Camera clubs and other hate groups

I went to the Nelson Camera Club to learn about photography.
It is located in an upstairs room next to a gym by a cricket pitch that is borrowed for the night.
It is an elite organization. Like the New York Yacht Club of Losers.


They were doing an exciting presentation on measuring horizons with a ruler.
So they can beat the shit out of the Blenheim Camera Club, which has never won a competition.
The Blenheim Camera Club is looked down upon as losers.
Everyone needs a beatdown bitch.


They started showing off their photogarphs for the next competition.
They would kick the shit out of hapless Blenheim. Again.
The Blenheim Camera Club is the Meryl Streep of photo awards. Stay in your seat.


I particularly liked one of the black and white photos of a light house on the coast.
I asked ‘How did you take that photo? I really like it.”’


That is what I said because I was there.
I only speak one language and it is by coincidence English, which is widely spoken in New Zealand.
Apparently no one at the Nelson Camera Club speaks English.


I repeated.
“How did you take that photo? I really like it.”
He heard “Mr. Mengele, how did you get to Argentina and why are there so many twins in your neighborhood?”


Language has a different meaning at camera clubs.
There is a hierarchy of who asks what and to whom.
If you are a newby as evident by your shit camera and shit question you should be silent, ignored or both.


Asking someone to tell you how they took a photograph is a very personal question at a camera club.
A trophy may be in the balance. I could be spy.
From the Blenheim Camera Club, home of the bitch losers.


I’m a pretty mellow guy in general.
I live by the rule “I’m nice to everyone first. If they aren’t nice back then fuck em.’”
They were not nice to me.


What is with these guys?
It’s a hobby. We should all be mates helping mates.
I felt like I was in Boston in 1972 reliving the worst years of my life with those passive-aggressive, inbred pricks.


Perhaps I had not been clear.
I would try again.
Live and let live.


They were doing ‘triplets’ or something in the next competition in which they would headstomp Blenheim.
Again. Keep your bitch nearby.
Triplets are three photos that are arranged to show off the ‘3-ness’ of the photos or something.


My friend Terry, who had invited me to the club, needed a ‘model’ to go into the forest to do his 3-shoot.
He wanted my daughter to go with him.
She said OK.


I did NOT say OK.
My daughter goes into the forest with NO MAN except ME.
I went with them prepared to leave his body covered in leaves should he try anything strange.


Terry showed up with a bunch of broken plastic baby dolls, which with my daughter, were to be the subject of the shoot.
Without me my ass.
Get the rake out of the trunk.


Terry proceeded to arrange plastic baby dolls in the forest on Rabbit Island with my daughter as the model.
I proceeded to enter ‘111’ into my iPhone memory so I could quickly call the police.
When seconds count the police are only minutes away.
I had a rake and was prepared to use it.


Triplet 3-ness my ass.
I just wanted a little info, training, inside-G2 and/or semi-warm comradship at the camera club.
I should have asked for kidney and gone home.


How would you like it if your doctor said he knew what was ailiing you, but wouldn’t tell you in case you told another doctor and then everyone knew how to cure your illness?
Actually.
That’s pretty much how my doctor works.


Oryour mechanic said he knew what was wrong with your car, but couldn’t tell you because you would Google it and realize you are being ripped off? .
Actually.
That’s pretty much how my mechanic works.


OK.
So the whole world is basically a hate organization and a camera club is just a special case.
I feel better knowing how the game is played.


Guys with safari jackets hiding behind trees and jumping out to take a photo. Then ducking back into cover.
Try that with lion fat boy. Or a hippo in Botswana. Or a full-function women.
You would be better off with the lion. Or hippo.

Or worse. Taking photos of the poor, sick, diseased and making it look like you are brave and in danger for doing so.
Do that in Jakarta and your camera gear will feed a family of eight for a year.
Your arms will arrive in checked baggage.


I may take shit photos but I don’t hate anyone.


I have forsaken camera clubs and other hate groups.
I travel alone because I like the company.
I make the same mistakes repeatedly because consistency is the hallmark of my craft.


I may join the Blenheim Camera Club.
If they will take me.
I wouldn’t. I can’t keep a secret.