I received a frantic call to see if I had accidentally grabbed it. I had not. But I would like to have grabbed Johnny Depp. Today in the Post I saw a photo of that bimbo Vanessa Paradis, what the hell does he see in this woman?
Had the imagistic priviledge yesterday of shooting an ultra-Orthodox Jewish wedding at Niagara Club in Niagara Falls, NY. Made for Life mag-type shots of the veiling ceremony, the drinking of wine under chupah sub-ceremony, etc. There were two standoutish moments.
The whole day was sexually segregated but as a person with a mechanical device strapped on I was able to float between the two spheres. In the mens' pre-ceremony room (where bottles of topshelf liquor were everywhere and so were plastic shotglasses) I was even offered a drink. Only after I replied Thanks, Diet Coke, did I realize the error of my freelancer ways. I was to drink a hard drink.
The second standout was that the dancefloor was divided by a white cloth and the same klezmer band played to the women and to the men, who enjoyed their post-nuptial merriment separately. It was a sight. The men danced sweetly in each other's arms, more touching than displayed with their girls and wives. They were red-faced with liquor and hard dancing. The women played more games like jump-roping and I thought that maybe the games seemed somewhat childish because back in the day brides might have been mere teenagers, ready to rumble before the big ol' (yikes) premier wedding night rumble.
Oh, the B&G made off to the private room (which all Jewish weddings I've shot utilize, a moment to say Hi, etc. before the social onslaught) but this Orthodox wedding included male elders watching the door to make sure that... no suitors/interlopers/pretenders slipped in?
All for now, back to graduate matters at hand, afoot, amind.
Love.

She just wants to be somewhere.
She just wants to be.
She just wants to be somewhere.
She just wants to be.

I tried to find The Kid tonight, to ask him to be my muse. He must be the muse of me. I got a response (an artful rsvp) from the prof who so shattered my ideal world. He had no ideal. I did. But then I did not.
I have embraced Oban again. Hello Oban, give me bigger, give me bigger ideas.
I pet Extra until I wore a path into his fur and he screamed for Mercy.
I have no idea. I have no ideas. I have no ideal. I have no ideals.
I am a grad student?
I am a student of life?
I am a liver?
I am alive?
I am a lie?

Buddha Love.

As my grad student luck would have it I was phoned yesterday, nearly 24 hours ago, by my Middling City editor in NYC, as I was working on my DreamWeaver creation. Yikes, I thought... what tragedy has befallen the paper that he's phoning me, what photo needs have crossed his mental desk, I wondered.
Hi, he said, where are you?
Fucking around with DreamWeaver was my curt response. Why?
Oh, because we are in a cab heading to Balthazar and I wondered if you'd like to join us.
Us was Jamie/publisher/pal, his pal Seward and two associates of the paper.
I joined them. Much joviality. Much great French vin.
Then the two associates split.
Then I discovered that Seward had attended some very historic rock&roll gigs - like Hendrix at Fillmore East, Led Zeppelin's first American show...
and Pink Floyd shows - with Syd Barrett.
Poor Seward (no, not really), I really pumped him for SB info. How was he on stage? What did he wear? Did he seem in control?
Seward said that at Pink Floyd shows he felt like he was Underwater.
This has captured my rockstar-luvvin imaginings.
So Jamie, Seward and I wandered the Village, finally landing at The Bitter End to watch some mundane local bands, hepped-up on their respective and collective fans.
Just before that ultimate stop Jamie (after I gushed about the womblike qualities and Canarino Voltaire at Caffé Reggio) mandated a stop for some eggy-rummy-boozey treat. Called? Something starting with V that the 'boys in the back' have to make. That complicated.
Finished week numero three-o of PSD (interesting sidebar: whereas my pal/publisher Jamie was once unsupportive of my MFA decision, requesting - though I did not oblige - a leave of absence, unpaid, last night he was damn-near beaming with paternal pride at my studenthood) and am now contemplating wandering over three blocks to see Johnny Depp in that pirate charade.
Johnny.
Depp.
melt

"USA Today's lead, in an exclusive, suggests why you've never seen a clear photo of that piece of falling foam that likely doomed the shuttle Columbia: Budget cuts. According to the paper, the photo department's 'staff was reduced, cameras were eliminated, and the repair shop that helped keep the cameras and telescopes operating was severely cut back.' The photo program had 150 workers in the early 1990s and 35 by last February. 'It now appears in retrospect that there were not enough cameras in place to support the Columbia mission,' said the president of company contracted to take the photos."
This quote is fetched via MSN, I subscribe to their compilation of lead stories in the world's leading journals. I mis-read their header and thought I was going to read a story about the legendary Chuck Taylor sneaks and their rumoured demise when I began reading about the prez of Liberia stepping down. His name? Charles Taylor. Chuck, Charles, big diff.
So I begin blogging with this quote self-satisfactorially as when that Columbia debacle happened I instantly questioned why there were nothing but amateur snaps and videos of it, wondered aloud (a lot) why NASA had no tracking documentary means. Many (usually egg-heady boys) scoffed that saying that NASA tracks things via satellites and blah blah blahditty-blah.
I rest my case, but not on my laurels.
Back to Parsons work and then to hit the streets a-shootin'.
All my Big Appled Love.

Made freelance moola to pay, in my humble estimation, for the next few weeks of school where the meter ticks along heartily.
Have been making layered street images and been having incredible visual dreams.
Sat last night, as I awaited Jackdaw's set, upstairs at the venerable and stinky Continental to get some art ideas. Told Jesse at the door that I get some of my best art ideas while in the loudness and darkness (and anonymity) of upstairs. It's loud enough that your thoughts must fight the decibels. On the dance floor were The Goths, represented last night by a scrawny dyke with bandanna, her girlfriend with some sort of long red head wrap and fishnets, and a thick man with piercings doing what's best known as the coffin shuffle. When anything, of course, was not Goth enough they'd vacate the premises. The non-responsive dj went on an all-80s bender and played When Doves Cry which I just had to end art thoughts for to dance in the corner, head down. This is what it sounds like when doves cry, indeed.
Jackdaw's set was truly great and that tall Irish boy was wearing his usual kilt. Such a big sexy and athletic man that he pulls off a kilt better than most.
Bought one of their girlie t's with an upside down crown. They were $15 but I managed only to scrape together $9 and they let me have it, being Perfect Journalistic and Jackdaw-boosting Nancy.
Went on to the final destination, Mohawk, where I saw Two Cow Garage and Slobberbone. I've seen the latter numerous times but preferred the former better, especially their screaming Beatles cover. Whose title escapes me at this moment.
Had meaningful conversation with The Kid of Girlpope and he was completely irradiated and for a while we discussed fairness and spf's and harmful UV rays. I told him that I go from pale to third degree burns in a flash and that's no lie.
He is a beautiful boy, of the dark red-headed variety and we spoke so long that his girlie pal came over to throw her territorial arms about him.
(sidebar: it's been a Barry White tribute weekend and he's been crooning and rocking my world all weekend when I've popped into the home office hovel to work)
Love.

