I was five minutes into writing a heated open riposte in response to the ludicrous, scandalous, slanderous blob posted by the Moore bloke on Friday. Of course I had to clear it with the dogs. You can’t leap into a lawsuit without consulting the injured parties. Every coconut monkey knows that. But, after a two-hour video conference (Gogo’s on a lecture tour in Malaysia), they won me around. As they said, perpetuating the myth that dogs have no memory, conscience, social skills, minds, logic or political standpoint, might not be such a bad thing come the revolution. Sticky pointed out quite succinctly that those who think they’re in control are the easiest to pull from their pedestals. He demonstrated how to get a good jaw hold around the left ankle.
But that leaves me short of a blob for this week. So I have no choice but to tell you of another disturbing event. If anybody’s actually reading these blobs, he and/or she may recall that two weeks yonder I was forced to become a feature for a rather hunky internationally-known newspaper. Despite the fact that the journalist had a perfectly functional camera embedded in his cell-phone, he insisted on flying a photographer down to take a few snaps. (You need a pretty good parachute to get to our place by plane.) Now, I happen to know that due to great strides in technology over the past few years, a squid could take a photograph that, ten years ago would have won the Pulitzer for feature photography. With my little Kodak, I personally have taken several excellently artistic pictures for my ‘Yucky Things I Find on the Beach’ gallery which caused quite a stir in Flotsam and Jetsam monthly. So why send a real photographer? I tell you. The UNION. The professional photographer’s union is second only to the Teamsters in the bodies in concrete boots league. They look after their own and I got the feeling the journalist might have had a little accident if he’d gone ahead and snapped me with his cell-phone. KnowwhadImean?
Because of his obvious mob connections I was determined not to like Justin. Yeah, ‘Justin’. Name like that, gotta be gay, right? Nothing worse than a gay mobster. I still have nightmares about that scene in Fame where Irene Cara’s lured into the bedroom by a sleazy photographer/videographer.
“Colin, sweetie. Just slip off that shoulder strap, will you? Super. Teensy bit lower. Lovely.”
There’d be erotic pictures of me posted all over the web. I’d be humiliated over and over again like Paris. So, it came as a surprise to learn that Justin was 7ft 2 and hairy. He drank beer and the dogs liked him. (They discussed Faust deep into the night). But all that made his mob connections even more ominous. How could I refuse his ‘suggestions’? Tell me how many of the following I would have considered if my photographer didn’t have a baseball bat in his camera bag:
Up to my waist in jellyfish infested water? Covered in red ants as I dangled from a tree? Beating my way through jungle using my teeth as a machete? ‘Just one quickie’ up against a factory wall surrounded by armed Burmese? Right, National Geographic photo spread, you say. Justin took 805 photographs of me. That’s eight more than they took at Chelsea Clinton’s wedding. And, do you know how many they’ll use? One. And you just know that’ll be the one of me at my desk writing with my Nobel prize slightly out of focus in the background. Eight hours of extreme posing and nothing but insect bites and second-degree sunburn to show for it.
We considered locking him in the cellar with the others but we decided Justin was just following orders. In fact he was a nice guy…for a 7ft 2 gay mobster.