It's a few days later than expected, but it's still being posted during its current week, which, I think, is a huge step in the right direction. It is also the second-to-last cartoon in the "Stick Figure Action" story arc (as ridiculous as it is to use the term 'story arc' in this context) which has run for nine weeks now -- ten by the time it ends. That's about five weeks longer than I expected it to. It all just kind of creates itself. Which, based on the quality of the art, shouldn't be that big a surprise.
Anyway, here it is: Stickage #15.
Oh, meaningless trivia tidbit: Yes, that is in fact my hand.
Monday, September 13, 2004
Sunday, September 12, 2004
KING COVERS: Night Shift (1977)
How do you design the cover for a book that does not contain one story but, rather, a collection of stories? This is a problem that designers would have to deal with on more than one occasion with Stephen King, but 1977's "Night Shift" would mark the first time. And it shows. The covers are boring and uninspired. And pretty much the worst designs of any of the books we've covered so far.
Or maybe I'm just cranky because of this stupid cold I have. Whatever.
This first design -- from the original Doubleday hardcover edition -- shows one direction you can go when trying to design a cover to encompass all the stories in a collection: minimal. No graphics, just a big white background, big title, and a wee little drop of blood to ensure that potential readers know that this isn't going to be a boring collection of stories where nobody dies. A valient effort, but in the end it's just a little too minimal, a little too boring to be effective.
Approach #2: Use a generic graphic that tries to be appropriate to all the stories in the book, such as the images on these two Signet paperback editions. Oooooh, a pentagram. That's evil.
Approach #3: Pick a specific story from the collection, and use an image from it. The downside is that you run the risk of ruining the exciting climax of the story, which is exactly what this cover design did -- and it was one of the cooler climaxes in the book. The original cover -- on the left -- would open up to show the image that appears on the right, but later editions dropped the die-cut front cover and just went with the eyes-on-the-hand image. It's slim pickings for Night Shift covers, so the version on the left takes the blue ribbon for best design, by having what amounts to an appropriately creepy image, but with just enough suspense to make you pick up the book to see what's behind cover #1.
More examples of covers that pull their inspiration from the actual stories inside come to us from abroad. On the left is a British cover, with an image from "Children of the Corn"; in the center a cover from France, with an image from "Graveyard Shift"; and on the right an image from the story "Trucks" courtesy of the Netherlands.
Approach #4: Stick a picture of Conan on the front.
No joke. This is, I have been told, an image actually ripped from the cover of a Conan novel. I actually have a copy of this book, and I always thought it was incredibly bizarre, and probably inredibly rare -- the Conan Cover, the "Danse Macabre" title instead of "Night Shift" (only interesting because King would eventually publish a book titled "Danse Macabre"). As it turns out, not as rare as I thought, but still a bizarre cover design.
Coming up next is the book I've been waiting to do ever since I got my stupid cold: THE STAND.
Or maybe I'm just cranky because of this stupid cold I have. Whatever.
This first design -- from the original Doubleday hardcover edition -- shows one direction you can go when trying to design a cover to encompass all the stories in a collection: minimal. No graphics, just a big white background, big title, and a wee little drop of blood to ensure that potential readers know that this isn't going to be a boring collection of stories where nobody dies. A valient effort, but in the end it's just a little too minimal, a little too boring to be effective.
Approach #2: Use a generic graphic that tries to be appropriate to all the stories in the book, such as the images on these two Signet paperback editions. Oooooh, a pentagram. That's evil.
Approach #3: Pick a specific story from the collection, and use an image from it. The downside is that you run the risk of ruining the exciting climax of the story, which is exactly what this cover design did -- and it was one of the cooler climaxes in the book. The original cover -- on the left -- would open up to show the image that appears on the right, but later editions dropped the die-cut front cover and just went with the eyes-on-the-hand image. It's slim pickings for Night Shift covers, so the version on the left takes the blue ribbon for best design, by having what amounts to an appropriately creepy image, but with just enough suspense to make you pick up the book to see what's behind cover #1.
More examples of covers that pull their inspiration from the actual stories inside come to us from abroad. On the left is a British cover, with an image from "Children of the Corn"; in the center a cover from France, with an image from "Graveyard Shift"; and on the right an image from the story "Trucks" courtesy of the Netherlands.
Approach #4: Stick a picture of Conan on the front.
No joke. This is, I have been told, an image actually ripped from the cover of a Conan novel. I actually have a copy of this book, and I always thought it was incredibly bizarre, and probably inredibly rare -- the Conan Cover, the "Danse Macabre" title instead of "Night Shift" (only interesting because King would eventually publish a book titled "Danse Macabre"). As it turns out, not as rare as I thought, but still a bizarre cover design.
Coming up next is the book I've been waiting to do ever since I got my stupid cold: THE STAND.
Saturday, September 11, 2004
Dear Turlough
First off, a few clarifications:
I'm from Canada, not the States, and we do, in fact, have rollies here. We're even supposed to measure in kilograms, centimeters, that kind of thing, but for some reason I've converted to an imperial measurement type in my adulthood. Must bee the newspaper industry -- measuring everything in inches, picas, points, agate lines. Feh.
Secondly, for what it's worth, schizophrenia is spelled...well, schizophrenia.
Lastly, thanks for sharing the dark secret. I won't go so far as to say that I'm honoured that you chose to share that with me, but I am, at least, not noticeably creeped out by it.
Anyway, on to the smoking issue.
Believe it or, I'd rather hear that you're a smoker yourself (or a reformed smoker, as I was suspecting you -- or Doctor Pat -- were; there was that hint of 'holier-than-thou' that reformed smokers can get sometimes ;) because it means the advice is coming from someone who's been there. I'd much rather have that for encouragement then someone who's never smoked a day in his life saying, "Gee, that must be really tough for you."
I'm very aware of the overcompensating with the eating, and I have been watching it, even though I've been guilty of it now and then too. I'm glad you suggested filling my time with activities -- well, glad that *someone* mentioned it -- as an alternative to sitting around and thinking about how badly I want a cigarette. I'll be making an effort towards that...
...just as soon as kick this freaking cold that descended on me yesterday afternoon.
It's kind of a blessing in disguise, actually, as my appetite is toast, so even if I wanted to compensate for the smoking with food, there's no craving. On top of that, there's really not much of a craving for the cigarettes right now either. Perhaps if all goes well I'll be over the first smoking hurdle by the time I'm healthy again? One can only hope.
Thanks for touching bases with a complete stranger to offer advice and encouragement in what is, without a doubt, a difficult thing to overcome. And I wish you the best of luck in your struggles with the vile drug that is nicotine.
I'm from Canada, not the States, and we do, in fact, have rollies here. We're even supposed to measure in kilograms, centimeters, that kind of thing, but for some reason I've converted to an imperial measurement type in my adulthood. Must bee the newspaper industry -- measuring everything in inches, picas, points, agate lines. Feh.
Secondly, for what it's worth, schizophrenia is spelled...well, schizophrenia.
Lastly, thanks for sharing the dark secret. I won't go so far as to say that I'm honoured that you chose to share that with me, but I am, at least, not noticeably creeped out by it.
Anyway, on to the smoking issue.
Believe it or, I'd rather hear that you're a smoker yourself (or a reformed smoker, as I was suspecting you -- or Doctor Pat -- were; there was that hint of 'holier-than-thou' that reformed smokers can get sometimes ;) because it means the advice is coming from someone who's been there. I'd much rather have that for encouragement then someone who's never smoked a day in his life saying, "Gee, that must be really tough for you."
