Mr. Steven's is the main protagonist and narrator of the most excellent book, "Remains of the Day". It might help you to think of Anthony Hopkins at his most restrained and polite while you read this.
It has come to my attention that while it was, indeed, lovely to spend time in Coventry last year, it being the home of Eliot and being a wonderful metropolis still possessed of small-village England that, I think you'll agree, is essential in this age, it might perhaps be time to reconsider how I might spend my next sabbatical.
There's something to be said about the roar of the engine, don't you agree? Twenty First Century barrelling down upon the gentlemen of England, and indeed, the gentleman's gentleman. One should be steadfast in ones ways, to be sure, but there's something to be said for foresight, and the courage to embrace approaching trends, no matter how low they might seem at first.
We can't all keep our desires lashed against the very idea of progress, as the life of Lord Dufferin in Punjab can attest. And I being of very modest mental gifts, can only shift with the coming seas. I might be wrong, of course, nothing would surprise me less than if I found myself in error, but I do believe, in whatever humble capacity I can do so, that the upcoming
M-M-M-Monster Truck Rally Motor Sport Spectacular and Hooters Pageant 2009 might be a worthwhile event to attend.
I'm of the age that I do not need to explain myself, but, as my employer, I think you should know where I'm going and why, even if where I'm going is the only place on the entire Island that has over 10,000 horsepower of pure adrenaline filled edge-of-your-seat excitement. It might be hard for you to understand, and indeed I think I might take some time digesting it myself, how a wet t-shirt contest to determine the 'perkiest' Hooters waitress in South Wales might further my progression and growth as an Englishman and a humble subject of her Majesty.
It's a question that puzzles me but is not, I think, outside of my grasp, should I pursue it long enough.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Thursday, May 07, 2009
Newsletter Meeting
The work newsletter I've been writing for had their editorial board meeting a few weeks ago. I volunteered to attend; the horrors of meetings long since worn with time and ignorance.
Maybe it was morbid curiousity, maybe it was the unreasonable belief that I'd some how come out of my shell and start contributing and brainstorming and gesturing manically towards trenchant Power Point slides. Maybe the solitude of staring at a computer screen for weeks on end had gotten to me. Maybe I was hoping that I'd enter in a smoke-filled room thick with the heady brew of cross-talking think-tanking and creative outbursts the likes of which haven't been seen since Hollywood did their impression of a New York newsroom.
Ah, I know why I really went. It was to meet people who had almost certainly actually read my articles. I mean, they'd have to, in the course of doing layout of editing or whatever it is that editorial boards do. And sure, maybe it'd only be in passing, or by accident, or just to ensure I hadn't mentioned how the entire world banking system is controlled by a race of hyper-intelligent fruit flies with sinister intentions.
Because on the other side of this keyboard here, furiously torturing metaphors and constructing complex barely intelligible sentences with hope, spit, and bailing wire, there's very little feedback. At the newsletter, there's almost none. I get a little kind note from whoever I submit to, and that's pretty much it. My work group sometimes comments, tells me how it's not the shittiest thing that has every molested their eyes, but you know, they pretty much have to say something.
At Periodically.org High Quality Thrice Inspected Original ASCIII Nettube Products I get the occasional comment, but mainly am egged on by the Google Followers (if you read regularly, and haven't added yourself, er, here's the hint).
There's always that bit of madness and neurosis that inhabits every hack that compels them to write. But the idea that actual people read it, and maybe don't shut down their web browser and kick their computer for assaulting their verbal brain centers, well not immediately afterwards anyways, is the drug that keeps one writing.
So, that's why I went, I think.
It went as expected, everyone really quiet since none of us work with each other on a regular basis, everyone being overly polite and no one making too many hard decisions. This is how I imagine every meeting to go, actually. It was pleasant, though, to see the faces of the other contributors and editors and whatnot. I felt like I wasn't just writing off 500 words and sending off to the ether.
And it might have been my imagination, but I think I may have gotten the faintest glimmer of recognition from some of them, as if they may have remembered that I had written an article for every letter since it had been revitalized. There was no back slap and the jocular handshake of journalistic bon homie, nothing of that sort. But I wasn't greeted as a total stranger. I guess not all meetings are bad.