Just jetted back, again. Was greeted by several of the boys/the kitties and gave them a sound brushing to get rid of the flotsam and jetsom in their fur.
Ani is playing Central Park's summer stage on July 16th and I have to call Righteous Babe, home of the Little Folk Singer, for creds... and passes.
Barry White, I heard via an overhead tv monitor, passed onto the big soul lounge in the sky today - too soon.
Thank you Barry for all your romantic music.
Time to play some of that and thank you some more.
Off after that to a bbq and some small-scale pyros before a walk to Delaware Park for larger, more expansive pyros.
God Bless My Underwear!

dreams.

1. A few nights ago I dreampt/drempt/dreamed (?) that I made an art installation and that the pieces were sculptural, sound art. They were on pedestals and when a certain word was uttered the piece would grow. A piece might recognize the word fuck and when the sculpture heard the word it would snap to life and get larger, change configuration.

2. Last night after twelve hours at school I walked, as always, through Washington Square Park and there were, on the eastern quadrant around the fountain, hundreds of chalk circles. Big and small. The artist(s) left behind several unfinished chalks and it looked like they suddenly lost interest in their circular project and went away. They used many of the circles to write words that have O in them... lOve, spOrts, hOnor, etc. I wanted to shoot this circle art and today it was gray, rainy, no circles. Almost like a dream of circles, chalk, temporality.

Somnamulistic Love.

Purchased and have been playing with the Olympus digital 5050. Almost accidentally blinded myself last night by throwing it on night setting, pointing at my face and getting zapped by a shocking beam of orange light emanating from it. Have been doing street photos as well as some images ranging from thoughts of flowers wrapped in bronze wire. Both shot with 5050 (amazingly 6megapixels) and the Hasselblad borrowed from Parsons. Still not impressed with the Hassel501, it makes me further appreciate my Mamiya RZ and its wonderful rectangular format. And rotating back.
My street images are always of something with figures in the background, inspired by my gallery (usually) newspaper images when I purposely include and crop in the paper to images/figures in the background - to me as important as the foreground faces.
A reaching pathetic urban planter with figures walking away way in the back.
In moments there's a demo for us grad people of a Leaf digital back which is thrilling me to no end. I'm thinking I'd like to avoid the darkroom if possible, go from digital back to screen to print. If we're to be stretching the black & white prints, still in my mind, should be shelved while I play with the aforementioned.
Discovered a very secret french joint perfect for reading, a far cry from the salad bar universe around the school. And mere steps from it. Where a bottomless bucket of coffee, baguette and accoutrements are $4 and the background music is oso French.
Baguettes of Love.

Yesterday was a rockstar extravaganza with 7 or 8 hours of walking from stage to stage and talking with some of my favored Middling City residents, those who populate bands.
In a nutshell: Tony Christiano couldn't play as he had a dislocated shoulder from softball, Steve Ryder can play now after recuperating from punching a window - when his hand "went through something glass," The Sheila Divine is fairly done, members of Cracker complained about border crossing and their drummer asked me when I was standing onstage near him what the non-alcoholic version of Labatt Beer is (?), Alison Pipitone had a blemish on one side of her face and asked me to shoot her from her right side so I began to call her Liza (as in Minelli, who had me shoot her from her left side ONLY), Mockba performed in matchy-snatchy b-ball unis, Freeland played in his uniform FUCK tights which shocked my 6-year old niece for some reason, Val Townsend from The Edge showed me the exciting things she was crafting up with the wack of Mardi Gras beads hanging about the radio station's remote van, missed Baby Rock Star but not his one remaining bandmate who was covered in sweat, got hugs from numerous sweaty individuals, tried to get a shot of Eddie The Cop Cotter emptying some unfortunate punk rockers' 40s onto the ground so as to make it look like he was drinking it himself, etc.
Imagistic and Meandering Love.

Middling City singer-songwriter Pam Ryder (and boys) were on fire last night, I was so impressed with how far she's come as a performer. She rocked with Throwing Muses fury and Nietzsche's was packed.
Tomorrow is the ARTVOICE Street Festival, from 1-8ish. Me and Donny K and Marky booked the bands and arranged them on four stages. My longtime favs, Last Conservative, who've gone through major personnel changes (half the band left) I put on one of the stages early, thinking that because of the instability they should not have a more populated later set. Apparently TJ was upset about playing at 1:30. Oh well.
Really don't care too much for the headliners - Nighthawks and Cracker - but what do you want for free, what do you want for a day's work.
After the fest will rush home and lay out the column and file.
Then back on the plane at 6AM to return to GradLife.
Sun-filled Love.

More lauds to Justy for yanking me from Chelsea art op fabulousness to greater rockstar fabulousness. Namely the Wilco and Sonic Youth gig at Central Park's Summer Stage. Ani's playing there in a while and I'm going to call thee Tom at thee MTV for credentials and then I'll insert her into my column.
It was a grand show and the contrast between the mellow, summer-diggin' crowd and that of the swilling Middling City masses usually at Thursday at the Square was gigantic. At one point during Wilco's excellent set I asked Justy's pal/occasional bandmate Nick for a light, specifically a ligher. Then held it aloft during a more poignant Wilco ballad. You might deduce from this post that I missed SY... sadly they were not headlining. How were they not headlining?
Jetting back to the Middling City in a few hours to shoot non-stop, make the freelance moola paying for Parsons.
The woman who manned the Polaroid for my PSD id, I speculate, was on mind-altering drugs. My head is barely in the frame. But in true DMV photo style, she caught me at my most awkward facial gesturing.
Time to rock.
Love.

Let us get down to brass tacks, I say. Let me not link you to Gary Wright's masterful ballad Dream Weaver, let me paste it in here and now for you.
This Dream Weaver = harmless, simply-structured.
The other Dream Weaver = furious, complexly-structured and I am afeared I'll be reaching my own morning light before I can say I understand it. Here's hoping in a few days I look back at this post with uproariousness.
Love.

