Have you ever committed to a lie and it turned out perfectly? I have. And this is my story.

Prologue:

December 4th, 2016.

I realize that all of the members of my weekend hangout crew were going to be out of town simultaneously, in different cities, for New Year’s Eve. I try to save face, make myself look more interesting than some schlub sitting on a couch watching football given the now scuttled plans, and make up something on the spot: my NYE plans were already set — to go to as many parties as possible, and act as a photographer.

It made sense, given I’d shot a couple of concerts and events over the year and my plans to build a portfolio were already in the works. On the other hand, there was zero way any of the venues would have said yes to some unattached rando — and even less of a chance that any publication would pick it up. So I’d have an out. A real, utter, “I tried and it didn’t work but hey, ‘Happy New Year’” sad-sack story that absolved me of the responsibility of making real plans.

So, I dropped it. But then the person who was given that excuse, told other people. And the lie spread. By December 10th, in which I was rolling to different venues photographing Cincinnati Santacon in a wholly unrelated venture, I’d already gotten too deep into this ruse to back out. I sent out feelers to all of the bars and venues I saw had events going on.

A handful didn’t respond. One accepted, then recanted. I was out.

Then one said yes. And another one. Then finally, I was set with ten venues who affirmed my ability to jump in and out of their some-private-some-with-a-cover-events on a whim to capture Cincinnati over the course of one night.

By December 26th, I had a list of 10 venues and 3 “would be nice” venues whom didn’t respond I could hit. I committed. It had to be done. A flash was purchased for the 31st with shipping well before, but was delayed so long that one was borrowed at the literal last second from a friend, giving me a piece of equipment that I had zero practice with (I prefer not to shoot with flash) on a night that would require fairly precise timing and some semblance of keeping-it-together.

And breathe. Fairly simple, right?

New Year’s Eve.

7:35 PM.

The Taft Theatre.