Maybe it was morbid curiousity, maybe it was the unreasonable belief that I'd some how come out of my shell and start contributing and brainstorming and gesturing manically towards trenchant Power Point slides. Maybe the solitude of staring at a computer screen for weeks on end had gotten to me. Maybe I was hoping that I'd enter in a smoke-filled room thick with the heady brew of cross-talking think-tanking and creative outbursts the likes of which haven't been seen since Hollywood did their impression of a New York newsroom.
Ah, I know why I really went. It was to meet people who had almost certainly actually read my articles. I mean, they'd have to, in the course of doing layout of editing or whatever it is that editorial boards do. And sure, maybe it'd only be in passing, or by accident, or just to ensure I hadn't mentioned how the entire world banking system is controlled by a race of hyper-intelligent fruit flies with sinister intentions.
Because on the other side of this keyboard here, furiously torturing metaphors and constructing complex barely intelligible sentences with hope, spit, and bailing wire, there's very little feedback. At the newsletter, there's almost none. I get a little kind note from whoever I submit to, and that's pretty much it. My work group sometimes comments, tells me how it's not the shittiest thing that has every molested their eyes, but you know, they pretty much have to say something.
At Periodically.org High Quality Thrice Inspected Original ASCIII Nettube Products I get the occasional comment, but mainly am egged on by the Google Followers (if you read regularly, and haven't added yourself, er, here's the hint).
There's always that bit of madness and neurosis that inhabits every hack that compels them to write. But the idea that actual people read it, and maybe don't shut down their web browser and kick their computer for assaulting their verbal brain centers, well not immediately afterwards anyways, is the drug that keeps one writing.
So, that's why I went, I think.
It went as expected, everyone really quiet since none of us work with each other on a regular basis, everyone being overly polite and no one making too many hard decisions. This is how I imagine every meeting to go, actually. It was pleasant, though, to see the faces of the other contributors and editors and whatnot. I felt like I wasn't just writing off 500 words and sending off to the ether.
And it might have been my imagination, but I think I may have gotten the faintest glimmer of recognition from some of them, as if they may have remembered that I had written an article for every letter since it had been revitalized. There was no back slap and the jocular handshake of journalistic bon homie, nothing of that sort. But I wasn't greeted as a total stranger. I guess not all meetings are bad.
Monday, May 04, 2009
A Fate Worse Than Death
So I've been added to a Facebook spam list by one of my former classmates from that YA fiction class. It's related spam, anyways, Creative Things Going On Aboot Town That Are In Someway Related To Him. At least, that's how I read it. And maybe it's not a spam list, but when you send an invitation out to 121 'close' friends it's hard to feel like the invite was really personalized, you know?
Anyways, I was invited to a fund raiser for a literary magazine I'd never heard of. Not that I know of many literary mags. And I'm pretty sure the mark of a good lit mag is that no one has heard of it. Street cred, as I understand.
There was a nagging part of me that told me I should probably attend. Images of hanging out like Hemingway with all his writerly friends, discussing... well, whatever writers discuss, Post-Modernism, Derrida, liver cirrhosis. I had in my verdant imagination an idea of a culturally rich group of peers all riffing off each other. Discussing meaning and plot and illusion and intention. I tried to silence that ever present pessimist in me who knew that it'd just be a place for all the young hip cats to hang out and be ironic and possibly 'hook-up' with each other. Occam's Aftershave, "Given a set of possible and wildly wonderful reasons for a group to exist, the reason most likely is hooking-up".
But, yes, well, I'm an idealist. It perhaps helps that I keep myself socially sequestered from most of society most of the time. This keeps me from reality and all it's rude awakenings.
So, in a move that I'll ponder over for years to come, I decided to go.
Peer-something something! Creative co-working.. thing. There's a knot in my stomach though. A thick, hairy knot covered in razor-wire and small, shaped explosive charges: I Am Not Cool Enough. This will surprise no one who visits this blog or who has had halting, embarrassingly stilted conversations with me.
