The happy morning Journalism session has begun. I arrived to class with mere moments to spare, having biked my personal best, 13 minutes from my house across town, to campus. unsurprisingly I'm not the latest student. Assorted dip-shits come in one... no, three, nay, thirty minutes late. Alas, my colleague Austin is not present. Where is he? No clue. Perhaps he is off combating pirate rades upon an indigenous Filipino village, untouched by time and technology. Maybe he's summiting the Meru Shark's tooth in the Himalayas, I have no clue.
All these thoughts pass quickly through my minuscule mind, which is then distracted by Professor X's presentation. Photojournalism is the topic. An intro video fascinates me. A Pulitzer prize winning photographer talking about his prize winning photo, cool shit. Photojournalism is something I have a deep interest in. Apparently not the case with the goober in front of me. He slouches dejectedly in his seat, bowing his disheveled head on his desk. His notes are an assortment of random words, doodles of Professor X, and a drool stain approaching the size of Lake Superior. His white t-shirt has an assortment of ketchup and beer stains. Poor guy, he was hoping for a Neanderthal degree, but he's stuck in the Journalism class.
Photojournalists die? What a gripping lesson! Professor X's timely showing of death toll stats sobers me up. Maybe I should go to school for philosophy instead. 135 photojournalists died in Vietnam, 35 died in Iraq. Oh boy! "If your pictures aren't good enough, you're not close enough" -Robert Capa. Sure enough, he stepped on a landmine in Vietnam. But hey- he had some great pictures, and lets face it- he had a blast.
As I glance around the classroom I see the rest of those budding photojournalists emailing advisors and rescheduling classes. Hell- I don't blame them. But I also forgot who my advisor was, shoulda written their name down- damnit. I guess I'm stuck here. Well- sorta, class is over now.
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