I'm very aware of the overcompensating with the eating, and I have been watching it, even though I've been guilty of it now and then too. I'm glad you suggested filling my time with activities -- well, glad that *someone* mentioned it -- as an alternative to sitting around and thinking about how badly I want a cigarette. I'll be making an effort towards that...
...just as soon as kick this freaking cold that descended on me yesterday afternoon.
It's kind of a blessing in disguise, actually, as my appetite is toast, so even if I wanted to compensate for the smoking with food, there's no craving. On top of that, there's really not much of a craving for the cigarettes right now either. Perhaps if all goes well I'll be over the first smoking hurdle by the time I'm healthy again? One can only hope.
Thanks for touching bases with a complete stranger to offer advice and encouragement in what is, without a doubt, a difficult thing to overcome. And I wish you the best of luck in your struggles with the vile drug that is nicotine.
Friday, September 10, 2004
KING COVERS: Rage (1977)
1977 was a good year for Stephen King novels, even when he wasn't Stephen King. First, you have what what I consider the best novel of his career -- The Shining -- and then the first release from his Richard Bachman pseudonym, under whose name he would later publish another five novels -- Rage.
Rage is the story of a disturbed high-school student, Charlie Decker, who shoots his algebra teacher and seizes control of the classroom, forcing the students to play a weird, adolescent hybrid of show-and-tell and truth-or-dare. At first, following the brutal murder of the teacher, the students are terrified, but as the day rolls on and they discover the joys of airing their dirtiest secrets, admitting their darkest truths and outing their inner demons.
Rage was actually written before Carrie and rejected when he first submitted it to publishers at the time, but it's a surprisingly good novel from such a young writer and, much like the Shining, works hard to transcend what could have been just an ordinary story of high-school violence.
Unfortunately, it's the high-school violence tag that stuck to the book and King, being the responsible type, has removed the book from publication. If you'd like to give the story a read, you're going to have to find it in a second hand book store. Which, by the way, I highly recommend you do.
Now, as for the covers...it's slim pickings. Because this was a Richard Backman novel and not a Stephen King novel, it didn't have the honour of being released every year or two with a brand new cover (at least until years later, when it would become part of the "Bachman Books" collection). In fact, it only ever had one US cover -- and that's the one you see above, courtesy of Signet.
Still, for having one cover to choose from...you could certainly do worse. It makes it's point and gives you just enough to tell what the stories about. The mildly unblanaced teen sitting atop his teacher's desk; the legs, presumably from a dead teacher, jutting out from the right side of the book; the rest of the teacher's body just out of view, leaving her ultimate fate a mystery, though we can be pretty sure that it wasn't very nice.
Yeah, all in all, a pretty good cover.
The British edition kind of plays up a similar "high-school-student-gone-wrong" feel, but it doesn't quite work as well for me. The image of the student leaning back in his chair feels more like a depiction of the typical classroom smart-ass which, we'll later learn, Charlie is far from being. And I don't like the colour yellow. On anything.
Cool use of typography, though.
The Swedish version of Rage does a nice job of giving you the vital information from the story with a minimal design -- a gun and a couple of bullets on top of a school book. Could it get any simpler than that? Well, yes, it could actually, as you'll see in a few moments.
This entry, as clean and minimal and lovely as it is, does lose points by coming from the "Let's print Stephen King's name so big that it fills a third of the cover" era of publishing.
This German edition hits the "school" theme on the head, but seems to miss the hint of terror. Unless those are kids running away in terror. Hard to tell. I'm actually going to assume they are, and presto, it's already a better cover.
And, hey, gotta like that translation: AMOK. That's almost a better title that RAGE.
Now for tonight's winner, thanks to a beautifully simple design. This cover, from the Spanish edition, tells you everything you need to know with a picture of a blood-spattered school-crossing sign. Simple. Chilling. Effective. In spite of the fact that Stephen King's name takes up more than HALF of the freaking cover. Easily the best Rage cover design, and one of the best design's of a King book yet covered in this space.
I'm only bothering to include this cover from Italy because, not only does the image have nothing to do with the story, but I'm also 99% sure this is a picture from a completely unrelated horror movie. I can't think of what it is for the life of me, though. I know there's a similar image in the original "Nightmare on Elm Street" but I don't think that's the source of this pic. Anyone recognize this image? Help me!
All covers are stolen without permission from the Stephen King Cover Gallery. Here's hoping that if I'm nice and give him a link, he won't ask me to take these down.
Rage is the story of a disturbed high-school student, Charlie Decker, who shoots his algebra teacher and seizes control of the classroom, forcing the students to play a weird, adolescent hybrid of show-and-tell and truth-or-dare. At first, following the brutal murder of the teacher, the students are terrified, but as the day rolls on and they discover the joys of airing their dirtiest secrets, admitting their darkest truths and outing their inner demons.
Rage was actually written before Carrie and rejected when he first submitted it to publishers at the time, but it's a surprisingly good novel from such a young writer and, much like the Shining, works hard to transcend what could have been just an ordinary story of high-school violence.
Unfortunately, it's the high-school violence tag that stuck to the book and King, being the responsible type, has removed the book from publication. If you'd like to give the story a read, you're going to have to find it in a second hand book store. Which, by the way, I highly recommend you do.
Now, as for the covers...it's slim pickings. Because this was a Richard Backman novel and not a Stephen King novel, it didn't have the honour of being released every year or two with a brand new cover (at least until years later, when it would become part of the "Bachman Books" collection). In fact, it only ever had one US cover -- and that's the one you see above, courtesy of Signet.
Still, for having one cover to choose from...you could certainly do worse. It makes it's point and gives you just enough to tell what the stories about. The mildly unblanaced teen sitting atop his teacher's desk; the legs, presumably from a dead teacher, jutting out from the right side of the book; the rest of the teacher's body just out of view, leaving her ultimate fate a mystery, though we can be pretty sure that it wasn't very nice.
Yeah, all in all, a pretty good cover.
The British edition kind of plays up a similar "high-school-student-gone-wrong" feel, but it doesn't quite work as well for me. The image of the student leaning back in his chair feels more like a depiction of the typical classroom smart-ass which, we'll later learn, Charlie is far from being. And I don't like the colour yellow. On anything.
Cool use of typography, though.
The Swedish version of Rage does a nice job of giving you the vital information from the story with a minimal design -- a gun and a couple of bullets on top of a school book. Could it get any simpler than that? Well, yes, it could actually, as you'll see in a few moments.
This entry, as clean and minimal and lovely as it is, does lose points by coming from the "Let's print Stephen King's name so big that it fills a third of the cover" era of publishing.
This German edition hits the "school" theme on the head, but seems to miss the hint of terror. Unless those are kids running away in terror. Hard to tell. I'm actually going to assume they are, and presto, it's already a better cover.
And, hey, gotta like that translation: AMOK. That's almost a better title that RAGE.
Now for tonight's winner, thanks to a beautifully simple design. This cover, from the Spanish edition, tells you everything you need to know with a picture of a blood-spattered school-crossing sign. Simple. Chilling. Effective. In spite of the fact that Stephen King's name takes up more than HALF of the freaking cover. Easily the best Rage cover design, and one of the best design's of a King book yet covered in this space.
I'm only bothering to include this cover from Italy because, not only does the image have nothing to do with the story, but I'm also 99% sure this is a picture from a completely unrelated horror movie. I can't think of what it is for the life of me, though. I know there's a similar image in the original "Nightmare on Elm Street" but I don't think that's the source of this pic. Anyone recognize this image? Help me!
