O 7/5/02

Work Diary, 7/5/02

Last week, my state's 140 year-old newspaper, the Rocky Mountain News,
carried a photograph of a man on its front page. The man sat among the
charred remains of his home, holding his cat and looking off into the
distance. It's a poignant photo; Colorado has had the worst fires in
its history this summer, and many people have been displaced while
their homes go up in flames. The particular subject of last week's
front page is in his mid-forties. He's shirtless, unshaven, and wearing
"Daisy Dukes," or blue jeans which have been made into a pair of
shorts.

And, unless you are completely blind, you can't help but notice the
man's testicles hanging out, nestled between his thigh and the fabric
of his shorts.

Shocking? Slightly, but mistakes do happen, even for such an esteemed
publication as the Rocky Mountain News (ahem). What was more shocking,
however, was the newspaper's response to the flood of complaints it
received regarding the poor man's family jewels being photographed,
printed, and circulated throughout the greater metro area.

Before I continue, let me make one thing clear: The photograph, which
takes up two-thirds of the front page, undeniably shows the man's
testicles. They are so obvious that the picture elicited high-pitched
shrieks from the women in my office and loud guffaws from the
men.

Apparently, however, the editors of the Rocky Mountain News were not
amused. The next day, they explained that although many readers think
they saw "something that doesn't belong in a family newspaper," the
appearance of testicles on their front page was really just a shadowy
trick of light, nothing more. They apologized to the photograph's
subject (who, at this moment, is either laughing or finding a very good
attorney), and of course they apologized for any undue offense the
photograph might have caused the public.

Fascinating, I'd say. One, the editors of the newspaper must find their
readers exceptionally stupid, a prospect I find far more offensive than
the photograph itself. But the bigger issue here seems to be the
editors' lack of willingness to simply own up to a mistake. Why not
admit to the faux pas, move on, and avoid photographing men in Daisy
Duke shorts in the future? Why not, indeed.

It's hard to say that a society's failure to take responsibility is a
generational thing. People who are far more well-versed in world
history than I could surely come up with a whole slew of examples
detailing bad behavior - and the shirking of responsibility -
throughout the centuries. But for something so obvious as last week's
testicular front page, I don't understand it. Must even our journalists
revert back to the childlike "I didn't do it"? Why bother saying
anything at all?

In my mid-twenties, needing extra cash, I was photographed nude. Most
of the pictures are relatively artsy; a few might be considered mildly
pornographic. At the time, I wasn't worried about finding my naked self
in some obscure magazine. I didn't sign the release papers, and I was
paid anyway. But, as Madonna can tell you, a release is such a little
thing. Though I don't plan on being famous, I do have a plan for when
(not if) my pictures surface. My plan includes the following
statements: "Yep, it's me," and "Who cares?" Sure, I could deny
everything. Plenty of hairless, chinless guys with too many freckles
and huge feet are just chomping at the bit to stand naked in front of
the camera. I won't deny it, though. Why put my ass back on the
line?

And that's not all. Other nude photographs of me exist, though you
can't see my face and these are hidden away in a box at my house. On a
rainy day, trapped in our apartment, my partner and I donned wigs,
loaded the camera with black-and-white film, and played "Let's Be
Models." Horrible. At one point, while I was posing, I turned over on
my stomach only to feel something cold and hard on my right butt cheek.
Then I heard the snap of the camera.

The result? The somewhat blurred image of my pale, pale butt, a bottle
of Drakar Noir Cologne placed just so on one side. As those who have
smelled Drakar Noir can confirm, the photograph fairly reeks of
irony.