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...

Sunday, November 11, 2012

Cursed Responders

Fire on the Mountain
A monadnock I'm fond of is about to burn and I have yet to get there. This bothers me a bit, as I still feel the need to be On Scene, no matter how I try to hide it. Most photogs do. Unplanned calamities are, after all, our profession's breadfruit. Without them, our little slugs and rundowns would slow to a crawl, no matter how many tap-dancing poodles or weather center wedding proposals we come up with. I, myself, cringe at the sound of scanner traffic. It's that kind of static that interrupts my meals. (I can still taste the steak I never finished the night some guy shot his wife twenty years ago.) I've probably woken up on the phone in the middle of the night more times than I've called my Mother. These days, I'd rather bob for close-ups in the Zumba pool than circle the drain of a drive-by shooting. Still, when a beloved landmark falls victim to stupidity and dizzying visuals begin to spew forth, even this Z-block operative finds himself eyeing the horizon...  

For a moment, anyway.

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