All covers are stolen without permission from the Stephen King Cover Gallery. Here's hoping that if I'm nice and give him a link, he won't ask me to take these down.
New linkage
One of the greatest thing about blogs -- about writing in general, I think -- is having the opportunity to see the world through a completely different set of eyes. And I've got to admit, I can't imagine seeing the world as a twenty-something New York Escort.
I'm sure most of you are in the same boat as me.
But, if you're ever curious about what the world looks like through those eyes, take a trip over to the blog at A New York Escort's Confessions.
I'm sure most of you are in the same boat as me.
But, if you're ever curious about what the world looks like through those eyes, take a trip over to the blog at A New York Escort's Confessions.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
KING COVERS: The Shining (1977)
As already mentioned in my previous post, I consider The Shining to be King's greatest literary achievement. More than any other story (except, perhaps, The Dead Zone) this book struggles to be something more than just a spooky yarn. It struggles -- and struggles effectively -- with such timeless and relevant issues as abusive parents, marital disharmony and alcoholism. While it's true that these are issues that King would deal with in later books, it is perhaps the setting of The Shining -- in an abandoned hotel, blocked by winter from the rest of the world, where the three family members have nothing to distract them from their own emotional and psychological crises -- that allows it to be as effective as it is.
Having said that, most of the covers for the Shining are horrible.
The original Doubleday hardcover edition, reminiscent, just slightly, of the Doubleday hardcover for Salem's Lot, makes one point that is lost on every other cover of the Shining: That this is a story about a family. Most other covers focus on one of two other elements of the book, either A) A young boy with psychic powers; or B) A homicidal father (usually using Jack Nicholson's crazed look from the film to drive this point home).
As boring as it is, though, it's one of the few covers to get the book, and of the ones that get it, this one gets it most completely. So, as sad as I am to say it, this is my pick for best cover.''
The original Signet paperback goes with a nice, understated cover design, but they choose to play up a rather insignificant part of the story -- that Danny Torrence, the young boy of the story, was born with a "caul" over his face (from dictionary.com: A part of the amnion, one of the membranes enveloping the fetus, which sometimes is round the head of a child at its birth) which, according to the story, is often an indicator of psychic ability in old legend. Which, yeah, i skind of fortuitous as Danny does end up with psychic powers. But c'mon, it's a midly creepy image to see a head without a face on a book cover, but what does it really have to do with the book? Not a hell of a lot.
Oh, and first printings of this paperback had a shiny (I'm tempted to say mylar) cover that would actually rub off as it was handled. Not great for reading, if you wanted to keep your book looking pretty.
NOTE: And yes, in fact, I do have a copy of the shiny paperback version, about a quarter rubbed, so still in relatively good condition.
These two books, both courtesy of Pocketbooks, are so similar it's almost not worth pointing out both of them -- and, in fact, I only include the second for its strange similarity to the bizarre, campy version of Salem's Lot. Both covers also, clearly, play up the "little boy" aspect of the story, though with a boy so creepily-faced that I'd almost expect to find out that he was the brutal, homicidal killer of the story. Guess you can't win 'em all.
Moving away from the US covers (because they're either movie tie-ins, or more pictures of children) we come to this edition from England -- another child cover, this time with what appears to be either ghosts or zombies behind him. Enough with the children, for pete's sake! It's not all about the kid!
NOTE: I only show this book because, in fact, I have a copy of this british edition. Dunno why I do, or where I got it, but I do.
This later UK cover gets higher points, for dropping the focus on little boys and placing the focus on the hotel. There even seems to be -- shock of shocks! -- a family in the foreground, looking at or walking towards the hotel. The hotel seems nicely menacing as well. Nice touch.
The Japenese version -- in fact, two books to make one - also plays up the hotel element with an, as always, strangely Japenese kind of design. I'll confess a fondness for this cover, even if it doesn't quite get the whole "menacing" angle that, unfortunately, I think the cover requires. For all we know at first glance, this could be "Fawlty Towers: The Novelization."
And, to close, here are three books from around the world (left to right: netherlands, denmark, and spain) that focus on the insane daddy element of the book, using Jack Nicholson's famous face from the film to really drive the point home. Blech.
Could it be that the book is actually a bit too complex to get a nice, simple cover design? Or am I just madly groping for excuses? Will I ever have an answer? Will I stop caring as soon as I publish this post?
In that order: Unlikely. Probably. No. Yes.
All covers are stolen without permission from the Stephen King Cover Gallery. Here's hoping that if I'm nice and give him a link, he won't ask me to take these down.
Having said that, most of the covers for the Shining are horrible.
The original Doubleday hardcover edition, reminiscent, just slightly, of the Doubleday hardcover for Salem's Lot, makes one point that is lost on every other cover of the Shining: That this is a story about a family. Most other covers focus on one of two other elements of the book, either A) A young boy with psychic powers; or B) A homicidal father (usually using Jack Nicholson's crazed look from the film to drive this point home).
As boring as it is, though, it's one of the few covers to get the book, and of the ones that get it, this one gets it most completely. So, as sad as I am to say it, this is my pick for best cover.''
The original Signet paperback goes with a nice, understated cover design, but they choose to play up a rather insignificant part of the story -- that Danny Torrence, the young boy of the story, was born with a "caul" over his face (from dictionary.com: A part of the amnion, one of the membranes enveloping the fetus, which sometimes is round the head of a child at its birth) which, according to the story, is often an indicator of psychic ability in old legend. Which, yeah, i skind of fortuitous as Danny does end up with psychic powers. But c'mon, it's a midly creepy image to see a head without a face on a book cover, but what does it really have to do with the book? Not a hell of a lot.
Oh, and first printings of this paperback had a shiny (I'm tempted to say mylar) cover that would actually rub off as it was handled. Not great for reading, if you wanted to keep your book looking pretty.
NOTE: And yes, in fact, I do have a copy of the shiny paperback version, about a quarter rubbed, so still in relatively good condition.
These two books, both courtesy of Pocketbooks, are so similar it's almost not worth pointing out both of them -- and, in fact, I only include the second for its strange similarity to the bizarre, campy version of Salem's Lot. Both covers also, clearly, play up the "little boy" aspect of the story, though with a boy so creepily-faced that I'd almost expect to find out that he was the brutal, homicidal killer of the story. Guess you can't win 'em all.
Moving away from the US covers (because they're either movie tie-ins, or more pictures of children) we come to this edition from England -- another child cover, this time with what appears to be either ghosts or zombies behind him. Enough with the children, for pete's sake! It's not all about the kid!
NOTE: I only show this book because, in fact, I have a copy of this british edition. Dunno why I do, or where I got it, but I do.
This later UK cover gets higher points, for dropping the focus on little boys and placing the focus on the hotel. There even seems to be -- shock of shocks! -- a family in the foreground, looking at or walking towards the hotel. The hotel seems nicely menacing as well. Nice touch.
The Japenese version -- in fact, two books to make one - also plays up the hotel element with an, as always, strangely Japenese kind of design. I'll confess a fondness for this cover, even if it doesn't quite get the whole "menacing" angle that, unfortunately, I think the cover requires. For all we know at first glance, this could be "Fawlty Towers: The Novelization."
And, to close, here are three books from around the world (left to right: netherlands, denmark, and spain) that focus on the insane daddy element of the book, using Jack Nicholson's famous face from the film to really drive the point home. Blech.
