Guys follow women.

Guys spend money on women.

Attract the women into your club. Get the guys into your club who are following the women. The guys buy drinks for the women. And suddenly you have a successful club.

I never would have thought it, but in my job, I have seen more beautiful women than I ever knew existed. I shot porn stars, bikini contests, playboy bunnies and everything in between. So, Thursday night was a nice break….because I shot GUY hotties.

Just John’s in the Grove was having an auction/event for wildlife. Hell, I don’t really know. Who cares. When there were guys that looked like this????

Do you know how rarely I actually get to see topless, handsome, toned men? I get to see cute guys, sure… I mean, they are all over the clubs and usually talking to prettier women than me…. But THIS night???? This night I got to see delectable pieces of candy who look like Taylor Freakin’ Lautner!

And, bonus points…THIS GUY WAS STRAIGHT. If I was any other kind of woman, after a year+ of photographing in a the arid desert of beautiful women, I could have made some REALLY bad decisions. (Sometimes I really wish I was the “other kind of woman”)

Ok, I know you want to see another one of the age-friendly version of Taylor Lautner, right? Oh hell… I don’t care if you do, I do!

Hang on… you gotta give me a minute.

Have you noticed they all have a tattoo of Just John on their body? I wonder if this is an initiation or just some sticker. I’d be willing to do the research to find out.

And my night STARTED with this little morsel of hunkiness.

I’m not complaining about my job. I love my job. I looooooove my job. But maybe, don’t tell anyone, maybe I had more fun that night than usual.

It’s basic psychology, people. I’m surrounded by beautiful women and the men that want to get them drunk. I rate on the “hey she’s cute” level somewhere around mid-range, but I’m always sober. I am constantly CONSTANTLY having to build up my ego next to the bikinis, porn stars, bunnies and everything in between.

So…. A big BIG BIG thank you to the men (and women) at Just John’s. PLEASE invite me out next time you have an event. Maybe by then I’ll be a different kind of woman. (Here’s hopin’.)

The St. Lunatics. St. Louis Coattail Riders.

No, in all honesty, I have nothing against the St. Lunatics. But when I went to photograph the Nelly concert at Home, I was a little dismayed that most of my shots were obscured by one of the twenty other people on the stage with Nelly. Who were these people? What were they doing? I swear, one of them was just drinking and waving his hands. Chingy actually climbed OVER the DJ booth to get to the stage.

And there was this one guy… I have no idea who in the hell he was. He was clearly A) very important and B) lacked any significant talent whatsoever because all he did the entire time was bring things to a dead stop. In the middle of a song this guy would determine, randomly, that things needed to stop and would scream into the mic “HodeUpHodeUpHodeUp….” And then make some comment that seemed really unimportant.

I have very little doubt that neither Nelly or any of the St. Lunatics will be reading this posting, so I don’t mind saying that this guy really needs to find a job. True, he’s hobnobbing with the likes of Nelly and is clearly important enough to garner a microphone, but is this a talent? “HodeUpHodeUpHodeUp”. Fuck. I could do that. HIRE ME! Because every hip hop act really needs a little irish girl to act ghetto.

So, here’s a question for all my fans…both of you… Is it better to be part of the party your are documenting or not? Seriously, do you want to remain outside of the party in order to document it properly, or is the only way to really see a party is to be a part of one? Anyone? Bueller?

Covering Nelly was, in actuality, quite the sight. The hometown hero vibe is a strong one. And why shouldn’t it be? He was wearing diamond covered dogtags! I am not sure what the significance of that is… Perhaps he is making a statement about the amount of money we have spent on the war. (Somehow I doubt that…) But when you see a St. Louisan reach the Hollywood heights, even me from West County privilege, you do sort of get excited. I don’t have diamond crusted dogtags. I never wanted any, and there was a time in my life that I wore dogtags (please see my early teen emo phase), but that is hardly the point.

The point is, this guy made it. And he stayed true to his roots. And he took his friends. And all of that is very very very cool, and I am honored to be one of three publications who were allowed to shoot him.

But, please, get rid of the “HodeUp” guy. He is ruining the pacing of the show.

*random topic change

On another note, you know when you bother to read those dull employee handbooks at the “respectable” jobs and they mention that vague part about how you represent the company even when you are on your own time and you are supposed to uphold the reputation at all times…. Yeah, I never cared about that. I had a job, a real job, and I did it well, but in terms of representing the company, uhhhh, I would be first in line to point out the problems with it. I cared about doing my job well, which was important, but little else.

