it occurred to me, only the other day, with no small amount of awe, that i am a MANAGER.
A production MANAGER. Which means that, without even knowing it, for the last almost two years, I have been attending, daily, along with my MANAGING editor partner-in-crime, MANAGERIAL lunches.
And here i was feeling like a non-corporate bum.
Well. Today is therefore officially Completely Dedicated to our upcoming MANAGERIAL lunch, now that we can officially exhale, safe in the knowledge that we have unhanded the next issue of our magazine to the bouteous serfs that prepare it for us, post-layout. Shameless slave-drivers. The lot of us.
05 April 2007
TONIGHT!
(What follows is a shamelessly plagiarized announcement.) (I have no excuses for this. Except perhaps that the milk in my tea was off this morning, which didn't bode well for the day, so I thought I'd conserve energy wherever I could)
Toronto is home to some of the best known comics artists in North America. We have an active and vibrant community putting out some of the highest quality comics to be found anywhere. The SpeakEasy ComicsShow features an eclectic mix of Toronto's talented comic book artists- from those who do newspaper strips and political cartoons, to underground comix and mainstream superhero comic books!
The event promises to display an exciting cross-section of the comics communityhere in Toronto, as well as a glimpse into how good comics are made. As the old cliché goes, there really will be something for everyone.
Time & Space: Thursday April 5th, 8pm-Midnight, The Gladstone Hotel, 1214 Queen West Second Floor Lobby
Cover: Pay What You Can ($4.00 Donation Suggested)
This Month's Featured Artists:
Attila Adorjany
Kalman Andrasofszky
John Bride
Willow Dawson
Arthur Dela Cruz
Tom Fowler
Jesse Gayle
John Lang
Jeff Lemire
stef lenk
Francisco Ribas
SketchKrieg!
Diana Tamblyn
Come visit us!
Toronto is home to some of the best known comics artists in North America. We have an active and vibrant community putting out some of the highest quality comics to be found anywhere. The SpeakEasy ComicsShow features an eclectic mix of Toronto's talented comic book artists- from those who do newspaper strips and political cartoons, to underground comix and mainstream superhero comic books!
The event promises to display an exciting cross-section of the comics communityhere in Toronto, as well as a glimpse into how good comics are made. As the old cliché goes, there really will be something for everyone.
Time & Space: Thursday April 5th, 8pm-Midnight, The Gladstone Hotel, 1214 Queen West Second Floor Lobby
Cover: Pay What You Can ($4.00 Donation Suggested)
This Month's Featured Artists:
Attila Adorjany
Kalman Andrasofszky
John Bride
Willow Dawson
Arthur Dela Cruz
Tom Fowler
Jesse Gayle
John Lang
Jeff Lemire
stef lenk
Francisco Ribas
SketchKrieg!
Diana Tamblyn
Come visit us!
04 April 2007
subject heading (an email that somehow made its way into today's spam box)
You inherited a small dick from your father and there is no way to help it.
It's the personal touch that impressed me.
a] They know my father is defunct
b] they've one-upped my actual (non)-inheritance to a small dick (so that's where that small dick came from),
and
c] they know I am powerless to help it.
Today I feel like the world is looking out for my needs, however meagrely.
It's the personal touch that impressed me.
a] They know my father is defunct
b] they've one-upped my actual (non)-inheritance to a small dick (so that's where that small dick came from),
and
c] they know I am powerless to help it.
Today I feel like the world is looking out for my needs, however meagrely.
01 April 2007
ok i'm going now.
I really am. I'm walking away from the blog. Trawling my ample bosoms behind me.
for now.
for now.
sundries of an editorial nature from my little office.
I remember trying to get my head around the concept of nothing as a kid and couldn't. I just didn't get it.
It's dramatic irony, i think i can't take.
(Re: comma use.) Do you like open style?
I don't know it's kind of growing on me...
ah yes, the bourgeouis pronoun error.
It's dramatic irony, i think i can't take.
(Re: comma use.) Do you like open style?
I don't know it's kind of growing on me...
ah yes, the bourgeouis pronoun error.
Magpie helmets.
I was informed the other day that magpies attack children in Australia in the springtime and so they wear ice cream tubs with eye holes cut out to protect themselves. Tubs they cover in stickers. Excellent.
UnUtterably Busy.
But a moment at least, for a few of my stockpiled bloggables.
on Busking
I ran into my neighbour Fred the other day as I journeyed on the streetcar up to Jane and Finch, and he gave me a lowdown on the politics of busking in this city, which I had NO idea about. I was shocked (or maybe i wasn't) to find out it's practically corporate.
