Phenom/glitch:
Sunday's post is below Saturday's.
Beloved nephew Jake is turning 11 on Thursday and his kooky parents mis-planned a sledding party for yesterday only there was zero snow on the designated hills and they were informed of all this by one of their guests. Words cannot express how this mind boggles such an anal pro party planner such as Yours Truly.
Onwards.
Shopped for music for the child only to realize I had no idear if he had POD or even wanted more alternative choices I would enjoy. So gift certificate time and then more music shop time for ME.
New ones: (and all fabulosic party choices)
– Ivy. Disc is Guestroom, worth the price of admission for The Cure remake of Let's Go to Bed.
And their righton cover (disc = all covers, dig?) of Streets of Your Town by The Go-Betweens is superb.
(Nate, if you are reading this your assignment is to run topspeed to New World today and acquire)
(I think it was Reese who brought my hyper awareness to this band with one of his primo mixed tapes/discs)
Is there anything of late so smart and happy? I think not. Plus they cover superfreak Serge Gainsbourg.
– I Love Paris: The Fashion Chill Out Lounge Collection, 2-discs and it's parfait.
– Tori's new one, Scarlet's Walk. Was prepared to find it heavyhanded as I found that animated foot video so repugnant but it's surprisingly fine and I appreciate an artist tossing in lyrics as I have been known to be one of those 'ScuseMeWhileIKissthisGuy' types.
– The Flaming Lips. Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots. Was cheaping out and not buying it for some oddball psychological reasons which I worked out yesterday. Words can never express my canyons full of love and respect for Wayne Coyne, a real artist.
*Remember: one for them (those on the holiday gift giving receiving end) and one for me.

Containment, deportment.
Good breeding: listening to someone, or a slew of someones, report endlessly about themselves and instead of screaming for mercy, or running for the nearest bottle of booze, smile merrily and use all energy to maintain a body language of interest - all the while ignoring the inner badass suggesting a karate chop to the speaker's forehead.
Last stop of samedi soir (Bay City Rollers title song to you non-frenchyphiles) was at a joint with a swingy 50s-loving band and I'm watching these rascals thinking how there's a community of these folks with tattoos, hush puppies, hair swoops and the wardrobes, smiling maniacal 50s smiles and generally gesticulating in a way we irony-minded tribesmen recognize as such.
So the lead man, Pete Worden, is out there playing the hell out of his guitar and I'm watching the band when suddenly I flashed back to Japan, in a scene amid thousands of Americana-loving Japanese youth. Revelation: these 50s-loving people are doing the same thing half a world away. Just because one network is born of the culture doesn't mean there's any greater affinity. It's all about the style, lifestyle.
Swept into the indie record shoppe with Jen and Laura and instantly had R.S.A. (record store amnesia), the running list of must-gets gone in a poof.
Laura raved, lifted from shelf, handed into my hands and exclaimed about Sigur Ros's new one.
It's on now, an instrumental minimal maze of introspection. It's a landscape covered with deep snow and if in the wrong mood it'd be nearly lethal.
I was going to write about the bong filled with white wine in lieu of water at last night's holiday gathering of old friends but I'm censoring... and still coughing.
Holiday pots of love.

I travelled this week and discovered that many servers are not compatible with that of Blogger, the SF-based wonder that makes epinw a reality, a major joy in your life.
So that means intrepid me wished to blog only to get a sad sorry message saying Nope.
Was shocked and stunned to read on cnn.com that Moby of all little bespectacled fuckers was coldcocked outside of a Boston club by three thugs. Poor Moby, on his blog he writes that he wants to know the reason why why why and that he's curious so would the assailants please write to him to let him know.
I think he'll turn it into a song and then sell it perhaps to Bandaid or the makers of Bactine. The headline for the Moby bashing story was surprisingly hip: We are all made of Scars
Last night jetted back into the Middling City, raced home, ditched luggage for camera gear and was back out the door in record time to attend a group art opening for yours truly et al and to go to the annual drunkfest that is the work holiday cocktail party where sushi, laughs and booze flow like melted snow in May.
The rooms were teeming with a whole buffet of favored people that I work with and who were guests of those who I work with and just regular neato people who should be at the party.
At the art opening I invited all the remainders to be my posse and attend the work fete and they all showed. Most excitingly was the arrival of a tv guy and his artist girlfriend (both friends) who handed me a Happy Kwanzaa present and lo and behold inside was the mini crossbow that I encouraged him to buy this past year at the ARTVOICE Street Festival for $10 and it was a minor regret all those days.
And now it's mine.
It shoots steel-tipped long darts. The party host and hostess, Betsy & Craig (or Cretsy and Baig, if you've had several)_would not let me shoot it in their kitchen, at a wall.
Several people in the kitchen marveled than anyone would give Yours Truly a crossbow of any size.
Did I mention it's mine?
So instead me and some rock boys cocked the thingamajiggie back and loaded up the crossbow with mini carrots which flew about fifteen or so feet at a not very high velocity but it was satisfying enough.
Onwards to recuperation and more mayhem.
All of my crossbowed love.