Could it be that the book is actually a bit too complex to get a nice, simple cover design? Or am I just madly groping for excuses? Will I ever have an answer? Will I stop caring as soon as I publish this post?
In that order: Unlikely. Probably. No. Yes.
All covers are stolen without permission from the Stephen King Cover Gallery. Here's hoping that if I'm nice and give him a link, he won't ask me to take these down.
Need...nicotine...losing...will...to live...
Having some trouble with writing lately, as I move from the level one patches to the level two patches, and watch as my nicotine cravings rise accordingly. Writing and smoking have always gone hand in hand, which makes it tougher for me to write while trying to quit this filthy habit, particularly when the cravings are nipping at heels.
Broke down and phoned my therapist this afternoon. Convinced her to come by and have a cigarette with me. She left with me when she returned home, which I've almost finished. Will spark it up for the third time and finish it off before slapping on the patch that will, if all goes well, get me through tonight and into tomorrow.
Speaking of tomorrow, if all goes well, there should be a new Stick Figure Drama, posted on time for a change. And, if I don't get around to it tonight, the next part of the King book cover dissection should be up by tomorrow too -- the Shining. This one's been slim pickings, I must admit. I don't care for many of the covers at all. I'm not sure if that's because of or in spite of the fact that I consider it to be his best novel.
Here's the thing with smoking and writing: Just now, when I finished that previous paragraph, I wanted to sit back and think for a moment. Think about what I had written, what I was going to write next, if I needed to write anything else or if I could have just ended it there. I needed to reflect on what I had written, and what I was about to write. And that's when my hand wants to reach for the ashtray. Just for a drag. Just to help me reflect.
God, if I didn't enjoy it so much, I'd hate being a smoker. I hate that I have to be a reformed smoker. I hate that I have to quit. But I also hate the idea of lung cancer and emphysema. Guess there's no winning in a battle like this.
Okay. I've written a bit, and the words are kinda flowing, and even though I've got to take the laundry out of the dryer in 15 minutes or so...wtf, I think I'll tackle the next King Cover installment. And then go read a book or something.
Broke down and phoned my therapist this afternoon. Convinced her to come by and have a cigarette with me. She left with me when she returned home, which I've almost finished. Will spark it up for the third time and finish it off before slapping on the patch that will, if all goes well, get me through tonight and into tomorrow.
Speaking of tomorrow, if all goes well, there should be a new Stick Figure Drama, posted on time for a change. And, if I don't get around to it tonight, the next part of the King book cover dissection should be up by tomorrow too -- the Shining. This one's been slim pickings, I must admit. I don't care for many of the covers at all. I'm not sure if that's because of or in spite of the fact that I consider it to be his best novel.
Here's the thing with smoking and writing: Just now, when I finished that previous paragraph, I wanted to sit back and think for a moment. Think about what I had written, what I was going to write next, if I needed to write anything else or if I could have just ended it there. I needed to reflect on what I had written, and what I was about to write. And that's when my hand wants to reach for the ashtray. Just for a drag. Just to help me reflect.
God, if I didn't enjoy it so much, I'd hate being a smoker. I hate that I have to be a reformed smoker. I hate that I have to quit. But I also hate the idea of lung cancer and emphysema. Guess there's no winning in a battle like this.
Okay. I've written a bit, and the words are kinda flowing, and even though I've got to take the laundry out of the dryer in 15 minutes or so...wtf, I think I'll tackle the next King Cover installment. And then go read a book or something.
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
Passionate or passionless?
Just finished watching The Passion of the Christ. Took me two nights, as remembered mid-way through last night's viewing that I still hadn't done this week's cartoon (and the deadline was this morning).
Considering a review of the film, but I'll probably watch it again before commiting any actual opinions to paper, virtual or not. Though if I had to sum my feelings up right now: Beautiful, but pointless.
Next King Cover update to follow in a short wee bit.
Considering a review of the film, but I'll probably watch it again before commiting any actual opinions to paper, virtual or not. Though if I had to sum my feelings up right now: Beautiful, but pointless.
Next King Cover update to follow in a short wee bit.
Monday, September 06, 2004
KING COVERS: Salem's Lot (1975)
King followed Carrie a year later with his take on the Vampire myth -- Salem's Lot -- by dropping his Dracula replacement into the midst of a sleepy, New England town.
What's interesting about early promotion for this novel -- early book covers included -- is that the vampire angle was downplayed significantly, designed to be a surprise to the reader. Oh, for the days when vital parts of a story's plot could be kept quiet in order to actually affect the reader in some way. That's right, 21st century marketing, I'm talking to you.
Anyway, on to the covers.
As I said, early promotions were all about keeping the whole "vampire" thing as top secret as possible, so the Doubleday hardcover has pretty much nothing to illustrate the book except...a picture of a sleepy, New England town. Yay for not giving too much away!
Here we see the basic evolution of the early Signet paperback editions, which were clearly also going for a more subtle, understated approach, though with at least a slight hint as to the book's subject matter. If the black-on-black image is hard to make out, it's a picture of a little girl, with just a tiny drop of blood at the corner of her mouth -- an image that's just creepy enough to make someone pick up the book and reader the back cover, which is exactly what any book cover should do.
The edition on the left, missing both title and author name like the first paperback of Carrie (see yesterday's entry) may or may not be a misprint -- to be honest, I can't remember for sure anymore. I'd personally vote against a misprint being the cause of this mistake -- it'd be embarassing to have printing problems on two books in a row (which would, in fact, become three books in a row -- tune in tomorrow to find out more!)
The cover in the centre adds the now required title and author name, while the edition on the right plays up on the popularity of King's name a few years down the road with a massive author name, and shrinks the creepy image to make room it. Points lost for diminishing the impact of a creepy image. Bad, bad publisher.
Misprint or not, I'm picking the first Signet paperback edition -- the one on the left, there -- as my personal top pic for Salem's Lot covers. The first paperback of Carrie, which left the publisher's without the author's name or title, didn't work for me because the image on the cover didn't work for me. In the case of Salem's Lot, it's the picture -- and just the picture -- that sells the book to me, at least to the point I pick it up off the shelf. And that's half the battle.
I've got one or two copies of the early versions of this one, though I can't recall right now if it's the one on the left or the one in the centre. May even be both. Can't be bothered to check right now.
This later signet release sticks with the suble, mildly vampire-related imagery, but with a slightly different image. And a bit more blood, just in case anyone was wondering, "Hey, is there going to be any blood in this?" Yes, in fact. Quite a lot.
And then there's this Pocketbook edition, looking like it hails from around the same era as yesterday's red-cover version of Carrie. By this time, of course, no on really cares about keeping the whole "vampire" thing under wraps, so, hey, let's just a couple of big neck gashes on the cover just to make sure there's no doubt. For some reason, this cover works better for me than yesterday's red-cover Carrie -- the title seems easier to read. I doubt it's any larger. It must just stand out against the background better. Either way, nice cover.
I had a copy of this cover too, once upon a time. May still have. May not. If memory serves me correctly, this was actually the version that I finally read. Knowing, of course, that you all care about these sorts of little details...
And then there's this edition from Pocketbooks, which snags my honourable mention award. There's something wonderfully, bizarrely, wrongly campy about this cover. The flat, solid colours. The white vampiric chick, sexy in a two-colour way. The thought balloon, which contains a bat, which isn't coming from her head, but rather her mouth, as if imply that she's got some nasty vampire breath. There are so many things wrong with this cover that, somehow, the combination of all that wrongness makes something that's wonderfully right. I love this cover. Unfortunately, it was just a little too...off...to make my number one pick. But it comes in a close second.
