4 posts tagged “miscellany”
As a former copy editor, I'm amused on those rare occasions when I find descriptions of my kind in literature. Writers seems to view us as lovable maniacs. (For the opposition: A former colleague once grouched that copy editors do nothing but add and delete commas.) Here's my latest find, from Katherine Anne Porter's Pale Horse, Pale Rider:
They lolled away, past the Society Editor's desk, past Bill the City Editor's desk, past the copy desk where old man Gibbons sat all night shouting at intervals, "Jarge! Jarge!" and the copy boy would come flying. "Never say people when you mean persons," old man Gibbons had instructed Miranda, "and never say practically, say virtually, and don't for God's sake ever so long as I am at this desk use the barbarism inasmuch under any circumstances whatsoever. Now you're educated, you may go."
Ironically, the paperback I picked up was a 1965 printing from HBJ Japan, and there were typos on every other page. It would have Ms. Porter practically rolling over in her grave, by Jarge.
Aloha, tiny readership, and apologies for being incommunicado for a few weeks. I have much to catch up on, and the good news is, I now have plenty of time to do so, as my employer laid me off. It really is good news--I have been jonesing for a new job for a while, and now I have plenty of time to research the right thing, maybe pick up some short-term gigs, and of course recreate. I feel like an American farmer, getting paid not to work! (Speaking of work, the photo at top left is Ann Hamilton's indigo blue, currently installed at SFMOMA through September 10.)
When I left the company, it was amusing--if not quite surprising--to hear so many colleagues say they were jealous. They eagerly fed me suggestions for what I could do with my time, engaging in some vicarious wish fulfillment. Maybe that's a fun interim project: You tell me what you'd do, and I'll go do it and post blog and photos for you to enjoy. If people make a living fulfilling sex fantasies, surely there's a way to capitalize on unemployment fantasies? I can be like the Dude in The Big Lebowsi, takin' 'er easy for the rest of you sinners.
Well, until I figure out how to make that happen, let me tell you a little story about work, courtesy of my late uncle. (And I'm sure I don't have the exact words here, but perhaps my cousins can correct any flubs.)
Uncle Jim grew up on the south side of Chicago and was kind of a tough guy, both by upbringing and by vocation--he was a Green Beret, a cop, and finally an FBI agent. If you want a visual, imagine one part Columbo (Uncle Jim could often be found in a trenchcoat), one part Bogart, one part Vince Vaughn. He was, however, a tough guy with a soft, sentimental center and an appreciation of the silly. For example, when I was in the fourth grade, I took ballet classes at the Y, and for some reason Uncle Jim was enlisted to drive me once or twice. He waited in the car, smoking Lucky Strikes, reading the paper--surely a peaceful break in his day, though at the time I couldn't understand why he didn't want to come watch a bunch of nine-year-olds gallumph around the floor like spavined water buffalo. After a couple unsuccessful invitations, I slyly suggested that maybe he could dance, too. "Sweetheart," he said, "I would love to come dance with you, but I'm afraid my gun would fall out of my tutu."
Years later, after a couple decades in the Alaskan branch of the FBI, he was ready to activate his retirement plan: a recliner, a remote, a stack of John Wayne videos. The plan lasted perhaps two weeks before he was bored off his backside. Fortunately, one of his friends was doing some private investigation and security and helped hook up my uncle. Unfortunately, one of the gigs that came up was working security on the Alaskan coastline after sozzled Captain Hazlewood crashed the Exxon Valdez, spilling oil all over Prince William Sound.
And what exactly needed securing? Excellent question. As you might imagine, things were quite chaotic after the spill and answers weren't quick to come, so Uncle Jim just hit the road for Valdez without instructions. At the on-site office, his employers told him that he'd be guarding a crew cleaning the coastline. Protecting them from wild animals, protesters, or what? my uncle asked. They didn't know, but they did note that he couldn't bring his rifle or handgun to the site. No weapons? my uncle asked. Nope. "Well, gentlemen, just so we're clear," Uncle Jim said, "if I see a bear coming toward the shore, I'm going to take this ham sandwich out of my pocket, throw it at the slowest-looking son-of-a-bitch on the beach, and run like hell in the other direction." OK, they said.
