Hell's bells, I just wrote this moments ago and lost it in a flashpan of disaster. A few hours ago, through a gin & tonic haze, I bought a fuckload of pyros for my demi-arsed Independence Day fete. Found a joint called The Boom Boom Room or some such thing and it was a low-budge enterprise and seemed like it was in a trailer. If it wasn't, it should have been, for perfection's sake. Upon entering one is treated to a spread of pre-packaged goodies and, behind chicken wire, yet more choices. I wondered if the nice man at the helm might say, excuse me, madam, under Canadian law I cannot lawfully sell you fireworks whilst your breath reeks so of gin. Afterwards, I went to purchase more Canadian goods: Canadian tampons, and a Canadian cup of joe. A ruse, you see: tampons would flabbergast the man at the border, something I'd mention if I thought his laser eyes might be drifting over to my trunkal area where the cache lay quietly, and coffee to seem o-so relaxed. Mr. Innocent asked if there was anything to declare. Just coffee *giggle* I said, eyes wide. Onwards I sped. I was in Canada shooting a 50th wedding anniversary gig and afterwards (after punching out so to speak) was practically duct taped down and force-drunk the gin and tonics by my friends Jamie and Paul.

How does one know when one needs to take one's car in for a tune-up? When one cannot get the mph's up to 85 by the end of "All Along the Watch Tower." Add auto tune-up to the big list of things to think about doing. My newspaper editor was haranguing me and we had an exchange of sludgy emails until he paged me and I called him thinking that perhaps this was finally it, my career with the now non-fledling paper was kaputskis, that this last bit was enough at that very moment to throw me into the no U-turn abyss of finality - but instead he offered a sincere apology. I dropped the phone on the floor. Not really but metaphorically I did. Yesterday I set a world record for espresso consumption during a single day and even I was amazed. It took several cocktails later to get me off of the ceiling. Off to a weekend full of bands and the usual mayhem. Luvv and kisses, your favorite person named Nancy!
BTW whomever left the robotic message on my cell phone rocks. The message said (think robot voice) hello my friend Nancy and with her help I can take over the world.Keep thinking positive thoughts, Mister Robot.

The all-day music marathon festival was loads of fun, and film. People absolutely go kookie for cocoa puffs for the Canadian bands and it was a sunny happy day unlike some other venues of late where security rules with iron fists and t-shirts. At one point in the afternoon I was talking to Eddie, my cop pal, and his boss - a real live cop boss like in the movies. They were both off-duty and I learnt that that's why both of them weren't wearing their badges and their other signifiers. But then Eddie showed me his badge in a smart leather flip-open deal. And he said that his boss had an even nicer one. So then he showed me his, it said Sargeant along the bottom. And I boldly asked if I could fulfill one of my fantasies. He said sure. I snatched his leather badge holding device out of his hand, flipping it shut. I went over to one of my girlie friends and said "FREEZE, YER UNDER ARREST" while I deftly flipped open the holder. It was great. After the festival came to a non-screeching halt I hung out with my newspaper teammates for quite a while on a patio, slushing down cocktails merrily and generally screaming and being mayhemious. I can't say that any of the bands hitting the stages really blew my head off, national or regional, but the happy vibes all day sure did.

Yesterday (friday) I shot all sorts of people on varying levels of fabulousness and realized one interesting fact, mid-day, which both shocked & stunned my avant-garde self: twice this week people whom I don't find to be complete dolts or assholes referred to me as a geek, both in the context of my unwavering rock & roll dedication and passion so it's not totally a horrifying thing. I'm so not the sort of geek who's in a hobby shop checking out the new Lionel train extender metal tracks or anything. How, you might wonder, do I know about such collectible ramifications? Well, let me tell YOU: today I spent a godd chunk of my life motoring about writing up my famed quippicisms about hobbies, arts, kids outfitters, toy purveyors, and the like, for AOL. Ask me any fucking thing you want about the sale of board games, bubbles, hello kitty goods, and the like in this region. I'm on it all like a summer tongue on a drippy popsicle. I'm debating the import of wandering downtown to photograph Gene Loves Jezebel at a club. Do I? Don't I? Tomorrow I've got a marathon music fest sponsored by my newspaper which means I'll be walking walking walking from stage to stage for about nine hours. And at some point, after nightfall, will slip down a few requisite shots of tequila. Pleeez, if you drink tequila and want to be my special pal, don't do so with condiments in my presence. That's so frat, so unnecessary, and so pussy-ish. Tequila must attack one's tongue full throttle. One time a friend brought back a scarily-labeled bottle from Mexico (pronounced right there Mehh-hee-ko) and nobody but me could drink it without barfing right away or nearly doing so. It had the nose of wet dog and the aftertaste of asphalt.