I was a Science nerd in undergrad. Arts undergrads were that much cooler, and Fine Arts undergrads were the coolest of the cool. I think the certainty of under/unemployment creates an aura of mystery and danger, don't you? Anyhow, that's who'd be at this thing. Fine Arts undergrads. People who see films, not movies. People who use the term 'slam' when discussing poetry, and think that words should not only be read, but spoken. Pall Malls, I'm sure, are smoked for their sheer irony. Same goes for Pabst beers. It would be a den of meta-ironic post-modernist pseudo-faux hipsters. A DEN, I say.
Going there would be a fate worse than death. I came to that clear conclusion the closer and closer I came to the butchershop-converted-to-art-space.
And I came close, I came within viewing distance of the Den of Hipster. But I could go no further. They were not my tribe. I was not drunk enough. I certainly was not nearly cool enough.
If it was group of nerds doing a late night showing of Robocop 2, maybe. If it was a gaggle of programmers discussing the futility of dynamic languages used by heterogenous coworkers with varied coding ability, I could grit my teeth and bear it. But, this. This was too much.
I'm glad I know my limits. And I'm even more glad that I went home straight away. Serves me right for answering spam.
Anyways, I was invited to a fund raiser for a literary magazine I'd never heard of. Not that I know of many literary mags. And I'm pretty sure the mark of a good lit mag is that no one has heard of it. Street cred, as I understand.
There was a nagging part of me that told me I should probably attend. Images of hanging out like Hemingway with all his writerly friends, discussing... well, whatever writers discuss, Post-Modernism, Derrida, liver cirrhosis. I had in my verdant imagination an idea of a culturally rich group of peers all riffing off each other. Discussing meaning and plot and illusion and intention. I tried to silence that ever present pessimist in me who knew that it'd just be a place for all the young hip cats to hang out and be ironic and possibly 'hook-up' with each other. Occam's Aftershave, "Given a set of possible and wildly wonderful reasons for a group to exist, the reason most likely is hooking-up".
But, yes, well, I'm an idealist. It perhaps helps that I keep myself socially sequestered from most of society most of the time. This keeps me from reality and all it's rude awakenings.
So, in a move that I'll ponder over for years to come, I decided to go.
Peer-something something! Creative co-working.. thing. There's a knot in my stomach though. A thick, hairy knot covered in razor-wire and small, shaped explosive charges: I Am Not Cool Enough. This will surprise no one who visits this blog or who has had halting, embarrassingly stilted conversations with me.
I was a Science nerd in undergrad. Arts undergrads were that much cooler, and Fine Arts undergrads were the coolest of the cool. I think the certainty of under/unemployment creates an aura of mystery and danger, don't you? Anyhow, that's who'd be at this thing. Fine Arts undergrads. People who see films, not movies. People who use the term 'slam' when discussing poetry, and think that words should not only be read, but spoken. Pall Malls, I'm sure, are smoked for their sheer irony. Same goes for Pabst beers. It would be a den of meta-ironic post-modernist pseudo-faux hipsters. A DEN, I say.
Going there would be a fate worse than death. I came to that clear conclusion the closer and closer I came to the butchershop-converted-to-art-space.
And I came close, I came within viewing distance of the Den of Hipster. But I could go no further. They were not my tribe. I was not drunk enough. I certainly was not nearly cool enough.
If it was group of nerds doing a late night showing of Robocop 2, maybe. If it was a gaggle of programmers discussing the futility of dynamic languages used by heterogenous coworkers with varied coding ability, I could grit my teeth and bear it. But, this. This was too much.
I'm glad I know my limits. And I'm even more glad that I went home straight away. Serves me right for answering spam.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Sentences That Imply Their Opposites
As usual, I rely on my friends and random commenters for my topics, for I am weak in imagination and possess a paucity of originality not seen since Hollywood discovered the Sequel.
This week's idea came from metamonk. I can't link to him since he has no web presence to speak of. No real presence either, now that I think of it. I imagine him to be the sort who knows all about high energy radio waves and how much concrete you'd need to go 'unnoticed'. He's also the sort, although he's never said it, who's quite comfortable using the phrase 'off the grid'.
This is what happens when you spend the most formative years of your life reading books on espionage, apparently.