As an interesting side mental project du jour I've been trying to decide which song or recording artists best illustrate/soundtrack this day. Something frenetic with some quiet flourishes - perhaps a collaborative song featuring Bjork and Rob Zombie. A little diabolica, a tough spriteliness - jubilant schizophrenia.
A strange happenstance, happening at 845AM today.
I was reading the Middling City daily (mainly looking at the pix made by my boy colleagues) with an ice pack on my left shoulder after physical therapy and I was deep into a soccer mom's musings/editorial on Eminem.
More smarmy writing attempting to tug on my tarpit heart's heartstrings. It was not working.
This woman was stating Marshall I'll never call you Eminem, do your friends call you Eminem...
and on and on.
She dubbed him a brilliant wordsmith (that he is) and she was disagreeing with all the bandying of fucks etc in 8 Mile and in the lyrics she researched online when
*WHAM*
another physical therapy person, a member of the shoulder team (we failed shoulders know each other by the exercise routines we keep), hit the back of a chair next to me blustering, at me
Forget the poor, forget education Let's Go to WAR WITH IRAQ. That's what Bush wants.
I was looking at him for a moment before muttering, paper still in hands
Well, he's not MY president.
We were all, in that physical therapy capsule, deep in the suburbs where I assume the vibe is mallish, hawkish and righteous.
The chair thumping sales shoulderman type went away and then I was left to wonder
How in hell did he peg me as a member of Team Liberal?
Lack of appliqués on sweater? Lack of cheery disposition? Lack of layered haircut?
Now all I can think of is the image of Zombie and Bjork crowding together cheek to cheek to share a mic, the crowd is happy and I'm shooting underneth neither gelled blue nor red but a warm yellow and it's coming from two sides and the stage isn't too high and after the set me and my boy colleagues are invited to go backstage for some hospitality.
Onwards.
Back to multiple deadlines, attempted greatness, caffeine forays.

Santa Secrets,
the titillating topic of this day's blogpost as it snows and NPR is confirming my sense that Bowling for Columbine is truly a movie I never need to sit through. Well, actually, I have a difficult time sitting still through any movie for ninety or so minutes.
Yesterday I had the pleasure of getting into the head of a man who doesn't simply play the role of Santa Claus, but Believes he is Santa, who has believed he is Santa for over three decades.
The man's real name is Scott and he was laden with silver and turquoise jewelry and had a small sense of humor. He bragged about having had friendships with several members of the glitterati, including John Denver. I asked several questions before I could get to the creamy nougat question:
So do you think he was loaded when he crashed his plane?
Santa's answer after a pause, pause, pause?
(hey, that makes me think of that Xmas tune:
Up on the rooftop the reindeer pause, out jumps good ol' Santa Claus. Down through the chimney with lots of toys, all for the little girls and boys.)
Ohabsolutelynot, he drank a lot, but not when flying.
Santa then went on to tell me how John Denver had a driver to chauffeur his drunk self about in his Porsche.
Santa let out a few of his own secrets.
He was frying-panned once while hearing toyly wishes of inner-city children.
I asked How was that possible, where did the kid get a frying pan?
The line of kids was at a community center which are all seemingly outfitted with kitchens. The kid had been beaten up by someone in a Santa suit so the kid seized the day, seized the op, seized the pan and let loose his hatred and fear upon poor Santa's head, sending him to the hospital for six stitches.
Similarly,
Santa Claus, this very Santa, was stabbed and he showed me the scar in his Santa jacket which he's patched with unmatching fur.
A drunk man, again a hater of Santa, attacked him instead of sitting upon his lap.
Oh, you wonder, Precious Perfect Nancy, why were you hanging with Santa?
Well, epinw readers, I enlisted myself for three hours of Santa time so little kids et al could have a non-suburban Santa experience - my idea. It was not publicized by the event producers but Santa and I rustled up some business.
Santa lives in a house on Abbott Road just outside the Middling City which is over 200 years old and is full of secret passageways that were used for the Underground RR. Faux walls, a ladder built into a wall and a ceiling over the true ceiling with large rooms for those en route to the big free north.
Santa painted this house bright red, of course.
Now put that all in your snowman's corncob pipe and smoke the shit out of it.
Secret Love.

