The photo session

Consider the church directory photo session.

My family experienced this forced march last night. The slow, painful process began by soberly gathering the children, fixing hair, teeth, and sundry items of clothing to look just so, all the while explaining again to them why exactly we were getting all dressed up on a Wednesday night. Then piling into the car and racing to meet at the appointed time, we purposefully ignored the scores of bikers, joggers, couples and puppies not on their way to a church photo session and actually enjoying the glorious spring evening.

After arriving and enduring a 30 minute delay, we were escorted into the Sunday school classroom-turned-photo studio where we met Kyle, our affable, overworked, and perspiring photographer.

Pity the church directory photographer on a 12 hour shift.

After the usual poses and recitations of “Fuzzy Pickle!” to futilely coerce a smile from our two now tired and unamused children, we were done and escorted into the Sunday school classroom-turned-sales office. It was there we met the sales guy – Kyle the photographer.

Thoughts of Glengarry Glen Ross ran through my mind as he vigorously tried to sell us packages of his work. Our constant refusals to buy brought increasingly pronounced expressions of disbelief across his sad face and, remarkably, his thin, paisley tie. All we wanted was to participate in the pictorial directory. Instead, we felt like we were at once rejecting the work of an artiste and refusing to help someone in need. Ugh.

The whole process was rather distasteful – and seems rather out of step with advanced technology that could allow a much quicker and painless process. (Not unlike the archaic way we continue to count parishioners at worship.)

For example, why couldn’t the family gather in front of a webcam to capture a quality image.

Like this one.




Bring on your photo directory solutions.

A chance meeting

My trip to Seattle last week prompts this first post of 2006.

Was staying at the Hyatt Bellevue. And during my continental breakfast in the 23rd floor club, I sat facing another fellow traveler. We exchanged polite glances, but didn't interact more than the manly nod and pleasant, yet toothless grin. (The subtleties of how many teeth to display in greeting a stranger shouldn't be lost here.)

With only a few minutes before I was to meet my colleagues downstairs, I stepped onto the outdoor deck to enjoy a brief bit of solitude and scenery with my coffee and cream cheese-d bagel. What I encountered on this cool, cloudless Seattle morning was a jaw-dropping view of downtown Seattle – framed in the foreground by a evergreen-rimmed lake; the snow-capped Cascades served as the stunning backdrop. As I was soaking in this glory, I turned 90 degrees to my left to discover an exhilarating view of Mount Rainier, looming larger than life.

When I turned back to my right, there stood that guy I saw at breakfast.

He, too, was taking in the views. As we again made visual contact, I imagine he could see the wonder in my eyes. Probably saw the look of a visitor from a flat, featureless place scorched by springtime triple-digit temperatures.

"I'm trying to figure out why I don't live here," I muttered.

Immediately, he responded by pointing to the deck we were standing on, saying, "It's because you don't live here."

Touche.

A perfect and incisive remark to suppress my growing discontentment, which was based on a construct of unreality that comes with being catered to at a Hyatt on a dry day in Seattle.

And I left that chance meeting with a new appreciation of the impact we have on those with whom we speak – no matter how brief the encounter. To that guy, it was a throwaway line. To me, it was nothing short of profound. Exactly what I needed to hear.

Which led Mary to wonder, when I shared this exchange with her, if, maybe, that wasn't an angel I encountered on the 23rd floor.

Mind blowing. Could it . . . nahhh . . . he was a software salesman from Scottsdale.

I think.


Long live funegro.