How a Camera Saved My Gray, Old Grumpy Ass


I was found freezing in an alcoholic coma on a railroad track in Maryland.

I woke up in a Veterans Hospital psychiatric ward.

A social worker visited me and said, “Craig, you’re taking disability this time. No questions— This is it.” (I had refused disability for my PTSD, since I thought the free money would turn me into an alkie.)

The psychiatric ward kept me locked up until my first check of $20,000 landed in my bank account. Before they let me loose, another social worker escorted me to his office to show me his wall of B&W photography. He said the camera saved him from the bottle.

So I bought a Canon Rebel kit from BestBuy and hopped on the California Zepyr to San Francisco.

I spent 16 days roaming the hills of San Francisco with my new dSLR and took thousands of exposure. Didn’t get drunk once.

But I did find the old Dakota Hotel on Post & Taylor where a carload of Berkeley girls spit on my uniform, yelling from their car, “Fucking baby killer!”

Now I live in Downtown Chicago (very photogenic) surrounded by lots of camera equipment. While photographing Chicago, people ask me if I’m a professional. “No. Just a sober enthusiast.”

The moral of this story: Buy grumpy grampa a dSLR and push him out the door.

How a Camera Saved My Gray, Old Grumpy Ass


I was found freezing in an alcoholic coma on a railroad track in Maryland.

I woke up in a Veterans Hospital psychiatric ward.

A social worker visited me and said, “Craig, you’re taking disability this time. No questions— This is it.” (I had refused disability for my PTSD, since I thought the free money would turn me into an alkie.)

The psychiatric ward kept me locked up until my first check of $20,000 landed in my bank account. Before they let me loose, another social worker escorted me to his office to show me his wall of B&W photography. He said the camera saved him from the bottle.

So I bought a Canon Rebel kit from BestBuy and hopped on the California Zepyr to San Francisco.

I spent 16 days roaming the hills of San Francisco with my new dSLR and took thousands of exposure. Didn’t get drunk once.

But I did find the old Dakota Hotel on Post & Taylor where a carload of Berkeley girls spit on my uniform, yelling from their car, “Fucking baby killer!”

Now I live in Downtown Chicago (very photogenic) surrounded by lots of camera equipment. While photographing Chicago, people ask me if I’m a professional. “No. Just a sober enthusiast.”

The moral of this story: Buy grumpy grampa a dSLR and push him out the door.

How a Camera Saved My Gray, Old Grumpy Ass


I was found freezing in an alcoholic coma on a railroad track in Maryland.

I woke up in a Veterans Hospital psychiatric ward.

A social worker visited me and said, “Craig, you’re taking disability this time. No questions— This is it.” (I had refused disability for my PTSD, since I thought the free money would turn me into an alkie.)

The psychiatric ward kept me locked up until my first check of $20,000 landed in my bank account. Before they let me loose, another social worker escorted me to his office to show me his wall of B&W photography. He said the camera saved him from the bottle.

So I bought a Canon Rebel kit from BestBuy and hopped on the California Zepyr to San Francisco.

I spent 16 days roaming the hills of San Francisco with my new dSLR and took thousands of exposure. Didn’t get drunk once.

But I did find the old Dakota Hotel on Post & Taylor where a carload of Berkeley girls spit on my uniform, yelling from their car, “Fucking baby killer!”

Now I live in Downtown Chicago (very photogenic) surrounded by lots of camera equipment. While photographing Chicago, people ask me if I’m a professional. “No. Just a sober enthusiast.”

The moral of this story: Buy grumpy grampa a dSLR and push him out the door.