For the second year in a row at the very same venue Dave Matthews left Buffalo after seeing a female press photographer raise both her arms in rock & roll salute (ie: the deaf person's I LOVE YOU, I & L & Y all rolled into one) while hollering "Dave...YOU ROCK, I LOVE YOU" in great earnestness to the great amusement of her male colleagues standing all around her.
One of the group, of blackest/evilest wit, pronounced that our recently-departed fellow photog who was on the DMB press credential list for Reuters would not be there. We tittered, the press lady looked horrified, and later we each drank two expensive beers hoisted up in the departed's honor, to lubricate his way, I suppose, wherever he might be headed.
Tonight I photoraphed moe., national jam band superstars as the pungent scent of patchouli wafted over the 20K in attendance. The first time I shot the four/now five including a deft m.c. they were at a small bar playing in the front window.
I was annoyed at my lack of angle tonight and persevered and fought my way through the crowd to get what I wanted - the front line at a good moment. Like sex, it's all about angles and moments (and scents, and appearances, and feeling "it").
Opening for DMB was Angelique (great and I will be buying her cd) and lovely Macy Gray. I met the official DMB tour photog, Rudy, who bore an uncanny (albeit puffier) resemblance to Dave. He got snuffly when I asked which band he was with. I think the elastic waistband of his sweatpants was too tight.

Late, I work late. But tonight I finished at an earlier hour than usual, deciding to email a writing assignment before DMB. So I'm off to a few errands before filing at the newspaper office and one of the errands leads me to one block away from the home of the aforementioned busted (alleged) pedophile. I see camera crews. It's two in the morning and I'm thinking hostage? Legal announcement? Circled around the block and stopped across the street from the home and got out of the car and saw two people I know who told me that the accused killed himself in his bathtub. I said that I wasn't surprised that that's how it turned out and they looked at me in an odd way, but they had both been drinking around the corner. They left to go back to the bar and I stood and talked with one of the t.v. guys and all three affiliates were waiting out on the sidewalk and across the street neighbors quietly talked. Very windy night and I wondered if I was cold from the weather or the news. We all watched the police come and go and another photographer ran into the home and then left quickly and then returned a while later holding a bottle of Lipton Iced Tea which I thought was bizarre. What an odd time to get thirsty, or reach for a beverage, I thought. There was an oversized SUV sedan type of black vehicle in the driveway and after a while two people took a gurney from it, like the one I garbage picked a few days ago, but on it was a dark plastic bag. An old man left with a clipboard and wearing one latex glove and he went to his car and went back into the house. I wondered if I wished that I had my camera. I wondered what would happen to the archives of this photographer and to his possessions, and if he left a note. Maybe apologizing to all the boys and now men he did bad things to all this time. I thought, still standing there and between the fragments of conversation with the stranger from the t.v. station on the sidewalk, about how all of this pointed to guilt and how for a long time nobody came forward with a definite story or accusation before. And how because of the respect a lot of people had for him as a well-known photojournalist etc. how nobody ever said anything until that one strong fifteen year old had nothing to lose and spoke. I wondered if this man's ghost hovered over the scene, if he might try to be a presence one more time. There was a short and violent thunder and lightning storm a while ago and it seemed very fitting.

Afterthought: 2 second-hand stories about yours truly reported via two very different sorts of men.
1. An Argentinian male import, who moved here to stalk his ex, who I knew from way before their ill-fated relationship, reported to man #1 that one night out and about many years ago he told me as I passed him in a crowded bar that he was miserable. And I said 'good' and moved along my merry way.
2. Man #2 reports that people who sort of know us both witnessed me running/wallking up behind him and grabbing with ferocious strength and venom the back of his coat as he zoomed away, him being at that moment a maxed-out jerk leaving dramatically and impatiently the gig we were both shooting. When he wouldn't stop walking I said 'you're a fucking asshole' and let go of his jacket which, come to think of it, was very inappropriate for the warm evening. Oh, the ongoing fascination with pure emotion in this age of vagueness and confusion between emotion and vicariousness.

