Things are not as they seem, usually. Two pieces of evidence.

1. Cult members in white with bright red sashes around their waists walked en masse down the street at 10PM the other night. They were all women, about the same height. And they were all wearing white shoes. Upon closer inspection (necessary so many times in instances of the bandying about of evidence) they were waitresses, classically dressed, leaving the old-school Italian (eye-tail-yun) restaurant called Chef's.

2. A fire burned brightly in a fireplace last night. Logs a-cracklin-, flames a-jumpin' and the scene screamed for marshmellows. But, dig this, this was a faux fire in faux fireplace in a limousine owned by CAESARS limo co. In I crawled, with two friends, into a stranger's limo. He was sitting in the limo. His girlfriend was in the bar where we had been, talking to the limo driver. I smelled trouble for this relationship. The guy was friendly, non-plussed by the sudden appearance of three strangers as his love interest was schmoozing the limo driver. There were also three crystal decanters of bright blue liquid and I said to my self Nance, that's a whole lot of blue curacao. And guess what, epinw people? It was not what it seemed - it was blue water. I know, I made jilted boy sniff it.

Micro pit stop between freelance shooting and journalistic shooting. And yippieyahooaroonies there was a message on la machine that an editor from a respected pub(lication) would like to have me do some writing for him - I'm filled with silly giddy elation, always a pleasant feeling before hitting the streets in search of perfect moments, smiles, and notes hanging in the air.
Is it me or does the fall air have the faint scent of fourteen year old single malt scotch.
A parting thought for this perfect Friday: a pal just about fell off her barstool with oddness when I self-mentioned this blog. You know that thing people do when they are not along for the ride with whatever you're espousing? She threw herself into implosion. Gasoline on epinw bonfire of fun, I say.

I'm so certain that I won tonight's $6,000,000.00 Lotto jackpot that I've been phoning realtors in Manhattan to inquire about purchasing a condo, preferably on Central Park West. And then I'm going shoe shopping. And then charities. And then sushi.
Heard from my long-time friend and fervent art curator that I'm to be part of an exciting collaborative project which funding just came in for. Just when I was forgetting that I'm an artist, too, the art poop hits the proverbial fan.
Long live art poop and the people who make it, including me.
Time to be out and about.
Fear not.

Power to the people. Power to the people. Power to the people.
Power to the people right on.
I've been listening to the John Lennon tributary night wailing away in the other room as I've been flailing away in here, for deadline peace & unity.
Heard Dave Matthews singing John Lennon, almost as perfect as Neil Diamond singing the Christmas Song on a ND collection.
Nearly missed the grant deadline today, as luck would have it I was talking to a friend who happened to utter the word deadline. Terror set in. Then high-speed slide collecting and rapid bio-amassing set in. Told Mr. Mailman about my near-deadline fiasco to his great Going Postal amusement as I handed off the hopefully lucky packet.

Long hair phenom: the smell of people sticks in hair long on length and now I'm sniffing the scent of someone's perfume and I am not so sure who...oh, got it. While at the absolute last outdoor festival of season - Snowjam - a woman of same name embraced me. Was on half-pipe and yesiree those will be gorgeous images. Goldfinger headlined, but before they arrived onstage all the x-treme athletes lined up in all their Molson-sponsored tipsiness and buff glory, many of them hurling (no, not chunks) their novelty oversized check money checks into the throng.

Good deed for the day/month/season: arriving at a backroads countrytime crossroads en route to cornball smalltown art & craft fest I spotted a sign which read: PUMKINS FOR SALE. So I sez to daytrippin' companion: I'll be right back. I grabbed an ever-handy black sharpie and jogged back to the sign, adding a helpful arrow notation and the necessary P. And I drew smiley faces into their two poster pumpkins, adding some friendly zest. Mid-P some lost people from Pennsylvania pulled up in an enormous SUV, having lost their way to the Bills/Steelers game. At the art & craft fest I had a hankering for a caramel apple and nobody in that godforsaken place had even heard of caramel apples, let alone fashioned one. So I headed to a small Masonic Temple (fueled by my lifelong fascination with secret societies). Inside I purchased a slice of apple pie and one of the universe's weakest cups of coffee. Oh, but it was so worth it: for inside, in the kitchen at the rear, were two ladies of the Star, I was told. One was extremely busied with her 120mm cigarette, swatting flies madly. The other was of the white acrylic sweater-wearing genre and she was most kind until I started pumping them both for info about passwords and such. One was a Star member since '42, the other since '73. At that point my thoughts zoomed over to Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon but I didn't think they'd understand. While I was making nice with the sweater lady, smoking lady was swatting out into the middle of the Masonic Temple. She unleashed one giant swat which sent the temple's Star clock made of various colors of plastic at each point crashing to the floor, shattering it. The people inside the temple went silent. I offered helpful advice: 1. superglue would fix everything...and 2. perhaps they might want to shut the temple's front doors to keep more flies out.
As a non-knower of secret passwords my advice was lite.
One weekend highpoint: listening to Hüsker-Dü on vinyl with pals.
Another: hearing how the FBI (as in thee FBI) forbade the Molson Snowjam from acquiring tons of farmpoo/manure to make fake snow from the woman who scented my hair. It all goes back to hugs and hair you see.
Peace for now, perfect oNe.