Last night's rock and roll sojourn involved the shooting of the pop rock mecca radio station's annual Christmass BASH (that is one word I would love to banish from this language. Hot tip: anything dubbed a BASH is anything but) - Kissmas Bash - at the local oversized gym.
Me and two boy colleagues marveled at the outie of one of the backup dancers for Nivea, an underdressed R&B starlet. This outie reached out two inches. Boy colleague Mark thought it was some sort of piercing to which boy colleague Harry and I shook our heads. I semi-shouted into Mark's ear thusly:
No that's not a piercing, that's something she should be suing somebody over.
Dig this: I nearly broke my own goddamn right leg yesterday scrambling for a new angle in our hopeless photo shooting position within the pit when my leg got tangled in the metal barricade and I went down, protecting camera but all twisted on the floor. And not one boy colleague noticed. It was quite a near-tragedy. Imagine telling people, I went down at Kissmas Bash, in the barricade, solo.
Nothing sexy like I was up on the pa at the Pigface gig when the surging crowd bumped into me and the pa and we tumbled to the floor. Actually that happened but did not result in a broken limb.
So then onwards to the annual John Lennon tribute night where there were Middling City musicians doing their best Johns. Didn't hear a single Imagine.
So then a femme from Righteous Babe Records tried to give away Ani's live video but no numbers were matching and so for RBR to save face, somehow I end up with the video... hip hip hoooooooray.

Picked up the two dozen pink roses at the newspaper office. One had a card reading Please be my guest at the HSBC party at Albright-Knox Art Gallery Wednesday night. I shall be wearing a yellow tie.
The second note read Thanks for being you, hope to see you Wednesday, your new friend.
Well, tonight is Wednesday and this poor bastard in the yellow tie will be waiting forever as I won't be within miles of AKAG tonight.
Even if I didn't have a meeting at 4 and two advisiory council meetings for two different orgs at the same time following I still wouldn't be there...
especially after I deciphered who this person is.
And, guess who he is?
He is part of an old money Middling City clan who's a member of all the right clubs, oh, and went to all the right academies abroad, yet chooses to while away his life by owning a downtown shithole bar, bragging about his jazz knowledge/jukebox, spurting out sexist commentary and basically never leaving any customer unattended whilst sipping away on a bevvie.
I was briefly marooned as my pal sauntered off to the peehole when this astray heir leaned in close to ask So are you and this guy close, basically figuring out his chances with Yours Perfect Truly.
And now roses. Gave one dozen away to my mother and the other sits all lonely and pink in the corner of my kitchen and I'm thinking who would like quickly-aging roses today?
Onwards.
Last night nearly threw off an email from a sender I didn't recognize, from the UK no less.
Opened it and it's a Nirvana freak who's building a fansite and heard about my Kurt images and read an interview I did for an online music mag... which went bankrupt... Throttle Box.
Today I'm especially hating the Middling City, after listening to my local NPR station telling about yet more and more fiscal crises abrew, and reporting on a co. that has headquarters here and all the pathetic and gushing questions from the local reporter
So, do you have a hard time recruiting people to Buffalo? Do people like Buffalo when they're here...
the underlying self-hatred made me gag, it's contagious, that attitude. Next I'm noticing that people aren't as well-dressed as they could be, that some cars are too rusty, that monuments don't have that certain X-factor.
But at least we don't have the preponderance of Canadian lilt, after doing business on the phone with a Canadian woman yesterday I thought that forever every thought in my head would end up a few notes in a singsongy reach for the sunshine.
Hey, wait a minute, Canadians think their country is all that. (Oh, Georgiesan, forgive this sidebar rant from an obviously cranky American, who happens to be your pal)
Assignment: anyone residing in the Middling City today must use the Canadian lilt, upwards to the sunshine. And sun is out there, suss it out lock a rock star in need of a little fun.
Off to more.

