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.

The NYTimes this AM has a stupendous array of war stories and photos and a backpage assortment of satellite photos of Iraq. The best map shows the oil fields (the crux of the matter no matter who denies that) as receding gray blobs. I would probably have selected another color than dove gray, perhaps a High Alert Orange or Scud Missile Yellow.
In the midst of a happy and lucrative Bat Mitzvah day although not as lucrative as it is for young Rachel who, I was told, might net upwards of $20K today. Her parents have designated $1K for charity and the rest is earmarked for education.
I sit blogging in the midst of a newly-cleaned, shockingly cleaned, alternapaper office, the cleaner just thanked me for hooking her up with this gig. Lucre is in the air. And America (the "Coalition" my arse) seems to be thus far kicking ass. I wondered if they're walking into catastrophe, if the Iraqis might be constructing some colossal boobie trap.
Tonight I've instructed Rachel the Bat Mitzvah girl that at the world's hoakiest Italian food joint (Salvatore's Italian Gardens to those of you who knoweth not the Middling City) that we are going to use the onsite crap/tchotchkes/antique cars/fiberglas buffalo for photo ops until the cord is yanked so to speak.
Saw Lawrence Brose out last night as I sipped wine with members of Janet Reno Fan Club. He's participating in a convocation, or was is a conference (some important C word) and was all nervous and prepping away. Being the vibrant gay artist that he is (creator of an Oscar Wilde De Profundis masterwork) I suggested that he let them think he's stiffing and then streak through as the panel is speaking, some key words Sharpied onto his body.
When in doubt, make a big splash.
Onwards to yet more coffee, and photo ops and mischief that is the spice of my life.
Love.

Shot the Bouncing Souls on one of last night's several stops a sold-out HOT-en-anny. As their name suggests, they bounce a lot. On the proverbial toes shooters must be. Speaking of shooters shared the pit with a small girl with small digital point & shoot and the Middling City's most annoying boy photog who does not rate as a Boy Colleague. He's Amateur Boy and he apes all that I do, perhaps watching me as much as the stage activity. I put on a different lens, he does same. I switch from TTL to some bounced light for a different look and he'll do that. I switch from one side of the stage to another and he's there. I back up five feet and he's in the spot I just occupied. I think next time I see him I'll charge him a tutorial fee. He's also the sort of photog who's all elbows and some of the BCs have noted this as well. It's a habit, a way of being a pain in the ass, a presence. I've actually moved Amateur Boy's elbow out of my view when he was in front of me and maintaining a wallish stance.
After Bouncing Souls shot a lezbo spoken word artiste, the final stop. She was really a bright spot, words flipping out of her effortlessly. Alix Olson. And she had some audience participation happening, always a gold star in my mind. It was a far far cry from the pre-Bouncing Souls reading I shot/attended that was a hushed and brightly-lit affair.
Events, they come in all shapes, sizes and darknesses.
Onwards.
Love and Friday-style anticipations.

Endured the world's longest awards luncheon which clocked in at a mind-numbing 2 hours and 20 minutes = speeches, presentations and video snippets. I was so on my game: this awardee from the left, next one from the right, ooooh, and this awardee head-on.
Needed/wanted to sit closer than the alternapaper table so sat with a rival pub's employees and when the emcee said Would every past awardee here please stand up I did my customary rise and bow... explaining that to the table's obvious unhumoured horror.
For some reason my 80-200 was on the ol' fritz and would seize and give me a horrifying EEE as in Error message. Switched then to the 28-70.
In 50 minutes there's a peace rally in a smallish Middling City Park. Seems to me a tad late for a peace rally as we're now in the throes.
Just told one of my more humour-loving colleages at the alternapaper (where I'm multi-tasking/making a few perkly long distance calls) that I'm fasting until we have peace.
Fasting for peace.
As the oil fields burn I sign off, soldiering on for accuracy in all things Blog.

Amongst other messages left on the Perfect answering machine is one from an attorney and I'm dreading calling this person back - I have a feeling it's the esq. of the batoned man who not only gave me his okay but purchased a few copies of his bruised likeness. I sent him a few lo-rez jpegs so he could have a sneak peek of what'll be in his mail and in the alternweekly.
For the record:
I have applied and been accepted to be part of the first group/class of 15 MFA students in Parsons School of Design's Photography and Applied Technologies. The mere mention of the word technologies makes my heart gleefully skip beats... me, data, experimentation, imaging more than ever, images, technology, calculations, more experimentation.
The program is designed to have us in NYC for short intensive bursts in the summer when no undergrads are around the labs. Then they prefer us to depart and resume our careers whilst keeping in touch with fellow PRT MFAs and faculty via... technology!
Finally received my packet of overwhelming amounts of information including my student freakin' number. That and $400 means it's for real.
Tuition, frighteningly, is higher than I realized.
I may have to start a part-time career in bank robbery to finance this experimentation in higher learning.
26 months from now you will all have to get on all fours and kiss my MFAd arse.
Thanks for your attention in this matter.
NJP, PSD student #NP28887.25