So what do these two random things have in common? The events of the past week.

As we all know now, I have almost no spine. I always relied on the “establishment” to follow through on its word to protect the people who meant well and punish those that did harm. The “establishment” has not held up its end up the bargain very well. And since I was raised in such a passive fashion, I have been tromped on most of my life in one way or another.

Until I found something worth fighting for.

I remember, vividly, the first time I discovered the dark and murky pit of anger and aggression and passion that I had been unable to find most of my life. And, true to my Mom’s word, it was probably a good thing that it took so long for me to find it. Lord knows what kind of trouble I would have gotten into if I had had access to it all along.

I had, knowingly, given up. I had said to myself “Just get it over with.” And I had resigned myself to something I didn’t want, would have been dangerous, was illegal and was bound to cause harm. But I was tired, exhausted by life, and had run out of the small stream of fight I had always used. So I gave up and gave in. And in the very next second a powerful surge of deep rooted fight rose from the depths of my soul I had previously never explored. A screaming voice rang out in my head yelling at me about the stupidity of the decision. It was like, from nowhere, someone had grabbed me by the shoulders and yelled “WAKE UP!!!!”. And, I am proud to say, the thing that was bound to happen, never did. (Score one for the good guys.)

I had surprised myself greatly. Apparently I had had this fight, this passion, all along and had just never used it. Where had it been all these years? What had it been waiting for?

I know the answer now. It had been waiting for something worth fighting for.

I care about my job. A lot. And when you ACTUALLY care about your job, surprisingly, you do care what people think of the impression you give of the company you work for. So, you don’t want to be the little pissy photographer representing some local site, cause people will remember that and associate it with that site. I care what people think about my photography, my performance, and my company.

I think that’s the thing that had been the missing ingrediant most of my life…I didn’t care enough. And now that I care, you better watch out.

So, when the guy behind me is crushing me against a stage, screaming in my ear, blocking my shot with his iPhone so he can take a grainy picture of someone’s ass and generally making my JOB more difficult, I WILL say something.

When the guy next to me, a friend of the Booty Photographer, tells me that he could take better pictures than me with my camera and to hand it over… I WILL say something.

When someone throws beer on my camera. I WILL say something.

I don’t care how big you are. I don’t care that I stand no chance of winning in a physical fight. I don’t care that pissing off the people will make the tough time a little tougher since, for the moment, we all have to live in a small confined space. I don’t care because I am fighting for myself, my safety, my camera, my company and my work. And I care, greatly, about all of those things. They are worth fighting for.

This 5′2″ freckle faced redhead WILL get in your face. She WILL yell at you. She WILL demand you stop interferring with her work. She will spout words that would make your Mom blush. She will bob her neck like JLo. She will scream louder than you. And in the next second, make no mistake, she may shake your hand and apologize for being a bitch…but she did it because she cares THAT much. THAT is worth fighting for.

I have irrational fears, just like everyone, but I don’t have any fear of closed tight spaces. So, the two times in my life that I have been in such a situation as being crushed by the audience and you see me taking deep breathes and trying to stay calm…I’m not panicking about the proximity or the fact that I can’t breathe, I am panicking because I CAN’T DO MY JOB. And if I can’t do my job, the people that hired me will find someone ELSE to do my job. And THAT is worth fighting for.

For the most part, my life is spent in a way that would make Mom proud. I’m slow to react, and try to dull my emotional responses. I pick my battles, and few of them are chosen, and try to let everyone live their lives. But every now and then…. And it still surprises me. It stills swells from some dark abyss I don’t have access to unless properly provoked. And when it happens, I have to admit, I am insanely proud of myself. Because there was a time I thought nothing was worth fighting for, and all my pathetic and sad aggressive urges rarely solved any problems, but I know now that that is not the case.

So stay on my good side. Just a piece of friendly advice. Let’s shake hands.

I actually have an impressive set of office skills acquired from a lifetime of “this will do” office positions. So, when I ran into some trouble in my job, I was actually a little haughty. I knew how to do this. I had done this before. How can they not be pleased? What the hell is their problem?

See? Haughty.

That was about the time The Devil Wears Prada came out. And when I saw our heroine trying and failing, and trying and failing, and trying and failing, she didn’t get frustrated and tout her talents and intelligence… She worked harder. She met the challenge. It was an interesting day the day I realized that I might have been resting on my “so called, self-appointed” laurels instead of rising to meet the challenges in front of me.