One needs to audition (250 people are chosen), acquire a license (100 licenses given out, a bunch of people are put in a waiting line) schedules are made, and said qualified buskers have a particular station they are allowed to stand at which rotates every three days. There are a few loopholes; if you arrive at a designated busking spot and if it is vacant you can perform there until the performer scheduled arrives; if s/he doesn't, you're in. There are all the typical human foibles: hogging the "sweet" spots, holding places for strategically chosen colleagues, waiting in "line" so if the scheduled busker doesn't show up the sweet spot is yours, etc.
I guess what I find strange about it is the realization of just how much our "public" spaces are commandeered.
I suppose this administration is yet another helpful tactic in that endless struggle to end natural human conflict, but one never hears about this sort of thing in the storybooks.
(No I haven't. But I would, in a pinch, read a storybook about a busker. If one existed.)
my last book-making class
Why Jane and Finch you say? Friday was my last class teaching a book-making workship affiliated with AGYU up yonder. I had this moment of envy; The kids, who had come in with cell-phones and chatter and that buzz of gossipy worry one always has after school (or so I found) were practically transfixed an hour later by the task of sewing pages into a book. I'm sure there was a time when simple things like threading string could override my own worries and become just as valuable an occupation.
my little window-home at Pages
Has been passed on. As of about an hour from now. May the rain hold off until I get everything home. And though those drawings now feel ancient and I'm happy to retire them, it's like handing off the flame or something, I'm back to that little vacuum of "private beneath-the-bed artistry". It's amazing they don't create an art gallery whose rooms house all their art beneath beds. Or in old suitcases or atop armoires. It would be very accurate.
That said, I must to Pages now. However not before I record this:
peregrine vindemiator.
I remain, dear reader(s), despite the relentless pursuit of business, your humble and most obedient blogger.
I ran into my neighbour Fred the other day as I journeyed on the streetcar up to Jane and Finch, and he gave me a lowdown on the politics of busking in this city, which I had NO idea about. I was shocked (or maybe i wasn't) to find out it's practically corporate.
One needs to audition (250 people are chosen), acquire a license (100 licenses given out, a bunch of people are put in a waiting line) schedules are made, and said qualified buskers have a particular station they are allowed to stand at which rotates every three days. There are a few loopholes; if you arrive at a designated busking spot and if it is vacant you can perform there until the performer scheduled arrives; if s/he doesn't, you're in. There are all the typical human foibles: hogging the "sweet" spots, holding places for strategically chosen colleagues, waiting in "line" so if the scheduled busker doesn't show up the sweet spot is yours, etc.
I guess what I find strange about it is the realization of just how much our "public" spaces are commandeered.
I suppose this administration is yet another helpful tactic in that endless struggle to end natural human conflict, but one never hears about this sort of thing in the storybooks.
(No I haven't. But I would, in a pinch, read a storybook about a busker. If one existed.)
Why Jane and Finch you say? Friday was my last class teaching a book-making workship affiliated with AGYU up yonder. I had this moment of envy; The kids, who had come in with cell-phones and chatter and that buzz of gossipy worry one always has after school (or so I found) were practically transfixed an hour later by the task of sewing pages into a book. I'm sure there was a time when simple things like threading string could override my own worries and become just as valuable an occupation.
Has been passed on. As of about an hour from now. May the rain hold off until I get everything home. And though those drawings now feel ancient and I'm happy to retire them, it's like handing off the flame or something, I'm back to that little vacuum of "private beneath-the-bed artistry". It's amazing they don't create an art gallery whose rooms house all their art beneath beds. Or in old suitcases or atop armoires. It would be very accurate.
That said, I must to Pages now. However not before I record this:
peregrine vindemiator.
I remain, dear reader(s), despite the relentless pursuit of business, your humble and most obedient blogger.
24 March 2007
THIRTEEN.MINUTES.TWENTY.EIGHT.SECONDS.
Great mother of glee that's right. Beverly and Baldwin to Queen and Roncey.
THIRTEEN MINUTES.
Breaking my record of fifteen minutes six seconds. I imagine this too shall improve once i can stop reminding myself every second "I'm attached to my bike now, be WARY."
I hereby profer a sincere thanks to SW, who helped me install cleats in my shoes, clipless pedals to my bike, and appropriate lingo into my brain, rendering me one with both my beloved velocipede and the cool-conscious echelon i have no doubt inadvertently bumbled into, as i sing the praises for my new STD, ahem, that's SPD pedals.
And even more thanks for the chivalrous restraint he showed upon my almost immediate realization that "installation" wasn't much more than, erm, unscrewing the old pedals and screwing the clipless ones in.
AND for not laughing when I nearly fell over (BUT DIDN'T, take note.) in a nearby parking lot as i got used to them.
So now I embark on a new SPD age, where the only conflict remaining is how my Extremely Fashion Conscious self is going to bear the footwear limitations, seeing as I will now be in need of cleats on a Daily basis.
THIRTEEN MINUTES.
