out of a hotel, out of a bag, out of a cab

Living out of the two wheeler suitcase. One hotel to the next. Conference calls morning, mid morning, mid afternoon, evening, mid night. Could you tweak this? What were you thinking on that? Hhm, could the brown bit a bit warmer and the blue be a bit cooler?

Yes, yes. Good point. Indeed it could.

Let us get back to you at your earliest convenience. Where will you be? Oh, you'll be at home hugging your loved ones and your pets and we'll be out here. Yes, wearing the same clothes we've been putting on and peeling off for the past two weeks. Perhaps I'll put them on the Hibachi on high when I get home.

The hotel is filled with the beautiful people. The ugly people with money that makes them attractive. And the beautiful wealthy people, the best sort of all. There's a nice gentleman in the hotel giving his dear niece a kiss on the cheek. Upon further examination, it's a internationally known billionaire old goat and his fresh little crumpet. How nice for him.

The production machine marches on fueled by caffeine and money and deadlines. We draft behind the machine. If you pull over, and go out in the wind on your own, you find yourself in a strange, odd, place. You can get back on, but you've missed some of the notes, a bit of the insanity, and it's never the same as it was.

It's best to stick with it all the way until it's done. Soon it will be.

Then it will be time to go home to a face a list of things to do that will be created, acted upon, and checked off by a committee of one.