Wednesday, March 31, 2004

Because I'm too tired to think tonight

...and look, The West Wing just came on ...

The last, best colophon

This book is set in 12-point Monotone Bimbo,
with chapter headings in Basketball Overextended.
Both faces were designed by the great Adolf Pflupfl
and are characterized by noble, full-bodied proportions
with complex, slightly fruity serifs.
It was printed by upset lithophagy
on 70-lb. Tropicana Ivory mislaid Cowabunga Slipshod Overcoat.
The ink came out of a can.

This paper is 100% unrecycled.
Whole forests were leveled,
thousands of small furry animals left homeless,
and vast virgin landscapes devastated
to make this book.

—courtesy of an AAUP editor whose name is lost due to the forcible imposition by my employer-at-the-time of Outlook on my baby Mac

And from the Department of Redundant Academic Research Department ... "Latest survey shows that 3 out of 4 people make up 75% of the world's population." Pace, Dr Taylor.

To sleep: perchance to dream

Wednesday, March 24, 2004

Things to do instead of working: A composition by Leslie
(with apologies to those of you who weren't there)

Living in the 80s

It all began when video killed the radio star. We were living on video in freeze frame — life was a thriller. We were kids in America; we were up where we belonged. We had the time of our lives. We told time by the clock of the heart and wondered how soon is now? Life was urgent — we were hungry like the wolf. Life in a northern town somewhere down the crazy river was the best of times. There was always a situation at our house and your daddy don’t know whatcha did to my body. It was an adult education. We were having sweet dreams and talking in our sleep. We were doing aerobics and eurythmics — but where was the air supply? We were running with the night, running with the shadows of the night. We were running up that hill with no problems; we ran faster than the speed of night. We had the look — it was the look of love — but we were too shy. Too bad. We looked pretty in pink and electric blue, and wore psychedelic furs with black velvet and blue jean. In the cruel summer we went on vacation to Xanadu, Valotte, Graceland, and Echo Beach, far away in time — we ate rock lobster. We sat in the purple rain watching St. Elmo’s fire during the total eclipse of the heart. It was a nice day for a white wedding, but she blinded us with science. Luckily, we had the eyes of a stranger. We wore our sunglasses at night: the future was so bright, we had to wear shades on our Bette Davis eyes. We were on the loose, and the kid was hot tonight. Our moonlight desires got physical — we got our emotions in motion and did the stroke — but we did it for love, in the name of love. We did it one more time: we had endless love. We wanted to know what love is. We learned that love is like oxygen, love is a stranger, love is a battlefield — that love bites. We made modern love in a bizarre love triangle; we were addicted to love. Then we made tainted love and needed sexual healing. We let it go to rise up, like a virgin, like a prayer. Magic power was in the air tonight. You might think we fell out of touch, but we were living in a box, livin’ on a prayer. We had faith on the edge of seventeen. We looked for fame in the big time — what a feeling! We found the perfect way. At first it was rapture, but when doves cried, we were in jeopardy. We got the beat and were victims of fashion, but it was a glamorous life. Don’t it make ya feel like dancing? We were shadow dancing, dancing in the dark, dancing on the ceiling, dancing with tears in our eyes, dancing barefoot. We did the safety dance at the love shack — we were footloose. We were walking on sunshine, walking like Egyptians; we did the walk of life and got our money for nothing. We gave it straight from the heart, but then we had a change of heart. We wanted to go to the edge of heaven. Heaven was a place on earth where we made circles in the sand — I get weak just thinking about it. We were stepping out on electric avenue in erotic city, where the streets have no name. We were left of centre; it was an obsession that cuts like a knife. We were hyperactive with Dolby. We would shout and rebel yell — but voices carry. We lost our self-control; we were going nowhere fast. We learned to spin right round, like a record, while looking for a brand-new lover. We learned that girls just want to have fun, but don’t go messing with a girl with guns — this much is true. There was always something there to remind us.