Breaking my record of fifteen minutes six seconds. I imagine this too shall improve once i can stop reminding myself every second "I'm attached to my bike now, be WARY."
I hereby profer a sincere thanks to SW, who helped me install cleats in my shoes, clipless pedals to my bike, and appropriate lingo into my brain, rendering me one with both my beloved velocipede and the cool-conscious echelon i have no doubt inadvertently bumbled into, as i sing the praises for my new STD, ahem, that's SPD pedals.
And even more thanks for the chivalrous restraint he showed upon my almost immediate realization that "installation" wasn't much more than, erm, unscrewing the old pedals and screwing the clipless ones in.
AND for not laughing when I nearly fell over (BUT DIDN'T, take note.) in a nearby parking lot as i got used to them.
So now I embark on a new SPD age, where the only conflict remaining is how my Extremely Fashion Conscious self is going to bear the footwear limitations, seeing as I will now be in need of cleats on a Daily basis.
colour recommendations for false legs.
So i was sitting in my window this morning eating a bagel, as one does, when i saw a man walking in the street below with a fake leg.
(That is, he had a fake leg. He wasn't walking alongside one. That wouldn't happen.)
It was plastic. Blue. A Blue Plastic Leg.
This led me to ponder.
Who decided to make it blue?
Who thought, "ah, we have this clever invention, this prosthetic leg here, now what colour should we make it. Let's say blue!"
Of course, I have only truly been a happy person upon acquiring blue bike tires, so I'm not disagreeing....
(That is, he had a fake leg. He wasn't walking alongside one. That wouldn't happen.)
It was plastic. Blue. A Blue Plastic Leg.
This led me to ponder.
Who decided to make it blue?
Who thought, "ah, we have this clever invention, this prosthetic leg here, now what colour should we make it. Let's say blue!"
Of course, I have only truly been a happy person upon acquiring blue bike tires, so I'm not disagreeing....
back-deck astronomy.
My dear friend Jody came over last night for a bit of dinner and some back-deck astronomy. She is owner of the finest grade telescopes and a wealth of brilliance in the realms of the stars, both the ones she clothes by day (wardrobe for film) and the ones that hover by night (wardrobe for the galaxy).
I do confess a bit of relief that the authorities were not called. It did look like two comfortably-dressed girls had set up what looked not unlike a superior-grade long-distance missile on a back-deck. And had it trained on first the neighbouring planets and then a highly unfortunate pair of curtains in a nearby high-rise.
Anyhow. See below amateurish attempts to archive for eternity. (SO.COOL.)
(Curtains in high-rise were drawn and not worth recording.)
greenCheeseMoon as viewed from my back deck.
Through the Looking Lens.
I do confess a bit of relief that the authorities were not called. It did look like two comfortably-dressed girls had set up what looked not unlike a superior-grade long-distance missile on a back-deck. And had it trained on first the neighbouring planets and then a highly unfortunate pair of curtains in a nearby high-rise.
Anyhow. See below amateurish attempts to archive for eternity. (SO.COOL.)
(Curtains in high-rise were drawn and not worth recording.)
an accostation (sic) and a new clever project.
It was that time again, and I sent a quick email yesterday to Martin Helmut-Reis, aka Tino, aka Bike Lane Diary Executer and Guru to see if he might furnish us with any new photos for the next issue of Br**ck. He proffered this. Click on a date. Any date. SO cool. People do keep busy, don't they?
done and thank you.
The Coach House gents really are so very accomodating and so this posting shall begin with a thank you to them, for suffering me and my little work-time invasions every time i get it in my head to make another book, as gift or print-run.
It's that bloody great Gluer that I can't work on my own. It really is a Very Large Machine. It's almost amazing that it is so kind to my little books, as Very Large Machines go. Would that the publishing industry (another Very Large Machine) paid the same attentions.
Anyhow, I've left five new copies of perfect-bound One-Night Stands at Pages (and oh, how perfect they are!) , so you may (all) Rush Forth Hencewith (sic) to get one. The rest are reserved for Spring, Book Fairs, gratuitous bribes, etc.
(and yes, the art window is coming down soon. I have no idea what is going on in the grand master scheme of artist scheduling, (and quite frankly, it's a absolute blessing in disguise for book sales) but, as Coco pointed out, perhaps they shall have to rename the shop stef if those now-very-old drawings don't come down.)
It's that bloody great Gluer that I can't work on my own. It really is a Very Large Machine. It's almost amazing that it is so kind to my little books, as Very Large Machines go. Would that the publishing industry (another Very Large Machine) paid the same attentions.
Anyhow, I've left five new copies of perfect-bound One-Night Stands at Pages (and oh, how perfect they are!) , so you may (all) Rush Forth Hencewith (sic) to get one. The rest are reserved for Spring, Book Fairs, gratuitous bribes, etc.