Confirming my suspicions about Aging Rockstars Eric Clapton kept still photographers at bay, a safe distance of half a mile from the stage. At the mixing board we stood and about midway through song #2 of 3 one of the colleagues was practically assaulted by an enraged fan who thought he'd be looking at our collective asses all evening.
Not only an Aging Rockstar, Clapton had quickly earned the rep at the venue of being a complete pain in the ass, a primo donno.
I shot a guitar fest gig en plain air at the waterfront and after two blues acts thought I was going to abso-freakin-lutely scream. I was 12-barred out! Thankfully Slash's Snakepit came out and realligned the day. One of my backstage hand acquaintances, upon hearing me gush about the band, handed me a SSP guitar pick which I will forever cherish. Slash was, of course, hot, musically & physically.
Oh, one of my new possessions? A coffin gurney. Garbage picked up in a northern suburb of this middling city. The HOUSE where it was pikt was tossing not one, not two, not three, but FOUR coffin gurneys. I was with Jen and she surprisingly and deftly folded the thing and operated all the knobs and things. We wrestled it into my car and it wasn't until it was just about in the vehicle that I realized it was a transporter for deceased bodies, not living ones. We believe(d) it would (with some minor adjustments and embellishments) make a swell snack table.
Tonight I write like the winds of hell are at my ass - translation: big deadlines. Thousands of words must now stream out of my brain like chlorinated city water out of a non-cinched hose.
Tomorrow night, Dave Matthews rolls into town. Love is in the air.

Writing writing writing. I've ingested too much caffeine and now I'm on that slippery slope and must head in the other direction and bust open the new bottle of Oban that I've been resisting until this very moment. If you have not heeded my advice and sped off to your nearest outlet of recorded music to glean the new Radiohead I must ask why. Do not be difficult.
The next scheduled Spanking Party - all-girl fiesta of dinner and drinks at a residence culminating in a band of us fired up and administering spankings to random men on the streets - is scheduled for late July. Batten down the hatches, beaten down the britches, here come the bitches, hark here are some bruises.
Yes, Oban, I'm coming. Love, your favorite person named Nancy. XO

I've realized that it's redundant to say boy colleagues as I have no girl colleagues. So...one of my colleagues paged me in a 911 fashion to answer the cell phone (what people with all these contraptions do to signal each other in a timely manner) which I did and he out of breath told me that another of our colleagues who always fancied himself, I believe, on a higher plane, was busted for child pornography, and other very bad things. He said to be sure to watch the 11 o'clock news which I never do but did and lo & behold there was the evil in-jail-now colleague's home on television with that plastic yellow police tape all around it and reporters in dour faces talking away. Then there was footage of him earlier in the day being led out of the house by some mysterious blonde woman (he doesn't go for girls, if you catch my reporterly drift) and he had a black jacket not just over his head but wrapping it. Like he was some sort of terrorist or religious fanatic of some sort. For ten years I worked at a camp in Maine for half inner-city and half rural girls, ages 8-12. Half of the campers were black and half were white, there were many racial tensions, and lots of the girls were sexually abused, unwanted, and yet at times could still be happy and carefree as kids should be. Sometimes you could see a dark cloud come over them. Some would tell you horrible facts from their short pasts as they held your hand walking to the dining hall for "food." The only thing sadder than an unwanted child is one who's sexually abused. I think the uncontrollable anger that washes over me when I see clinic protesters - when I slow down and honk and roll down my window and scream at them things like why don't you help the homeless or why don't you adopt unwanted babies - might be directed at this collegue the next time I see him. Maybe one of my high-falutin' karate kicks to his fat gut.

As REM once sang about I just came in from some quality Gardening at Night as I have these days only fleeting moments for such diversions. And some people never learn their lessons: the editor of the magazine just assigned me another story which I'm happy about, a subject matter I can wax poetically and prolifically about - the gleaning of exotic foodstuffs around town.
Only about one week until Dave Matthews Band and today I emailed my photo credentials request to his people who will email back to my people/me.
Slash of Slash's Snakepit fame (and G-n-R fame) is playing this mid-sized city soon, as are Clapton, Macy Gray, and BadCo. I'm photographing all of the above.
Haven't heard yet from Phish about the photos which I FedEx'd to them for the super secret project.