All covers are stolen without permission from the Stephen King Cover Gallery. Here's hoping that if I'm nice and give him a link, he won't ask me to take these down.
What's interesting about early promotion for this novel -- early book covers included -- is that the vampire angle was downplayed significantly, designed to be a surprise to the reader. Oh, for the days when vital parts of a story's plot could be kept quiet in order to actually affect the reader in some way. That's right, 21st century marketing, I'm talking to you.
Anyway, on to the covers.
As I said, early promotions were all about keeping the whole "vampire" thing as top secret as possible, so the Doubleday hardcover has pretty much nothing to illustrate the book except...a picture of a sleepy, New England town. Yay for not giving too much away!
Here we see the basic evolution of the early Signet paperback editions, which were clearly also going for a more subtle, understated approach, though with at least a slight hint as to the book's subject matter. If the black-on-black image is hard to make out, it's a picture of a little girl, with just a tiny drop of blood at the corner of her mouth -- an image that's just creepy enough to make someone pick up the book and reader the back cover, which is exactly what any book cover should do.
The edition on the left, missing both title and author name like the first paperback of Carrie (see yesterday's entry) may or may not be a misprint -- to be honest, I can't remember for sure anymore. I'd personally vote against a misprint being the cause of this mistake -- it'd be embarassing to have printing problems on two books in a row (which would, in fact, become three books in a row -- tune in tomorrow to find out more!)
The cover in the centre adds the now required title and author name, while the edition on the right plays up on the popularity of King's name a few years down the road with a massive author name, and shrinks the creepy image to make room it. Points lost for diminishing the impact of a creepy image. Bad, bad publisher.
Misprint or not, I'm picking the first Signet paperback edition -- the one on the left, there -- as my personal top pic for Salem's Lot covers. The first paperback of Carrie, which left the publisher's without the author's name or title, didn't work for me because the image on the cover didn't work for me. In the case of Salem's Lot, it's the picture -- and just the picture -- that sells the book to me, at least to the point I pick it up off the shelf. And that's half the battle.
I've got one or two copies of the early versions of this one, though I can't recall right now if it's the one on the left or the one in the centre. May even be both. Can't be bothered to check right now.
This later signet release sticks with the suble, mildly vampire-related imagery, but with a slightly different image. And a bit more blood, just in case anyone was wondering, "Hey, is there going to be any blood in this?" Yes, in fact. Quite a lot.
And then there's this Pocketbook edition, looking like it hails from around the same era as yesterday's red-cover version of Carrie. By this time, of course, no on really cares about keeping the whole "vampire" thing under wraps, so, hey, let's just a couple of big neck gashes on the cover just to make sure there's no doubt. For some reason, this cover works better for me than yesterday's red-cover Carrie -- the title seems easier to read. I doubt it's any larger. It must just stand out against the background better. Either way, nice cover.
I had a copy of this cover too, once upon a time. May still have. May not. If memory serves me correctly, this was actually the version that I finally read. Knowing, of course, that you all care about these sorts of little details...
And then there's this edition from Pocketbooks, which snags my honourable mention award. There's something wonderfully, bizarrely, wrongly campy about this cover. The flat, solid colours. The white vampiric chick, sexy in a two-colour way. The thought balloon, which contains a bat, which isn't coming from her head, but rather her mouth, as if imply that she's got some nasty vampire breath. There are so many things wrong with this cover that, somehow, the combination of all that wrongness makes something that's wonderfully right. I love this cover. Unfortunately, it was just a little too...off...to make my number one pick. But it comes in a close second.
All covers are stolen without permission from the Stephen King Cover Gallery. Here's hoping that if I'm nice and give him a link, he won't ask me to take these down.
Sunday, September 05, 2004
KING COVERS: Carrie (1974)
Carrie, Stephen King's first novel, is probably most famous for almost never seeing the light of day. After tossing the manuscript in the trash after the first few pages, King's wife fished it out and forced him to finish what he had intended to abort. Unable to stretch the story into a novel, he littered the book with fake interviews, fake book excerpts, and fake newspaper clippings -- a technique I'm personally quite fond of, and one King would use again and again in the years to come.
This is the original, hardcover, U.S. Doubleday version of Carrie, and it's not a bad cover by any stretch of the imagination. Both the title and the face on the cover imply that it's a book about a girl -- which is true -- but there's something kind of off-ish and unsettling about the way the girl is half hidden, as if she herself is afraid to come out, also capturing a vital theme of the story. All in all, it's a nicely understated cover for a first time author, letting the image speak by hardly speaking at all. So to speak.
The hardcover was followed, of course, by the paperback, published by Signet. The version on the left was the original design, sporting a fairly vital mis-print: No author name, and no book title. Just a weird looking face. The version on the right corrects the misprint. And for years (barring the occasional, inevitable, movie-tie-in edition) was the version of Carrie sitting in book stores and book shelves across the country.
Note: I actually have a couple of copies of the misprinted paperback. It's one of my favourite used book store finds, and easy to spot either face on (for the obvious reasons) or when looking at the spine ("Carrie" printed in silver instead of the white that would be used in later editions)
Enough trivia and blathering -- this cover, in spite of it's historical longevity, does almost nothing for me. I think they're trying to maintain some of the mystery from the hardcover design with the half obscured face, but what's with the completely separate face popping out of the side of her head? Makes the book look like it tells the story of a conjoined twin, and not a shy, tragic teen struggling with both puberty and telekinesis at the same time.
Later U.S. paperbacks would sport this cover, again going with the "girl's face half obscured" theme which had been so popular in earlier version. The entirely red cover fits nicely with the book's contents -- blood (menstrual, pigs' blood) and rage. To be frank, this design would be at the very top of my list if it weren't for one small detail -- adding the book's title seemed to be an afterthought. King's name is HUGE (a sure sign it was from later in his career, when publisher's realized that's all they needed to sell a book) but the title is stuffed at the bottom of the page, in a tiny, skinny, barely readable font.
Nice design, poor use of type. Which means...
This design takes the top prize. Good use of type (book's name is actually a significant size) and good use of a simple, understated image which still gets its point across (love the tiny little tear). Again, the use of red as the only colour (other than white, which I count as the absence of colour, from a stricly print-based perspective) meshes with the blood / rage themes in the book.
The only problem is...I'm not sure if this is a legitimate version of the book or not. I don't recall ever seeing this on a shelf, and filename (carrie_music.gif) implies that it might, in fact, be somehow connected to the miserable failure that was "Carrie: The Musical".
And now a couple of entries from abroad:
On the left, a Spanish version of Carrie. Once again, the design is simple and understated, though maybe a little too-much-so for my tastes. The type gets a little carried away, helping to obscure what might otherwise be an interesting image.
On the right, a Japanese version of Carrie which is...odd. And, somehow, wholely Japanese.
All covers are stolen without permission from the Stephen King Cover Gallery. Here's hoping that if I'm nice and give him a link, he won't ask me to take these down.
This is the original, hardcover, U.S. Doubleday version of Carrie, and it's not a bad cover by any stretch of the imagination. Both the title and the face on the cover imply that it's a book about a girl -- which is true -- but there's something kind of off-ish and unsettling about the way the girl is half hidden, as if she herself is afraid to come out, also capturing a vital theme of the story. All in all, it's a nicely understated cover for a first time author, letting the image speak by hardly speaking at all. So to speak.