(and yes, the art window is coming down soon. I have no idea what is going on in the grand master scheme of artist scheduling, (and quite frankly, it's a absolute blessing in disguise for book sales) but, as Coco pointed out, perhaps they shall have to rename the shop stef if those now-very-old drawings don't come down.)
23 March 2007
Back to One-Night Stands(a second printing)
So, I've decided to forgo hand binding these books this time around, leaving that kind of Book Art Love to the experts. My second print run (21 copies) is going to be perfect bound, (thank you Coach House, for letting me exploit you so mercilessly, yet again)
Why a second print-run you ask? 'Coz the first one is SOLD OUT!! WOOOHOOO!! None left at Pages. WHO KNEW. So if any of you dear reader(s) are looking for a copy, I will, as of a few hours from now, have some new ones. I think I'll only put a few at Pages this time though, I'm cranking these out one page at a time and let's just say my Dr. Who scarf is at seven feet+ as a result of manning the printer. I'll have knit myself all the way to Pages at this rate.
The rest of the copies I'll sell at April's SpeakEasy show and the Waysgoose Book arts festival in Grimsby, and MoCCA in NY, etc etc etc.
Why a second print-run you ask? 'Coz the first one is SOLD OUT!! WOOOHOOO!! None left at Pages. WHO KNEW. So if any of you dear reader(s) are looking for a copy, I will, as of a few hours from now, have some new ones. I think I'll only put a few at Pages this time though, I'm cranking these out one page at a time and let's just say my Dr. Who scarf is at seven feet+ as a result of manning the printer. I'll have knit myself all the way to Pages at this rate.
The rest of the copies I'll sell at April's SpeakEasy show and the Waysgoose Book arts festival in Grimsby, and MoCCA in NY, etc etc etc.
time, the sneaky little bugger.
something has been amiss for the past week, and I can't figure out how i've kept it together. about a week ago, i sent an email to Coco at what i thought was 10.22am, what my trusty computer said was 10.22am, and then she wrote me back from 9.38am on the same day. Now, she's an extraordinary lady, so this was not completely unfounded, as extraordinary things go, but still I found myself baffled. She does tend to live in the past while I go about my modern geeky ways, but somehow I assumed the chasm of our respective nostalgias spanned more than an hour at any given time, if only to keep us from bumping heads in our respective temporal reveries.
Anyhow, we never quite figured it out. We did agree, (I think) that in some aspect of the universe that didn't involve email, we were in sync, and this was wholly satisfactory.
NOW.
This morning, as i bustled about preparing my second print run of One-Night Stands for binding, I felt very competent as I checked my clock, 9.53am, thinking I would be at Coach House in about 20 minutes, which was only about 13 minutes after I had initially planned to be there.
I picked up my cell phone ([audible sigh]Oh the endless gadgets) and it said 8.53am. Hmm. Perhaps I didn't move the clock forward (THREE WEEKS AGO, or whenever it was). No, i remember moving it forward, and thinking, much as I did above, "[audible sigh]Oh, the endless gadgets."
I checked every clock in the house, including my faithful wind-up clock (which I rewound last night with predictable accuracy) 9.53am. And yet, this 8.53 niggled, oh how it niggled. Finally I checked the, ahem, time-honored internet, and lo and behold, according to it I am here right now (as far as I can tell) at 8.58am in the blessed morning. Packed and ready to go, almost a full hour early. I have somehow had an hour of my life returned to me!
And according to this blog, it's only 7.47AM!!!
I DO NOT UNDERSTAND WHAT IS GOING ON.
Too Roo, nonetheless. Nothing a cup of tea and some useless blogging won't fix.
Anyhow, we never quite figured it out. We did agree, (I think) that in some aspect of the universe that didn't involve email, we were in sync, and this was wholly satisfactory.
NOW.
This morning, as i bustled about preparing my second print run of One-Night Stands for binding, I felt very competent as I checked my clock, 9.53am, thinking I would be at Coach House in about 20 minutes, which was only about 13 minutes after I had initially planned to be there.
I picked up my cell phone ([audible sigh]Oh the endless gadgets) and it said 8.53am. Hmm. Perhaps I didn't move the clock forward (THREE WEEKS AGO, or whenever it was). No, i remember moving it forward, and thinking, much as I did above, "[audible sigh]Oh, the endless gadgets."
I checked every clock in the house, including my faithful wind-up clock (which I rewound last night with predictable accuracy) 9.53am. And yet, this 8.53 niggled, oh how it niggled. Finally I checked the, ahem, time-honored internet, and lo and behold, according to it I am here right now (as far as I can tell) at 8.58am in the blessed morning. Packed and ready to go, almost a full hour early. I have somehow had an hour of my life returned to me!
And according to this blog, it's only 7.47AM!!!
I DO NOT UNDERSTAND WHAT IS GOING ON.
