Dr. Schlock's Epiphany
Or, A Wet Finger in a Live Socket . . .
The Rest Is History!
To hear Schlock tell it in his own words:
So, there I was, just an ordinary clean-cut papparazzo
trying to turn a dishonest buck on the side as part-time Dog Officer for
the Town of Redmonds. The year was 1991; Nirvana was topping the
charts and I was working in the lab late one night, doing five things at
once: drying some might-ty commercial prints of body-piercing faddists,
processing color slides of trashy metal sculptures which had been introduced
into downtown Fremont, juggling two calls on my cell phone, and playing
Nintendo on my computer. I musta zigged when I shoulda zagged, touching
a socket on my laptop (or was it the safelight switch?) with a finger soaked
in E-6 bleach:
BLAM! POP!
There was a burst of white light, a mighty jolt, and I
was out cold on the darkroom floor, with Cobain blasting on the box and
no one to know!
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
After what seemed an eternity, I staggered to my feet;
glancing at the darkroom clock through the stars swimming in front of my
eyes, I saw that twelve minutes had elapsed! My film! Ach! Out with the bleach; in with
the Formalin Fix -- and just then I chanced to look in the shiny surface
of my print dryer--AIYEE! Who was that STRANGE man?? I had been transformed
from a seedy small-time shooter into a bug-eyed buffoon, with holes burnt
in his lab coat, singed moustachios, and premature white in his corkscrew
curls!
Minutes later, as I checked my films before drying them,
I experienced a revelation.. I was looking at the whimsical
art of the street corners with new eyes: it wasn't just schlock, it was
GOOD!* In a flash, my
mission in life stood revealed: as proponent of the funky, offbeat vision
of the Street Artists! How well I have followed the Muse is for you, dear
Reader, to judge!
*Well,
some of it was, anyway; some of it was just so BAD it was good, like old Fifties Sci-fi,
or doo-wop vocal groups--art forms of which I am also (ahem) a recognized
connoisseur. But modesty forbids . . .