Next door neighbor of blazing KMart-style lamp called me this AM. She started saying something about the light and I'm thinking it's going to be Sorry that you're getting sunburnt whilst you sleep. But no, it's We installed that light on Tuesday and someone popped open the window again, they didn't take anything. So...nice huge light does no good. Actually, we are both certain the window popper is the post-juvenile hall kid across the street whose home is a study in disaster. Mom with an indeterminate number of children who all look the same - maybe six or seven - mom is a bingo and sex addict and the kids are alone all the day long and don't go to school. Sometimes I look down the driveway and see one of the younger ones running in the front yard, which she's been doing since she started walking. Nobody to keep her away from traffic. So this kid who goes into the building next door doesn't do anything when in there - he's bored. Somehow someone in the house has their shit enough together that they actually managed to hang a few patriotic signs (right-side up) in the windows.

Responsibly, I've got all of my Halloween decorations up. Then I realized, Hey, Halloween is about a month or so away. But it sure feels good to have that orange pumpkin head flashing in the upper window, making neighbors cower. I'm not even talking abut the skull which has been up in the front window for two years, or the interior decorations which have been up longer.
For isn't every day truly Halloween in some special way?
As I was working on AOL writing, specifically Medeski Martin & Wood's upcoming gig, I had that in the ol' cd player and realized that I had forgotten how much I enjoy them. Except when they attempt to play free outdoor concerts filled with hopheads.
From there a quick foray down memory lane and plopped Live's first disc, Mental Jewelry, in until I couldn't stand it any longer. It sounds so flat, so freshman-like, but I still recall perfectly the first time I shot them - big Ed still had hair and I ran a photo of him on one knee, hand outstretched. That was 1991. This is now. Good day to you. Your favored Nancy.

Note to self: even though you are not a huge Phish phan, buy the cd upon which your images appear for the proverbial archives. Or, choice B, perhaps the management will supply a copy as part of my comp for image usage.
Someone who read epinw yesterday wondered what I thought of Ray Davies. I was too busy noting wayward drunks and forgot all about Ramblin' Ray. It was delightful but at moments I wanted more music than Kinks or Davies talk. Also, last night was the tenth anniversary of the release of Nirvana's Nevermind and I thought how I could be similarly enthralled with epic tales from the Nirvana world.

Theme of post: nincompoopage.
1. Nincompoop of gigantic proportions at Ray Davies suddenly lost control of an Entire Pitcher of Beer which flowed like the Tears of Jesus over his table and onto my journalistic photo bag and squatting to keep low legs. Mr. N later, during the quiet moments, shouted in communion with the moment. Then I noted to a rock comrade, Robyn, that he was gone and I supposed he had hit his besotted head somehow in the bathroom and was lying, "out of it," on the pissy floor.

2. Next door neighbor nincompoop has installed one of those K-Mart parking lot-worthy lamps of questionable design and outage of light molecules. Wow! I am still amazed, as I gaze at the windows on that side of the house. Wow! It's afternoon on a cloudy day - or dawn all night. Maybe this is a CIA plot to further confuse a person wont to work into the weest hours.