From that day on I had a post-it stuck to my computer monitor that said simply: “The Devil Wears Prada” to constantly remind me to let go of my pride and simply work harder.

(Of course I left the job within six months, so maybe that plan didn’t work so hot.)

Yesterday was a long and interesting day. And by the time it was over, on the phone at 2 AM screaming at a friend about the many trials and punishments I suffered, I was ready to go to bed and wake up when I GODDAMN FELT LIKE IT! But instead, I woke up with a different sort of feeling about last night.

My job depends a lot on energy. The energy between myself and the people I’m photographing. And like everything else, it’s basically a power struggle. Who has the power? Who wants the power? Who’s on top? Who’s on bottom? Lately, it seems like the energy has been off. People are less willing to be photographed. Maybe that’s cause of the heat. Maybe they are drunk out of their minds during the bachelorette party and don’t want evidence getting out…. Whatever the reason, it has been feeling harder. In my classic “I am a goddess and can do no wrong” mentality, I simply assumed THEY were changing. But, maybe I was (partly) wrong.

Photographing the World Cup at Amsterdam Tavern for the RFT yesterday was, predictably, a hard time. Shoulder to shoulder. Hot hot hot. Drunk drunk drunk. The little girl maneuvering around with a camera is not exactly a welcome site when you are trying to WATCH A GAME! I climbed over fences, got sunburned the worst yet of the season, and still felt, ultimately, that I was not doing the job that needed to be done. My little digital recorder was on its last leg of batteries, something I should have fixed before I left the house. My feet hurt – bad shoe choice. I felt fat – my period is coming in a few days. DON’T GO THERE. And these people, who should have been one of the most interesting photo essays I’ve done in a while, were just NOT COOPERATING.

I had a deadline. I had a mission. Either you were helping or hindering that job. Period. Smiling people looking at the camera with their family is nice, but not what the RFT wanted. You want a picture? Work for it. Do something for it. Be extreme. You don’t want to do that? I’ll move on. I had the pre-game and halftime to photograph, basically. Anything else would have been a highly unwelcome intrusion. And as much as I was there do to a job, these people were there to enjoy their steamy sticky alcohol-hazed afternoon. You can’t forget that. This is THEIR Saturday. This is THEIR good time. Do you want to be the girl that pushes herself into a situation and makes it all about her? Nope.

In the middle of the afternoon, I had a moment that brought everything to a crashing stop. A random soccer fan asked me if was at the Atomic Cowboy the night that someone poured beer on a photographer. Then she looked at me and “Oh my god. Was that you?” It was the first time, and the only time, anyone who had seen the event admitted what they had seen, which (for the record) was someone literally pouring beer on me and my camera ON STAGE. This incident happened in December. Six months later, to the day, I finally met someone that validated and corroborated my experience and subsequent legal battle.

The shining moment of (hmm what to call it) validation was overpowered later when the Americans scored a goal in a foul kick and someone threw a beer can, full of beer, at my head. Hitting me square in the temple, and showering me with beer, my only thought was: “What if I had had my camera with me?” My camera, which was probably needed at the time the American’s scored their only goal, was rather outside on the concrete being watched by a kindly doorman who had given me his water as I finally got something to eat near 2 PM in the afternoon. I had gone back inside to fetch him another water when the goal, and beer can moment, happened. Clutching my head, suddenly sticky, my sense of humor was waning. Later, creeping among the crowd, an exuberant fan cheered just as I passed him, hitting me square in the face with his elbow, knocking my sunglasses to the ground and making me dizzy for a few seconds. My first reaction was to get out of the way. My second reaction was “where are my sunglasses?” One look back confirmed that my sunglasses, of the finest Target brand quality, were lying on the ground in pieces. That was probably when my sense of humor finally gave out.

Hours later, sitting on Washington Avenue, taking a breather, I get out of my car only to realize, instantly, that I left my keys inside. Locked from my car, with two locations left to hit, my mind starts reeling with thoughts. The first thought is to call the guy that helped me the last time this happened. But I saw him a few weekends ago and haven’t heard from him since. Womanly pride stopped me from doing that. My second thought was to call the guy I’ve been sleeping with. But a rather terse text exchange prior to the keys-locking incident, and again, womanly pride, stopped me from doing that. My third thought was to call AAA.