Onto the topic: Sentences That Imply Their Opposites
This week's idea came from metamonk. I can't link to him since he has no web presence to speak of. No real presence either, now that I think of it. I imagine him to be the sort who knows all about high energy radio waves and how much concrete you'd need to go 'unnoticed'. He's also the sort, although he's never said it, who's quite comfortable using the phrase 'off the grid'.
This is what happens when you spend the most formative years of your life reading books on espionage, apparently.
Onto the topic: Sentences That Imply Their Opposites
- I don't want to be mean but...
- I'm not in it for the money...
- Comic book collecting isn't just for kids and 40 year old virgins who live in their parents basements, you know.
- This won't hurt a bit.
- Far be it for me to suggest a change, but...
- It's not you, it's me.
- Normally I don't watch that show, but I was flipping through the channels and...
- I'm pretty slow to anger.
- I'm not one to notice looks, usually.
- I don't pay attention to celebrity news.
- Man, I hate how cars are such status symbols now.
- Hey, before you head out home, can I talk to you for just a minute?
- I'm not a violent man.
- Strip clubs are so lame.
- I only read the classics.
- Barry Manilow? My mom must've forgotten that CD.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Enthusiasm
Joe Smith, the head administrator here, is leaving, after many years of faithful service. I have only one recollection of him, which I squeezed for all it was worth to write a decent column for our newsletter. Yes, he actually did do this.
Enthusiasm is something we all aspire to have, in some way. It keeps work fresh, coworkers fired up, and adds a bit of pep when your mind wants desperately to go on cruise control.
Not all the time, of course; no one wants to be the perpetually perky upstart who needs 37 cups of coffee and 2 hours of Elmo just to get out of bed in the morning. The sort who causes everyone to roll their eyes and start speaking sarcasm as their second language.
But some enthusiasm, even the odd outburst of Bright-Eyed and Bushy-Tailedness is good. Even welcome.
And if there is one word that best describes Joe Smith to me, it'd be 'enthusiasm' (the good kind). There's one instance that comes to mind, where he had to get us rank-and-file enthused.
I mean, there are many ways to rally the troops, as it were. You could stand up and spout off an endless series of speeches that, while perhaps entertaining to some, don't exactly inspire. You could send out craftily worded emails with clever clipart; which would entertain a number of people, maybe not for the reasons intended, and it too would fail to inspire.
Or you could, if you had the moxie and, dare I say, gumption for it, don a super hero outfit, have a comic made of you, and call yourself Captain Positive! That, I'd put to you, inspires far more enthusiasm than anything else.
I didn't even see his transformation in person. I only heard about it, read the comic, and saw pictures. But, even one degree of separation from such a gutsy display of enthusiasm, I was impressed. How could you not be? It's pretty much the definition of 'giving 110%'. It's all the staid corporate phrases broken down and made into something real and applicable -- in the form of ill-fitting spandex and a motorcycle helmet, I'll grant you -- but pretty darn neat, all the same.
And now that he's off, possibly back to the land of Oil and Cow, he's leaving us with that image, that burned-in-the-retina image of a administrator hell-bent on getting, and giving the best to his staff. A man with no compunction for ceremony. A man charged with a hefty dose of enthusiasm. A real Captain Positive!
Enthusiasm is something we all aspire to have, in some way. It keeps work fresh, coworkers fired up, and adds a bit of pep when your mind wants desperately to go on cruise control.
Not all the time, of course; no one wants to be the perpetually perky upstart who needs 37 cups of coffee and 2 hours of Elmo just to get out of bed in the morning. The sort who causes everyone to roll their eyes and start speaking sarcasm as their second language.
But some enthusiasm, even the odd outburst of Bright-Eyed and Bushy-Tailedness is good. Even welcome.
And if there is one word that best describes Joe Smith to me, it'd be 'enthusiasm' (the good kind). There's one instance that comes to mind, where he had to get us rank-and-file enthused.
I mean, there are many ways to rally the troops, as it were. You could stand up and spout off an endless series of speeches that, while perhaps entertaining to some, don't exactly inspire. You could send out craftily worded emails with clever clipart; which would entertain a number of people, maybe not for the reasons intended, and it too would fail to inspire.