So, disarmed and nonplussed, my uncle reported to the cleanup site, where the crew were literally polishing rocks. Equipped not with haz mat suits but with slickers and waders, HandiWipe-type towels, and things that looked like Koosh balls, the workers would pick up a rock, scrub the oil off it, set it down, pick up the next. Can you imagine? Millions of gallons of crude were washing ashore, killing birds and fish, leeching into the soil, and these poor junior Sisyphuses were attempting to sop up the mess one stone at a time, with glorified paper towels and pompoms. But at least they had a task to perform, whereas my uncle had no bears or moose or protesters to chase off, nothing to do but to pace back and forth, smoke, watch the crew. After a while, he watched one worker in particular, who would pick up a rock, wash it off, glance around surreptitiously, and, when satisfied that no one was looking, casually drop the stone--back into the oil. Uncle Jim was puzzled: Why would this guy not want at least the illusion of progress? Then he got it. "Kids," he told us, when relating the story, usually laughing until he wheezed at this point, "Kids, that man understood something very important in life: job security."
Ah, that story always cracked me up. It doesn't really need a moral, but if you want one, let's go with this: job security is a good thing, but it's not the most important thing and certainly is not the only thing. And if you find yourself performing some proverbial rock polishing, well then it may be time to take the ham sandwich out of your pocket.
Hello all, I'm back from vacation and will be blogging about Florence and London soon. I received an amusing piece of mail while I was out: a royal summons and invitation to the pearl jubilee for the Kingdom of Hay.
Those who receive the paper Quibble may recall that back in 2003, I visited Hay-on-Wye, a tiny Welsh town of 1,500 residents with about 38 bookstores. Why so many books? Because Richard Booth, an Oxford graduate and an antiquarian bookseller, decided to move home to Hay and to resuscitate its rural economy through book sales. Surprisingly, considering how far Hay is from a major city, this has worked--the town is now home not only to all those booksellers, but also to the annual Hay Literary Festival, which attracts some 70,000 visitors and A-list authors including, when his biography came out, Bill Clinton. (Of course, Mr. Booth had some ideas that didn't work out as well, such as the one outlined in his pamphlet, "Bring Back Horses," to eliminate cars in favor of carts.)
Not content with this accomplishment, on April Fool's Day, 1977, Richard Booth declared home rule for Hay-on-Wye, with himself as king and his horse as prime minister. Moreover, he offers peerages, so I had myself made the Countess de Money (that's a bad reference to History of the World Part One, for you Mel Brooks fans). So, this past Sunday was the 30th anniversary of the independent kingdom of Hay, and to celebrate, King Richard has summoned Hay's self-made nobility to Hay Castle (yes, it really is a castle) for an Indian-themed party: "As in the days of the Raj, such a gathering promises a dazzling occasion of unrivalled magnificence in the best traditions of absolute monarchy." Hee hee. I'm tempted to go see this daffy Durbah, but I think it will be the week before I get to the UK next, alas.
By the by, for those wishing to read more about Hay-on-Wye, and what it's like working in Mr. Booth's bookshop, I recommend Paul Collins's Sixpence House.
Greetings, and welcome to the Quibble blog! I'm not into New Year's resolutions, but there are a few items on my 2007 to-do list: (1) Get a new job, (2) Find a bigger apartment, (3) Replace kitty, and (4) Start a blog so that I'm not always late with my holiday newsletter. Number four was easiest to check off the list.
I confess that as an editor, I'm skeptical of this unedited, self-indulgent, overhyped format. However, unlike my unicorn notebook full of junior-high poetry, mercifully cremated years ago, this electronic log will eventually self-destruct. And then, in my dotage, I can turn back to one of the more time-honored forms of communication, such as writing outraged, incoherent letters to the editor on a manual typewriter with a bum "e" key ("D ar ditor: Why don't th polic arr st thos rud skat board rs who almost run us ov r outsid th Appl b 's?").
I'm still deciding what I want to do here, but in general, here's what you can expect:
- Judging by my childhood diaries, irregular postings. I'll probably blog a couple times a week, not daily.
- Travel reports, restaurant/food write-ups, book and music recommendations, and other A&E. If there's something you're particularly want to hear about, let me know.
- More raves than rants. You don't want to listen to me whine about my job (more than I have already), and I want to tell you about stuff that's fun and cool.
Any responses or requests, holler. Cheers!
