I suck at math.

Frustrations taken out on an innocent calculator. Do not try this at home!

Math was never a strong suit of mine. Hell, why should it be? I’m right-brained and proud of it! Let someone else with a pocket protector do that work – Hey, I’m busy creating here! And truthfully and thankfully, there are people who can and do do that work well. If not, this book might never have happened. Never ask or trust a creative-type to do a business plan. You’ll be rewarded with a mildly bemused blank stare and a “Sure? Uhhh, you want fries with that?”

If it were up to us (creative-types), money, materials, time, balancing checkbooks, travel, all that stuff that requires some sort of record keeping would be unnecessary. Our tax returns of course might be of the same imaginative and fictional quality that landed Al Capone in jail, Jack Abramoff in jail and now on TV (Hmmm, maybe crime DOES pay!), and a whole host of others who regularly deal in financial fiction writing (Goldman Sachs, Lehman Bros., JP Chase Morgan, – you get the idea).

All of that stated, I did keep some numbers just out of some sort of OCD notion that once published, it might be fun to know what built this Cabbage Patch doll idea of mine. In a Donald Trumpian world, that translates to nothing spells success like excess.

For instance, in photographing “Arn? Narn.”,  I drove over 7,500 miles across Newfoundland. That’s equal to going back and forth across the US approximately 2.5 times. The good news is that I didn’t see a Newfoundland version of the Cadillac Ranch Art installation in Amarillo. There must be a god!

The Cadillac Ranch. This is not Newfoundland!

I shot nearly 200 roles of film. And I remember every single shot! Well, maybe not every one.

I used over 2,500 sheets of photographic printing paper to get to the final images used in the book. I can’t even begin to tell you how many hours that took. I told you I suck at math and record-keeping!

 I, like George Washington the illustrious Father of Our Country, slept around. I stayed in at least a dozen different places (and paid the bill every time) though no one left signs commemorating my short residences.

I sampled every beer (7-12 depending on what you count as true Newfoundland brew. Brewfoundland?) made in Newfoundland. Yum! I sampled vodka made in Newfoundland from icebergs. Not so yum. I’m a wuss. So what?

I ate countless packages of chocolate covered crackers along the way. An army does travel on its stomach and mine was now a bit larger for those travels. No, I didn’t measure it as part of my record keeping.

And as far as playing Newfoundland (diddly) music incessantly? Yes, guilty as charged and I lost count of the number of Newfoundland music CDs purchased.

Boring anyone who came near me to tears by recounting the wonders of Newfoundland. Yeah, very guilty. Again, a countless number.

Driving my wife crazy about how crazy I was and am about Newfoundland I was? This spans years! So, why don’t you just lock me up and throw away the key? Better yet, solitary confinement: that way no one else will have to listen to me prattling on about Newfoundland pr playing its music continuously. Or just ship me off up there and we’ll both be happy! Well, I apologize. Profusely. (Just not very sincerely.) It’s not my fault you didn’t come with me!

So, after all of this – do the numbers add up? Damned if I know. I’m looking for my next score on chocolate covered crackers. Hey buddy? Wanna help a brother out?

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