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Feb 10, 2004 It’s a generally accepted fact in today’s society that something bad always happens to people on vacation. Sometimes it happens before you leave; maybe you forget to bring your sunscreen, or your traveler’s checks, or your children. Sometimes it happens while you’re there, which can be especially harrowing if it involves you ending up a) in jail, b) in a burlap sack, or c) kneeled next to the toilet for five days. But nothing compares to arriving home and finding out you’ve taken horrible vacation pictures. This is especially true if you’re a man, and you’re dating a woman who loves photos. These women, simply put, are menaces to society. They’re the sole reason Anne Geddes is swimming in hundred-dollar bills, cackling like a senile old lady on the subway. Who else but a woman would be fascinated by pictures of infants in flower pots, dressed like bees or llamas? I’ll say this; you won’t find me draping myself in daisies and laying naked in a giant seashell. Not unless the price is right. There are several ways to ruin vacation photos. There’s overexposure, underexposure, too much light, not enough light, and of course, the classic “red eye” that makes each of your photography subjects look like bloodthirsty corpse-eaters from a low- to medium-budget thriller. I’d like to see an Anne Geddes spread entitled “Satan’s Infant Minions”, featuring five or six babies with red-eye, each holding pitchforks. And maybe we could superimpose some flames shooting from their mouths. That, I would put on my wall. Still, these mistakes are understandable, and even forgivable, in some cases. But talk to any female out there, and she’ll tell you there’s one photo no-no punishable by full-body electrolysis: the random thumb. Now, I’m not one to speak illy of any human phalange, since they each serve important purposes. The thumb is especially critical; without it, we’d never find the space bar on our keyboards. Oven mitt sales would plummet worldwide. Hitchhikers would never get where they’re going. And Roger Ebert would be out of a job. So you must understand; I have no qualms with thumbs. I do, however, have issues with my thumbs. They’re very photogenic, you see, and that causes major problems on trips or vacations where picture-taking is involved. Recently I was in New York City, where my girlfriend and I each had a disposable camera to use. When we got back, we had the pictures developed, and quickly realized that I’m as suited for a career in photography as she is for a career in being nice to boyfriends. Observe: PHOTO 1: Her standing next to the Central Park. Thumb in top right corner. PHOTO 2: Her standing outside the Ed Sullivan Theatre. Thumb in top right corner. PHOTO 3: Her standing next to the skating rink at Rockefeller Centre. Thumb next to her, drinking a triple-latte and wearing an “I HEART NY” t-shirt. PHOTO 4: My thumb next to Times Square. Girlfriend in top right corner. And so on. The next few days didn’t go so well. I gave my thumbs a stern talking-to, while my girlfriend, ever the supportive better half, wondered aloud (meaning “at or above 90 decibels”) how I managed to get through life being so incapable of doing anything right. If this seems a little harsh, you really should see the pictures. They make it look like the Big Apple is being devoured by a fleshy blob. What made it especially bad was that there were several pictures in which she believed she looked “great”. Guys, this is like finding gold bouillon in your sock drawer. Most women don’t like pictures of themselves. They’ll always say things like, “I look fat in that one,” or, “This one makes my boobs look small.” You won’t see a guy fuss over pictures this way; in fact, we think the best photos are the ones where we look like we’ve just engaged in a losing battle with a floor buffer. Pictures like these usually mean we’re a) drunk, b) about to be drunk, or c) seriously hung-over. This is why guy photo albums are WAY more interesting. Still, I couldn’t escape the nagging feeling that, by ruining my girlfriend’s pictures, I was destined to months of sex-free living. And while I couldn’t fix the pictures from New York City, I knew there had to be something I could do to ease the pain and anger. So I did what any good boyfriend would do. I bought her a picture of a baby in a watering can. ------------ About the author: James Bisson is a reporter/editor for Canadian Press in Toronto. So yes, he does have a real job. And no, he's not in a mental institution. Yet. Email James A. Bisson: jbisson@cp.org Comment on this column in the forum. Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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