I've just closed my eyes again
climbed up on the dreamweaver train
tryin' to take away my worries of today
and leave tomorrow behind

Chorus:

Ooo Dreamweaver, I beleive you can
get me through the night
Ooo Dreamweaver, I beleive we can
reach the morning light

Fly me high through the stary skies
and maybe to an astral plane
Cross the highways of fantasy
Help me forget todays pain

repeat Chorus

tho the dawn may be coming soon
there still may be some time
fly me away to the bright side of the moon
and meet me on the other side

Ooo Dreamweaver, I beleive you can
get me through the night
Ooo Dreamweaver, I beleive we can
reach the morning light
Dreamweaver...
Dreamweaver....

yikes-a-roni, just because I have a freakin' blog makes me no webmistress.
Having a helluva time with Dream Weaver (really can't say those two words together without thinking of that guilty pleasure pop song) and the naming of things and where in hell they're landing and such.
Felt like the class was suddenly being taught in Korean and now I'm off to grab the textbook to see if I can sort this out and then unloose my inner rockstar webdominitrax.
The cast of characters of the class swirls and we are so busy it's difficult to really bust loose and get to know each other.
By the end of the 8 weeks I hope to be able to completely kick ass - offline and on.
My addled and rollicking love.
ps: so many hits today (still not close to the record) as my blog was brief required reading for Wired Studio

Oriented beyond belief right now, after about 7 or so hours of welcoming, information gathering and talking at Parsons.
Now catching up on the work part of my life and about to rejoing the pedestrians of NYC and see if Dorota is up to sushi and mischief.
All for now and over and out,
Love

Off to the end gig of the Middling City Guitar Festival in moments. A sunny affair with mid-tempo, mid-career bands.
Last night shot a society wedding and as I did the backwards walk in front of the bride there to my left was Kenneth Jaworski of Netherlands, specifically Amsterdam, fame and fortune. Talked to him later and he told me that he's in a band there, called Delaware, and that they hired some snazzed-out firm to design their cd package.
Got over the DMB sticker turn-in fiasco. Slightly.
My images of Dave rival any true artpiece. They are masterful, capturing his nuances well - the curved left eyebrow, the contorted fingers on frets, the devilish little smile.
Ahh, Dave.
There are occasional explosions outdoors and I forget every year that in this lawless corner of the Middling City this is where folks love to blow shit up in summertime.
I myself enjoy the colorful, flaming style pyros. The pickled man (read drunk) next door is not awakened by explosions in my backyard, only my loud whoops of awe - I am sure.
Tomorrow grad school.
Today the caffeinated newspaper deadline.
My Libran, balanced and convoluted Love.

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.

One word springs to mind when I think of last evening's Fleetwood Mac show:
t - h - o - r - a - z - i - n - e,
or whatever the hell it was that one of my former neighbors on Putnam Street (my special name for him = Hosey for the pantyhose he wore on his head, rather, a part of the hose on his head, sometimes - no lie! - with the cotton crotch floating on the back of his head as he made his way to and fro to and fro from his halfway home two doors down to the small mom and pop bodega where he walked back walked back walked back with a few candy bars balanced atop a can of Pepsi.) took every day.
Stevie Nicks displayed such anti-Stevie Nicks edgy freaky earth bitch energy and I noted, through Lead Boy Colleague's big ol' lens, that she was not even making the connection between her manicured hand and the tambourine. A ruse.
The others were doing their jobs. The crowd glass was half-full.
I had more fun and witnessed more stagely enthusiasm later at Mohawk Place watching banjo masters and folk soloists with Doug.
And, unlike Fleetwood Mac, those musicians did not make the press stand about half a mile away to shoot their likenesses, to steal their souls.
Off for more more more.

Thee only bad thing about last evening's Steve Earle gig was his lame-o attempt at a combover. Shouldn't such a perfectionist with off-stage guitar tech with a Kentucky Waterfall to beat the band (a mullet to those of you in the Middling City), exemplary songwriting and just the proper mix of balladry and intersong political banter be able to swoop the last remnant of headtop hair in a better way? Just a thought. Trying to lure one of my boy colleagues, Marky, into the Earle fold, as he's missing something I know he'll be digging.
Approached stage from the left side and, as I made proper media ok's previously, attempted to take my spot in the mini-pit, next to the other guitarist's guitar tech (and I've never seen one work this hard, in addition to non-stop tuning of about 10 he slargled a Rolling Rock, smoked, jumped onstage to play guitar and for one song, a synthesizer), when I was stopped by a ball of security flesh.
Badass: Where do you think YOU are going?
Me: Over there (pointing at Steve Earle's beat-to-crap cowboy boots)
Badass: No, YOU are NOT.
Me: Well, the promoter said it was ok.
Badass: Well, he's right over here and I'll ask him.
Me: (internally) you do that, fattie.
Badass: Go right ahead.
So about half an hour into the show I ask him
Me: So what should I call you besides Badass?
Badass: Excuse me?
Me: WHAT SHOULD I CALL YOU BESIDES BADASS?
Badass: I'm a Dynamic Bouncing Technician. Nick.
(joy! at ever discovering hidden comic talent)
So it turns out this Nick/Badass is not only a security guy but a Harley tech, a body tech (masseur) as well as a former Teamster and pipe-fitter. I find him fascinating.
On the other side of me was a goofball Canadian (no Kentucky Waterfall/Hockey Hair) who holds blues concerts in his living room in Barrie, Ontario.
For someone who claims the role of promoter he didn't know a thang about shows.
He had that wide-eyed Canadian charm, that interesing sonic attack of all things vowel (and, as always, apologies to dear Canadian pal Georgie-san) but he didn't understand via my body language that at some point I was no longer interested in explaining the Middling City music scene to him when Steve Earle was in the room - and that, given a choice, I'd rather speak to a squat polymath who could fix my body, sweat my pipes and repair my Harley, should I ever acquire one in a foolish midlife purchasing frenzy.
Love.

Sort of an Ani swagger parade is how I'd describe the Ani cd just left in my possession by Lead Boy Colleague. Guess I paid scarce attention to the release of Evolve and I'm digging the moth illustration on the cover. Jazzy. Onwards.
Best music news of late is the appearance tomorrow night of Steve Earle. His sister Stacey has hunkered down on Middling City stages here and there and now it's time for the best Earle of all. A blow your head off and switchblade yer heart extravaganza to be sure.
Next night, that'd be Thursday to yous not always working within linear timetables, is Fleetwood Mac and I'm feeling fairly sure that that'll not be as adrenalizing as Earle, or their last MC gig when that whole hoopla surrounded them when they drug their collective asses out of near-obscurity to hit the highway. All, really, thanks to past prez Bill Clinton and his inaugural Don't Stop...
My new school, New School U's Parsons School O'Design, is so discombobulated as they've lost and resent a few forms which is a real head-scratcher.
I tell you what:
yesterday had to break into my residence not once but freakin' TWICE. Doorknob lock went all kaflooey and dragged a ladder to the back of the house, broke a second floor window, set off home alarm (never thinking to unalarm) and then jimmyed (when the hell do you get to use this excellent verb?) the door off its hinges while bleeding up and down the wall out of a finger. Very evenly spaced and I've already pointed this out to four, I think unimpressed, others. So also while I'm bleeding and jimmying I'm on the phone with a man from Total Safety:
Me: what do you mean you can't find me in your computers? I pay my bills to you every month.
Him: I'm sorry but I don't see you... can you get to your keypad? It's rather difficult to hear you.
Me: BECAUSE MY ALARM IS GOING OFF. I guess you can't help me, GOODBYE.
About an hour later, after the cops came and went, I realized that I have Brinks, not Total Safety.
So same thing happened - unbelievably! - three hours later after I thought I fixed the prob. Turned alarm off, no cops, no jimmying. New doorknob.
All's swell that ends swell.

