As I think back to my pre-TV13 employment history, the mental images are both entertaining and cringe-inducing. I didn't start working even part time until college, by then it was of course by necessity. My list of employment titles include: road service dispatcher, glass cutter, fork-lift driver, Jeep assembly line inspector, deputy dog warden...HUH!...what the hell is a deputy dog warden you might ask; that sounds like a plastic badge and certificate your awarded if you buy five cans of Alpo. In the late 60's Lucas County hired college students to go door-to-door to survey licensed dogs in a given neighborhood. The methodology was to approach an address, ask the owner if they owned a dog, and was it licensed. If it was, you copied the license number on a legal pad. If the dog wasn't licensed, you offered to sell the owner a dog license which were carried with you.
I had a knack for getting the houses with dogs representing the opposite ends of the K9 world. I'm working a street in East Toledo. I knock on a door which elicits a ground-rumbling WOOF from the backyard. As I walk to the side of the house to look in the backyard, I see what looks like a cross between a Great Dane and a Mastodon chained to a tree; big chain, the kind you tow cars with. Suddenly a voice yells out from the front porch of the house next door; "Yea, what do you want." Two guys are sitting taking a many-beer break from their doctoral studies. "Is that your dog sir," I ask. "Yea, so what," comes the answer. "Does it have a license and if it does I need the number on it." The reply with a wry smile, "It's on his collar, go back there and get it." I look at him, I look at the dog, I mark down on my pad for the address "ND" (no dog).
Then there's the house occupied by the sweet little retired lady and her two little matching yappers. I ring the doorbell, she arrives at the door, what seems like twenty minutes later, with bouncing, yapping white furballs. "DO YOU HAVE LICENSES FOR YOUR DOGS" I ask in my Jeep assembly line voice. "Oh yes, I'll get the numbers for you, come on in," she replies. As I wait in this yapping frenzy I try to suppress the desire to drop-kick Itsy or Bitsy through the dining room archway.
What would I do for a buck? Let's face it, photographers are useless individuals outside their realm. The down-sized economy has me making mental lists: Discount Store Greeter, "Morning mam, put your kids in the cage over their and enjoy your shopping." No, that wouldn't work. Human Traffic Cone, the person who stands with the rotating sign at highway construction projects, commanding cars to stop or proceed with caution. This wouldn't work for me because I'm the kind of person who really does want to see what happens when a Smart Car meets a Black Top machine. Baby Photographer, not at all, too much work photoshopping out the duct tape.
So here's my dilemma. If I try to work any career beyond what I'm doing now, it will have to pay quite well just to afford the extra expenses in legal fees. So please, don't forget me out there.
