I Hear the Whistle Blowing

Warm, wet, and gray.  I am at a conference of factory bosses listening to drivel all the live-long day.  The privileged speak differently when "the people" aren't around.  They talk about managing workers in unchallenged tones.  They convince themselves that they were once "of the people," but the shits never were.  They were just assholes in waiting.  And what they were waiting for was the opportunity to agree with someone higher up, to say "yes" to the right person.  You never hear "no" in these meetings.

Now, this is not absolutely true, of course.  There are "real people" in the crowd.  You can tell them by looking if you are aware.  Their clothes aren't quite as pretty and don't seem to fit as well.  The hair is not as manageable.  The colors are a little off.

This is not a sure sign that they are O.K.  Some of them want to be otherwise, they just don't know how.  But they will say "yes" just as quickly as the others.  They are destined, for the most part however, to stay mid-level managers.  Those who really have "it" have the fiery mirrors for eyes.

I can't give away too much.  There are factory secrets that would be too telling to share.  I am complicit, too, in that I have been "practical" in my tepid comments to those around me.  Only once, at the end of the day, did I speak up to the crowd to say "no."  I am good at saying "no," but in today's climate where people will vote in favor of cooperate corruption and against worker's rights, what's the point?  One percent of the population is able to sway 54% of the workers they prey upon and think of as retarded.  And maybe they are.  Sometimes, I think I chose the wrong horse.

After a long day of yay saying, I agreed to meet up with Red.  I was truly too tired for it and wanted nothing more than to go home and get on the couch.  But she is my pal and I am always glad to see her, so. . . . I waited for her at the studio.  An hour late.  Traffic.  Etc.  When she arrived, I poured her a big whiskey and suggested we go eat.  There is a little restaurant that is uber hip and renowned for their food among the foodies I know.  I have eaten there before and was not impressed, but I have been encouraged to try again.  Red was down for it.

Uber means expensive in German.  That is not the literal translation, but in America, when it is applied to restaurants, that is what it seems to mean.  We settled on a bunch of $12 cocktails that were very, very good (and I never, never use very twice to make a point) and the entire appetizer menu over entrees.  Shrimp and grits, ceviche, pork belly, some salads, other things that are not coming to mind.  Small, good things.  It was fun. It was good.  It was uber.

We went back to the studio and I shot some pictures for her.  I had nothing in mind and she wanted certain kinds of shots that I do not understand, but I would do it for her because that is how it is.  I kept asking, "What does this mean?  What am I supposed to be trying for?"  I don't think I am very good at pretty pictures, but I was trying.  To her credit, though, she was twisting herself every which way trying for some of the "awkward" that she says I so like.

We drank more whiskey to keep going, but I was worried because I had to be gone early in the morning to get back to the conference.  So, at midnight, we said goodbye, me going home, she to her next stop.  Oi.

I would like to get on my couch tonight, but I can't.  Another one of my favorite models called and said she is coming over tonight.  She lives quite out of town, so I didn't say no.  But truly, I don't feel like shooting in the studio any more.  It feels over for now.  I want to get on to the next thing badly.  It is just getting started that is difficult.  Ramping up takes a lot of energy.  And my energy is being sucked from me by the factory.  But vacation time is coming up.  I will get away and figure something out.  Sure I will.

But for now. . . I must dash.  I hear the factory whistle blowing.