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...