With dying phone batteries I spent the next twenty minutes talking to a AAA rep who couldn’t find my information. My brother WORKS for AAA. I have AAA. How hard can it be to find me? I eventually hung up on him and called my brother. My brother didn’t answer.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I approached police by a club. They couldn’t help. I was left with two options: break a window, which I was actually considering, or call a locksmith.

iPhone to the rescue. A google search of 24 hour locksmiths in St. Louis yielded a list of results and I went down the line one-by-one until someone answered. I was to find out later that despite being different names and phone numbers, they all reached the same guy who was asleep in bed and only answered after I, apparently, called him four times. A flirtatious conversation had a guy coming to my rescue, who I didn’t have sleep with, but would cost me $85, within the hour. Washington Avenue, camera in hand, only one thing left to do…. go to work.

The locksmith and I had talked about how I was going to work. I was to have my phone on me at all times. He would call when he was near. If I didn’t appear at the car after that ONE phone call, he was going to leave. I had work to do and a phone call to answer. I was on the clock.

I needed 30 pictures each from two locations. Steeling myself, I headed into Bar #1.

And that’s when, looking back, I discovered a huge difference between tonight and my recent nights. I had photos to get. That’s all I could think about. I had photos to get, I was tired, hungry, my feet hurt, my dress made me look fat…. Gimme my photos and let me get out. And approaching people I blurted out “Can I take your picture? It’s totally free and you would be doing me a favor.” Inside twenty minutes I had 80% of my goal finished. This was the fastest this had ever gone! I was killing it!

And looking back, I discovered why. The power struggle. Maybe I had grown a little haughty again. I am TALENTED photographer. You are LUCKY to be photographed by me. I have been doing this for a WHILE. You are BORING to me. How can you not want your picture taken by ME? I am SOOOOO talented?

But last night I needed the photos. I needed the people. And I let them know. “You are doing ME a favor. Can I PLEEEEEEEASE take your photograph? You don’t like it? Let’s do it again. Thank you soooooooo much. I really appreciate it.”

Maybe I’m a nightlife photographer. Maybe I’m good at it. But I think I forgot in the scrounging to make rent, and the weekdays filled with endless episodes of Friends, that the reason I’m a nightlife photographer, the reason I’m good at it, is because the PEOPLE MAKE ME GOOD AT IT. I’m doing it as a service to THEM. THEY are the REASON I’m there.

Another half hour, I’m in Bar #2 with keys to my car and an ex talking to me when I snapped and thought: “Ok, the night is over. I’m leaving now.” I called a friend and yelled at him for at least twenty minutes about the events of my day, and the ex in particular, and made it home alive and panting.

Expecting to wake up today feeling exhausted and angry at the events that happened yesterday and last night, I look back and instead realize it’s The Devil Wears Prada all over again. I think I forgot who had the power. It’s not actually the oh-so-talented photographer. It’s a shared power between the photographer and the subject. I think I forgot who the customer was. It’s not the guy paying the check, it’s the people in the bar. I think I forgot who was the important person. It’s not the sexy nightlife photographer in the new dress, it’s the PEOPLE.

I don’t deserve beer to be thrown at my head, or my camera, or to be knocked in the cheek by a wayward elbow. I don’t deserve exes flaunting their new loves in my face. I don’t deserve to lock my keys in my car. I don’t deserve aggravation and exhaustion and hunger. But, I suppose, looking back, I’m happy all of it happened. It reminded me where I started and what the point is.

We all need mirrors to be reminded of who we have become.

My mirror cost me $85. I suppose that’s a bargain.

If you go to a concert: SIT YOUR ASS DOWN! GET YOUR BEER BEFORE THE BAND STARTS! AVOID THE CAMERA LENSES!

Annoying, isn’t it? Yeah…. trust me. I know.

My reality is skewed with the real reality and it’s beginning to cause problems. My actions, which in the circumstance of the nightclub scene would be perfectly acceptable are seriously jeopardizing my ability to walk around black eye-free.

So, last night at Ted Drews, the girl in front of me had a SERIOUSLY twisted bra. I’m not talking a little askew. I mean, she invented new ways to twist your bra. Without even thinking about it, I asked if I could fix it for her. She looked at me like I was an alien race. In a nightclub, that would have been met with a “thank you” and  a flurry of giggles.

Later that night I was talking to my friend and mentioned that LMFAO was playing at the ReHydrate party at the Millennium Hotel. She looked at me and said “I don’t want that is.”

“It’s a band.” Silence. I was waiting for the obvious to sink in. “You know…the band.” More silence. “They do that song “Shots”.” Crickets chirping. “You know ‘Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots!’” Now, in a nightclub setting, or even an experienced club goer, you would smile immediately. This song literally makes you want to bounce.  But imagine never having heard the song and having someone tell you those are the lyrics. You see my point?

