We are both photographers. This much is true. But that's where the similarity ends. He stammers disarmingly to a beautiful blonde, rolls to and fro in a wheelchair, and solves crime through the rear window of his apartment. Me? I work a computer from a molded-plastic chair, fritter away hours on the Internet, and solve nothing more than the puzzle of what to eat for lunch.

And then there's the issue of my window: it's a front one, for starters, and it offers up a far different world than the rear window by which Jimmy Stewart observed a rainbow of humanity. Mine offers up giggling girls holding their fathers' hands and chattering couples en route to the corner pub. Mundane stuff. I've never once spied a burly gentleman carting his dead wife around in a trunk.

But every once in while my front window yields something of its own. Like a kinetic young fellow displaying his most marketable skill for a lady friend. It's not the stuff of feature films, granted, but it does help pass the day.

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