Too Roo, nonetheless. Nothing a cup of tea and some useless blogging won't fix.
19 March 2007
beyond the 1-mile radius of my sofa.
In an attempt to coerce in the springtime and escape the threat of queenWest-hipster-deadbeatdom i cycled out to Riverdale Farm today (24minutes6seconds4redlights)
I could have sworn they used to have a mini-zoo out there, you know, emus, shaggy wildebeests, two-toed sloths, but I guess I confused it with High Park zoo. **
Or maybe Queen West.
Anyhow. The glut of Strollerbabies (one word) was not remarkably different from the Strollerbabies on Roncesvalles, but the quality of air was refreshing, and I certainly couldn't boast of seeing baby goats up Ronceys way.
Also noteable were the unusual bits of architecture and sundries, which hearken back to what seems like a significantly more interesting time.
retro bicycle mit Implement. 
bricKollage. 
old-style hipster living. 
all this, some stewing over the new comic, AND the Jet Fuel, too. Indeed.
**ed. note: have received two confirmations that the mini zoo still exists. Praise be.
I could have sworn they used to have a mini-zoo out there, you know, emus, shaggy wildebeests, two-toed sloths, but I guess I confused it with High Park zoo. **
Or maybe Queen West.
Anyhow. The glut of Strollerbabies (one word) was not remarkably different from the Strollerbabies on Roncesvalles, but the quality of air was refreshing, and I certainly couldn't boast of seeing baby goats up Ronceys way.
Also noteable were the unusual bits of architecture and sundries, which hearken back to what seems like a significantly more interesting time.
all this, some stewing over the new comic, AND the Jet Fuel, too. Indeed.
**ed. note: have received two confirmations that the mini zoo still exists. Praise be.
16 March 2007
resetting my bloggy world; a post in portions.
Since my ailment of a week or so ago, it's been a slow climb back up, or so some might think, but really i've been secretly squirrelling away bloggy things that I will now take this opportunity to unleash in a most frivolous manner.
I. my new arm.
One knows one's tattooist is Exemplary when he, mid-tattooing, pauses momentarily to bless a sneezer in the next room. Twice.
(In a non-denominational way, of course.)
THATANDMYARMLOOKINGSOUNBELIEVABLYBLOODYAMAZINGANDINCREDIBLEIT'SADDEDYEARSONTOMYLIFE.
(font size 72)
Bobby Five, ladies and gentlemen.
I will be posting Copious pictures of my bare skin on the internet for your gratification, imminently.
'Coz i'm just that kind of gal.
II. stones and ghosts.
Imagine receiving this little package of love in your mailbox. It is a Good Good Life.
III. is So Amazing.
My new tattoo is So amazing.
More amazing than my bike tires.
(only slightly more amazing than my bike tires.)
(but More amazing nonetheless.)
IV. on the nature of teaching.
As this book-making workshop I'm involved with unfolds, I find myself pondering principles and styles of teaching, all of which is kind of new to me, and makes me realize how much I'm a product of when I was 10. I went to a Montessori school for 9 years, and as a result have a particular take (who knew?!?) on how I relate to kids I'm showing stuff to.
Discussing this with teaching guru SG tonight over amaretto sours (which I've never had before and are Amazing, incidentally.)
(although not Quite as amazing as my new tattoo),
she coined her teaching philosophy in a way I thought was perfect. (I'm paraphrasing the following, hopefully accurately:)
[The ideal scenario as a teacher is to render yourself irrelevant.]
THAT IS. If kids can walk away knowing they have figured something out, knowing they have accomplished something on their own, having learnt something they can claim as theirs, that means they have been taught well. What they think of the teacher as a person is not the object of the class, nor is it the purpose of education.
I was awed and humbled, all at the same time.
V. My underpaid back.
Had another "publishing is built on the backs of underpaid women" conversation last week. I've had alot of these in the last year. The question is whether these jobs truly are irrevocable labours of love or whether that is a collective ruse all us girls gather under to accept the fact that we're doing nothing about being paid quite badly for doing good work.
Of course, these conversations are always followed in my brain by "That's it! I quit!", which is then followed by "It's far too late for me to join the Tour De France, my math/science skills are hopeless, and I burn way too much toast to ever be a chef, etc. etc. etc."
(sigh) And I love books. I do. I love making them, in whatever capacity.
So. What to do?
VI. sigh.
It's Fun being shallow and caring about things like my NewAmazingTattooThatICan'tHelpButThinkHasChangedMyLifeIrrevocably.
VII. something i most obviously could never live without.
I saw a blurb for this in this week's Now, which convinces me that I must go out and get a better-paying job IMMEDIATELY.
What was I ever thinking, and how will I ever be the same without it?