And finally LATE LATE LATE last night, in a small (large) drunken me-begging-an-ex-to-take-me-back session, (He turned me down.) I mentioned the party I went to on Saturday night and genuine surprise at the attitude I witnessed. I hadn’t realized this part of town was quite that, um, ghetto-chic. The words “I saw sooo much pussy poppin’” came slipping past my lips and was met with an astonished ex almost choking and asking exactly WHAT WAS “pussy poppin’”.

Yeah…try and explain pussy poppin’ to someone that has never seen it.

It’s strange… None of these events caused me a moment’s pause. They were all as natural as asking about the weather.  It’s only when I run across people outside of the nightclub circuit that I realize how much I’ve changed. I’m not saying I mind… I guess I’d rather know what pussy poppin’ is than not. And I too have bounced to “Shots”.

I just wish the ex would give me another chance. I fucking love that guy.

For instance, I’ve been hit on, and given my number, to a guy only to watch him hit on and get another girl’s number not five minutes later. A girl who was partying and enjoying the day, as opposed to photographing and watching the people might not notice. But I did. No, I did not go out with him.

So, last night, this guy decides to spend all his time talking to me. Which is fine, pretty much, except that I have work to do and hearing about how I can work the runway with the size 2 models is just not something I want to hear. But do you want to know who this guy is? Oh, come on, you’re dying to know, right?

It’s THIS guy.

Here’s a tip: If you want to hit on a girl, make sure you aren’t photographed ogling the beautiful models. For the record…

Last night at Steve Garnett’s Do You Social Swimsuit Fashion Show (doyousocial.com) the girls were beautiful and the crowd was appropriately male. Yeah, there were some females there, but mostly it was guys. Not that I blame them. If I were into girls and had an opportunity to see them in skimpy swimsuits, including a playboy model, yeah, I probably would too.

But what do you do if you get to the event WAY early and have no one and nothing to photograph for three hours. You take pictures that no one will ever see, but you are proud of nonetheless… like these:

Let me explain… Do you know why this is a hard picture to get? Because there is no flash, there are moving lights and people, the music is so loud its shaking the floor, and you have to keep yourself, your hand, and especially the camera steady for an extended exposure. That means the shutter stays open and every little move, every little shake will make the photo blurry. See the railing? Crystal clear. See the Europe sign? Crystal clear. So, would any of my employers want a copy of this photo, no. But am I proud of it? Hell yeah. The colors. The crispness. It may not bring in the big bucks, but that is what photography is really all about.

Same with this one.

Fucking hell. I am so good. Not that anyone knows….

People want to see themselves in the slideshows. I know. I would too if I was starring in them. So photos like this won’t get you very far…

But, come on, it’s fucking cool. Right?

And finally… when attending a swimsuit fashion show, no one cares about art. We’re all adults. We all know what the people want to see. So, this photo has no place in mainstream photo slideshows. What would the average red-blooded american male think when flicking through the pics and seeing this? Would he just click on to the next one? Probably…

But this photo… This is a photo I’m proud of.

For the record.

I’m not going to show you any photos.

But I will tell you that Bret Michaels is on my shit list. And, frankly, I don’t think he cares.

I photographed Matt and Kim at Off Broadway a while ago. Unbeknownst to me, the crowd RUUUUUUSHES forward at their appearance and whip themselves into a hyper drunken crazed frenzy. And as I was crushed, breathless, against the subwoofer fighting against the wave of teenage psychosis, pushing myself up, taking a few pictures of legs, and then being carelessly crushed back down, bent over at the waist. By the fourth song, with my legs screaming in pain, my photos FAR from satisfactory, and literally on the verge of a breakdown, I wrestled my way ON stage and escaped. I went outside and cried and shook. Eventually, some kind hearted men let me back in via the employee entrance, thereby avoiding the frenzy.

That was a bad night. I can list on one hand the times I have literally felt in danger during this job and THAT was one of them.

Tonight….. Tonight Bret Michaels made it on my shit list. Despite the correct credentials. Despite the appropriate sized cameras that separate professional from amateur. Despite establishing, politely, the correct way to get in touch with the superiors and gain access behind the barricade. Despite the footwork, the hand-shaking, the smiling and, yes, the picture-taking, the ultimate word from Curtis came down: only two outlets were allowed access behind the barricade and I wasn’t employed by one of the lucky two.

