Editors Note:

EDITOR'S NOTE: Fresh off a three year managerial stint, your friendly neighborhood lenslinger is back on the street and under heavy deadline. As the numbing effects of his self-imposed containment wear off, vexing reflections and pithy epistles are sure to follow...

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Master of Happenstance

Danger AheadAs a kid I didn’t know what I was going to do with my life, but I always knew I’d end up writing about it. (Aren’t you glad I don’t clean septic tanks for a living?) Instead, I run around with a TV camera on my shoulder, fashioning ninety second operas out of life’s random notes. It ain’t exactly the priesthood, but it sure beats harpooning sewer-lillies. Or does it? Some of those wastewater warriors make pretty good coin, and their services are in demand all over the planet. Me - I’m merely adept at showing up on some impromptu scene and acting like I belong there. Left to my many devices, I can skirt the perimeter and pull the trigger - all the while distilling visuals for mass consumption. It may sound exciting, but it pales in comparison to an unobstructed flush. At least from where I sit…Don’t ask.

Okay, now that the laptop’s stashed and I’m back in Viewfinder BLUES Central I can get back to the reflection at hand. Sorry, it’s just the way my noggin’ works. Fact is, I can’t go to the can without twisting a thesis out of stale magazines and air fresheners. Most aren’t worth the ether they evaporate into, but I can’t stop the monologues I my head if I wanted to - which I don’t. Rather, I willingly scribble my every impression in a battered notebook and keep them to myself until publication feels just. For every successful post I share, reams of snatched dialogue and broken song lyrics tattoo coffee-stained pages. Consider them the thwarted pick-up lines of a Gregarious Loner.

Which, if you think about it, makes my chosen role a perfect match for my particular personality disorder. Prone to scribbling missives, I could do no better than my role as professional observer. What better possible gig for the constipated scribe than that of calamity chaser? Where else could I scan pure coincidence for meaning, cull the maddening randomness of highway fatality for some kind of twisted pretzel logic -- Port-A-John Prophet? I think not. No, I’ll stay on point, thankyouverymuch - feigning a psuedo-literary stance that reflects the expression of all those lenslinging lifers clamoring at the edge…Heck, I know guys whose sole reaction at the sudden appearance of an alien spaceship overhead would be mild irritation that it was so damn backlit. That, is the attitude I hope to capture here and I implore you to stick with me during my periods of mental constipation.

Or don’t - I’ll still crank out this drivel by the truckload and pretend it’s worth its weight in human waste - even if it is just a bad case of keyboard diarrhea. By the way, you smell that?


HockeyPat said...

Every notice smart people tell you how dumb they are and stupid people never stop telling you how smart they are.

I should know, I’m very smart!

Anonymous said...

Hey, I thought intestinal functions and crap crudities were my domain. Keep dishing the good shit.

Oreo said...

It would be just my luck that the ship would be back-lit. What are the chances that it would circle once before landing, so I could get that perfectly lit shot?