The hardcover was followed, of course, by the paperback, published by Signet. The version on the left was the original design, sporting a fairly vital mis-print: No author name, and no book title. Just a weird looking face. The version on the right corrects the misprint. And for years (barring the occasional, inevitable, movie-tie-in edition) was the version of Carrie sitting in book stores and book shelves across the country.
Note: I actually have a couple of copies of the misprinted paperback. It's one of my favourite used book store finds, and easy to spot either face on (for the obvious reasons) or when looking at the spine ("Carrie" printed in silver instead of the white that would be used in later editions)
Enough trivia and blathering -- this cover, in spite of it's historical longevity, does almost nothing for me. I think they're trying to maintain some of the mystery from the hardcover design with the half obscured face, but what's with the completely separate face popping out of the side of her head? Makes the book look like it tells the story of a conjoined twin, and not a shy, tragic teen struggling with both puberty and telekinesis at the same time.
Later U.S. paperbacks would sport this cover, again going with the "girl's face half obscured" theme which had been so popular in earlier version. The entirely red cover fits nicely with the book's contents -- blood (menstrual, pigs' blood) and rage. To be frank, this design would be at the very top of my list if it weren't for one small detail -- adding the book's title seemed to be an afterthought. King's name is HUGE (a sure sign it was from later in his career, when publisher's realized that's all they needed to sell a book) but the title is stuffed at the bottom of the page, in a tiny, skinny, barely readable font.
Nice design, poor use of type. Which means...
This design takes the top prize. Good use of type (book's name is actually a significant size) and good use of a simple, understated image which still gets its point across (love the tiny little tear). Again, the use of red as the only colour (other than white, which I count as the absence of colour, from a stricly print-based perspective) meshes with the blood / rage themes in the book.
The only problem is...I'm not sure if this is a legitimate version of the book or not. I don't recall ever seeing this on a shelf, and filename (carrie_music.gif) implies that it might, in fact, be somehow connected to the miserable failure that was "Carrie: The Musical".
And now a couple of entries from abroad:
On the left, a Spanish version of Carrie. Once again, the design is simple and understated, though maybe a little too-much-so for my tastes. The type gets a little carried away, helping to obscure what might otherwise be an interesting image.
On the right, a Japanese version of Carrie which is...odd. And, somehow, wholely Japanese.
All covers are stolen without permission from the Stephen King Cover Gallery. Here's hoping that if I'm nice and give him a link, he won't ask me to take these down.
Stickage #14
And that's that. We're now -- as of this link right here -- officially caught up on Stick Figure Drama posts.
Today's Trivia moment: Proving my capacity for forgetting important parts of my character's design (such as last week's missing skirt on Bipolar Gemini Girl) I forgot to draw Really Bitter and Jaded Man's cape this week. It didn't occur to me until about two days after the cartoon was printed, but I knew something was a little off about it. At the time I thought it was just that the art looked pretty good for a change. Guess there was more to it than that.
Today's Trivia moment: Proving my capacity for forgetting important parts of my character's design (such as last week's missing skirt on Bipolar Gemini Girl) I forgot to draw Really Bitter and Jaded Man's cape this week. It didn't occur to me until about two days after the cartoon was printed, but I knew something was a little off about it. At the time I thought it was just that the art looked pretty good for a change. Guess there was more to it than that.
Looking to the future *OR* God-FUCKING-Dammit, I lost an entire blog post and now I need to rewrite it from scratch
When the fuck am I going to learn. Among the always linkable Tony Pierce's advice on blogging was this little pearl of wisdom:
So here is, as best as I can remember, what I was trying to say before.
Tomorrow (or, in fact, later today) will mark the last in my five "Missing Stick Figure" posts, leaving me with no burning need to come back here each and every day. And, unfortunately, at least for the moment, I think I still need that excuse. Whatever it is.
I think I've found that excuse.
People who've known me for years know that I am an unashamed fan of Stephen King. King's "Cujo" was, if memory serves me correctly, the first grown-up book I read, somewhere around the third grade (thanks mom!). And while I'll be the first to admit that he has not proven to be a consistently brilliant writer, he has generated enough work of brilliance to earn his place along the finest writers of the 20th century.
I am also a graphic design geek. I've been working in graphic design -- both in ad design and page layout -- for the entirety of my adult life, plus a few years in my late adolescence. In fact, at 31 years old, I've been in a various facets of the design industry for almost half my life. That gives me the authority to think that (right or wrong) that what does and doesn't constitute good design.
Those two facts, combined with my discovery tonight of an online archive of Stephen King book covers, has me sold on what my next blogging project should be.
I'm going to write a, day-by-day, book-by-book, review of Stephen King cover designs.
No, I'm not going to critique every single King cover design that has ever come off the presses. That'd be stupid. I will, however, zero in on four or five noteworthy cover designs for each of his books, whether they're noteworthy for their quality or lack-thereof.
If you're a fan of King, then come along for the ride -- it should be fun. And if you're not...well, wtf, come along anyway, if all goes according to plan it should be just as entertaining for you folks as well.
EDIT: I think I've now, officially, revisited this entry at least five times to fix little typos, missing words, etc. Second lesson learned -- don't blog at 1:30 a.m. if you're intent is to be coherent.
before you hit Save as Draft or Publish Post, select all and copy your masterpiece. you are using a computer and the internet, shit can happen. no need to lose a good post.Good advice. Lesson learned now, I think, as an (arguably) good post has now, officially, been lost. (more great advice from the Pierce-man on how to blog can be found here).
So here is, as best as I can remember, what I was trying to say before.
Tomorrow (or, in fact, later today) will mark the last in my five "Missing Stick Figure" posts, leaving me with no burning need to come back here each and every day. And, unfortunately, at least for the moment, I think I still need that excuse. Whatever it is.
I think I've found that excuse.
People who've known me for years know that I am an unashamed fan of Stephen King. King's "Cujo" was, if memory serves me correctly, the first grown-up book I read, somewhere around the third grade (thanks mom!). And while I'll be the first to admit that he has not proven to be a consistently brilliant writer, he has generated enough work of brilliance to earn his place along the finest writers of the 20th century.
I am also a graphic design geek. I've been working in graphic design -- both in ad design and page layout -- for the entirety of my adult life, plus a few years in my late adolescence. In fact, at 31 years old, I've been in a various facets of the design industry for almost half my life. That gives me the authority to think that (right or wrong) that what does and doesn't constitute good design.
Those two facts, combined with my discovery tonight of an online archive of Stephen King book covers, has me sold on what my next blogging project should be.
I'm going to write a, day-by-day, book-by-book, review of Stephen King cover designs.
No, I'm not going to critique every single King cover design that has ever come off the presses. That'd be stupid. I will, however, zero in on four or five noteworthy cover designs for each of his books, whether they're noteworthy for their quality or lack-thereof.
If you're a fan of King, then come along for the ride -- it should be fun. And if you're not...well, wtf, come along anyway, if all goes according to plan it should be just as entertaining for you folks as well.
EDIT: I think I've now, officially, revisited this entry at least five times to fix little typos, missing words, etc. Second lesson learned -- don't blog at 1:30 a.m. if you're intent is to be coherent.
Saturday, September 04, 2004
Stickage #13
Now available here.
Y'know what's ridiculous about this whole thing -- all five weeks worth were already done and uploaded when I started this night-by-night thing, so I could've just posted links to them all. And there really isn't enough of an audience here to justify the attempt at suspense. I was just doing it to entertain myself. Which, I guess, is what it's all about at the end of the day.
