“I would like to use a picture as well.” A bit surprised, I say, “Uh…I will have to check.” As my story nears daylight, this is the editor talking. “Yes, I always like to use pictures in the stories. Do you have any from when you were here as a kid?” I know I don’t, and I highly doubt any of my sisters have any pictures of me during those fabled Wildwood weekends. Which, I am actually OK with.
As you peruse my FB site, you will, for the most part, notice a lack of pictures. It never fails to astound me that some people have over a thousand fucking pictures on their FB account. I don’t think I’ve even been in a 1000 pictures in the last 10 years. Hell, I’m only in four in my wedding album, and that’s just because I was pulling a ‘that guy’ in the background. The fact of the matter is that this Wildwood story is striking at one of my neurosis.
I don’t like myself. No, not in some haughty taughty, self help section Borders dweller type of way. I am OK with the broken mess I am these days. I am actually very hyper-critical about how I look. Yes, I know, I can hear you saying, “But, Kev, you usually look like shit. Or hungover. In fact, when I think of underemployed loser, the face I see is yours.” Looking back now, maybe that’s why I’ve always favored my ‘caveman’ look. Grow hair from every possible place to cover all the flaws. (These days, apparently I have a lot of flaws in my nose and ears.)
I am not thrilled with this prospect. I have been diligent over the last few months asking my family if they have any pics of me from that era. I guess they all knew I was ugly back then, because no one has any. Truth of the matter is I would actually prefer a picture from that era. At least readers could say, “Geez, I sure hope he got better looking when he grew up.”
The paper will even take a current day picture of me in Wildwood. Problem again here is that I don’t have any. I took a bunch from this trip as well as the first time we took Bauer down there. It’s a shame the paper won’t take a picture of Bau whizzing on the beach, ‘cause I got like ten of those shots.
It appears the only solution is to go down to Wildwood to take a new picture. And while I may groan at the 2+ hour trip down to take just one picture, I am actually excited about having a real reason to see the beach again. As much as I would enjoy it, I am also freaking out. Because I know there is no humanly possible way I could ever be happy with any picture. There’s just so many things I would/could hate.
First of all, I would have to look presentable. And the freaking beach in February doesn’t exactly lend itself to summer attire. And I wouldn’t want to wear something too uptight, nor too casual. Christ, this is way too tough for me. I’m going to have to be Madonna and bring like 10 ‘ensembles’ down just to be happy. Can you say high maintenance?
I would freak about my hair. Not that I have as much as I used (or want) to. But an ill wind can make a barely passable hair day into a birds nest from hell. Unfortunately, until I perfect my wind control machine, I am at the mercy of the mighty blow. I can just feel the wind conspiring against me.
Plus, what look am I supposed to do? I hate my smile. I just feel it’s blatantly fake and obvious. I can’t see how I could smile and not have it say anything but “cheesy”. So then do I try to sport a serious look? Maybe the tortured writer look? Maybe try to sport that small, knowing smirk that seems to be all the rage with action heroes today? Ugh, how do real authors do this kind of thing? I suppose I could try the realistic way I look when I write. But I don’t think they would appreciate the astounding amount of empties that I pile on my desk to write these Klogs to entertain you. Plus, I would totally have to minimize that window with all the naked chicks.
And where would I go to take this snapshot? The beach and Boardwalk seem the appropriate, if not obvious, choices. What do I do? Look at the beach? Yea, maybe the picture will be of me looking away from the camera as opposed to looking into the lens. Maybe a nice shot of me gazing into the ocean? Or a shot of me casually sitting on the rails of the Boardwalk? Maybe even on the steps of the beloved house. That last one might actually constitute trespassing.
The picture will be in black and white. 90% of my wardrobe is black, so I should actually wear a different color. Nor should I wear my ‘liquor in the front, poker in the rear’ shirt. I yi yi, this is not very enjoyable now. I would much rather the story runs with no visual. I know I would totally drive T nuts with my wild and unpredictable mood swings. Which is funny, because it’s usually the other way around. (ZING! I can say this because I know she doesn’t read this. So no one go ratting me out, eh?)
As it stands now, nature and life might prohibit this from even happening. Wildwood got walloped with snow. And I don’t think a picture of me sitting on a pile of yellowed snow as high as the boardwalk would serve the purpose. It’s almost like the cosmic balance of nature has stepped in to save me.
The saying goes we all suffer for art. While it’s debatable if this article is “art”, I can tell you I got the suffering thing down pat.
Epilogue: A few days ago, I email the editor that I just can’t produce a picture. She tells me she’s running it without a picture. D’oh!
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