So, in the heat, with the bugs, and the fans that had been drinking all afternoon and stuffed with ribs, I was crammed among the really hardcore fans pressed against the barricade that was safely guarding the other photographers. As the woman on my right let me in at the price of a photograph told me that she “had my back” the woman on my right was picking a fight with the people who had seats further up the VIP section but had chosen to stand near the barricade. And when you fought back against that woman, she called her man. And if you went up against the woman, AND her man, then she got the guards involved.  And among the little human drama that was taking place, there I was sweating with the crowd, eating the hair of the girl in front of me, with my deodorant fading, being bumped around like a mosh pit watching the photographer’s pit being filled with not two, but several photographers.

The word is, from Curtis, that it was the band’s request.

And then Bret Michaels made is appearance. And the people around me started jumping and waving their hands, and their cigarettes. If you thought it was hard for a 5′2″ photographer surrounded by people in the first place, it is even harder when those people are waving their hands in front of your camera and jumping into and out of your shot.

When a member of the groundlings suggested I climb on top of the unused chairs and actually get some clear shots of faces instead of the legs that I was getting after holding my camera over my head another foot. Once I did climb on top of the chairs, Curtis, the bearer of “you’re not important enough to get behind the barricade”, came by to personally insist I get off the chair. Thanks Curtis.

Three songs in, the appropriate time photographers get, we were done and had to wrestle our way out of the crowd the same way we’d wrestled our way into the crowd.

That was NOT fun. My arms hurt. My photos are eh. I smell. And I’m sweaty.

Thanks Bret for being choosy for no particular reason.

F You, Bret. (That was supposed to be F-Stop You….”

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Me neither. But some schmuck (that’s right, SCHMUCK!) keeps posting crap like this in my comments.

Stop it or face my wrath.

Just ask beer boy.

Have you seen that movie “Fur” with Nicole Kidman? She portrays Diane Arbus who made a career, or at least a large potion of it, photographing freaks. I’ve never really been fond of that word. It has a certain harshness and ugliness to it. Truth be told, I think I’m a bit of a freak. So, when the RFT assigned me to shoot Mini Lady Gaga at Home Nightclub, it didn’t occur to me what I was really in for.

First off, lemme say this. This girl was stunning. I mean it. She was absolutely beautiful. And maybe she could sing. I never really found out. But, I can tell you that I don’t think a lot of the people there went to hear her sing. I think they went to see the freaky mini person. And that made me sad.

On one hand, you really have to give her mega bonus points for turning her handicap, if you want to call it that, into a profitable career. But at the same time, it made me sad that she was selling herself that way.

But, she had moxie and that was freakin’ cool. After her first set she announced that she would be happy to take pictures with fans but that if you tried to pick her up she would “kick you in the balls as hard as humanly possible”. See, moxie. Still, most of us don’t have the kind of life where someone picking you up, literally, is a problem, know what I mean?

So, I had to give her mad props for getting out there, making a career and being proud about who she was. And I’m not dissing the audience either. I’m a pretty hardcore homebody, so I have ultimate respect for the people that get up, dress up and find a reason to go out. Without photography, I probably never would.

I suppose when you distill it all down, it’s all just a spectacle. Did anyone really go see Pauly D to hear how he was as a DJ? Did anyone crowd to see The Situation display his talents? (Does he have any?) Does anyone really buy Playboy for the articles? I guess sometimes it’s better disguised.

Well, without spectacle, I’d have no income. So, Mini Lady Gaga, I SALUTE YOU!

In other news, something really interesting happened at her show. She did two sets, or at least I stayed for two sets. When you are only singing well-known Lady Gaga tunes, I suppose the book is sort of limited. During the first set, I was front and center, like a good photographer should be. Right there, ready to go. But, after thinking about it for a little while, the only way to REALLY show the spectacle of her size was to put her in the frame with other people, so for her second set, I gambled, and BOY DID IT PAY OFF!

I stationed myself behind a small sliver off the stage that was jutting out from the DJ booth. I just wanted to get photos of Mini Lady Gaga with the audience to really bring home her size. However, stunningly, at the end of her second set, dripping in blood, she collapsed on the stage. Just, boom, laid out. And do you know where she was? RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. If I had been front and center again, like a good photographer should, the photo would have been a waste of gigabytes. I would have had a white colored blob on a stage of gray. But instead, because I thought outside the box, I snagged this shot. And this shot, made my night.

So, a toast, to spectacles, beauty in odd packages, profiting from your flaws, and taking a gamble now and then.

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