3. Out of Perfect Nancy Sphere but popping into memory via an oldie on the radio was one of the music world's chief nincompoops, Morissey. Or is that Morrisey? Anyhow, onto more interesting matters involving ham sandwiches and biting rock & roll boys.
Moz once had an acquaintance of mine ejected from a venue for eating a ham sub during a techie break before his gig in this middling city. Sent home. Bye bye ham eater. And one time I saw Morrisey, post-Smiths (unfortunately) but still in his solo heyday, at Nassau Coliseum with a boy obsessed with him (musically, not physically). I recall girls with sheets spraypainted with his name, marching around the perimeter of the floor. Later this rising rock star wanted me to bite him, so, obligingly, I chomped upon his lip. Now that's a nincompoop.

Hell hath no fury like the mom of a little folk singer/rock staress angry that she was mentioned as an "Ani Associate" in your photo essay column. The brother of the rock star said Yes, she's really protective.
Protective? Of what? Seems rather silly but nonetheless all happiness resumed and I finished my rock star family gig in joy and exuberance and with typical pinpoint clarity.

Speaking of exuberance, my piece (drawing of grain elevator on a corner along with lines of sitting birds patiently awaiting grain elevator crumbs, a lightpost, and a beat to shit American flag) sold for $200. I busted out of the museum before my piece was being bid on but not before I bought a large piece by my pal Catherine.

Last night more rock action. Tonight is Ray Davies and I'm about to make certain his aged rock self allows the presence of an inquiring mind and lens = me. Photographically yours, your fav Nancy.

Note to self: if every bride were as psycho-bitchy as yesterday's, dear Nancy, you are not only skipping shooting any future weddings, but will lobby hard in our nation's capital for legislation to pass a law banning marriage.

Found myself in a far-flung vortex of local rock gossip this weekend. Firstly, late Friday night (thankfully after escaping a concentrated dose of show tune-toting theatre people) spoke with a departed drummer of the band he and I were watching. He, his tall, & tipsy self, kept uttering things into my ear. For all I know he was speaking Old High Inuit. Loud outdoor rock & roll under a tent + waning hearing in both ears due to a few decades of rock watching and shooting + drunk departed drummer = WHO THE FUCK KNOWS!. What I did catch was this: as one song was about to begin he said, hearing the first note, If I ever played THIS song again I was going to explode. His hands were drumming in the air, as if to help the new drummer, not nearly as deft or handsome.
Next night/last night: while talking to another guy from another band the subject of the band having personnel problems (losing drummer and bass player) came up and he said: Oh I heard they bagged him because of his drinking. Then he had some other misinformation about my friends' band which we both happened to be watching - why they were dissolving.
I set him straight then, sending him off whimpering post-karate chop to the kneecap. The End.
Off to a complicated day. One involving artmaking, a juicy little freelance gig, some event coverage, an so much more.

ps: Heard from a local hippie that my photos are now appearing along with the Phish live cd recorded from near here, a secret I posted a while back right here on epinw which I couldn't tell, couldn't tell, couldn't tell - having been swept into the enthralling underbelly of rock and roll secrets.

Last night Thurston Moore (of Sonic Youth fame, lest you are not acquainted) mesmerized. A drunk comrade, front row, off to the side, caught me as I was passing and was nearly shouting I can play guitar betther than that. Thurston is not only beautiful with the most kissalicious lips, but his solo guitar work was gorgeous pared-down SY-style resonance. His writing was okay, mostly youthful ramblings about the burgeoning and innocent days of Patti Smith-era punk rock. In his early writing he used the phrase raunch & roll - a lot. The readers of writing preceding Thurston were weak and everyone who hit the stage discussed 9-11 and tragedy.
Off now to draw grain elevators for an art benefit so I'm dusting off my pencils.

Voyaged to another land yesterday for a day off of sorts with a friend. Realized I hadn't called my parents to wish them a happy (?) new year of marriage together and phoned them via cell from the car. As I was leaving a typical Nancyesque message Thanks for both being born, for having me, for meeting each other and marrying each other, and then, having me, the most wondrous product of your marriage, my friend's face was priceless as he glanced at me and I burst out laughing. When I returned home way late I had a message from my father What was so funny? There's another phonecall to make - not your marriage pops. . .
So no Kim Gordon tonight, only Thurston et al, and a few poets. Kim Gordon, I learned moments ago, is still in the NYC area as their daughter Coco is still freaking from 9-11. I am thinking now of one of my most fav rockstar images ever - Thurston Moore in front of me, caught in such a moment of rapture with his guitar, head and face gone in sound, it's very very sexy and hangs somewhat prominently on a nearby wall.
I want to find an extra copy and give it to him.
Off to a full late afternoon and night of freelancing, shooting, meeting, and driving driving driving into the wee hours of lively Nancy activity.

