Dear Michelle Bir [Fayetteville, NC Photographer Extraordinaire]:
I will not mince words: I need a better photographer than the one I currently employ to capture the the poignancy of the moment when I meet minor league executives for the first time. I also need someone to focus on the intimate beauty of unique minor league moments, say like when a person named Bacon Hag throws her cell phone into the foul ball netting in a fit of rage because she missed last call after the seventh inning.
The person I employ now just cannot capture the intimacy of the moment because of her concentration on superficial beauty. To be fair, the crowd I run with is a devilishly handsome lot, and the minor league execs we meet are best descried as gorgeous (except for the crew of the Rancho Cucamonga Quakes, who are all ugly to the bone). However, I feel that moments in my travels are being lost to time because someone of your immense talents is not that with us. Plus, none of us have a quality camera besides my buddy Harold, but he is more interested in capturing the moon setting into a bay and smoking pot rather tackling the savage flamencos that unfold almost every night when I venture to minor league stadiums across the land.
Unfortunately, because of an ongoing contract dispute with Joe Hudson [General Manager; Inland Empire 66ers], I cannot afford to pay you what you are worth at this time. I fear that Mr. Hudson will never have the full authority to grant me the rich compensation I deserve so I can pass those earnings along to those who have assisted me along this journey. I certainly do not need the funds as I am spiritually wealthy, but others have to eat and purchase fast automobiles. I hope this is not a problem with you at this time.
Had you been in my employment while that cute little white trash meth head had thrown the relish dispenser at the concourse wall at San Manuel Stadium a few years ago, perhaps the entire world would have been able to see the desperation that often fills the human spirit when a concession line moves too slow. Instead, my photographer only took pictures of the red mascot shaking his amorphous derriere in a ninety year old grandmother’s face. Sure, that encapsulates the family fun at the ballpark, but misses so much more raw human emotion that can be witnessed at the ballpark.
Hey, do you know any words other than “capture” to describe getting the perfect shot? Maybe something not so aggressive? And why does photography use such violent terms like “shoot”, “snap”, “roll”, and “photoengrave”? That is some dark jargon.
Anyway, I would have loved to have someone with your eye to CAPTURE my pals Bongwater and Fast Eddie locked in grisly combat in their games of Gypsy Curse back in that magical season of 2014. Gypsy Curse is a game in which the participants must only communicate with cultural references that others must associate with the source. It is a vicious game in which no quarter is offered, and those two might have very well the best to ever play the game, but now they are both fugitives of The Man’s twisted sense of justice. To quote the very mortal Tom Petty, “Back then we didn’t understand what we were caught up in.”
We thought we were going to live forever back then, but forever did not last that long. Still the journey is never ending because the river always wends towards the horizon, so we keep moving forward without companions lost because what is behind us in the minors is forgotten ash. Your work could CAPTURE our world before the passing of time sets it afire.
I thank you in advance for your serious consideration in this matter.
Your friend in baseball,
Bads85
Dead Religions 