FREEZE FRAME

This morning, flipping through the tabloids in the checkout line at the local supermarket, I had a flashback to an incident a few years ago when, following a pleasing lunch at Grafton Street in Harvard Square, I was suddenly “surrounded” by a photographer snapping, with paparazzi-like frenzy, photo after photo of me walking along Mass. Ave. Such audacity! Such an invasion of my personal space! And it only got worse (or better . . .) when passers-by began to slow down and gawk at the apparent celebrity in their midst. One person even stopped and called out to me, “Who are you?”

To my credit, I took all the attention in stride (literally—I was still walking), though if the episode had gone on much longer I might have been tempted to grab the photographer by the camera strap and fling both him and his equipment under a speeding bus . . . and that despite the fact that he was my lunch companion and good friend, Fionán O’Connell! (Check out Finn’s fine photographic work in his online gallery.)

Anyway, musing on that incident this morning, I had a hard time mustering up sympathy for all those real celebrities who complain constantly about being accosted by zoom lenses and blinded by flashbulbs: they should be pretty slow indeed to swat at the hand (or the head) of the very media that gave them their celebrity status in the first place. And they could have it worse. In fact, they could have the problem that I experience seemingly every time I get my photograph taken: the problem of “interlopers” stepping into the line of fire at what master photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson has described as “the decisive moment.”

This happens to me constantly. For example, about 5 years ago I was posing for a shot requested by a photographer when suddenly I felt a different sort of shot—a sharp elbow in the ribs delivered by legendary Boston Bruins power forward and NHL Hall-of-Famer Cam Neely. SMILE, he instructed me as he dusted off his knuckles. Clearly, I follow instructions pretty well.

Another time I was minding my own business (as always) when another fellow with a tough-guy reputation sidled up to me just as the photographer had me in his sights and said, "Do you mind . . . ?" "Oh, why not?" I said, and we shared a chuckle. After all, those were the good old days when Charlie Weis was still undefeated (0-0) as football coach at Notre Dame . . .

The worst, though, are the artistes—especially writers. I think it was 2004 and a couple of fine-looking women asked if they could have their picture taken with me at an event that I happened to be gracing with my presence. What could I say? I have a soft spot for the ladies. Well, I guess that Seamus Heaney and Chet Raymo do too, and somehow they became the raison d’être of this photograph. No fair!

Musicians, too, can be desperate lens hogs. For instance, back in 2005 I was hanging out in Dublin (I like to do that occasionally) when a fellow who identified himself as Rocky De Valera—what an unlikely name!—jumped into the frame and said, “Hey, didn’t I see you at the debut performance of my band, The Gravediggers, in the pub at University College Dublin back in 1978?” Well, maybe . . .

I like to hang out in NYC occasionally, too. And that was where jazz guitar maestro Gene Bertoncini leapt into the picture. So a quiet meal at Le Madeleine for me and le famille becomes a photo op for him. Sadly, that French bistro has since closed its doors; rumor has it that as the padlocks snapped shut Bertoncini exclaimed, “I brought down the house!”

But what really gets me is when a senior colleague interlopes into a private photograph. I guess it was 6 years ago, my 19th year at UMass Boston and Shaun O’Connell’s 38th, that I became aware of what he must be thinking: “Ha—you’re only half the man I am.” Yeah, well by the time this photo was taken, I had begun to catch up, if only by a small fraction each year.