My ten year old really likes my collection of press passes, a fact that sometimes worries me. It's not that I don't want my youngest to pursue her interests; but a child of such promise shouldn't sell herself so short. You heard me: short. Three out of five days I still groove on what I do, but a life behind the lens ain't exactly the priesthood. Nor is it the equal of ten solid years driving for UPS. Come to think of it, I'm not sure who said 'Journalism is the last refuge of the vaguely talented'(Walter Lippmann? Truman Capote? Less Nessman?), but I wish it had been me - for it's very true. Anyone who tells you different either has a stack of term papers to grade or a teleprompter to read every night at 5, 6 and 11. But I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, press passes...They're shiny, they're notarized and they're rarely worth the cardstock they're printed on. Why's that? Because the mass majority of news stories don't come with golden tickets. See, there's no beefy doorman on the widow's porch. There's no one passing out backstage badges at the highway chemical spill. They don't even check for credentials at the courthouse, as long as you empty your pcokets fot the metal detector lady. No, the stories that stain your brain and scratch your soul rarely feature these laminated invites. Which is why, outside of sports photogs looking for serious rearview mirror adornment, most TV news folk dump their old press passes in a lump somewhere. To glossy and slick to outright discard, they're good for little more than impressing the offspring. Come to think of it, maybe I should hide all mine until the youngest discovers a more rewarding career path.
Like taxidermy.
2 comments:
Which is why, outside of sports photogs looking for serious rearview mirror adornment . . .
Our sports guy had so many on his that your hand got tangled in them every time you made a right turn.
Or maybe she'll become a writer, like you.
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