One thing leads to another. We discovered we had broken wings and our beds were burning. Prince Charming turned out to be a goody two-shoes; he wouldn’t strip for his centerfold. We had to beat it; we ran so far away. We learned to hold the line in Africa while living in the land down under. We learned to stand back, but don’t give up — everybody wants to rule the world. Then came the hazy shade of winter. All you zombies can relax — don’t do it. We saw eyes without a face and an eye in the sky — no wonder we always felt somebody’s watching me — and who can it be now? The missionary man. Sister Christian, a maniac in the driver’s seat of her little red Corvette, took us down the middle of road on the freeway of love. Say it isn’t so! Of course, I’m only foolin’ — or is it just a twist in my sobriety? Perhaps it’s just the reflex: I still don’t like Mondays.

Monday, March 22, 2004

The Nature and Nurture of Power
What Grows Here?... Evil grows in the dark.

To avoid slander charges the names have been changed. I'm not doing anything about protecting the innocent because.. well... ain't nobody really innocent!

S'we're doin' this book. Big Bart decides to sign a contract with Large Press. "No no!" I cry, "let[s go with Wide Captions! A much more reasonable choice." Alas and alack Large Press gets the go-ahead and we venture off to the dark side.

All in all things seem to go smoothly other than the deadline which looms and hastens us unbeknownced to our nervous breakdown. Then the communication (actually the lack thereof) begins. "Send them a proof" says Bart. "Why not" quips I. "Then we are agreed" responds Big Bart. "Aye aye," states I and off goes the proof for the edification of the Large Press conglomerate.

Suddenly... (crash of thunder)...

The proof... RETURNS!

The changes are marked, the proofing begun,
The Large Press conglomerate have suddenly begun,
to edit and write, to markup and slight.

Now now, pooh pooh,
we shall inform you what to do!
Don't worry your empty little heads!
Aww @*#% them.

And so it started. A series of non-communications with hangups and swearing and lots of sullen staring. I have never been so pissed in my life and it was nothing more than a battle of egos, a war of insecurities, a massive exercise in how stupid people can be if they really, really try. Sure the baby's gone, but I sure did get rid of that ol' bathwater!

Who's book is this... whose style will reign supreme...who cares if I added in a few inconsistencies...I sure fixed those other ones...score one for the Large Press...oops looks like Hole's got in a low blow...REF! REF! Did ya see that! It's mine, no it's mine. Ya but we're better! No we're better! Poop! Poop back!

Proof goes out, proof comes back.
Proof goes out, proof comes back.
Files go out, [intercepted!] proof comes back... but really, we are done now.
Files go out, [intercepted!] proof comes back.
Now, really... do ya think I'm stupid enough to send it out again?

Cover...what cover... ooh we can fix it, we can fix... no let me. Who the hell said it was broken? Screw this, let's just print it upside down, then no one will notice anything else...

But wait folks... it's not over. Sam Kibbles, the puppet master himself, rises from the depths of the sub stage to take his rightful place right behind his puppets. "Say this!" he now whispers, "say that" he rejoins. "Tell them they're wrong," he mumbles, "maybe they won't notice..."


Like I said, I'm you really think the files are going out again?


I'm tell' ya folks this is insufferable. I mean really insufferable. Suffering all around! It ain't gettin' done and we are back to pre-contract footings. All I want is for an honest effort to get to the end but it seems we are just gong to play pissing contests. "Ooh, look at me I can PISS!" Me too, me too!" SNARK SNARK SNARK! My son did that his first day on the planet... I hadn't realized he was so mature...maybe I can make some money offa all this piss. If we gotta play games, why not make it worthwhile, pistols at dawn, double or nothing, give'r till ya puke. We were more mature with a 26 of lemon gin in our gullets.

Anyway I'm finished whining although the end of the tale is not yet written. I seems likely that this will continue evermore because Karma can't be avoid, pride cometh before the fall and TANSTAAFL. But I sure would be willing to pay for it if I could just avoid the aggravation...

Power...worth every penny, worth every drop...
Gotta keep on fightin' till that last,

Aw crap.


Sunday, March 14, 2004

Just ask me

Want to know about waterborne pathogens? Or pain assessment for neonates? Or First Nations peoples in Alberta? Just ask me. I no longer have a human brain; I am a text-processing machine. My eyes are weird little squares disconnected from dreams. Aiiee!

Too much to do. Can't wait for the end of the week — or even Wednesday, my purported day of rest. Eh bien...