Or you could, if you had the moxie and, dare I say, gumption for it, don a super hero outfit, have a comic made of you, and call yourself Captain Positive! That, I'd put to you, inspires far more enthusiasm than anything else.
I didn't even see his transformation in person. I only heard about it, read the comic, and saw pictures. But, even one degree of separation from such a gutsy display of enthusiasm, I was impressed. How could you not be? It's pretty much the definition of 'giving 110%'. It's all the staid corporate phrases broken down and made into something real and applicable -- in the form of ill-fitting spandex and a motorcycle helmet, I'll grant you -- but pretty darn neat, all the same.
And now that he's off, possibly back to the land of Oil and Cow, he's leaving us with that image, that burned-in-the-retina image of a administrator hell-bent on getting, and giving the best to his staff. A man with no compunction for ceremony. A man charged with a hefty dose of enthusiasm. A real Captain Positive!
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
This Is What Freedom Looks Like
This is actually a picture of an internet friend of mine, Chris B.
Er. e-friend. Someone I met online. You know, there's no way to phrase that that won't make you stand up and holler at the screen "YOU ARE A GIGANTIC NERD". So I'm going to stop trying to make it normal, because damnit, I'm not, not very, anyways.
Oh shit, I should've gone with penpal. There's nothing creepy about penpals. Damnit.
Onto the picture.
My dad was big into candid shots. He'd sorta stalk his kids, us jumping off the couch or trying to suffocate each other or throw small, blunt objects at each other with surprising regularity. He'd hold this Canon point and shoot by his leg, all spy like. And then, snap. We'd all go "aww maaan" like this was the most worstest thing he could do.
Of course, years later, some of those pictures are pretty priceless. One of me playing 'Submarine Captain' in the toilet comes to mind. Legs fully in, half crouched in the toilet, turning around to look at a camera that has spot me before I 'dive', presumably. I have to salute my dad for not actually rushing to take me out of a teeming mess of fecal coliform bacteria and possible drowning. For not first thinking "my god, if he slips, and hits his head...". Nonono, the first thought that came to his head was, "Camera.. where's my camera?". This picture was the source of untold mirth and retelling for my parents.
Anyhoo, that's been my thing with my kids, candids. I love candids. They are stupidly hard to take and you end up shooting 400 shots before 1 even makes you go, 'meh'. But when you can capture that essence, that unguarded moment of just 'being', damn, there's nothing better. I've seen a lot of candids, my dad pretty much took candids exclusively.
So believe me when I say this candid of Chris B has got to be one of the bestest candid shots I've seen. Lots of awesome stuff going on.
The car, for one. It's some sorta 70's behemoth made from 120% American Steel that gets slightly better gas mileage than an Abrams. That steering wheel looks like it's aimed at Chris' head, so if he ever got in accident, the non-flexing, kinetic-energy transfering 120% steel car frame could direct all it's violence upon his head, taking it clear off. No months of rehab, tragic paralysis for him, thanks.
The passenger seat is filled with a drum. Not a girlfriend. Not his little brother who needs to be taken to a viola recital. A damn drum. So you know that trunk (that could probably take a small Olympic-sized pool) has the rest of the band setup stuffed in there.
I'm pretty sure there isn't a seat-belt on that monster. Or if it is, it's a glorified rope with a buckle. I'm positive that if put on correctly, it would in no way impede the progress of your head smashing into the steering column. It's probably only good for trapping you in your seat should you go over a bridge, or pinning you just long enough for the engine fire to engulf you.
And then there's the subject. He's got that great look of someone who's never, ever going to die. The culmination of perhaps 4 years of high-school band perfected into a garage-rocker extraordinnaire. There's something so carefree about him. Maybe its the fact that he looks about 15, or the brave attempt at a moustache, or the longish hair that proclaims to the world that 'He doesn't need your corporate job, man'. Maybe it's that so in-the-moment glance of "I'm listening, hurry the fuck up". Or the feeling that he could either be listening to his mother asking him to 'please pick up some eggs on the way home', or his buddy about 'how you still owe me twenty bucks for the Mary Jane'.
That picture is like a timeless capture of the invincible, innocent, limitless youth.
