Were I fully in charge of Viewfinder BLUES, I'd end each and every day with a scintillating new blog post, three neatly constructed paragraphs bursting with humor, analysis and a few flattering photos. Sadly, I'm not. In charge, that is. Sure, I'm the only loser who logs in and leaves web droppings at this address, but don't think for a moment that I'm the least bit regular. Far from it. See, I have this affliction called a full-time job and while I'm thankful to be employed, it DOES get in the way of my higher aspirations. That's okay, I guess, as a 'slinger has to eat but if I didn't log 40 some hours a week chasing, shooting, editing and WRITING daily news stories, I might have more mojo to spread around my corner of the internet. Trouble is, I'd have nothing to write about. Oh, I have OTHER passions: mountain biking, the Electric Blues, my dog, the Age of Sail... Somewhere inside me a pretty personal 'coming of age' tale lurks, but until I avoid a few more years of therapy, there's little chance I'll share it here. I'm also a pathological reader and while I tend to review the books I buy, I'm not sure I want to clutter up this space with ruminations on the written word.
No, this site requires focus.
And therein lies the rub. For every good idea I have, a few lousy ones seep through my cerebellum. I've been spotlighting the plight of TV News shooters for more than five years now and sometimes even I grow bored, confused or mentally constipated. Such is the case now as a matter of fact, which is why I'm logging in to explain myself. Longtime readers will recognize a pattern here, in which I attempt to shatter my writer's block with a rambling diatribe consisting of nothing more than assembled syllables. Yup, it hurts me more than it hurts you, for inside my head Viewfinder BLUES is not some homemade paean to a limited field of vision, but a glossy document suitable for mass consumption. Thus, I've refrained from stuffing this blog with pure filler, lest I ever choose to 'get published' by transcribing this site with a stapler and a stop at Kinko's. Chances are that won't happen though, as I am a photog after all. Any chance of me collating this mess and hinting 'Print' is right up there with me turning in the keys to Unit Four and pursuing a life of quiet reflection. Not that I haven't thought about it.
But hey, who HASN'T fantasized about a new way of life, a better way in which one spends the day enthralled in meaningful endeavor, not lapping a courthouse while scanning the joint for a proper place to park your unmarked news cruiser. But enough about me, what about you - whadda you think of me? That's the exact kind of trite dialogue I'd like to avoid here, as I deal with plenty of needy egos at work. Okay, so most everyone's pretty chill, but a stark few more than make up for it with egregious displays of self-satisfaction. Trust me, they make Kanye West look like that kid Urkle and while a complete breakdown of such crimes against nature would make for sound reading, I don't dare yet share them, lest I get that free time I've been pining for. No, I'm keeping the juicy stuff under lock and key, saving it all for the book I'll never write. Meanwhile, I'll try to keep Viewfinder BLUES afloat, for while it may be a guilty little pleasure for you, it is therapy, ambition and a pleasant kind of curse for Yours Truly.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have a blank screen to stare at