Selective skill-sets foster humility.

As promised, I have posted some images of the piñata studies. I am calling them unfinished, but frankly I'm ready to move on to a larger format. As you'll notice, the photos are just terrible, as I've not taken the time to edit them properly and I am (in my own elegant words) a piss-poor photographer. I may as well be juggling kittens in terms of the skill level I possess. I have made similar correlations with my lithography, thrown-pottery, and weaving non-skills. Thus, I leave these media to those who can accomplish it. Carry on, my talented friends.

I'm reminded of the first time I actually shot pool. (My apologies to my dear friend Kathy Mack-Szucs--I was having more fun posturing and preening when we went to the bowling alley in Waynesburg so many years ago.) It was in the student union of my first college, and a patient boy whose name I've since forgotten tried to teach me the basics. It was a testament to my eighteen-year-old cuteness or the diligence or desperation of the boy in question that he was able to get me to sink a few billiards in a couple of hours' time. He then proffered what I like to believe was a mostly true statement: "Not bad for your first time shooting pool." What followed was the longest-running lie of my life: I continued to tell people it was my first time shooting pool for the next three years or so. Like any good deceiver, I carefully arranged it so I was never with the same people twice when I told the lie (or at least those too intoxicated or self-interested to care). It wasn't until years later when I was living a snowboarder's unproductive lifestyle that I finally copped to just being awful at pool. I suppose I had an epiphany there, staggering on four inches of ice to dive bars in Whitefish, Montana, a twenty-three-year-old admitting failure. In our alcohol-fueled haze of uselessness, it's fair to say it was prophetic. I slid home on a four-day train ride several months later, tail between my legs, to live at home. 

I'm having a hard time relating this to photography outside of the confines of my brain, but I believe it has something to do with Gardner's Theory of Multiple Intelligences, or not. Maybe it's just another link to mortality and vulnerability. Maybe I should just shut up now.