The Pen is Mightier than the film noir...

So it's three in the afternoon and you stroll into a bar, looking to use the bathroom. You think the place will be empty but sure enough, there's some sad kid sitting at the bar, savoring the unhappy hour special (that's what they call it when you drink alone before 5 in the evening). He's wearing a long black coat, patched at the elbows and missing a few buttons. He's got a notebook nestled in his armpit, and there's a row of empty shot glasses in front of him. He's not a picture of style, but you notice he's making an effort. His heavy boots sorta shine. He's got his hat on sideways, and it almost looks cool, and as he downs another shot and wipes his mouth you think, I better give this one a wide berth.

But as you sidle towards the door, ready to make your exit, he catches sight of you. "Hey," he shouts, like you're just the man he was looking for. "Hey wait a second!" And you stop, guilty, hands in your pockets to show you don't want any trouble. "Yeah what?" you mutter. The kid wipes his mouth and takes off his hat, and you realize he needs to spend some time with shampoo and a razor. Oh - and he isn't a kid, either, because his hair is gray at the temples. He's just awfully skinny, like it's been a while since he stood still long enough to eat.

"How do you feel about this whole election scam?" he asks, like he's just talking about the weather. "To be honest," you stammer, "I haven't really been following the news..." "You haven't been following the news, huh? The men in power are pulling the wool over your own fucking eyes and you don't give a damn?" He's calm about it, though.
"Whoa, man, I don't know why you're talking to me..." you say, stalling, wondering where the bartender is and whether this is some kind of setup, and if men in black hats are gonna bust down the doors at any second and take all your cash and leave you duct-taped to a bar stool, penniless and desperate. "Who are you, anyway? Why are you here?"

"Oh, my name doesn't matter, but it's Gerald White if you're asking. And I'm here because this here Jack Daniels is just about the only date I can get in this town anymore." He smiles, revealing uneven teeth. And suddenly you know who he is. You've seen his name in the headlines. Gerald White spent months stalking the local Senator, nearly went to jail, had his phone lines tapped by the FBI and the CIA and the FDA for all you know. Badgered the officials up at City Hall until they broke down, and he came away with a real cockamanie tale about how the state senators had been gerrymandering the Southern counties - something about taking down the Hispanic vote.

Some people call White a hero, but in your opinion he's a goddamn trouble-mongering son of a bitch who just makes normal people uncomfortable. He's a journalist.

--

So there are a lot of stereotypes about journalists. That they drink a lot, and wear shitty clothes, don't shower and can't get dates. They're a weird cultish bunch who speak their own language. And in a world where you get points for blending in, journalists make an effort to stand out. Normally I don't go for this kind of thinking, but since I started taking photojournalism class, I've found myself once more on the fringes of polite society. Last week I walked for miles to get a weather shot. I found myself way out on Noyes Street, freezing cold and starving hungry, so I ducked into the first restaurant I saw to warm myself up. Of course, it was lunchtime, and the restaurant was full of people eating with their friends. And there I was, chowing down totally alone, feeling like an outcast and wishing I had a sign that read, I swear, I have friends, this is the first time I've eaten alone in my life. But it's not. I did it just last quarter, stranded between trains on my way downtown to do an interview.

Last night I go to see my sister sing in a church. I bring my camera because these days I can't part from it. I slide into the last pew, entirely alone, shrouded in my warm black coat. The couple in front of me has two young kids. And as the kids cavort and the choir sings, I think, This would make a perfect shot for my weekly photojournalism assignment. Out comes the camera, as quietly as possible. I slide it open, scooch down the pew until I'm at just the right angle to snap a shot of the little girl on her mother's lap. Fuck permission. I'm gonna get my shot off first. And the kid moves. I wipe my brow and put the camera down. I wait. Soon enough she's back, reading a little brochure, and looking so damn cute I just know I have to get this shot. I inch down further, wondering if the parents are on to me. But it doesn't matter - everyone knows that if you get a kid in the shot, it's a surefire feature. And again, the kid moves. By now I'm sweating in my coat, but I also have a bad cold, and I start to cough. I don't have water, but as I dig through my bag I come across a sketchy plastic bottle left over from a party the night before. I ease it open and take a big sip. Shit. Vodka. So there I am, sitting alone in the back row of church, drinking and trying to take covert pictures of other's people's kids.

Sometimes the stereotypes are true.