I'm sorry, I just don't care right now.
Turning off NPR and the pending death threats and reaching for brilliant Stephen Malkmus/Pavement's appropriate-for-now Terror Twilight from 1999 when the world was still sort of innocent and fresh.
Among the sights shot by Yours Truly this past weekend was a man of a Middling City suburb with a perfect baton mark across his face, getting shuffled into a waiting squad car by two Middling City cops. I'm going to phone him tonight (if he's out of the klink/hospital) to ask if he's okay with his likeness and name running in the alternative newsweekly that sort of pays me.
Full of himself Lead Boy Colleague said he sent the same man's likeness to AP and that it was seen all over the country. I think the bashee still has a right to a yes or no on being run in his hometown alternapaper and being named.
Yesterday shot the St. Patrick's Day parade, a flash of pomp, circumstance, drunks and green. Escaped the mean green streets to a friendly gay bar for an icy one, dabbing some beer foam onto the small lips of baby Sarah until her mom said No more.
Although Crispin Glover is one of the best freaks on celluloid (and what a fine fine nose) do not - DO NOT - waste money seeing his newest movie Willard.
I liked it for showing me some interesting camera angles. In a nutshell it's a fucked-up tribute to Michael Jackson and his movie Ben.
Onwards to more music, more work, no more news today and more images.
Love.

Prowling the darkened Middling City streets is next on the Perfect Agenda.
Last night Tori was a huge el grande NO. A certain Margo from Sony said Tori is saying no to media in all secondary markets.
So in case you didn't believe me that the MC is secondary, there's backup.
Or perhaps it's another case of ARSS (Aging Rock Star Syndrome).
Tonight is art then music then music then music before a visit to the Tequila Maiden.
As I had to deliver handiwork north of the city I made a very politically incorrect visit to the Seneca Casino as a plus one. At the entrance several security guards converged upon us at the sight of my camera bag... red-faced and hands a-grabbin.' I talked my way into keeping the bag with the warning that if the camera popped out they'd take it.
Hopped aboard machine but wasn't feeling It. I was fixated on a Tabasco-themed slot machine, $1 + a shot with meager results. Surrounded by the sunken-faced elders who spend way too much time in front of the mesmerizing music and flourescent lights of the machines.
We curiously took a look at the buffet - a half-mile of all the starches and fried items a body could hanker.
Off to points pointy and blunt.

9580.
Every person reading epinw remember this 4-digit number and use the hell out of it.
It comes to me at a very steep price, compliments of Verizon and Verizon DSL so please use it and pass the number along.
9580.
Pick up a phone and dial it and nothing else and wait until the recording comes on and tells you what phone number belongs to the phone that you are holding in your listening and holding hand.
Use it at payphones, someone's mysterious phone.
Why am I passing this along after Verizon made me promise I'd never remember the number, let along pass it along?
Well, hang on to your hats as your Favored Nancy is currently a Steaming Nancy.
Friday I was in NYC and called my residence to find a stranger at the other end of the line.
Are you in my house?
No, I'm in my house.
So my land line now shows up as if I'm calling from her house, she has been getting my phone calls and I have no internet access. According to my neighbor, who I called yesterday on my cell phone, she's been receiving most of my calls since Friday and she took a call from someone who wanted to hire me as a freelancer.
Thinking of making Sprint PCS my sole phone and cable my new internet provider.
Goodbye Verizon. Well, unless they comp me about $1K.
Onwards.
My undying and communicational woeful love.

At the Old Fart Concert me and my boy colleagues were made to participate in a biathalon of sorts. We were shown the diagram of the stage with our photo positions near center stage back about 5 rows and then either side back about the same distance. For the intro (cheeseball music, pianos rising from below stage, Billy Joel then Elton John waddling to stage, meeting at center and raising their joined hands in a victorious geture underneath huge circles of snippets of the American and British flag conjuring up thoughts of the pending Bush/Blair war) we were at center and for song 1 my half-group was escorted to Joel's side of the stage. For song 2 we were ushered over to John's side of the stage. This meant running from one position to the other, dodging folding chairs, ushers, people carrying snacks on trays. Realized back about 40' was a better angle for Elton John (who looked like hell in shaggy red-head wig and sunglasses, puffy jowls jiggling about) and then tried to escape my group to return to Billy Joel's side to make more images of him from reverse, better angle. That's when our usher, Jesse, caught sight of me jogging away and I was busted. Nancy, come back to your group, he shouted. I obliged.
Then onwards to Flogging Molly show and shot the opener before standing in pit with security men. I was next to one guy and I glanced up and commented that if the oversized disco ball let go from up at the celing we'd be kaput. He said his secret passion is disco so it would be appropriate. We discussed the panic and horrors of the Rhode Island club disaster and I said that people will grab for those they know in time of pandemonium and that one slip and fall means crushing and piling. This conversation took place a few minutes before Flogging Molly (Guinness-guzzling lovelies) hit the stage and the barricades were nearly collapsing from the crush of punk rock and Celtic music-loving fans. It was time for Your Favored Nancy to evacuate and shoot from the wings.
Thanks to Joey Marcella I now know the club's many secret passageways and navigated through a secret door to walk behind the bar and leave unscathed.
Onwards.