Don't know if it's better than the Submarine Captain.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Bocce News Update #6 : Andy Rooney Reporting
We won our long long LONG running workplace bocce tourney! Go us! Here's the news update I put on our work wiki. Anonymized, of course.
I don't know what's wrong with sport in this country. Why it seems only last week we allowed the Prussian Empire to play us in an exhibition polo match. But now we have all sorts of Continental games being played to and fro, it's getting to be that I don't know if we still play sports, or just throw alot of balls around and hope someone knows the rules.
Yesterday I was present at some sort of bowling championship. Although it wasn't any bowling championship I'd ever seen. There were no fouling smelling shoes to rent, or that bit of the bowling ball retriever that blows out air, for reasons I don't think anyone really knows. There was none of that old town feel, like maybe I could look over the lane and see my Uncle Benny and his friends from the steel plant.
No, this was a different sort. I'm not sure if it's nice to use the word 'foreign', anymore, maybe the aforementioned 'Continental' is alright. In any case, bocce 'is not from around here'. It's played out doors, and the players didn't seem to bowl as much as just toss the balls and hope for the best.
Apparently there were two teams playing, Team A(Joe Smith, Larry Jones, Sam Wise, and Moe Curlie) playing against Team B (Jane Smith and Stan Cooper). I was more confused than usual since it appeared Team A were playing the entire game in masks. Some sort of Mexican wrestling masks, as best as I could muster, but knowing the younger generation, or, rather, not really knowing them at all, it could have been their sport uniform. Like I said, bocce is kind of 'Continental'.
It was, by all accounts, a close game, then Team A pulled ahead to a commanding 11-3 lead. One of them remarked that they were just letting the other team get ahead. I'm not so sure about that. The ground was so littered with twigs, roots and bare from grass that they probably would have gotten the same result tossing dice, or playing "Rock Paper Scissors". Anyways, Team B pulled ahead to make the game 7-13, after which Team A won.
Was that supposed to be exciting? Call me old-fashioned, but to watch a sport you need bleachers and pennants and old popcorn. Maybe a cup of watered down beer that tastes that much better because you're drinking it at ballpark.
In an case, congratulations to Team A, I guess.
I don't know what's wrong with sport in this country. Why it seems only last week we allowed the Prussian Empire to play us in an exhibition polo match. But now we have all sorts of Continental games being played to and fro, it's getting to be that I don't know if we still play sports, or just throw alot of balls around and hope someone knows the rules.
Yesterday I was present at some sort of bowling championship. Although it wasn't any bowling championship I'd ever seen. There were no fouling smelling shoes to rent, or that bit of the bowling ball retriever that blows out air, for reasons I don't think anyone really knows. There was none of that old town feel, like maybe I could look over the lane and see my Uncle Benny and his friends from the steel plant.
No, this was a different sort. I'm not sure if it's nice to use the word 'foreign', anymore, maybe the aforementioned 'Continental' is alright. In any case, bocce 'is not from around here'. It's played out doors, and the players didn't seem to bowl as much as just toss the balls and hope for the best.
Apparently there were two teams playing, Team A(Joe Smith, Larry Jones, Sam Wise, and Moe Curlie) playing against Team B (Jane Smith and Stan Cooper). I was more confused than usual since it appeared Team A were playing the entire game in masks. Some sort of Mexican wrestling masks, as best as I could muster, but knowing the younger generation, or, rather, not really knowing them at all, it could have been their sport uniform. Like I said, bocce is kind of 'Continental'.
It was, by all accounts, a close game, then Team A pulled ahead to a commanding 11-3 lead. One of them remarked that they were just letting the other team get ahead. I'm not so sure about that. The ground was so littered with twigs, roots and bare from grass that they probably would have gotten the same result tossing dice, or playing "Rock Paper Scissors". Anyways, Team B pulled ahead to make the game 7-13, after which Team A won.
Was that supposed to be exciting? Call me old-fashioned, but to watch a sport you need bleachers and pennants and old popcorn. Maybe a cup of watered down beer that tastes that much better because you're drinking it at ballpark.
In an case, congratulations to Team A, I guess.
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Day 8 : 2025 07 06 : A last hurrah
Day 8, our last day in Scotland that didn't involve alot of catching various modes of transport to get back to Canada. This is the...