Post of shoulds. Not coulds. And definitely not woulds.

Should I admit that I'm now listening to a sonic cure, Deep Forest, from a past moment now frozen in faroff and embellished perfection.
Should I be astonished that the nervous lady at Victoria's Secret referred to my rack as IT when I inquired if she could glance at them and tell me their collective size.
Should I think it's disgusting that I lick the Oban bottle when I'm pouring myself a creativity enhancer and some drips down the side.
Should I refuse to give the two week visitor Henry the Dog back to his errant owner.
Should I sharpie the deadline application for the photo grant on my forehead, which now has a huge bump on it from a workout mishap.
Should I get back to work.
I shoulder deadline responsibility in this perfect world of mine.

One never knows when one will encounter a closeted hipster, now does one?
Had a freelance dropoff today out in the farout suburbs at a private catholically-infused college. My next stop needed to be a post orifice and, not knowing this suburb very well, rolled down my passenger-side window to ask an ultra-average middle-aged guy in the bland american car how the hell to get there, wherever it might be. He rolls down his window, is immediately smirky and ridiculous, and suddenly speaks as if he's a computer searching the internet for information. I'm processing, one moment please, he actually said. OK, got it...make a left then a right, etc. etc. (he was wrong, but after some vulture-style circles, found the damned place). As I'm thanking him he holds up his thumb, Fonzi style, and shouts ROCK ON. I am still amazed.
BSB (Backstreet Boyz/Bootie-Shakin' Boys/Butt Sucking Boobs) turned down my request to photograph them for my column. Oh well, no ringing ears later tonight from a sell-out teenaged crowd screaming their growing lungs out.

Still have the borrowed/dropped-off dog, Henry, and tomorrow is the day that his owner picks him up after nearly two weeks at Auntie Nancy's Spa for Pets. Brita pitcher water, Iams, healthy biscuits, grooming, a flowery yard in which to romp, rock & roll education - it's every canine's dream.
Last dusk's rah-rah-rah Peace is Over candlelight vigil was an odd contrast of iconography. The three fates in the form of habited nuns sat dourly on lawn chairs front & center in the off-limits (except to media, special guests, the handicapped... and the fates) section. Each held a flag, and a candle.
One of my boy colleagues said to me You know you're up for something interesting when even the nuns are out for blood.
At the end of the programme I felt suddenly like I had been jettisoned onto ground zero of a 1950's war-era movie replete with the patriotic chanting, bunting, plump babies, etc. There was one rotten apple which I noted, a drunk kilt-clad veteran who was groaning and shouting hoarsley either THANK YOU or GOD BLESS AMERICA. And we all know there's no way in hell he could shout GOD BLESS MY UNDERWEAR as men in kilts like to swing free & easy.
Walking back towards the vehicle with a small entourage of two, the throng rediscovered a downtown monument to veterans and there left multi-scented candles at the base of it and around its grass triangle, a sight which reminded me of the John Lennon 20th anniversary death vigil which I attended in Strawberry Fields.
All in all, great pictures. Especially the moment when I spotted a stepladder alongside the large stage, climbed up and shot from the side of the platform, my invisibility costume rendering me unseen by politicians, the lady signing, and the onstage troops. HOORAY FOR BEING INVISIBLE.

Mad as a man falling in yoga's tree pose upside down on a sunny day.

