« In The Morning | Main | Thursday Night in San Francisco »
March 7, 2011
Things My Brother Taught Me
My brother taught me a few things in his life. Probably more than he would realize. I remember when I told him once...when I was starting to do some photography back in 1995...I was shooting homeless people in Detroit. And I saw this woman pushing a baby carriage full of trash through a field. And I was like...Jonathan...I just couldn't do it. I couldn't point the camera at her and take a picture and say "look how fucked up your life is" and my brother told me "you've got to get over that. You've got to take the picture."
Now, I've used that advice so many times since then...you just couldn't know. And, I broadened the message somewhat. Today, in retrospect, I see it more as a "damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead" type of message.
Today, I shoot what I want to shoot. I don't get embarrassed or make excuses. I shoot like a lunatic and I make no apologies to anyone. When my daughter's school told me to stop shooting at school, I said "Sue me". When the cop at my daughter's new school said "What are you shooting with that camera?" I said "Whatever I feel like."
So, this was good advice, in retrospect, from someone who, by all accounts, is not overly bright.
And tonight, I'm sitting in some sweet little spot down in the Marina. I come here after work to try to pick up chicks. Let's make no bones about it. That's why I'm there. I'm not paying $8.50 a beer because I want to get a buzz. I'm there to meet women.
The trick to meeting women is that it's a numbers game. It's not easy. Women are about as inscrutable as anything on this planet. Men cannot know what drives them. What they think. Only it is a mystery.
And I go down there at nights after work and I try to talk to them, with limited success. But the trick is to keep trying. To keep swinging for the fences. The trick is not to care what anyone else thinks. To keep telling yourself that this next one is going to be a home run.
And this is not easy. In the major leagues, a professional batter strikes out 7 times out of 10. This is as good as it gets. No one gets a hit 4 times out of 10. This is impossible. So, the trick is to somehow convince yourself that, even though you're failing 7 times out of 10, that you're a rock star. Of course, this isn't easy. But this is where we are. This is the game we play. This is the hand we're dealt.
I walk in here tonight with my motorcycle helmet and my 400mm Canon lens. Everyone sees you come in with a helmet on. Let's make no bones about that. The chicks see the helmet and it drives them nuts. Why, I dunno. But it does.
And I've got the helmet and the camera and this draws a lot of attention. I should start carrying an ostrich around with me, like that guy in the square in Ollantaytambo, Peru. That guy knew how to get attention.
So I start uploading my photos into my laptop and this little oriental girl sits down beside me and I'm like...hello?
So I start talking to her and she doesn't run off, which is unusual. Think 7 times out of 10. Hell..think 9 times out of 10. But here we are. She's not running.
"I moved here from Phoenix," she offers.
"Oh. Yeah. I went there a few times this year...2 or 3...I'm not sure."
"You're not sure how many times you when to Phoenix this year? Seriously?"
"I sort of lost count. I never meant to go there. I kept ending up there by accident."
"What do you do," she asks.
"I hang drywall for a living," I reply. No one wants to hear that you're a computer consultant. That's a huge buzz kill.
So, we talk for a bit, and eventually I turn my back on her just because. Because, let's be honest, women want is to be ignored. We all know that. That is there. It's an immutable law, as true in San Francisco as it is in Hattiesburg.
Eventually, she moves to a different location. She's sitting against the wall beside some guy with a knit cap pulled down over his head so you can barely see his face. The way she's sitting, she's sort of a part of a wall of people facing me. Technically, individuals, but they seem to form a wall facing me. And I look at them. I tend to see them as a wall against me. I think about leaving. And then I think about what my brother said. "Fuck them." I think. Who are they? They are no one.
That chick would never meet anyone better than me. Not a chance.
Forget what that guy sitting beside her in the knit cap thinks. Piss on him. Walk right up to her, tell her to give you her email address, and that's that. Maybe he can learn something from the encounter. That's what brother tells me. Now, he's not speaking to me for reasons only he can know. But he speaks to me from the past. That message lingers.
So I get up and I walk up to her and I say this..."Woman...I'm having a book signing at the book store across the street...."
"Do you have a business card?" she asks.
"No."
"Oh. We'll here's my email address. Let me know when you have the book signing. I'd love to come."
"OK. Roger that. By the way. My name's Rob."
"My name's Emily. It was so nice meeting you."
And I think about that. Sure, it would be nice if my brother would talk to me. But you can't get blood out of a turnip. I'm happy enough where I am. And if my brother won't talk to me, at least Emily will.
Posted by Rob Kiser on March 7, 2011 at 11:13 PM
Comments