Yesterday, whilst reading a cookbook as I sat in my car and figuring out my paella strategy for today, I inadvertently, upon the passenger side, let loose my car keys. After shooting a wedding in a small town, and then trying to get into the car, I realized the tragic turn of luck. Hitched a ride with wedding people to a country club, hobnobbing with their bitchy limo driver the entire way. He was driving a near-classic limo like a yacht.
Him: This family never tips me, I drive the aunts around, the mother of the groom around, and they are all loaded. No tips, I'm like a waitress, I work for minimum wage. GRRRR, etc.
Me: (thinking) get a-no-th-er j.o.b.
So I'm grabbing his big subliminal hint that for helping me I should grease his craggly palm. I did - for the rides to & fro and for hanging onto my cell phone as I shot more wedding moments, alerting my photographic self when AAA was en route. More kvetching from Mr. Limo. We arrived at my car and the guy in the towtruck said Your car doors are already open. Handed tip to Mr. Cranky. Had a stress smoke on way back to club. Accidentally melted a grand and gaping hole into an article of clothing in the back seat - glad the little ember didn't hit the old newspapers archived vehicularly. Imagine someone making an announcement during the wedding reception thusly:
Would the asshole who parked right next to the building please rush out to your vehicle, it's engulfed in flames!
Conflagration follows me.
As do high rockstar times and minor misdemeanors.

They found one! They found one!
Listening to NPR learnt that those wily rascals in Iraq located one of those trucks-cum-chem-labs that Colin Powell lectured about a while back to the UN, who didn't buy his tale for one second.
Haven't heard back yet from my French family, who I assured that I (and all my friends and acquaintances, as far as I know) completely agree with their princely prez.
Countdown to studenthood and this is your mission: please send me some cash (what you can muster), some pink pearl erasers, some ear plugs, some cd's of your choosing and other sundry office supplies. As well as giftcards to Starbucks. As Jason so wisely observed, NYC (believe this or not) is short on mom-n-pop coffee joints so it's Starbucks... not a bad thing. It was whilst sitting in a lower Man. *BX (a stone's toss from Ground Z) that I am, I think, addicted to the bean. Could be worse. I was waiting for Jason and Dorota to unsubmerge from Century 21 with bargoons galore as I sipped and sipped.
On the hi-fi is Flaming Lips' excellent cover of Shakira's Can't Get You Out of My Head = sublime.
Your homework assignment: purchase the Lips' ep Fight Test.
Over and out and over and over.
Love of springtime flailing prehistoric millipedes who offer up domestic *surprise*.

Pearl Jam Friday night so captured my imagination (post-soul stealing of them by Yours Truly) that I was inspired to purchase their hi-end 100% polyester soccer jersey-style concert t with large embroidered P and J on either side of a lightning bolt = BOSS.
They dedicated Given to Fly to Vinnie Gallo.
Last night's Dave Davies (puffy, badly dressed) gig left me feeling Am I missing something here? Approached the exit and saw two cronies who had the similar feeling - one of them felt like she was seeing a former superstar on a county fair stage.

My aunts are an endangered species, another went the way of the Great Plumed Spotted Heron, indigenous to the Middling City's Historic Old First Ward, this morn. My mother sat with the body of Vivian until the deathly authorities arrived. My mother asked if I'd read something and I said Nothing biblical, I'll read something I find or write, but, really, nothing biblical.
Tonight is Pearl Jam and a lovely named Tom of Epic sent me two tix for the pc extravaganza. Beforehand an appearance at an opening of my work et al and afterwards (here comes the best best part) an absinthe party.
Behold! The green fairy has arrived! I should be muttering uttering at about 11PM.
Green winged love.

Say what?
Ministry last night, as Security Paul pointed out, had turned on a row of Marshalls stacks - photog ear level. Got there with 20 minutes to go and Al (that would be Jourgenson) came onstage with a bottle of red wine in one hand and a cigar in the other. Shooting around his goofball monstrosity of a mic stand was a challenge to be sure but got some excellent, unguarded moments.
Was on the sidewalk in front of the venue, on a stretch of desolate Niagara Falls, NY Main Street, when suddenly there was a commotion and the promoter said Ohhh, our first ejection of the evening.
The ejection was a younger guy, face half bloody, shirt all mangled who was in a mild state of shock. Apparently he was minding his own business (hmmm) and then a security guy grabbed him by the throat and klocked him in the eye. As more mayhem was approaching in the form of screams and the sound of shoving people I looked at the promoter and the head of security and said Well, it's time for Nancy to check out.
Afterwards went to see a Baby Rock Star pal, Roger, in his second acoustic and post-Last Conservative gig at Mohawk Place. His former leader, TJ, apparently on the fast track to becoming a supreme lush announced that he was drunk again and was obviously a bit injured at Roger's solo endeavour - a primo one. Roger ran out of his material so did a few Dylan covers. Talked a while with MZ, Favored Baby Rock Star, and Tyler and Tyler and I hashed over our favored Patti Smith concert vignettes.
After enduring the ineptitude of JetBlue Productions this post-flight/rockstar night was purrr-fect.
Onwards to business.

Blogging at an internet cafe on WB'way at Human Epicenter despite the fact that my skewel - PSD - offers me this at a greatly (read: FREE) reduced price. I was seduced by flowering bulbs, stretching ivy and this joint off all that.
Met for coffee one of my new schoolmates, Margaret, and had a grand time exchanging SoWhyAreYOUDoingThis tales and compared theoretical/practical notes on making art.
Met a few of the others before and after the Duane Michals chat-up at Parsons Monday night where I had Justy meet me for some erudition and then some macrobiotic fare and organic wine (Justin, looking up from dinner plate, sort of a punished look on face: Uhhh, Nance, why are we eating seaweed? Me: Because I was scouting out locations for food near Parsons. Justin: Oh).
Apparently insulted Michals, who I've seen before, in the Middling City, by asking him about (god fucking help me!) his EQUIPMENT, specifically, lighting.
This derailed his charming queenly self-musing and he said Oh... what do you want to know that for? Then I think he realized that not only was his talk underwritten by Canon (with reps in row #1) but that he was speaking to assembled students. My questions was Do you strive to shoot in available light and if not do you always try to light things to look like available light?
egads
So then after some verbal song and dance he said Four Toto (hot) lights with umbrellas.
Speaking of equipment went to Photo Mecca/B&H yesterday afternoon and wandered about in equipment reverie, stopping to talk to Mr. Lighting and I had this crashing realization:
If in NYC and looking for a beau all a person needs to do is wander into B&H with inquisition in one's mind and heart and voi-fuckin-la you'll have a steady. It's a theory anyway. I've been in there how many times and have had guys ask me out and not only that but to freelance for them, at them. I think there's a story in there, maybe even a haiku.
Well, back to my poetic enhanced NYC walking regimen before meeting up with Dorota.
Then back to Middling City via Hellways Airlines (Jet Blue).
Note to self: no matter how large the voucher USAir is always the way to go.
Love of travel,
Your favored and special Nancy.