VIII. disclaimer.
The interest expressed in section VII is not to be confused with the genuine interests of stef lenk, who, marked devotion to new tattoos notwithstanding, will never ever EVER condone the acquiring of such FUCKING RIDICULOUS items as a "Clocky".
One knows one's tattooist is Exemplary when he, mid-tattooing, pauses momentarily to bless a sneezer in the next room. Twice.
(In a non-denominational way, of course.)
THATANDMYARMLOOKINGSOUNBELIEVABLYBLOODYAMAZINGANDINCREDIBLEIT'SADDEDYEARSONTOMYLIFE.
(font size 72)
Bobby Five, ladies and gentlemen.
I will be posting Copious pictures of my bare skin on the internet for your gratification, imminently.
'Coz i'm just that kind of gal.
Imagine receiving this little package of love in your mailbox. It is a Good Good Life.
My new tattoo is So amazing.
More amazing than my bike tires.
(only slightly more amazing than my bike tires.)
(but More amazing nonetheless.)
As this book-making workshop I'm involved with unfolds, I find myself pondering principles and styles of teaching, all of which is kind of new to me, and makes me realize how much I'm a product of when I was 10. I went to a Montessori school for 9 years, and as a result have a particular take (who knew?!?) on how I relate to kids I'm showing stuff to.
Discussing this with teaching guru SG tonight over amaretto sours (which I've never had before and are Amazing, incidentally.)
(although not Quite as amazing as my new tattoo),
she coined her teaching philosophy in a way I thought was perfect. (I'm paraphrasing the following, hopefully accurately:)
[The ideal scenario as a teacher is to render yourself irrelevant.]
THAT IS. If kids can walk away knowing they have figured something out, knowing they have accomplished something on their own, having learnt something they can claim as theirs, that means they have been taught well. What they think of the teacher as a person is not the object of the class, nor is it the purpose of education.
I was awed and humbled, all at the same time.
Had another "publishing is built on the backs of underpaid women" conversation last week. I've had alot of these in the last year. The question is whether these jobs truly are irrevocable labours of love or whether that is a collective ruse all us girls gather under to accept the fact that we're doing nothing about being paid quite badly for doing good work.
Of course, these conversations are always followed in my brain by "That's it! I quit!", which is then followed by "It's far too late for me to join the Tour De France, my math/science skills are hopeless, and I burn way too much toast to ever be a chef, etc. etc. etc."
(sigh) And I love books. I do. I love making them, in whatever capacity.
So. What to do?
It's Fun being shallow and caring about things like my NewAmazingTattooThatICan'tHelpButThinkHasChangedMyLifeIrrevocably.
I saw a blurb for this in this week's Now, which convinces me that I must go out and get a better-paying job IMMEDIATELY.
What was I ever thinking, and how will I ever be the same without it?
The interest expressed in section VII is not to be confused with the genuine interests of stef lenk, who, marked devotion to new tattoos notwithstanding, will never ever EVER condone the acquiring of such FUCKING RIDICULOUS items as a "Clocky".
14 March 2007
13 March 2007
12 March 2007
FUBAR re-training module.
Today's lunchtime topic of discussion with dear Coco was apropos of me finally pinpointing the one thing that makes me completely, irrevocably, and pretty much Constantly FUBAR: ambiguity. That is, unfinished communications, stranded messages, stray emails, who went where, what happened then, what will happen next etc etc. This lack of foresight is completely untenable to me. Like, losing-years-of-my-life-stressing-over-it untenable.
Being a dear friend, Coco decided that the best way to be of help was a re-training strategy. You know, little lessons in loving and living with the unknown.
(scenario: Coco arrives for dinner one night and promptly ties stef to a chair and blindfolds her, and then runs around the place banging things.)
stef: "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!? WHAT'S GOING ON?!?!"
Coco: "You don't know, do you? And you CAN'T know! You Can't. You just have to LIVE WITH IT."
(scenario: stef comes home one evening to find that everything in her house has been hidden.)
stef: "WHERE'S MY OVEN?!?"
Coco: "You don't know, do you? You just have to accept this, stef. Live with the mystery. LIVE with it."
(scenario: stef somehow finds herself sitting amidst many trees in a foreign land.)
stef: "WHERE AM I?!?"
Coco: "You can't know."
stef: "But, who are these guerilla armies advancing towards me through the jungle?"
Coco: "You can't know that either. And you just have to be OKAY with it."
stef: (sigh)
Being a dear friend, Coco decided that the best way to be of help was a re-training strategy. You know, little lessons in loving and living with the unknown.
(scenario: Coco arrives for dinner one night and promptly ties stef to a chair and blindfolds her, and then runs around the place banging things.)
stef: "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!? WHAT'S GOING ON?!?!"
Coco: "You don't know, do you? And you CAN'T know! You Can't. You just have to LIVE WITH IT."