Unhappy auto equation:
1 drunk drives 50mph into Yours Truly x silver 2002 Forester (totaled) on 4/21/02 + 1 insurance company of 15+ years = 1 golden 2002 Forester on 5/1/02 + rates raised 500% as of 12/16/02 due to "losses."
Fun with math.
*new factor*
+ 3 cheers to Lawyer Tom who just called me to say OK, I'll call Geico (chosen new company of bandits/insurance agents) and get your rates even lower... he completely rocks, I hope.

My Krist Novoselic story, from this past Saturday night.
His average white band, Eyes Adrift, played Mohawk Place and although it was crowded several people I knew were heading towards the bar, having heard enough of them.
I was standing to the side of the stage, next to Krist, trying to get a good angle of the three. Suddenly I was noting that the band was boring, that Krist (memories of when he was Chris float to mind, until the fateful SPIN assignment which had him heading to Bosnia, his heritage and a neato new first name) looked into eyes (adrift) about the room and that Curt from the Meat Puppets was barely functioning.
The x-Sublime drummer broke a drumstick and the beer tech (yes, I wrote beer tech) was trying to lift it up before Krist stepped on it. Unsuccessful. When he took a step forward I grabbed it.
I asked the beer tech, So you're the beer tech? And he said Among other things, not proud, not mad.
The set was nearly over and Krist bent down to ask me What was the name of the opening band? I said I don't know, I got here for you, I'll find out.
Asked a nearby boy and didn't trust his answer so I asked a girlie, who handed me The Hook Generation cd. I pointed to it and Krist took it and placed it on his set list. I sensed the girlie agitation so I told her that he had it. He thanked The Hook Generation, graciously, and went about his bass business when I noted the band had taken a more classic rock turn.
The girlie's cd was now on top of the giant amp next to Krist. They finished. He walked by me, took my hands in his and said Thanks and good night, eyes adriffffft into mine.
They skedaddled out the bar and then signed autographs for about half an hour before their bus roared away to some joint in Pennsyltucky.
The End.
I hear there is a gigantic bouquet for me at the newspaper office, two different people called to tell me so. I bet they're from Krist.
I'm kidding.
The flowers exist, but I don't think they're from the former Nirvana tall guy.
All rock stars should love me, but only because I make them look oso much more rocking than any other photog in the music documentation racket.
In my most Perfect, Humble Opinion.
Self-love love.

Defiantly not following my own (now seemingly) ridiculous rule of Thanksgiving hostessing, stayed out and had a good old fashioned rock and roll Thanksgiving Eve evening – ie: to HELL with staying in and prepping, get out there and do it up, pilgrim.
Yesterday had the Exclusive photo op with the band The Sheila Divine at Albright-Knox Art Gallery, shooting them looking at art, loving art. A few of them talked with me about harrowing life on the road, fighting jadedness and mutiny.
The AKAG pr girlie, Maureen, called to inquire if I was into a photo op with the band and I agreed only if she didn't call the daily, which would have run the image (maybe) yesterday whilst my image will appear on December 5th. So I got my way and the Universe rejoiced for the world is best when Your Perfect Nancy has her way with it.
Shot them later in concert, in a mellow college auditorium, adequate yet teeming with sit-downess.
Finally Aaron said Hey Buffalo, will you please stand up?
They were, of course, excellent and had behind them ongoing video images that were actually good, not just that Here's the band way closer thing you see from time to time.
Afterwards rolled on to Robbie Goo's recording studio for a private Studiowarming party and marveled at his multi-colored hair, truly more interesting than I've ever seen it. His breath was loaded with cigar aftereffects and he was his usual gracious funloving self.
The rooms were filled with Middling City rock types and it was mega.
Then on to meet up with members of Janet Reno Fan Club and Annie and Mary et al et al for a dual band extravaganza and bought an Iriving Klaws shirt, way too gigantic so I wore it over my jacket and loads of people said That's what's so great about you, Nancy, you're not afraid of looking HUGE.
Fear. No, thanks.
Huge, why yes I am, although not in size.
Off to continue slicing and dicing for in six or so hours there will be a warm house filled with people who I will entertain like Martha Stewart on too much Oban.
Lights...
cameras...
stuffing.