Patti.
Smith.
Rocks.
And will forever be hipper than all of us.
Friday night was the Patti & Ralph Show with both of them doing their respective thing (her = activist music, him = marathon activism) in a gymnasium to a surprisingly not huge crowd. She was stupendous (and, thanks to Doug and I of Janet Reno Fan Club fame we got everyone sitting stupefied up and dancing, after I catapulted myself through a few people and misjudged the distance and leveled both Doug and I think a chair as well as Your Fav Nancy) although I realized at her gig last night she was totally saving her shamanistic powers for Saturday, last night, at Sphere, where, she said, she was to do her Legendary show.
Three hours of her and men in very great shoes/the band. Including Oliver, a young and handsome swain perhaps half her age, her Man.
Observations:
1. Stipe, as he's stated his own self, owes much of his art to Patti Smith.
2. PS spits like a champ with real punk rock verve.
3. PS has no fat cells within her body.
4. Backstage talking to her I was shocked/stunned that her eyes are Marty Feldman-esque.
5. Backstage talking to her I was realizing that she doesn't quite know what to do with herself offstage.
During her gig last night I shuttled myself down to the front, elevated side and was thankfully surrounded by rock star boys who said nothing to annoy me at this momentous affair but who I shared rock observations with. At the Friday gig I sat most of the time next to Baby Boy Colleague which was fun.
After last night Patti went and met others at The Butchies at Mohawk Place and they surprisingly rocked as lezbo couples danced about. I saw a girl I wanted to model for me at one point and realized that nope, she doesn't have enought X factor.
The Butchies' drummer directed the question What... do you have SARS at me when I had a sneezing fit after chomping down on some German blow-your-fuckin-head-off menthol/mint gum. I shouted NO, it's mint gum and she said Oh, I have that problem, let me see if it makes ME sneeze. So up to the stage I went and gave her a piece of this German stick of dynamite. She said I'm pretty keyed up so it might not work.
Chew.
Chew.
Chew.
Nothing. She asked her bandmates to confirm that she gets the mint sneezies and they said Yup. So back to rock. Eric dug them so much that Jen bought him a shirt, a wise rock apparel decision.
All for now and over and out.

To mildly put it Andrew WK last night, playing at Middling City College's Spring Fest, was r-i-p-e, just the way he wants to be. Dirty white t-shirt, dirty white jeans and new white sneaks. Shooting from the pit I kept smelling something and realized it was him. Other than the aromatic category he looked hot. I nearly missed his spit, or vice versa, and was at one point entangled in his mic cord. The other bands, The Used and a regional hip-hop operation, One World Tribe, were good but did not approach WK's hype machine. After their set I talked with WK's bass player and asked if they were working on the second cd. He sort of looked at me for a while and then said, Well, Andrew is playing all the instruments and doing all the vocals. I actually have two other band projects that I'm working with.
So this is merely a touring band. And one of the crew pointed out, as we stood stageside, that Andrew WK and pals were playing along to a DAT. I was dubious until he pointed out that there were ghostly keyboard parts happening and Andrew was center stage brandishing his mic in his manic salutatory, repetitive sign o'the cross manner.
Tonight is Patti Smith. This might be the only other rock star in front of which I might be starstruck. I really cannot recall who was the first so maybe this is false - SHE is the sole rock star that may leave me starstricken. PJ Harvey did not do so, though her Jimmy Choo shoes made me a bit jealous.
All for now and over and out.

Big news yesterday was that some Americanos discovered suicide jackets in Iraq and all I could think was What a great band name.
Fav Middling City band is imploding, or exploding, depending upon how one fixes one's gaze to musical matters - both the guitar star and drummer of Last Conservative stepped off, Roger for creative diffs and Jeff because he would prefer not to tour. Not tour and in a band? Kiss your self-respect and prospects au revoir.
Monday I jet back into the Broome Street galaxy of Dorota for a few moments to schmooze my schoolies at Parsons and to hear ol' craggly ass Duane Michals who exhibits an enormous amount of that special X factor that makes us photographers amongst the most special people who walk about: resourcefulness. Michals shits resourcefulness, pragmatism and that Can-Do-ness that is infectious. Geez, I hope not infectious with all this SARS paranoia. Not so far from the Middling City Toronto is QUARANTINED for god's freakin' sakes.
And a few weeks ago Laura asked me if I thought it was worth the risk to shoot up their for some rock and roll and I put on my most Disdainful/Fuck-the-Establishment posture and said, Of course.
Wait a second, I have not changed my mind.
SARS, SIDS, AIDS, SCABIES.
I am seeing a pattern, all these pestilences have s's, they make a snakey sound.
You can take the girl out of the English major but you can't take the English major out of the girl.
Power to the People, right on.
Speaking of such: I have waited my entire LIFE to see Patti Smith and I get to shoot her twice this week - time #1 with Nalph Rader at a patchouli fest and the following night at a proper joint.
Love.

Minding my own business I was at my last Dyngus Day stop at the Adam Miskiewicziczicziewiczskiiewcz Library and then Krupnik started flowing like the waters out of squirt guns.
Also minding my own business I was talking in a corner to CG when a guy started squirting me in the face and I began swatting him hard in the ass and environs. Turns out he's an off-duty cop and shows us his piece. Just then an acquaintance who works at City Hall moseys over and the off-duty cop starts patronizing the little City Hall guy and then I point out the off-duty guy's piece in his belt, next to his Dyngus-worthy squirt gun. The little City Hall man says this, to the amazement of CG and I:
What are you fucking nuts, you're off-duty, drunk and carrying a gun? (he's moving aside the jacket of the off-duty cop to see his name emblazoned as he's dialing his cell phone)
CG and I are watching over the minor anti-Dyngus melee (well I did offer up the Hey, HOLD ON A MINUTE HERE GUYS, THIS IS DYNGUS DAY) to no avail so then the off-duty cop runs out after the man making the call to the other authorities and I wander out, too to make sure that the little City Hall guy doesn't get his ass whooped.
Despite that legal entanglement all was delightful chaos with pussy willows brandished, krupnik gulped and water pistols asquirted and new pals and enemies made.
Holiday love and mayhem.

