On a press visit to an east Coast state several writers and photogs were gathered for dinner. One writer, accompanied by his girl-friend photographer, had already caused some raised eyebrows and cleared throats by passing her off as his photographer. By the way she held the camera everyone knew this was not her line of work.
The lady in question evidently thought the dinner gathering was worth a shot or two so she began to line up a table shot from her chair across from me.
I asked, “What’s your ASA?”
“My what?”
“Your ASA? What are you shooting at?”, I asked nicely. Boyfriend was just shoveling in a wad of mashed potatoes.
“What do you mean, my ‘ASA?” she growled as she glared at me, evidently assuming ASA meant something not so nice.
A writer seating two chairs down closed the conversation:
“ I don’t think she knows her ASA from a hole in the ground!”
Boyfriend’s potatoes exploded across the table.
Several of us excused ourselves and headed, first to the men’s room to clean off the spuds; then repaired to the bar for a shot and some uncontrollable laughter.
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