Apparently several of you were frightened by the last blogpost about mean-spirited Freckleface. Do not despair, she's only a poseur whose boobs are wrapped too tightly in synthetic fabrics, thereby resulting in a most negative purview. Plus, I can be ferocious when need be and when my camera equipment is imperiled.
Interesting sidebar of sorts:
On a gig a few summers ago I was hired to photograph several buildings for a developer and I was using my trusty Subaru as a stepladder, as I do from time to time. You get the car into position and climb on top.
So during this gig I was up and down, up and down and on one of the ups I came crashing down on the hood and my instant thought was to protect the camera, not me and my bones.
That's being a pro.
To hell with personal injury - it's a lot cheaper to fix my biological contusions than those injuries to a delicate electronic machine.
Talked to Canadian Georgie last night who said that sometimes he can't understand the American jargon of epinw. So I regaled him with my best Canadian impersonation:
Let's get some Timbits and crullers, ay?
Canadians, they look so much like us but are so... different.
Still shocked by the Missy Elliott song Let's Work It which they play on top pop radio. As I wrote to my pal Matthew Guru it puts that Tootsie Roll song of yore to absolute shame.
Tomorrow I'm attending the grand ol' opening of Robbie from the Goos' recording studio opening and before that I have an exclusive with Sheila Divine (or so I made the p.r. lady promise me) at a to-be-divulged -tomorrow location.
I'm breaking my past rules and will be out all day tomorrow/T-G Eve, shooting like a madwoman and perhaps tippling a few to boot.
All.
Turkey & all those starchy fixins of love.

Goth girls and boys crowded around a stage at last night's final stop as Janet Reno Fan Club were out on a musical tear. And what angry Goth girls and boys they were. As I shimmied between them to get closer for shooting Rasputina (3 of similar batcave persuasion, looking like withered Courtney Loves from her babydoll dress phase - including the boy in the band) one of them, with faux freckles on her face the size of dimes turned and looked at me and hissed And where do you think YOU'RE going? To work, I snarled into her freckled direction. Well, we're all working here = the puzzling reply. I was lifted off my feet and sucked into the vortex of hate by my temples and left her with these choice and unoriginal words - Fuck off, asshole. It should be noted that as I shot away several around me respectfully arched out of my way and one guy in heavy eyeliner shouted at Freckleface to shut the fuck up and to stop talking to the guy in the wheelchair she was leaning on.
So then I waded back through the vinyled and corseted crowd, went backstage where I was met by a true VIP scene of sundry band members and promoters and one of them handed me a joint on a long pin. Then I went to the back curtain, stood next to the Rasputina drummer boy and put the flash on nuclear to flash and flash and flash into the languid eyes of the watchers.
It was then that I noted that Freckleface was involved in a volley of fists, actually in a fistfight with another audience member.
We backstage people were very loudly cavorting and I said You know what? I think all those Goth people are going to start chanting SHUT UP at the stage.
Earlier JRFC convoyed up to toxic Niagara Falls, NY to see Doug's band of confusing sibilant name - Saw Secret Scene, really hard to say after a few scotch & soders.
It was their first gig in an elaborate old theatre, Pleasuredome 2, not to be confused with Pleasuredome 1 where I shot the Goo Goo Dolls in '92.
Saw Secret Scene's (or is that Saw Secret Seen?) lead singer, Todd, had never hit a stage before but is the equal of the other musical pros.
For a joint in NF, NY the stage, lights and sound were impressively mega.
Downside, of course, is the location.
Oh, and the bartender. Laura and I watched in amazement as he had difficulty finding bottles and I wondered if I should offer up this helpful hint: the bar is a mirror image on the other side, ie there are two topshelf setups in your bar so stop running in a gigantic circle to find the proper scotch you nincompoop, it's about 3 feet from your face.
Please address all mixology and musicology and humorology requests to Yours Truly.
Love.
And loads of that.