OK, so my Good Friday greeting card scheme never panned out.
Happy Good Friday!
-or-
Remember! No Meat! Good Friday! (the tri-fold)
failed to capture the collective Christian imagination.
Living in the vicinity of a Middling City Polish bakery one cannot forget annually that from 1-3PM the hardcore and zealous do not speak! Do not shop! Do not a thing!
Then they queue up outside the bakery door, somber, like the joy has been drained from their forms, so long a line that they block my driveway and, invariably, I'm in a special super rush and one of the somber has left a shitty American sedan in my drive and I must get out and push through the line to yell this special annual Good Friday greeting in my best and richest Episcopalean Church Choir/Diocese-trained alto:
Whomever is in my driveway will roast in the conflagration of Hades for all of Eternity much like they've eaten a Middling City Sahlen's hotdog - displeasing God and his cohorts all the while.
Off to write poetry, nay, to fine tune my pomes, for a marathon poetry reading in 9 days or so.
The Resurrection of Baby Poet.
Post of words from my irreverent post.

Monday = Dyngus Day... yahoo.
Dyngus Day is when it's absolutely okay to whack complete strangers/men usually with pussy willow branches. And in turn these strangers squirt all the ladies in the house with super soakers (actually most joints allow none of those any more) or squirt guns. Recalling a few years back when I loaded my squirt gun with cheapo vodka and fired into the mouths of strangers and new acquaintances.
Yesterday went with Lead Boy Colleague to Middling City's famed Broadway Market and for a Wednesday avant Easter it was fairly crowded with those tooling around to buy their butter lambs, fat sausages, plants, buckets of candies, pre-decorated eggs. Shot from the hip which is always a gas - wide angle at the ready, everything preset and then the funnest thing of all, floating invisible amongst the unsuspects.
Bought $7.50 worth of pussy willow branches which is a heavy armload of them - three bunches. The hardcore vendor/carnie/haggler wouldn't cut me a break. After leaving the B'Way Market, and back on the sad east side street I wound up and gave Lead Boy Colleague a good whack on the behind area, sending those tiny gray kittens shooting all over the place.
After that we went to GiGi's Soul Food joint, my idea. Note to self: GiGi's makes the best tuna fish sandwiches in the world.
Soul Love.

Fired off, armed with caffeinated recollections (exhumed from as far back as fourth grade) and très dusty Compact French Dictionary, an Easter card to ma famille Française. They might write back that I've made a hopeless hash of their mother tongue, that I might think of practicing a bit before tossing malapropisms across the universe. They wrote to me and I responded via the French Yahoo site link: I chose a template incorporating an odd face made from a coconut with a ribbon about the head. I think it was an Aunt Jemima-esque Easter coconut and it'd never fly in the USofA.
I assured my French family that I agree(d) with Chirac, as do most of the people I know.
Mais maintenant la guerre pour pétrole est fini.
(But now the war for oil is over.)
Joyeuses Paques.
And Happy Passover to you, too.
Joyeux Paques is like Aloha... means both Happy Easter and Happy Passover.
Off to newsy deadlines.
Paques of Love, incorporated from lush and lusty France.

Tossed Do You Realize by Flaming Lips on the hi-fi for wordy inspiration. I want to see them again soon and bask in their superstardom.
Tonight I'm returning again again a-fuckin-gain to the suburbs to see famous photog Joel Meyerowitz give a slide show & tell at an extra-Middling City college.
This past Saturday night went to an art op following a freelance gig and upon entering several people scooted up to pronounce that an SNL castmember (don't watch it so I don't know if she's current or not but crikey I better do some online prodding so I can write a snappy and quippy and informative kapshin) was IN THE HOUSE = Molly Shannon.... Shannan.... Schannihn?
The one who was shot for the cover of RS a few years ago with fellow SNL castmembers and I'll never forget the following month an astute RS reader noted that nobody bothered to airbrush Molly's stretch marks. I was so curious I looked back and thought What stretch marks?
Talked to her and she was small and wrinkly and very nice.
At thee very same opening met someone much more significant for the likes of me: the current director of Visual Studies Workshop (Scott David Laird) who I chatted with for a long time, drinking much of his booze he had imported for one of the Brooklyn artists strutting his visual stuff. It was the sugary crap that the uninformed drink - bourbon. But it was a better one and it was passable. Especially that I was too busy schmoozing to really allow my honed tastebuds a true embrace.
I asked Don't you know that single malt scotch is better? He insisted he did. Then what do you like? I asked, suspecting that he lied.
Oban was on his top three list and now I not only think he's worth schmoozing for art reasons but for other, nearly more important matters.
Over and out to the 'burbs for erudition.

Tossed Do You Realize by Flaming Lips on the hi-fi for wordy inspiration. I want to see them again soon and bask in their superstardom.
Tonight I'm returning again again a-fuckin-gain to the suburbs to see famous photog Joel Meyerowitz give a slide show & tell at an extra-Middling City college.
This past Saturday night went to an art op following a freelance gig and upon entering several people scooted up to pronounce that an SNL castmember (don't watch it so I don't know if she's current or not but crikey I better do some online prodding so I can write a snappy and quippy and informative kapshin) was IN THE HOUSE = Molly Shannon.... Shannan.... Schannihn?
The one who was shot for the cover of RS a few years ago with fellow SNL castmembers and I'll never forget the following month an astute RS reader noted that nobody bothered to airbrush Molly's stretch marks. I was so curious I looked back and thought What stretch marks?
Talked to her and she was small and wrinkly and very nice.
At thee very same opening met someone much more significant for the likes of me: the current director of Visual Studies Workshop who I chatted with for a long time, drinking much of his booze he had imported for one of the Brooklyn artists strutting his visual stuff. It was the sugary crap that the uninformed drink - bourbon. But it was a better one and it was passable. Especially that I was too busy schmoozing to really allow my honed tastebuds a true embrace.
I asked Don't you know that single malt scotch is better? He insisted he did. Then what do you like? I asked, suspecting that he lied.
Oban was on his top three list and now I not only think he's worth schmoozing for art reasons but for other, nearly more important matters.
Over and out to the 'burbs for erudition.

Minding my own business at an art op last evening I was approached by a burly boy grad student who wanted, he said, to give me a video tape. Why do I get a present, I asked, and how many of these tapes are you giving away? He said 50. I said Well let me shoot you handing the tape to me. Then he handed me the tape, saying There are instructions inside the tape that you have to follow.
What, I asked, like get naked and run down a busy street?
Smirking all the while he handed it to me as he slid it open revealing that he was putting a 'subtle curse' on me, à la The Ring. How... unoriginal.
Well I didn't watch the video at midnight, I have as much subtle curse upon my head as the next photog and HOLYSHIT, I just made Dorota-style coffee that might just eat the enamel off of my teeth.
Onwards to weekend photo and swilling ops.