Today's interesting Stick Figure Drama Trivia Tidbit® is: If you look carefully, you'll notice that Bipolar Gemini Girl is not wearing her trademark skirt -- that's right, she's stark naked! Don't get too excited now...she's just a crappy stick-figure drawing.
The scheduled "coffee with an old friend" was postponed until tomorrow, when I have coffee planned with yet another old friend visiting from out of town, and a third old friend who still lives around here but I don't get to see very often because I'm a jackass and I never phone him. Should make for a nice, collective walk down memory lane.
Y'know what's ridiculous about this whole thing -- all five weeks worth were already done and uploaded when I started this night-by-night thing, so I could've just posted links to them all. And there really isn't enough of an audience here to justify the attempt at suspense. I was just doing it to entertain myself. Which, I guess, is what it's all about at the end of the day.
Today's interesting Stick Figure Drama Trivia Tidbit® is: If you look carefully, you'll notice that Bipolar Gemini Girl is not wearing her trademark skirt -- that's right, she's stark naked! Don't get too excited now...she's just a crappy stick-figure drawing.
The scheduled "coffee with an old friend" was postponed until tomorrow, when I have coffee planned with yet another old friend visiting from out of town, and a third old friend who still lives around here but I don't get to see very often because I'm a jackass and I never phone him. Should make for a nice, collective walk down memory lane.
Friday, September 03, 2004
Stickage #12 -- In under the wire!
It's 11:30 -- cutting it pretty close, but I still pulled off getting the next SFD posted today. Two more to go -- Saturday and Sunday, if all goes according to plan.
Oh, and for those interested in really stupid trivia about this less-than-stellar cartoon -- this week marks two firsts. It was the first that I actively tried to copy a sketch of my stick-figure character (who is, in fact, meant to be me, in case there was any doubt) that I drew on a chalk board that looked completely fantastic. I studied it for close to three days before drawing this strip and have, in the weeks since, been trying to emulate the approach I took in drawing both this week's piece, as well as the chalk board sketch. Unfortunately the chalk board sketch has since been erased and I have no photographic evidence of it's beauty. This week also marked the first time I decided my people would look less stupid if I penciled in the gaping holes in their mouths.
I'm now completely convinced that sometime between my Sunday posting of #14, and next week's eventual posting of #15, I'll put direct links to the whole archive over in the right-hand side navi-area (which I incorrectly referenced on the left hand side in an earlier post because I'm a big dummy)
Met an old friend for coffee tonight, another bitter struggling writer type. Well, maybe not bitter -- I might just be projecting my own feelings on him by saying that. Either way, he doesn't live around these parts anymore and gave me a call while he was here for the weekend. We're supposed to be coffeeing again before he leaves, probably tomorrow.
I came away from the chat feeling kind of energized about writing, which I'm kind of thrilled about, except I think it's too late to actually do any at this point. I feel like I may have tracked down the right approach for a stale and stagnating short story I started a couple of years ago that's dying to be completed. If it's not the right approach, I'll probably know in a couple of pages, and can quickly stop before I waste too much time on it, but it's definitely worth a try.
It's Friday night and I have no liquor. Which is probably good because I work tomorrow. But still...
Friday...no liquor...
Seems wrong somehow.
Oh, and for those interested in really stupid trivia about this less-than-stellar cartoon -- this week marks two firsts. It was the first that I actively tried to copy a sketch of my stick-figure character (who is, in fact, meant to be me, in case there was any doubt) that I drew on a chalk board that looked completely fantastic. I studied it for close to three days before drawing this strip and have, in the weeks since, been trying to emulate the approach I took in drawing both this week's piece, as well as the chalk board sketch. Unfortunately the chalk board sketch has since been erased and I have no photographic evidence of it's beauty. This week also marked the first time I decided my people would look less stupid if I penciled in the gaping holes in their mouths.
I'm now completely convinced that sometime between my Sunday posting of #14, and next week's eventual posting of #15, I'll put direct links to the whole archive over in the right-hand side navi-area (which I incorrectly referenced on the left hand side in an earlier post because I'm a big dummy)
Met an old friend for coffee tonight, another bitter struggling writer type. Well, maybe not bitter -- I might just be projecting my own feelings on him by saying that. Either way, he doesn't live around these parts anymore and gave me a call while he was here for the weekend. We're supposed to be coffeeing again before he leaves, probably tomorrow.
I came away from the chat feeling kind of energized about writing, which I'm kind of thrilled about, except I think it's too late to actually do any at this point. I feel like I may have tracked down the right approach for a stale and stagnating short story I started a couple of years ago that's dying to be completed. If it's not the right approach, I'll probably know in a couple of pages, and can quickly stop before I waste too much time on it, but it's definitely worth a try.
It's Friday night and I have no liquor. Which is probably good because I work tomorrow. But still...
Friday...no liquor...
Seems wrong somehow.
Thursday, September 02, 2004
Stickage #11
As promised. Here.
Two down, three to go. It's anyone's guess whether or not I can keep this up for the next three nights in a row.
Two down, three to go. It's anyone's guess whether or not I can keep this up for the next three nights in a row.
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
Stickage #10
As promised earlier (in a post that apparently didn't show up until about 5 minutes ago), I'm finally getting around to posting the first of five all new stick figure dramas. The next will be available tomorrow, the next the day after that, etc. Last one -- barring any delays -- should be posted on Sunday.
I'm thinking too that I might add a navigation area on the left hand side for all the stick figure drama entries, to make it easier on people who might want to go all the way back to #1.
Maybe I'll just make a blog dedicated to Stick Figure Drama.
Of course, then I'd have three blogs demanding my attention, and none of them would end up being treated very well, unfortunately.
Anyway...back to why I'm here: Stick Figure Drama #10
I'm thinking too that I might add a navigation area on the left hand side for all the stick figure drama entries, to make it easier on people who might want to go all the way back to #1.
Maybe I'll just make a blog dedicated to Stick Figure Drama.
Of course, then I'd have three blogs demanding my attention, and none of them would end up being treated very well, unfortunately.
Anyway...back to why I'm here: Stick Figure Drama #10
New stickage coming
Starting later today / tonight, I'll be posting a new stick figure drama episode. And a new one will be posted each and every day until they're all caught up (assuming my math hasn't failed me, that should be five episodes).
Let's get this piece of shot blog back on track, huh?
Let's get this piece of shot blog back on track, huh?
Sunday, August 29, 2004
A short conversation.
Hey!
Oh, hi. Welcome back.
Thanks!
It's good to see you again.
Yeah. Thanks.
So you...uh...been keeping busy?
No, not so much really.
No?
Well, you know, work. Work is work, right?
Mm-hm.
But nothing, you know, nothing that would really exhaust me, exactly.
Nothing that would keep you away from other things...
Right.
...like your blog, say.
Right.
Still, you haven't been around much.
No. Well, you know what I'm like. Often very up and down. Excited about something one day, bored by it the next. I'm like those annoying kids who can't focus on one game for any longer than about a half an hour. In fact, I was quite a lot like that as a kid...
You're getting sidetracked.
Right. Sorry.
So...what else is new?
Um...I've done a few more cartoons, desperately need to get those posted here. I can't even remember what the last issue of Stick Figure Drama was, but the print version has now seen up to issue #13.
Three months...
