The Logical Tattoo Shop
I dreamed I was in another city, somewhere on the West Coast. I could feel and smell the ocean breeze, but was comfortably warm. I was looking for a job in various tattoo shops. Each shop had arrays of tables set up with boxes of various electronic parts and modules. All the employees in each store were focused on assembling devices, on demand. These stores had a lot of walk-in traffic, of various ages -- including young children.
I never saw any ink, or needles, or flash; nor did I witness anyone have any change in appearance. (At least, I hope those kids came in with face paint.) The thing that made it a tattoo shop for me was the space -- the art on the walls, open doors and windows, the lights and music -- everyone on the staff was all inked and modded out and really serious about whatever it was they were doing.
I finally settled on a shop and the shop manager shows me a poorly photocopied, laminated sign on yellow cardstock. On it read the eight rules -- the honor code -- of the shop. Then he handed me a barely legible blue card, and it was floppy like felt. He said I needed to put my personal information on it. I tell him I need a pen, and he wanders away. I set the paperwork down and start looking around the tables in the shop.
The general point of all the electronic parts and modules was to construct logic models that addressed some problem people would have. You'd pick up a base, and it would have some markings that showed where to hook up power and data connections. Some resisters from this box and a few capacitors from this other, and some mystery parts that seemed to do impossible things, all connected together on the base and you tested it on the workbench. If it worked right, you gave it to the shop manager, who would transact the cash exchange with the customer.
I start to figure out my next problem, get confused for a second... And then I woke up, realizing that I somehow missed a day of work on my new job already. I got dressed, left the hotel, and started down the street, looking for the tattoo shop I had been at. All the shops on the street looked different, and I wasn't able to find the one I had been at. I decide I'd rather just get some pizza. Just as I'm deciding what I want from the menu, my phone alarm went off.
My real self got up and took a shower and was grateful to go to a job that made some sense.
I never saw any ink, or needles, or flash; nor did I witness anyone have any change in appearance. (At least, I hope those kids came in with face paint.) The thing that made it a tattoo shop for me was the space -- the art on the walls, open doors and windows, the lights and music -- everyone on the staff was all inked and modded out and really serious about whatever it was they were doing.
I finally settled on a shop and the shop manager shows me a poorly photocopied, laminated sign on yellow cardstock. On it read the eight rules -- the honor code -- of the shop. Then he handed me a barely legible blue card, and it was floppy like felt. He said I needed to put my personal information on it. I tell him I need a pen, and he wanders away. I set the paperwork down and start looking around the tables in the shop.
The general point of all the electronic parts and modules was to construct logic models that addressed some problem people would have. You'd pick up a base, and it would have some markings that showed where to hook up power and data connections. Some resisters from this box and a few capacitors from this other, and some mystery parts that seemed to do impossible things, all connected together on the base and you tested it on the workbench. If it worked right, you gave it to the shop manager, who would transact the cash exchange with the customer.
I start to figure out my next problem, get confused for a second... And then I woke up, realizing that I somehow missed a day of work on my new job already. I got dressed, left the hotel, and started down the street, looking for the tattoo shop I had been at. All the shops on the street looked different, and I wasn't able to find the one I had been at. I decide I'd rather just get some pizza. Just as I'm deciding what I want from the menu, my phone alarm went off.
My real self got up and took a shower and was grateful to go to a job that made some sense.