The day's last gig is shooting a Middling City band who doesn't quite pack the nominal punch of, say, Anal Pudding. But Last Lemming is still a fab rock name.
Opted last night to not shoot The Vines and am focused on rock things ahead. I heard The Vines show did not sell well. Could it be as they were so hyped at the beginning of the year? Because many possible audience members cannot distinguish between The Vines and The Hives.
Vines: cuter boys.
Hives: more screaming.
Oh, the fucking chair project was jettisoned. It was not simply a fiasco but a flaming fiasco, as I am wont to say.
In lieu of handpainted and shellacked wonder they're getting a handframed and non-shellacked photograph and damn well better love that.
Over and out.

Over-charitied out once again and find myself painting a chair for the annual theatre benefit whereby community members paste do-dads and découpage chairs. I'm of the découpage and hand-painted school of chair charity. Which means this: it's 9PM and frantically I'm slapping paint on a Moroccan sort of stool before I burn the edges of a Conflagration black & white photo and then paint flames up the six or eight legs. When it's done it'll be a real looker, a true keeper. Oh, did I mention that they want it there at noon tomorrow? With time travel backwards and forwards the poison polyurethane will have PLENTY of time to dry over the photo.
Taking a break from underside coat of paint number one. If I crank the forced air heating up to 90 it should be dry in a few moments.
Over and chair out.

Met up with Reese and his lady friend after a couple of freelance gigs and asked them if I smelled like coconut. Reese leaned over, Nope, why.
I explained that after I got extremely chilled while making two student athletes run past again and again a craggly coach for a college mag cover shoot that I popped into a tanning parlor on a whim, for a truly suburban experience I've never had before.
!
When I saw lobster man come in and then the Marlboro man I nearly ran screaming.
The girl at the counter could not believe that a tanning virgin was on the premises and everyone had to take a look at my untanned hide.
It was free.
It was eight minutes of roasting on a hard plastic bed slathered in Afro-Sheen.
As I left I saw a tanning phone booth and read the warnings on the wall.
UV rays. Holy shit, what did I think I was doing, my northern arse microwaved after all these years of avoiding anything resembling the sun.
So I have that to report.
Rays of love.

Tonight is a glorioso hipsteroso event, the rescheduled Jayhawks gig, and Reese Campbell, according to an answering machine message from earlier, is en route with a gal pal. Many people are pumped up about this show. I will be there, with camera on neck and a bell or two on.
Baldie Billy Corgan and new bandmates - Zwan - were good but I preferred Queens of the Stone Age who had six times the charisma. Arrived a bit late for their permitted songs 3, 4 & 5 due to ultra-icy driving and meeting up with a Boy Colleague on the way in. Mulville was on his way out, grumbling about the contract that Zwan wanted us press photogs to sign.
I don't sign those any more, he said, and went back to the Middling City News' downtown orifices.
What he didn't notice, I don't think, was that my dashboard was festooned with a Middling City News Let Me Park Here Motherfucker sign, swiped from Lead Boy Colleague on one ballsy occasion.
So I'm tardy for QSA set and chugged up to the barricade during song #6.
One of the student/security guys told me so so I shuffled off to the bleachers and shot them from there, actually a great angle. Waited until a wash of yellow and white lights hit the stage and shot away, slunked down next to some pot-gulping students so nobody would see me.
During QSA there was (no lie!) a 500-pound person/woman seated before me about four rows completely rocking out, whipping her head all over the place and sort of flapping her arms. Her enthusiasm was contagious and the scrappy guy seated to her right began to do the same.
While watching her gyrations two big guys carried a limp male student's body from the crowd.
Now here's the part where I thought Wow, Nancy, you are one vet/pro/jaded/hardened person. I watched the proceedings, the guys laying the body on the ground a few feet from the feet of the gyrating lady, saw them working on him and I looked up and away back to the band.
Turns out the guy had just passed out and after he was conscious again some cops took him away.
All for now and one for all.
Misguided love and all.

Incomparable Portale saw my name on the rez list and when I said Hey, can you tell... the front deskers said He knows you're here Nancy. To my great delight he fetched me away from my table to see him in the expansive subterranean kitchen where a photo shoot for his next cookbook was in progress. Hugged, kissed and watched this photog at work, a Japanese man who spoke notta worda English. They had the setup at the ready and were winging which dishes were to have their souls stolen. They were using fine papers from Kate's Paperie as little backdrops and he shot everything on a 4x5 camera. I was not blown away by the Polaroids. The upcoming book is to be called Simple Pleasures. His magificent food (especially what he does to ducks) is Pleasure by far from Simple.
Stood in front of Chelsea Hotel where a video shoot and DKNY commercial were being shot. Sucked in my cheekbones (the top set) and did my best to look like a star!! to be discovered. Was not. Dejected, I came to Dorota World HQ where I blog.
Love.
Starry-eyed Love.

Writing from Dorota's World HQ as the wispy Sarah Jessica Parker jogs around 5th Avenue amongst a faux traffic jam, filming Sex in the City. Talked to a NYPD member and he told me who she is. I said Oh, I've never seen that show and he said I thought it was a big girlie hit?
I mean really.
A homeless guy asked me for money on Lafayette and I, sans thinking, said No, thanks.
He wandered away muttering all the while No Thank You! No Thank You! That's not even the right answer. No Thank You.
Oh, in NYC.
For a few more delicious days.
A city that matches the perfect freneticism of my mind.
Over and out.
Tonight, a visit to Portale's joint, the most favored Gotham.
Love.

My day is half over (half full) and have worked, I speculate, more today and yesterday than some work in a week. In the midst of deliveries have been thinking of a new New York City slogan.
A sampling:
New York City, City of Escape!
Fine tune your senses in Manhattan.
Binge looking - New York!
Come to New York and drink your ass off... we'll do the driving.

Tomorrow. Plane.
Tonight. Deadlines.
Yesterday, a smarmy song by the Beatles.
Did John write that one?
For the love of John.