Just walked through the Allentown "Art" Festival where I saw scads of people that I know and now I'm writing from my newspaper office where my one editor is on a rampage to throw out everything, but only after he reads it first. So every few moments he'll say, hey, Nance, listen to this...
The festival yielded the usual panoply of craft, adorable dogs on leashes, an abundance of asphalt-soaked pedestrians, and the horrid wafting scent of fried dough and fried hotdogs and fried burgers, and fried onion rings, and fried tofu
So now I'm off to sushi with editor and my pal/his girlie friend and life couldn't be happier.
Tonight, more photo making, more rambunctious behavior.

Clarification: the mag(azine) editor is the woman whose life I was making hell by not turning in my story in a timely fashion. We did quality bonding. The newspaper editor in my life in the one who hugged me at the press conference, dig?
There are three main editors in my life: newspaper editor, AOL editor, and magazine editor. Then come second-level editors: my so-called sense of decency, the beau, close friends, mentor painter friend, and fav colleague.
So last night, out with the she-editor we had some wine at a downtown wine bar and I observed a sneaky move by a well-known area artist. He slipped his $20 off the bar and then asked the barkeep to bring his change. I was so flabbergasted that I said nothing. Then he took his unwarranted change and wasn't going to leave any $$ until I said something. I'm hoping he wasjust incredibly tipsy and spaced out.

The "editor" of my newspaper self has been calling calling calling and today, after a press conference at the region's largest art venue I said well, I'm leaving what did you want and he said I just wanted to say that I love you as he squeezed me tight. I don't always dig being touched. Like when I'm eating, please never touch me when I'm eating. Thanks oodles.
I'm (as usual) holding back information: beau, at my bidding, purchased and illegally imported some contraband from Spain. Two big bottles of Absinthe. And what came in the mail today, you might wonder? A specially-designed Absinthe spoon. So put that in your contraband pipe and smoke it. Look, any gardener that grows bushels of wormwood (me) has to be up to no good. I went out with the mag editor, I think we did quality bonding.

Phish's h.q. called again to say I've made it to the next round of the super secret Phish project and that they want some chosen shots FedEx'd to them asap. They dug what they saw and if I make it to the next round I still can't say what the hell this all is until there's a big public Phish-phueled announcement.

Newest in a series of bottles of Oban was purchased last evening which aroused some interesting reactions in the liquor store clerk boys. Maybe because I was purchasing it along with a mid-priced bottle of white wine. One said he didn't like scotch and I suggested that was because he had never had a great one. He said he didn't think he was old enough to drink scotch. I asked him if he'd like to step outside into the parking lot. I said that statement and calling me ma'am right now would earn you a good thrashing. He didn't call me ma'am. Earlier in the evening I had been talking to one of the Buffalo Bills, I'm pretty certain he's gay, who also was discussing scotch. He said Oh, I was into Oban for about a year. Like we were talking about opium or some other such thing, like maybe the Atkins Diet. Last weekend was all about rock stars, this one is light on star power. I'm passing on shooting *NSYNC to a pal who's into it for cash money's sake. (And that's sake, not sake, as in fun Japanese beverage) Last night my friend Jennifer - of Dyngus Day fame - said she'd help me learn how to create links and put photos of all the fab things I write about on epinw to make it an even more rollicking rock & roll sensory extravaganza. So yet more technology is screaming towards me hightailing it around a sunny mountain whilst straddling a Harley.

Party people, go and buy the new Radiohead NOW. That's my special order du jour. I was listening to it and it nearly blew my head off with its beauty and magma pathos. One of the record shop boys said "I've got a present for you" as he sped off into the back room. Now, as I've shot probably 2.5 million rock concerts and my ears, too, are shot, I wasn't so sure he had said present until he came back with a Radiohead notepad in his hands. It's so far-out I'll never use it for notes but maybe for a mousepad or just prop it up and admire it. That's the same joint that gave me the 3-d Chemical Brothers mousepad. I think they rule. You give me presents, you rule. It's as simple as that. Off to more deadlines. Love and adrenaline, your fav fotog.