Filth from the top to bottom of a 16-story apartment building, and surrounding awnings, washed in raindrops and down my face last night as I stopped to think amid the shine of warmer spaces and reflections of walkers.
Out again in the anonymous dark of the city that envelops in a sense of purpose.
The MOMAqns space is industrial and never lets you forget that with ugly Starbucks-type ceiling busy with pipes and ducts and an unforgiving floor that one security man said he hates.
The works on paper show worth the travels and there was a catastrophe on Line 7 so travel back to the Promised Land was hard, took a train in opposite direction several stops to get off, run topspeed across platform with the others and get back down to downtown.
Today went to look at the show of Sylvia Plachy images at Bateman and it was grand - her usual quirky ways in black & white. Her prices were surprisingly low but I bought nothing.
Came very close to buying a new Me & Ro ring but did not, and now maybe feeling a small slice of regret.
So back in Middling City and it's nearly time to hit the highway and partyway again.
My one small obsession this time around in NYC was to be jettisoned from bars so I requested a jettisoning from the bartendress at Big Bar on 7th St (a longtime fav) and she complied with a gentle push.
Last night cavorted with Jason and Dorota at Clay and asked Edward to do same so he picked up up and carried me out. When we got to the doorway I stuck out my legs to thwart him and when I landed on the sidewalk I did so dramatically, so dramatically that a cabbie stopped to see what in hell was up.
Today my cabbie out to LaGuardia was way chatty and trying to be flirty, of all things.
All for now, rainy love.

Yesterday went down to see Mr. Avedon's show at The Met and was not surprised and not titillated but still a worthy destination. The mainest of reasons to see the show, in my Sam-loving mind, was to see the Beckett portrait and I was happy to see it was a diptych, double the Sam Power.
The show was also good for framing ideas as they had Avedon's images floating many times on foamcore inside steel shadow boxes about an inch deep.
Also, how he and his techs put rolls of paper together to make one big long image area. This is what Chaz Burchfield did during one of the big wars when he couldn't get paper large enough for big paintings. A little overlap. A little glue.
Today is the day to throw myself back down into the subterranean world to get to MOMAqns to see the much-vaunted works on paper show.
And eat more sushi, and slargle more scotch and laugh a few more laughs and dream a few more dreams.
I am the dreamer of dreams, to quote Willie Wonka quoting another who might, in fact, be quoting another.
Good writers borrow but fab bloggers steal.
Outta-sight/outta-town Love.

NY NY big city of dreams but sometimes NY ain't what it seems.
And so goes that ol' wrap.
Wandered through Chelsea just moments ago looking looking looking.
The new Inka Essenhigh oils are smart and odd and leave a rather positively grotesque feeling.
Last night wandered into Portale's joint again to deliver an art piece, handed it to the front of house staffers and then sat at the longass bar to await Dorota's arrival for vino. Chef Portale came out to say Hello and we talked, he and I, about him designing furniture and about the small framed piece I gave him - an image from the Conflagration series, a silver print about 4x5 inches and in a very wonderful wood frame, painted silver.
He dug the piece completely and I hope he hangs it in Gotham.
Dorota arrived, we had vino, more vino then the maitre d/Charles asked if we'd be staying for dinner. I said possibly. Then after a while Yes.
So they sat us at a table for 2 near the bar, elevated and looking out over the dining room. We had, of course, a perfect dinner followed by perfect confections tiny and midsized.
Then they came to say Portale was - unbelievably - picking up the bill so I/we left a very generous tip.
Onwards to cocktails.
Onwards to art.
I'm in NY and it's time for more art.
More more more.
How do you like it, how do you like it?
Days and nights, nights and days.
Consuming love.

Well, as I am wont to say, at the asscrack of dawn I'll be sprinting out of bed to gather up camera gear, clothing and a few other small items (cd's of choice this trip = DJ Shadow/The Private Press, Tricky/Blowback & Daft Punk/Discovery, usually travel with Radiohead but I'm trying to be inciteful), what you others call "packing" and then driving to that hospital-aroma-ridden place full of treakly art and goofballs that they call the airport.
Lead Boy Colleague said that if I get to the USAir gate and there's a certain guy working I'm supposed to say that I know him and all that jazz. Why, I asked, so I can be graciously bumped up to first class?
I know Hillary C flies first class between the Middling City and Warshington, but does anyone else partake of the joys of inflight segregation besides politicoes on such short trips?
Hey, welcome to first class to NY Miss Parisi, here are some extry peanuts for your pleasure.
Still not sure about flying to Seattle for a gig after NYC to shoot the disco event at EMP.
If I end up doing that that'll be one primo primo tale.
Whirlwind Love.