(scenario: stef comes home one evening to find that everything in her house has been hidden.)
stef: "WHERE'S MY OVEN?!?"
Coco: "You don't know, do you? You just have to accept this, stef. Live with the mystery. LIVE with it."
(scenario: stef somehow finds herself sitting amidst many trees in a foreign land.)
stef: "WHERE AM I?!?"
Coco: "You can't know."
stef: "But, who are these guerilla armies advancing towards me through the jungle?"
Coco: "You can't know that either. And you just have to be OKAY with it."
stef: (sigh)
Apophenia of Immeasurable Significance.
And as the credits rolled the other night on the last DVD in season two of my dear Who, I realized, most melancholically, that there was no longer any excuse to be ill.
I sighed and looked at my (wind-up) clock only to see that it had STOPPED. Not two minutes before. No doubt in sync with the Time-Lord himself, who had just sent forty billion daleks and cyber-men into oblivion and closed up a rip in the universe.
Which is more than I managed over the four days of Hell my innards were sopping in. Sigh.
I sighed and looked at my (wind-up) clock only to see that it had STOPPED. Not two minutes before. No doubt in sync with the Time-Lord himself, who had just sent forty billion daleks and cyber-men into oblivion and closed up a rip in the universe.
Which is more than I managed over the four days of Hell my innards were sopping in. Sigh.
09 March 2007
06 March 2007
the next generation.
first there was despair.
then there was doubt.
then there was elbow grease, shed rubber, and an expectant pair of naked wheels.
now there are 23 c's.
(which strangely, Blogger will not accept as a moniker, unless i put a space between the number and letter. Fascinating)
BLUE 23 c's.
It's like i've shed my training wheels.
For Glorious New Blue-Bike-wheeled sleekdom.
then there was doubt.
then there was elbow grease, shed rubber, and an expectant pair of naked wheels.
now there are 23 c's.
(which strangely, Blogger will not accept as a moniker, unless i put a space between the number and letter. Fascinating)
BLUE 23 c's.
It's like i've shed my training wheels.
For Glorious New Blue-Bike-wheeled sleekdom.
03 March 2007
take me out to the bike show.
Today I am going to the bike show. And I am extraordinarily excited. I've wanted to go for three years now, but haven't had the organizational skills, the wherewithal, or, let's face it, the balls to go before.
Then, a few weeks ago, Scott Waters B.T.B.E (Big Time Bike Enthusiast) mentioned it and i thought "NOW'S MY CHANCE!!". Shan S.P.B.H ia (Seeker of Pink Bike Helmet in absentia) has assured me that if I stay close by Willy E.F.W.E.M.E.Z.C (Exemplary Five-year-old Wearing Even More Exemplary Zelda Cap) I will get loads of free stuff.
Now. Seeing as I am a member of the M.E.S.I.C.R (Much Enthused But Stunningly Ignorant Cyclist Rabble), i find myself in a bit of a state. This is the big time. My "impressive" record of changing flats and brake cables will garner me nothing in this lions' den, but perhaps a derisive snicker, a lollipop, and directions to the ladies' loo. But it's a fact; much like talking to people about television, pop culture, or the daily news, I only know what things look like, not what they are called. And if you think my grave misdemeanours surrounding the subject of clipless pedals are bad, don't even bother asking how long I went without knowing what Seinfeld looks like.
And, in my feeble defense, I draw real good. I could tell you a very great deal about the minutiae of graphite pencils, were the need to arise.
But back to my bikeless lingo. Contemplating possible disguises of this grievous problem i considered a few things. A strategically placed shim on my wedding finger? An allen key dangling from my shoelace?
Then I relented. Like most states of nature, there's nothing to be done for the ignorance, except bask in it.
So, may your sympathies be with me, dear reader(s). And though I imagine a brown leather saddle might still be piteously out of my price range, please, Great Gods of Bicycle Pimping, PLEASE MAY THERE BE BLUE TIRES!!!!
Then, a few weeks ago, Scott Waters B.T.B.E (Big Time Bike Enthusiast) mentioned it and i thought "NOW'S MY CHANCE!!". Shan S.P.B.H ia (Seeker of Pink Bike Helmet in absentia) has assured me that if I stay close by Willy E.F.W.E.M.E.Z.C (Exemplary Five-year-old Wearing Even More Exemplary Zelda Cap) I will get loads of free stuff.
Now. Seeing as I am a member of the M.E.S.I.C.R (Much Enthused But Stunningly Ignorant Cyclist Rabble), i find myself in a bit of a state. This is the big time. My "impressive" record of changing flats and brake cables will garner me nothing in this lions' den, but perhaps a derisive snicker, a lollipop, and directions to the ladies' loo. But it's a fact; much like talking to people about television, pop culture, or the daily news, I only know what things look like, not what they are called. And if you think my grave misdemeanours surrounding the subject of clipless pedals are bad, don't even bother asking how long I went without knowing what Seinfeld looks like.
