Someone please call tech support
London, ON, January 2009 [Click all images to enlarge]
About these photos: We're having fun with "busted" stuff this week. Please click here to visit the Thematic Photographic entry that started it all.On a massively snowy morning a few weeks ago, I found myself running some errands at the local mall - the one I vocally whine about whenever I get a chance, but still quietly patronize because, well, I'm a hypocrite and I need to buy stuff. While I waited for the folks at the photo store to finish my pictures, I wandered the mall listening to strange music on my BlackBerry and IMing clients who thought I was sitting in my office. On the Internet, apparently, people may not think you're a dog, but they have no idea you're dodging mall-walkers beside the popcorn store.
But I digress.
As I moseyed past the food court - ever the fascinating sea of displaced and bemused humanity - I looked up at the ubiquitous screens and noticed something funny. Now, let us clarify: I don't terribly appreciate these screens. Rather, I loathe them. I resent having my every bodily sense assaulted with come-ons to buy things I don't need. It bugs me that every visible surface in our modern society absolutely must have some form of advertising on it. And if you can make it an interactive screen, the marketing mavens assume, so much the better.
Ick. All I want is peace.
But on this morning, the geek in me couldn't help but smile at the honking error message in the middle of the vaunted screen. It was too good to be true. Well, for me, anyway. No one else seemed to notice a thing. So anaesthetized were they to the endless streams of messaging that they simply tuned this one out, mistake and all. Either that or they just didn't care.
That is until the smiling guy in the sober gray trench coat, black beret and heavy winter boots wandered into optimal shooting position, pulled out a DSLR, raised it and started to shoot. Magically, lots of people looked up. Thankfully, Mall Cop was nowhere to be seen. Heads turned to follow the path of my lens. A couple of folks figured it out and nodded toward me. Everyone else blankly stared into space before returning to their waiting breakfast burritos.
Fifteen seconds after the moment began, it was over. The camera went back into its bag and the guy in the trench coat - that would be me, and I have an annoying habit of referring to myself in the third person - disappeared into the growing late-morning crowd.
Your turn: Do you get stares when you pull your camera out? How do you handle 'em?