Effin Obnoxious...

You know what I find insufferable?... photographers' blogs.  Does anyone really care about a shooter's "big shoot in Hong Kong", for a "world renown, international client?"... or the time he/she was "surrounded by poisonous snakes in Bangladesh... thank God we were rescued by Richard Branson in his private jet! (and I got to sit next to Angelina Jolie)"

I just threw-up in my mouth a little.

Who is impressed with this drivel?  These anecdotes don't make you a better photographer... the "glamorous" back-story to the image doesn't make a shitty shot any prettier.  Maybe I'm an asshole (OK, I'm definitely an asshole), but does anyone give a shit about a photographer's breakfast meeting with the Pope, private helicopter lessons or his 4,000 square foot vacation home on Lake Cuomo?  It's bragging... and for me, it goes down as smooth as the AIG bonus package.

Look... virtually every photographer on the planet is a working stiff (or, maybe misery really does enjoy company and I'm projecting).  I, for one, spend more time looking for work... and worrying about not having any work, than I do actually working.  This is not by choice, it's just working out that way.  I have a wife and kids (who hemorrhage money), a mortgage, insurance, car payments, dental bills, college tuition... etc.  I'm GI Joe Average... complete with detachable ego and check-book grip.

For those of you impressed with the perception of photographers as "rock stars"... here's a shot of me flying home on the private corporate jet of one of my clients.  The truth being that it would have flown whether or not I was on it... my XL ass occupying a seat saved the client the expense of a return coach ticket (and a $3.00 SmartCart rental at MIA).

My reality is more "pedestrian".  Below you will see photos of my transportation to a remote shoot I did last summer... as well as my accommodations.  The "aircraft", while appearing slick and burnished on the exterior, was held together with faux-wood paneling, sheetrock screws and duct tape on the inside.  Our septuagenarian pilot, coverall clad and smelling of goats, informed us he'd just completed an engine swap and was anxious to "try her out".  His hands were still covered in grease.  Obviously, as I am currently writing this, we landed safely on a lake near the location and were transported via the client's 1982 Jeep Cherokee to our accommodations... effectively, The Bates Motel.  

Is anyone jealous yet?