Drove out to the exurbs Friday night for a concert at the area's most difficult venue where photographers are subject to astronomical obstacles in the act of making pictures. And, as I am wont to say, when life gives you photo-related lemons do your damnedest and make lemonade. Specifically: Saliva and Godsmack at Darien Lake. Lighting minimal. Pyros terrifying. Sight lines difficult. Me and boy colleagues grasped at arduous moments and fading possibilities and I left growling.
But the night's most visually arresting snippets were guys and boys and men and jocks in starspangled jackets à la Evel Knievel and Old Navy shirts and bandannas on heads, waving old glory and hootin' & hollerin' underneath a suspended flag mid-venue/amphitheatre the size of which is only seen in front of that chain diner which discriminates against minorities, has lost court cases, and which serves food never resembling that represented in menu photos. So these guys were chanting USA USA USA !!!!!!! over and over and their fists pumped the air and if they had flags those were in their fists. These flag wavers were drunk, furious, and about to rock the fuck out. Before Godsmack's fairly amazing set a local dj came out, referred to 9-11, said Godsmack is making me do this and then, over the p.a., came the world's scratchiest rendition of the national anthem, so scratchy at first I couldn't tell what it was.
Later in the night, inner-city rambling, a few party stops, more of that rock & roll and party and art opening business on Saturday, and a yet more more more today. Off to another art function before a dinner gathering and then a candlelight vigil afore City Hall, already cardoned off in anticipation of thousands upon thousands.
Radiohead plays on in the background, a lush wall.
Pink Floyd lyrics sprung forward as I drove to a freelance gig this sunny day:
(stop here if you don't dig Pink Floyd, can't groove on their 70's and early 80's pomes, and never come back to epinw, fercrissakes)
So you think you can tell heaven from hell, blue skies from pain. Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail? A smile from a veil? Do you think you can tell?
Onwards to images in the making, to be made, which must be made, by me, the handmaiden of imagery - your beloved, fav blogging Nancy.

Finally heard from my trader friend. She left me a message last night, her voice not sounding at all like usual. Elba hoped that she never had to go through that again... this lifetime. She was in the World Trade Center, working for Smith Barney, when it was bombed in 1993 and I spoke with her while she was on the rooftop before being led down the stairwell by flashlight by the Red Cross. She's been through, like thousands of others, two bombings. I wonder how many people will be moving out of Manhattan after the dust settles. My friend Dorota was attempting to leave the city to spend time away from the flying debris in her neighborhood. And she's concerned about airborne asbestos. Had dinner last night with three friends and one amongst us had such an incredible America-bashing take on things it shocked (and saddened) me, at one point he sneeringly asked if I am a flag-waver. He soaks in history and fancies himself a tried & tru intellect but is ignorant and outdated. Normally I excuse his eccentricities but will be taking a break from his company.
I bet most of the rock extravaganzas inked into my book will be not happening this weekend. Invited to a soirée this evening and would enjoy not talking about the international tragedy for one night. I've been burning a candle in my house for all the dead. And yes, I am a flag waver.
And so, too, is my friend Kenneth in Amsterdam. Be strong.

Because of the World Trade Center bombing I am, for the first time in my life, not thinking about my perilous fear of needles and blood and am giving blood this afternoon. Terror would be a good word to describe my thinking of the Red Cross visit but it seems like a grand thing to do being cross-state and helpless to do much else to help post-tragically. I'm looking at this foray as a personal challenge Oh, you think you're so tough Nancy, strap yourself in and let those nice people take some nice juicy (wooziness starts now) B+.
Be positive and spill loose your B+.
Canceled excursion to Toronto today as reportedly the traffic to cross is hours long. Aftermath of tragedy, most of the world in a numbed state. And some celebrating in sunny streets as if it were a holiday.
Is this karma? Why do wars involve pedestrians? Will the site of the WTC become a field of daisies? Will everyone in the US know someone or know someone who knew someone who died yesterday?
Will I faint at the Red Cross. Will I keep you posted?
You bet.

ps: went to the red cross and started crying when I saw all their flags fluttering in the breeze and a dozen volunteers collecting money on the avenue and handing out flyers to a line of cars which I was in. The man who handed me the flyer said they were so inundated with blood donors that I should return at another time. Then someone told me that they only want O now and non-first-timers. Off the hook/needle I suppose.

Happened to have the tv on this am in between workout tapes to see footage of the World Trade Center in flames and I thought it was archival from when bombs were driven into the garage and detonated. I realized it was live and in those few minutes the second plane flew into the second tower and blew up. The newscasters were dumbfounded and two of the three regained some composure while the third, a woman, was absolutely beyond comprehension and words. I watched until the tower crumpled and decided I could watch no longer. I thought about putting on my L7 tshirt with the skeleton hands but opted instead for my John Lennon shirt. I'm wrapped in a wish for peace. Yesterday I bought the NYTimes and there was a full page ad from an international Jewish org praising both our retarded president and Colin Powell for their support and rejection of the world council on racism. And today this. Are these related?
Dorota, who lives in SoHo on Broome Street, this morning heard a jet flying over her building and then an explosion and watched the towers collapse from her rooftop.
This is the only time I am glad to be in Buffalo and not NYC.
Moment of silence. Moment of silence. Moment of silence.