Oasis and The Black Crowes were in my lens and mind last night at a show 70 miles away, r/t. There were superb rock moments with lots of hand gestures and good light, for a change. The stage at the venue, Darien Lake - a park of amusements, has been raised one foot. Security is now half the usual crew and half off-duty prison guards who are testy to talk with. Buzz-cut guys with no humor. And handcuffs. Wanted to work on my freaking story and made my way to the catering tent backstage which is no big deal. BUT apparently Liv Tyler and Kate Hudson were floating around - I really couldn't have been less interested as the boulder of deadline hell was upon me. I was harangued by my pal Chip, head of security, who was then was not then was going to kick me out until I stood up, threw the laptop on sleep and made my way out into the rain. It was the first date at this venue this season and it got off to a bit of a bumpy start. There's no place for working media to sit between our first three song allotment per band, no place to leave gear safely and in a dry place, and we're no longer allowed to leave via a handy gate to get to our cars and must walk a half-mile around a lot to our cars carrying all our stuff, etc. etc. I'll be cutting the amount of shows I'll be covering at this venue as a result of all of this hassle. Last night there was an attitude hovering about that members of the media, specifically photographers, are trying to pull a proverbial fast one and need to be treated like dishonest children. None of this makes sense to basic concert attendees who plop down money for ticket and for beers, then sit in a seat for a few hours with friends. But my Oasis and Black Crowes images which I made, and which will be appearing in my column, made up for all the officious muck.

Last night Artists & Models was a shitload of fun, my photo booth made a goodly amount of cash and after I figure out my materials costs I'll fork over the rest to the sponsoring arts org, Hallwalls. A lot of people said that they thought it was one of the best installations as it was interactive and humorous. All of my little helpers helped people select their fav secret and then they posed for a Polaroid which was $5. Most favored secrets were "I'm hung like a horse," "these aren't real," "I have a yeast infection," "I'm a true brunette," and "I love Billy Joel." There were about fifty secret choices. A gaggle of drag queens swiped "I dig internet porn" for a while and my helpers got incensed and hunted it down. Later, I was roaming for my photo column, and missed this melee, but three of my girlie friends were in an altercation with a drunk guy who took off with "I'm hung like a horse." They were, quite possibly, fueled by the shots of tequila which I had been plying them with all evening, served in film canisters in a smart and handy box. I'm not so sure I would want to wrangle a man who's hung like a horse. So at 2AM the house lights came on - show over - and me and the (unruly) gang broke down my photo booth in what seemed like a few minutes. The beau drove my car into the convention center and we loaded it up - as much as we ourselves were loaded. Earlier in the day, whilst setting up, I scouted out the p.a. system in the massive concrete space - a really hip-looking 70's mic of stainless on a very ergonomic base. So as we were all about to depart I swooped into the "command center" and my pal Steve B (musician & Hallwalls' music programmer) was sitting at the desk. I walked in and very quickly and calmly picked up the mic, pressed the large rectangular button for speak mode, and belted out about four lines of "Feelings" before another Hallwalls pal came RUNNING in to grab the mic out of my hands. Then out for more cocktails and further mayhem.
ps: Did run into my mag editor and instead of strangling me, she shook her finger at me for what seemed a long time. She said: "we've got black & white proofs coming on Monday and I'll have some explaining to do as to why your piece is not sitting in its space." I've been in this crazy racket to know that if that were really the case I would have received a dunning/serious/threatening/authoritarian phone call earlier in the week. If any editors are reading this, be up front, specific even. We writer/photographer types are a wily bunch, trained in information suppression and phrase turning. Dissemination is power. Procrastination is an art. Adrenaline is responsible for most of the activity and productivity in the whole huge world.

OK, I never ever, once claimed to not be a procrastinator and if you hire me to write a snappy/snazzy mag article you might just have to wait on it a while. But when you DO have it in your editorial hands, it'll freakin' rock.
PJ Harvey was superb, I think she was wearing Jimmy Choo shoes - they were that whack. One was stars, one was stripes, they were rhinestones & anklets. My boy colleagues informed the tour p.r. lady who looked a lot like Annie Lennox that I was the biggest baddest PJ Harvey fan and she regarded me. After shooting she asked if I'd like to watch the show, I said I've got a ticket and she said I can get you on the floor. Guess which rock & roll avenue I motored down above-average speed? I was at PJH's feet and nearly screamed at some double-fisting beer-toting bitch who would not shut up, so I had to move. The set was perfect, the crowd was non-surprisingly lukewarm about her. U2 was powerful.
Tonight I'm an artist participating in Artists & Models at the convention center and have created a "Trade Secrets Photo Booth" in which you select a laminated cartoon bubble of a secret, pose in front of a backdrop for a polaroid for sale, and move along. The booth is 20' x 20' and it looks great. I burned incense in it all day to give it another dimension. I've also prepared my customary tequila shots (just short of a shot) in Fuji film canisters, special treats for people I like.
Off to points beyond.