[won't somebody save us]
Hey, so, you know, at the beginning of April I shot the Red Hot Chili Peppers from the photo pit at the RBC Center in Raleigh. The entire evening, save the 15 minutes of shooting, was basically a long mantra of don't puke don't freak out don't be intimidated by the other photographers, but it turns out that after four years of this, even when faced with Flea sweating on you, my body and my brain can autopilot through a shoot. I killed it, too, some of the best shots of my life. I didn't puke on Anthony Kiedis' shoes.
I did, however, walk out of the arena after our allotted three songs and boot in the parking lot. I am, if nothing else, classy. (That set is here, btw.)
the Alpha Site is throwing a Superhero Movie Extravaganza tomorrow, all five Marvel movies in order of release -- yes, even The Hulk, which shep. and I both love -- so when I got home today, I spent a couple of hours cleaning and cooking and cleaning some more. Then I edited my photos from last night's Lumineers show (fucking amazing), answered and sent some emails I'd been procrastinating on, and then I put a frozen pizza in the oven, made myself a drink, and sat down at my desk, where I promptly realized: this may quite literally be the first weekend night I have had entirely off from anything since … October? Last July?
A really fucking long time, is the answer.
And you know what my first thought upon realizing this was? It wasn't, oh, good, I can sleep. It was well, there's that show at the 506 I could probably make, or I could drive over to Broad Street to see Jay and Deep Chatham, or I think the Cave had a decent bill …
Which is why I've been absent: my photography has turned, finally, into a full-time job, after years of ass-busting, doubting myself, and sleep deprivation, and on top of my day job, I just don't have time to say more than I need to. I read every day, and I try to comment, but mostly it's work nap ride the exercise bike eat dinner shoot edit take care of the boring business shit of photography fall back into bed lather rinse repeat. I could stand to sleep more. But I'm happy, and that's more important.
My favorite albums so far this year are, in no particular order, Micah Schnabel's I'm Dead, Serious; Damien Jurado's Maraqopa; the Lumineers' self-titled; Justin Townes Earle's Nothing's Gonna Change The Way You Feel About Me Now.
The other day I was emailing with Bill Beckett's publicist about something entirely unrelated to him, though it had originally been about him, and she asked if I wanted to interview him when he is in Chapel Hill in a few weeks. I politely declined, because if you tell a publicist "No, thank you, I laughed until I peed myself a little at that, so probably it's a bad idea", it wins you zero points. The phrase "I was emailing with Bill Beckett's publicist" no longer phases me at all. My life is so weird it's normal.
I got a new tattoo, my birthday gift to myself: a Nikon F2.
As always, Twitter is the best place to keep up with what I'm listening to, things that places smell like, and Evan Longoria's mullet reports: @brandnewkindof.
I thought of plenty of things I could do with my evening. I decided to stay home and re-read Christopher Moore novels. I've earned a night off.
Hello there. :))