Surprised to hear earlier one of the most perfect new Flaming Lips songs on the "new rock alternative" radio station, Wayne's voice warbling amongst the sno-globe flakes coming down as I drove down Main Street from a meatloaf engagement in renovated 50s diner to newspaper office for late late late workings.
(Nearly walked into the diner wearing my bunny ears as I had been working hard at the home orifice and needed to keep these freaking tresses out of the way lest I chop them off like a time-waster at the pass.
So I'm strolling away from car and catch the bunny ears before I hit the door and tossed them onto the front seat. Did wear them into the paper office and my publisher/pal Jamie gave me a withering look which only he can raygun.)
There's so much mundane crap in Music Land and then whoosh, there are the Lips to explode your heart in joy, nearly enough to make you cash in your chips and follow them on the road for a good long while.
Attorney Tom finally called back and there were details bandied about about how & why my car insurance company could – and did – drop me like a nuclear potato. Sometimes, when speaking to Tom, my mind is wandering and I'm realizing that as soon as I hang up the phone all he mapped out for me will evaporate.
Onwards.
Was there fine music in the Middling City this weekend? Well, gosh, not really.
But on AOL assignment I plunged into a new dance club, solo, really fashionably sticking out like a sore thumb with my photog-wothy HH way-green jacket, legal pad in hand and a haughty air of detached critique. But, ultimately, the place won me over and I'm thinking How in HELL do I get members of Janet Reno Fan Club into this joint, what with its $6 cover, lines down the block and inside ignorable yet annoying mall-clad clones. But it's two stories of flash and there's a sideroom all white and luxe.
Worth a spin, I say.
Life, a big tangle of details just waiting for writing. And sipping.

Who the hell's idea was it to mix scotch, tequila and Jagermeister all in one night?
Abso-freakin-lootly could not have been mine.
Went out to see Jennie Stearns and backing band of boys and they were surprisingly wonderful. Every band that promoter pal Blair Woods recommends is always good and I think he's managing them in addition to Over the Rhine and a few others.
If not for these smallish gigs the Middling City would be completely bereft of rock activity as no chart-topper seems to be darkening these city limits.
Other bigtime promoter pals, Artie and Marcel, bring acts to Syracuse, Rochester but not here as often. Even beloved Dave Matthews has skipped here this next concert foray. His people have extended me tix and asked if I'd prefer Syracuse or Roch. Hmmmm, drive 4 hours or 1 to see lovely Dave.
Off to temple pressure-relieving measures and a plethora of deadlines to accomplish on superspeeeeed as Tuesday at the asscrack of dawn I'm on a plane to cavort in NYC. Dorota my love, ready your liver.
Rockingest rollingest love.
ps: forgot to mention the GWAR show and it was juicey. Within a minute I was drenched with "blood" by the headless man. Ran a shot of ersatz Saddam H., holding a huge rubber dick in his hands, shooting a giant stream of "pee-pee" into the crowd.
pss: bought the most bitchin' green metal tripod last night, made in Italy by a Bogen subsidiary and I cannot wait to use it. Artwork, still-life, wildlife, holding still wild people can all be tripod victims.

Minding my own business, walking briskly and looking sideways whilst addressing an official type guy from the university this fine evening I nearly ran into NYC's 107th mayor – His Honor Giuliani, one-time TIME Man of the Year.
When my eyes alighted upon his friendly, over-tanned and long face I was momentarily stunned, let out an OHHI as I stopped seconds before crashing into him. When thinking back to that moment a few hours ago I wonder how the nearby ring of secret service agents speaking into their cufflinks allowed my photog self to get that close to the former tabloid hero.
After photographing Mayor 107 at the private mega-donor party where I was hired to shoot I borrowed a tripod from a boy colleague, sped off to the cross-town rival college and shot slides of an artist's installation in a library when, suddenly, I heard my name and turned around to see a loose cannon acquaintance wandering through the lobby en route to internet fun.
Two fun facts about this guy: I made an image of him a long-ass time ago when he was in drag for Halloween and every time I see him I see him in blonde wig and trashy dress, red lipstick smeared about his big guy mouth.
I wasn't surprised a while back to hear that he'd gone off to join the INS. That was an image that I truly found disturbing, him kicking in doors and tossing unfortunate immigrants out of the USofA.
As I'm setting up lights and tripod and making long exposures I'm really indulging in a string of nosy questions about the INS gig and about the firearms he carried and here's what I learnt: One doesn't need any sort of permit to pack when they've signed on for Team USA. It's issued to you. When you leave, you un-issue it.
Without prompting he neatly printed out the supersecret codes I need to get onto the rival college's free internet access computer bank and sped off to go do whatever online instead of enduring more questions by Yours Truly.
Another thing I learned today: Giuliani is as tall as I am and wears good shoes.
L'End.

