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, May 01, 2008

Bruises I Accrue...

When I was but a pimply teenager, it would kill me to know I was missing out. A party, a dance, an advertised ass-whupping after Algebra class: I wanted to be there just to drink in the absurdity. So is it any wonder I grew up to do what I do? After all, a press pass is a backstage pass to other peoples' lives, from the preening politician to the badly shackled madman. What better vocation for a fairly gregarious bookworm with a strong back and an eye for irony? I can't think of one - which is why, no matter how I might belly-ache about the Fourth Estate, I go to bed every night knowing I long ago discovered my special purpose...

Trouble is, I wake up sore. An aching back, a throbbing shoulder, knuckles bloodied from scrapes I don't remember. Clearly, one of two things is happening. Either my lovely bride is bludgeoning me in my sleep or all this lenslinging is taking its toll. I'm betting on the latter - as nearly twenty years of bending, stretching, chasing and hefting has done a number on my frame. No, I'm not ready for the Old Photog's Home just yet - as I'd kinda like to shoot in High-Def before I give up the lens. I do however recognize that I'm not quite as spry as I was back when acid-washed denim was still acceptable outerwear. Sure, I been lucky. No major operations or maladies have sidelined me - though there days my knees scream to be taken out back and shot.

Still, I don't regret a single frame - even if I had to assume the shape of a squad car cockpit or hold aloft a microphone until it equaled the weight of a mid-seventies sat truck. See, within those contusions are hardened anecdotes, highly sought life experiences that last a lot longer than than that mysterious tripod hickey on my inner arm. Beats a bevy of paper cuts earned during tax return season, I'm told. But how would I know, anyway? I'm way too busy turning calamity into commodity to keep a running score on normalcy, too consumed with the daily hunt to ponder the pitfalls of a cubicle farm. Guess I'll stick to the open range - where for all the bruises I accrue - there's usually a ballbuster of a tale to act as a salve.

Now if I could do something about this hunchback...

4 comments:

jimgrey said...

Given that you've got at least another couple decades until you reach retirement age, seems like you have puhlenty of time left to shoot HD.

Unless you have career change plans fulminating?

Margaret Banks said...

I say this to myself every time I read your posts, but now I'll say it to you: You are a great writer.

Anonymous said...

Great post. One thing though, what happened to Turd Polisher. I tried checking his blog and it's been removed?!

Mainstreetmarshall said...

HA Wait till you hit the big 50! THEN things really start to hurt! And when you do hurt yourself, it takes twice as long to heal. Back, knees, neck, shoulder especially!and my hands. Years of shooting in zero degree temps have left me with serious arthritis. Some days I cant even move my thumbs. See? You aches aint even bad yet so quit bellyaching!