I don’t know Daniel Kovach, but after surfing through his Flickr gallery, I feel like we should exchange Christmas cards or something. Either that or I’m gonna have to sue the guy for mimeographing my memory plates, photographing my flashbacks and disseminating my delusions. How else could Dude post photos so eerily similar to my very own? Be it a Jedi Mind trick or a simple mix-up at the lab, I’m seriously considering calling that attorney with the bouffant on the tee-vee. Hell, I’ve already done the legwork...
Either they do early morning TV News live shots outside of the Greater Piedmont Googolplex, or this frame was brazenly purloined from the Lenslinger Winter of ’97. Back then I spent five out of seven sunrises rolling up cable and rethinking my career path as an attractive and combative reporter by the name of Jami Turner trained her third new guy in a row. Weeks earlier I’d been a burnout in a necktie on his way to middle management, having forsaken my newsman’s DNA for a charade of a promotions career. It was during this twelve month stretch of endless cable runs that I came to appreciate the prototypical photog and yet hate a damn live truck all at the same time. That condition continues to this day, as do my troubled dreams of steering top-heavy logo-mobiles through misty morning mountain hops. How this Kovach character got a copy, I do not know.
Further evidence skulduggery is afoot, this stirring replica of a stroll I took through the flooded streets of Grifton, N.C. shortly after Hurricane Floyd triggered a flood of biblcal proportions. Yeah, it doesn't look exactly like me - but I'm telling you I've walked this walk (and God knows I've talked the talk). Most amazing to me here is Kovach's knack for capturing the spontaneous, for I rolled into the tiny Pitt County border town that day pissy and unprepared. What started as an impromptu walkabout quickly turned into an extended safari - one in which the tripod grew heavy, the camera grew damp and the chafing reigned unabated. Little did I know then I was in for weeks of uncomfortable coverage, including the floating over of schoolbuses, the stalking of one Jesse Jackson and a near case of red-headed reportercide. Thank God Kovach didn't get a shot of that.
Okay so for the life of me I can't recall ever wearing that shirt, but I distinctly remember the evening. It was early Fall a dozen or so years back and I was a young man enamored with the lens. So too were the good ole boys that night, a local cabal of volunteer firefighters hopped up on smoke plumes and thoughts of arson. It was a controlled burn of course; the pre-planned pyre courtesy of some recently departed widow's wish. It burned in increments, until finally the eager brigade stopped manhandling their hoses and started to ignore the fact that the roof, the roof, the roof was on fire. still, it didn't really get weird until the groupies showed up; young women in tight jeans and clinging drawls who gathered areound the brush truck and cheered on their helmeted heroes. The resulting cacophony of siren yelps, housefire crackle and female shrieks was enough to tap the pyro in us all and I for one showered six times once I got home.
Maybe that's why I totally spaced on it. Now, if you'll excuse me Counselor, I've got some more witnesses to bully, Case dismissed!