Last week, I’m shooting a fashion event that I sponsor when a client of mine makes herself known. After, “hello” I say, “Do you see?” I raise the two cameras in my hands above eye level. “Yes”, she says. I turn my head so that she can see my earpiece. “I’m either working or driving. That is one of the many reasons I tell you not to send me text messages,” I tell.

Leather & Lace Fashion Bazaar from Blaze Hall on Vimeo.

I cannot stand text messages as one might have gathered by now. Sure, send an address. Send me one specific alphanumeric sequence that is needed because the voice connection keeps dropping. Outside of that, I don’t have time from your inane, illiterate, mistake prone tapping on glass narcissistic nonsense. It’s about control. Fine, you control yourself. I disable the notification and you write your L33t novella.

I go through the cobwebbed messages anywhere from weekly to every several months. I’m looking at someone who came into town suggesting we link up (2 month ago). I’m looking at someone asking if they can perform at the next fashion bazaar (September expired). I’m looking at someone asking me if I can come by and shoot them today (two days ago). All of these nimrods know definitively that sending me a text message is like throwing a message in a bottle. And yet they persist. One sent me a message from an unknown number and didn’t take the time to identify themselves even after I responded days later that I didn’t know who they were. I figured it out by context of the magnitude of narcissism involved.

It’s a tool. I dig vice grips. I don’t use them to brush my teeth. I don’t use them to eat cereal. But these reality boobtube acting people want all eyes on them with a sense of control and being untouchable. Maybe it’s my brain, the start stops, the fractures, the delays between messages. Fucking call me and get the fucking idea over with so I can move on, damn it.

There was an old American Airlines commercial, I believe, where these stuffed white shirts were talking about losing a long-time client. The head suit rolls his sleeves up and tells his scrub, he’s hopping on a plane to mend fences. Basically, it suggested the lack of personal connection had allowed his client to drift into the arms of another. It would seem the interest in appearing connected is more important than interesting connection. Collections of a bunch of avatars who can like you. Man, I’m an old fogey.

There has to be some middle ground that I haven’t found yet. I’m not looking for a return to smoke signals but man, this thing is nuts for me. Meeeeeee Meeeeeeeee. I got a call from model. I’m looking to expand my book and she has a skill set that I’m looking to feature more. So, she gets to yacking about not getting her shots from photographers, being asked to do uncomfortably risqué imagery, etc. Insert basic free consultation information here _______. From there she tells me she wants to shoot to use the pictures to sell prints. WHAT?! A few days later I get someone calling me asking to shoot a concept same day. Do I looking like McPictures to you? Is there a golden arch of pixie grease hovering over my head?

Obviously, these are single entities. With enterprise level of business, it’s still paper work and pauses. The key problem is quality of information and interaction. Raising the tier of business and other exchanges represent the daily hustle. If the general quality of communication has eroded why think that there wouldn’t be a devaluing of the creative product or service?

I have to trouble shoot this damn network yet again diverting me from finishing work. Mofo.

One thought on “InstaPinhead

  1. Pingback: Doing “Leather and Lace” | the rasx() context

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s