And, in my feeble defense, I draw real good. I could tell you a very great deal about the minutiae of graphite pencils, were the need to arise.
But back to my bikeless lingo. Contemplating possible disguises of this grievous problem i considered a few things. A strategically placed shim on my wedding finger? An allen key dangling from my shoelace?
Then I relented. Like most states of nature, there's nothing to be done for the ignorance, except bask in it.
So, may your sympathies be with me, dear reader(s). And though I imagine a brown leather saddle might still be piteously out of my price range, please, Great Gods of Bicycle Pimping, PLEASE MAY THERE BE BLUE TIRES!!!!
02 March 2007
It's lunch-time and Coco is not here.
Which gives me no recourse except this bloody blog.
So.
Walking home yesterday i saw a man moping along with a giant blue snow-shovel. I thought this a rather clever thing, given the state of the sidewalks, althought he was swinging it around in a way that was also vaguely disconcerting, especially as I tromped by him.
Then this morning, on my way to work, i saw him again, still with the shovel, this time clearing away watery muck as he walked.
I wonder if he thinks that he has to clear a new path through his life every day, just so he can get through it all.
So.
Walking home yesterday i saw a man moping along with a giant blue snow-shovel. I thought this a rather clever thing, given the state of the sidewalks, althought he was swinging it around in a way that was also vaguely disconcerting, especially as I tromped by him.
Then this morning, on my way to work, i saw him again, still with the shovel, this time clearing away watery muck as he walked.
I wonder if he thinks that he has to clear a new path through his life every day, just so he can get through it all.
the name Pru.
I'm not allowed to blog about how this name came about, but Sweet Lord. PRU. A nickname. For someone who is not named Prudence, and who lives in Chichester, no less.
01 March 2007
today's banal events of note.
I was told by an author I'm corresponding with for work that I have the most "pleasant emailside manner" ever.
Sigh. Emailside manner.
Such a modern and lovely compliment, and I'm citing it here that I might remember to use it in the future on like-mannered people.
Left my beloved bike and walked home (west-west end) today, 'coz I'm just not that hard-core, and wasn't in the mood to get trapped under something four-wheeled and menacing. PASSED ON FOOT AT DUFFERIN the streetcar that wouldn't pick up passengers at University Ave, where I started my meander. You'd think we know how to handle snow a bit better than all that by now.
And then, in the evening, drilled a hole into my thumb. By accident you understand. But noteable, nonetheless.
Sigh. Emailside manner.
Such a modern and lovely compliment, and I'm citing it here that I might remember to use it in the future on like-mannered people.
Left my beloved bike and walked home (west-west end) today, 'coz I'm just not that hard-core, and wasn't in the mood to get trapped under something four-wheeled and menacing. PASSED ON FOOT AT DUFFERIN the streetcar that wouldn't pick up passengers at University Ave, where I started my meander. You'd think we know how to handle snow a bit better than all that by now.
And then, in the evening, drilled a hole into my thumb. By accident you understand. But noteable, nonetheless.
28 February 2007
we now return to our regularly scheduled banalities.
Scanning down this blog, i realize i've been going on about cultural outings at great length of late, and sounding like a wanker. (well, to me at least. and i read this blog too, you know.)
So enough of that.
It's time to get back to Real Life, and post some daily banal events that make blogs so...bloggy.
so.
BANAL EVENT NUMBER ONE.
Today i saw a great big man wearing a white bella clava and a camouflage puff-daddy coat (okay, i don't know if it was a puff-daddy coat 'coz i don't know what puff-daddy looks like 'coz i live under a rock, but the coat looked like what i imagine someone named puff-daddy would wear).
Anyhow. Said man, in said bella-clava, with said "puff-daddy" coat, was tearing down the sidewalk in a little automized wheelchair vehicle, that was about half the size of him. He was downright RECKLESS and nearly took down an old lady and an OCAD student, all at once.
And I thought it was funny.
So enough of that.
It's time to get back to Real Life, and post some daily banal events that make blogs so...bloggy.
so.
BANAL EVENT NUMBER ONE.
Today i saw a great big man wearing a white bella clava and a camouflage puff-daddy coat (okay, i don't know if it was a puff-daddy coat 'coz i don't know what puff-daddy looks like 'coz i live under a rock, but the coat looked like what i imagine someone named puff-daddy would wear).
Anyhow. Said man, in said bella-clava, with said "puff-daddy" coat, was tearing down the sidewalk in a little automized wheelchair vehicle, that was about half the size of him. He was downright RECKLESS and nearly took down an old lady and an OCAD student, all at once.
And I thought it was funny.
of little use, but so funny.
(as a clarification in hindsight, in light of this bad photo) the two matches =the twin towers.
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