Standing in the elementary school office waiting for a Miss Wexler or someone to escort me to the dance studios where I was being paid to document an African dance co. teaching the local students I began messing with a computer touchscreen contraption as a secretary jumped out of her seat surprisingly quick to assist me. Whereas I thought I was goofing around with a machine to make kid safety kind of MacGruff items it was actually protocol for visitors to have temp badges and this had been forgotten. Right, she said, swipe your driver's license (whoah!, I'm thinking, just to meander to a dance studio) and then input who you're seeing and the reason. My reason? NEWSPAPER. That is always a grand reason for anything I do.
The shooting was great, the light was great, the sounds were great. I asked my editor at the university news bureau if ever the online edition might have sound files which would be way fab.
For the last two days, as a mental respite, I've been thinking how Elvis and Michael Jackson have similar star-turned-nut qualities.
This began while I was looking at an artist's work whereby the artist pairs oddball Elvis belongings, most notably an image of his handgun and his honorary narc badge from Nixon.
I'm going on the record as a person in the I Don't Get It column re: Elvis.
And Vegas didn't help matters.
Nor the VH1 ads that discourse at me that if not for Elvis there would basically be no rock and roll universe, no rock and roll photography, no rock and roll wardrobes, drugs, drink, mayhem and the like.
Tonight: Robert Creeley poetry reading then... GWAR.
Can I be smiling any larger?
I don't think so.
Toothy love.

Jeez, it's been... millennia... since I was sexually harassed whilst shooting a wedding such as last night's fiasco of Manhannite Diva Bride & The Hatfields & McCoys. It was my drag queen diva pal/florist who pointed out that the families were Hatfield/McCoy combo to perfection. All started out swell when Bridey called to see if her 90 folks at church could be photographed on the front steps of the church after their (let us not forget the pussy-flagellated guy/lawyer she bagged who bought her a yellow diamond and diamond-encircled wedding band, that, Diva Bitch told me, earned her a spot at the stove for the duration of her life, cooking him dinner) 530PM service. Uhhhh, I began, flabbergasted, have you seen the light at 630 these days? Thinking, suddenly, I'm dealing with an ADD type and ohno.
Then she asks for me to be at her mom's house at 330PM for getting ready shots. But you're getting married at 530, that's way too early. I relented, was greeted by sister/co-Diva Bitch at the door in bathrobe and proceeded to wait a good 45 minutes for the gals to get their bridal day shit together.
And the weird uncle sexual harassment thing happened approximately 7 unfortunate and interminable hours later in a hallway dotted with relatives and friends as equally redfaced loaded as this geezer who inquired Yours Truly thusly: Has anyone told you yet tonight how beautiful you are? (To which I'm choking back vomit in my throat) Give me your right hand. I with much trepidation handed over the hand which he stroked roughly along his left cheek. Several relatives, including co-Diva Bitch are watching as he yells And I don't leave whisker brushburns. I'm still disinfecting my hand.
Thank goodness for the filmmaker chainsmoker and occasional wedding video guy who I've worked with before for the humorous breaks where we'd chat about how fucked up the crowd was and how we'd never touch weddings again if all weddings were like this one.
Onwards.
Afterwards a quick change in the car and sped off to music, mayhem, a party stop and more mayhem.
Shared the wedding horrors with three drinking buddies at the nearest of favored watering holes and slargled down a few or more scotches before I felt like my most Perfect self again.
Liquid refreshment, liquid therapy, liquid forgetfulness.
In two nights I'll be shooting GWAR again and I abso-freakin-lootly cannot wait. All my little concert promoter pals were asking if I'd be there, as they know I completely dig that spectacle.
I am the smart photog in the pack who comes donned in clear plastic garbage bags - one for me, one for camera/flash. One time I shot GWAR and forever after that one particular flash was impregnated with their red faux blood. Another time I went the rest of the night with dried red/blue/yellow smears of their 'bodily fluids.'
Spectacles, what life is made for.
What life is made of.
What photogs thrive upon.
Water cannons of fluid love.