Some days things just don't go good.
Last night I had a nightmare. I had been re-hired by a magazine I used to work for. The publisher had decreed that our next cover would feature a certain smartphone with a double camera module on the back of it, which had a name similar to "iPhone" but wasn't, quite; and that we would, from that point onward, be making a giant push to enlist the smartphone maker as a sponsor; a direction I was distinctly not quite comfortable with even in my dream. Our next magazine cover would feature a picture of said smartphone. (In real life, I got to pick the covers, except when the publisher decided he wanted to.)
In my dream I'm taking a call from the President of the advertising agency for the smartphone company, during which I have to convince him that we are, um, experts, and know all about his client's product, and of course care very much about it. I introduce myself, but in the middle of the introduction I realize I don't know the name of the magazine I work for. Which is highly embarrassing, and from which faux pas I do not recover well.
So then I start roaming the publication's offices looking for a copy of the magazine so I can figure out what the name of it is. The offices, of course, are exotic and fantastical, according to the visual language of nightmares, and feature a jumble of co-workers from my past who are nightmarishly imbued with a variety of grudges and agendas and gossip concerning me, none of which I can figure out.
At the same time, I have forgotten the name of the smartphone, too, although I had just spoken it. Knowing I will probably have to refer to that again, too, before the end of the conversation, I start looking for my phone, too, so I can see what it's called.
Meanwhile, it turns out the smartphone under discussion has all the features of the Canon 5D Make IV. (Let me just admit right here that, in real life, the Canon 5D Mark IV will do things that I don't even understand yet.) So I have to remember what all these features are so I can casually discuss them with the guy on the phone as if I cared about them. I know that I can't possibly do this, but I have to keep trying. Have you ever groped to remember things you know you just cannot? It does not go well.
Finally I find a stack of magazines. But, like the real Black-and-White Photography does, or used to do, there's just a picture on the cover and no blurbs. And, in my dream, no name, either. Looking through the magazine I notice that it's now a quarterly, no doubt because business has not been good. (In real life, the magazine stopped publishing altogether some time ago.) All this time I am struggling, laboriously, to keep up the supplicating and fawning to the lord high mugwump on the other end of the phone.
Then, suddenly, I realize that I haven't edited any of the articles in the printed magazine I'm holding. The production and graphics departments has robotically processed and printed every raw manuscript—even the one by Bob Mitchell!. (There appears to be an extra period there, but there isn't, because Bob Mitchell! formally added the exclamation point to his name for a while. Bob was a great guy, and a knowledgeable guy, but let's just say he needed editing.)
At that point I woke up, screaming.
Well, not screaming. But, as soon as I woke up, I realized that the smartphone I had been searching high and low for in my nightmare had probably been in my hand the whole time, since I was on a phone call throughout my dream and, in real life, my iPhone is the only phone I have.
Now, I'm no psychologist, but it appears there's some degree of likelihood that my psyche is not entirely comfortable with the whole smartphone-as-camera era in photography that we are now well into...wouldn't you say?
And then, to cap it all off, when I stumbled downstairs, feeling exhausted, what did I find, but that the ghostly white dog in the picture at the top of this post had experienced some sort of gastrointestinal distress and had pooped on the office carpet not once, not twice, but three times during the night.
Have you ever just had one of those mornings? Gaaaah!
P.S. This isn't satire. This was what I dreamed as best as I can reconstruct it. And the poop mishap, sad to say, was all too real.
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