Sheila Divine's sold out gig last night was perfect. More so since my images from then are arresting, to be blunt and surefooted. Will be shuttling some over to their manager, pal Rich. Went up to their dressing room with Rich prior to their set and Rich said Hey guys, look who's here. They all turned and I queried Do you guys remember me from the art gallery? They all started laughing, recalling my photo demands to look enthralled and bend their bodies around artwork.
Some doofus proposed to his gal during the show and in retrospect that was the show's lowpoint. To date I've witnessed four such ultra publick proposals and there's a collective awkward gawking happening, waiting to see if She says yes, or no, or fuck off.
Half the Sheila Divine crowd booed the guy on his knees. Half were hootin' and hollerin'.
I was above the stage, shooting down from stage left and was vomiting onto the stage from 20 feet up.
She said Yes.
Dino, the head of security, led them off the stage.
I found the couple huddled oddly in a corner a little while later to id them. I asked Him So Why here? He said, very profoundly, very seriously, very ominously,
To create a moment that she'd never forget.
I can think of armloads of wondrous unforgettable manmade moments and oddly enough a mid-rock moment marriage proposal just isn't one of them.
Call me a coal-hearted poo-pooooher, just don't call me late for sushi snaxx.
On a similar note there are cats mating outside of my house as I write this. My sweet little neutered angel is not partaking - but his hooligan acquaintances are.
80s cheeseball alternative music is on the hi-fi and off I go to edit digital images into the sweet Sunday night into the gray Monday morn.
Erroneously,
Love.

Today got to use, in a photographic way, the phrase Look Alive Out There, at a bunch of students nabbed for an impromptu installation photo shoot at Middling City U. They were, I wished, to be wistfully interacting with some architecture and design projects and were doing their best impressions of statuary.
My Marvin story has his the streets, for a look at it online go here.
Last glance the site was not updated but should be soon, in theory.
The Goos/Bon Jovi show was sold out, the Goos were typically wondrous and JBJ was really really rather cheesy... tight paints, coiffed hair and faux XL extra-white teeth.
Sambora was dressed in Renaissance Rock Star Wear - looking sizzling.
During the Goos' set I was smiling up at the guys and Robbie gave me a smile and Johnny gave me a little wave with a Hey, how are you over the pa. His new girlie pal was sitting in the pit with us and the video guys, on the barricade. Also in the pit was his former spouse.
Today.
Tonight.
More, more, more.
Showing a highly specialized portfolio to the people at a mag in NYC on Tuesday.
What specialized portfolio?
Yikes, hello Weekend Project.
Love.

Tomorrow's major gig is to make a portrait of one of the lead producers of The Sopranos in the middle of a reception held for him at the rez of the Middling City University president. I'm to show up during a luncheon through the garage and not ring the front doorbell. Then quietly set up, I'll probably do so in the library as I know the lay of the presidential land over there, have a maid stand in and shoot away. It's to be the cover of a magazine so omigosh the ol' pressure's ratcheted up a notch or so. Then I'll drag his television arse outdoors, time allowing, for some en plain air shots.
Finished the Hamlisch piece and was most pleased at its 1200 words of quip and wit and erudition. Listening to the tape I thought Well, gee, Marvin and I sure did laugh a lot during our 10 minutes on the phone.
Tomorrow night's perhaps second-last stop is at the Goo Goo Dolls/Bon Jovi gig.
Which I keep nearly forgetting about.
After tonight's workout saw Tony Blair on CSPAN and although it's not probably hip and cool I feel I'm his biggest fan and decided that when I structure my cabinet he and Bill Clinton are key players.
As are Dorota (Jason can come, too), Laura, Johnny Depp and a few others as yet unconfirmed.
Off to shoot the annual Holy Fuck I Sound and Act Like Craggly-Assed Bob Dylan event at a nearby watering hole/shitbox.
And a sweet Helllo to the Tequila Maiden.

Announcing myself first place winner of the Who Began Their Day in the Oddest Manner Today Award.
Drove to what my Middling City University editor called Seneca Bluffs, at the crossroads of three sad city streets. A housing complex? A natural area? A brownfield?
Arrive and drive about and see a parking lot before what is the Buffalo River. A crusty old sailor, in vet cap underneath a naval flag on a stoop shouts out to me They're way back there.
There was a natural setting beyond the parking lot and paved area. I followed a path for what seemed over a mile. I began to get worried. I called out to the group of people I was looking for who were chem testing the soil in the area. HELLO.... and on.
No people but on some trees were new pink plastic ties.
I called my university editor, not at her desk, and left a message saying that I couldn't find the group, my contact guy and that I believed I was in a sort of Blair Witch remake.
Left the Bluffs.
No pun inserted here.
Went on to next gig.
At that gig I shot portraits of four well-known musicians.
(speaking of such... I did a phone interview with ol' Liver Lips/Marvin Hamlisch who bristled at Favored Nancy Question #3: Oh, so you worked with Michael Bennett? MH: UHHH, YEA-AHHH, I only wrote it. I mean really, fuckhead... so you fucking wrote it, that doesn't necessarily, I'd think, mean that the writer is going to be onstage palin' about with the choreographer.)
After the four ports had to do interiors of two concert halls. Requested that I get up into the pipe organ to shoot outwards. Drank a bottle of Diet Coke in the pipe organ. Thought, Wow, I bet there are shitloads of music types who'd completely freak out if they knew a photographer was swilling down soda up in this contraption.
Next gig was deeeeeep in the bowels of the Middling City Medical School where I became LOST AGAIN. This is a recurring theme, do you not get it?
You also should know that the medschool is a labrynth of old buildings connected either via basements or second floor walkways and many times when you think you're heading towards a stairway you end up face to face with a scientist in a circa 1942 lab with bunsen-freakin' burners and WARNING radioactive materials flyers taped to the door.
Now I must make a column.
Now I must write about Ol' Liver Lips Hamlisch.
Love, lost and found.

Whew, what a high-powered and eclectic weekend whirl that was.
Still trying to remember the title of the movie that features a driver crawling from an overturned car to utter
Well, that happened.
A Baldwin, playing a movie star in the movie, industry inside looker, his teenaged hookup told to go away...
At a benefit show last night just before Henry Rollins's rant/appearance I was talking to a Middling City rock star who had an interesting perspective on my life. He said When I heard about what happened at the club in Rhode Island I thought Shit, I know someone who's put themselves in that scenario a scillion times and I'm listening, not quite recognizing myself in the thought until the MC rock star says You've been at more shows than anyone I know.
I honestly never thought of that in quite that perspective, that I've seen more shows than anyone but I guess years times nights times several gigs a night does equal possibly in one month as many gigs that people see in a year.
Same as when a pedestrian shooter tells me that they've had the same roll in their point and shoot for about a year. That they don't even recognize some of the happenings that shat from their camera.
Interesting, contrasting fun fact:
Over a weekend, at the frenzied height of the season, I can shoot upwards of 100 rolls of film a week. And that's 36 ex rolls.
I talked someone out of buying a digital camera last night and another into it. The former wanted one to shoot products and I surmised that he should shoot film and have the lab burn the images onto a cd for him. The latter is a wannabe journalist and to him I said Spend, spend, spend, buddy boy.
Off to an interesting buffet of assignments and deadlines both written and image-based.
My caffeinated heart pumps on.