There's no stopping me. Heh. Although I'll be taking a short break after this current "story arc" is done (what a brilliantly pompous phrase -- "story arc") to let some guest artists do some work in the Stick Figure Drama world. Although, really, that's more just to fuck with people's heads than anything else. It's not like I need a break from drawing stick people. Although, sometime around week nine or ten, I actually started looking at the art, and trying to take little, tiny, talentless baby-steps towards improving it. God knows why.
Anything else?
We shot the first scene of the movie about...oh, about ten days ago, I guess. Shot it from late afternoon into early evening, just a couple of hours, to get a two minute scene. Three set-ups, about two to three takes each.
How'd it turn out?
I'm still working on that. I spent two evenings putting together a rough edit of it that still needs some tweaking. The video looks a little cold. And it looks like video, as opposed to film. I haven't gone through yet to try out any of the little "tricks" I've read about online to make stuff shot on video look more like film. And the sound is terrible. Really bass-y, and echo-y, and just kind of...thick sounding for lack of a better word. But I think this rough edit of a single two-minute scene looks better than the entirety of the Clockwatcher short that I filmed two years ago, so that's something. Although that might just be because I'm shooting in widescreen.
Anything else worth mentioning?
Ah...no, not really. Um. I bumped into an old friend who was passing through town. We met for coffee. Chatted. He's a writer as well, so there was some mutual comiseration or...does comiserating imply mutuality?
I think it might.
Did I even spell those words right?
Just leave it alone and move on.
Right. Anyway, it was a nice chat. I don't get out very often anymore, so it's nice to have any excuse to get out. And seeing old friends just makes that excuse a little nicer.
So did chatting with a fellow writer help get your off your ass and back onto the blog?
Ah, not so much.
So what was it?
Pink Floyd, I think.
Pink...what are you talking about?
Well, I was listening to...well, actually it was more old Roger Waters stuff -- Pros and Cons of Hitchhiking, particularly. It just reminded me of my adolescence, when I'd be locked in my bedroom with my music cranked and I'd just write constantly. Oh, the crap that I would write. Terrible, terrible, unreadable, make your eyes bleed and fall out of your head crap. But I did it all the fucking time. And I just started remembering that, and how important it was, and how it'd been a couple of weeks since I'd written anything -- longer than that since I'd written anything substantial -- besides my column, which after ten years I can almost do in my sleep, sad to say.
And so, with the burning urge to write, you headed to blogger.com and started to work?
Ah, no, actually, I went and read some old Roger Waters interviews.
Oh.
But I knew I was only stalling, so in the end, yeah, I came over to blogger.com. Obviously.
Do you think anyone really cares about this?
No. But I'm kind of having fun doing it, so fuck 'em.
Are you ripping off Tony Pierce right now?
I don't know what you're talking about.
With the whole "conversation with your blog" thing which he does often and, I might add, so, so well.
Is that what I'm doing? Talking to my blog?
You tell me.
I haven't said you're my blog. Neither have you.
Correct.
I could be talking to...I could be talking to anyone, really. I could be talking to my computer. Or some random person online. Or some fictional creation. Or even, I mean, I could just be talking to myself right now.
True.
As schizophrenic as it might seem.
Mm-hm.
Because, I guess, really, at the end of the day, that's exactly what I'm doing right now. Right?
Pretty much, yes. So if you're not stealing from Tony...
Yes?
And this is, essentially...would you say this whole conversation thing is meant to allow you to talk a bit about what's been happening in your life without making a boring post out if?
Um...
Sort of a literary trick, I guess, creating a fake interview kind of situation...
Well...
...which is, I think I should point out, very similar to some stylistic tricks used in "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius"...
Oh, for Christ's sake...
...which is a book that you have, on more than one occasion, claimed a fondness for.
Will you shut the fuck up?
I'm just looking out for you.
How's that?
I thought I'd point out all the places where you could be stealing this style from, and acknolwedge them publicly, to disarm those that might accuse you of ripping off those other sources.
Oh.
Like I said, just looking out for you.
Yeah. Thanks.
I must confess, though, this is nearing a point where it will cease to be entertaining.
Agreed.
Any final words?
Well...I noticed in my StatCounter logs that someone on August 23 decided to poke through my entire archives to get all caught up on everything. So, Hi to whoever you are. Anything that makes my statcounter counter spike like it did that day is welcome. Drop me a line and tell me how miserably boring I am. Whoever you are, strange mystery person.
Anything else?
I really, really want a cigarette right now?
How many days since you've had one?
Two...?
Good boy.
Shut up.
Anything else?
Only that this wasn't a very short conversation after all, was it.
No. No it wasn't.
Oh, hi. Welcome back.
Thanks!
It's good to see you again.
Yeah. Thanks.
So you...uh...been keeping busy?
No, not so much really.
No?
Well, you know, work. Work is work, right?
Mm-hm.
But nothing, you know, nothing that would really exhaust me, exactly.
Nothing that would keep you away from other things...
Right.
...like your blog, say.
Right.
Still, you haven't been around much.
No. Well, you know what I'm like. Often very up and down. Excited about something one day, bored by it the next. I'm like those annoying kids who can't focus on one game for any longer than about a half an hour. In fact, I was quite a lot like that as a kid...
You're getting sidetracked.
Right. Sorry.
So...what else is new?
Um...I've done a few more cartoons, desperately need to get those posted here. I can't even remember what the last issue of Stick Figure Drama was, but the print version has now seen up to issue #13.
Three months...
There's no stopping me. Heh. Although I'll be taking a short break after this current "story arc" is done (what a brilliantly pompous phrase -- "story arc") to let some guest artists do some work in the Stick Figure Drama world. Although, really, that's more just to fuck with people's heads than anything else. It's not like I need a break from drawing stick people. Although, sometime around week nine or ten, I actually started looking at the art, and trying to take little, tiny, talentless baby-steps towards improving it. God knows why.
Anything else?
We shot the first scene of the movie about...oh, about ten days ago, I guess. Shot it from late afternoon into early evening, just a couple of hours, to get a two minute scene. Three set-ups, about two to three takes each.
How'd it turn out?
I'm still working on that. I spent two evenings putting together a rough edit of it that still needs some tweaking. The video looks a little cold. And it looks like video, as opposed to film. I haven't gone through yet to try out any of the little "tricks" I've read about online to make stuff shot on video look more like film. And the sound is terrible. Really bass-y, and echo-y, and just kind of...thick sounding for lack of a better word. But I think this rough edit of a single two-minute scene looks better than the entirety of the Clockwatcher short that I filmed two years ago, so that's something. Although that might just be because I'm shooting in widescreen.
Anything else worth mentioning?
Ah...no, not really. Um. I bumped into an old friend who was passing through town. We met for coffee. Chatted. He's a writer as well, so there was some mutual comiseration or...does comiserating imply mutuality?
I think it might.
Did I even spell those words right?
Just leave it alone and move on.
Right. Anyway, it was a nice chat. I don't get out very often anymore, so it's nice to have any excuse to get out. And seeing old friends just makes that excuse a little nicer.
So did chatting with a fellow writer help get your off your ass and back onto the blog?
Ah, not so much.
So what was it?
Pink Floyd, I think.
Pink...what are you talking about?
Well, I was listening to...well, actually it was more old Roger Waters stuff -- Pros and Cons of Hitchhiking, particularly. It just reminded me of my adolescence, when I'd be locked in my bedroom with my music cranked and I'd just write constantly. Oh, the crap that I would write. Terrible, terrible, unreadable, make your eyes bleed and fall out of your head crap. But I did it all the fucking time. And I just started remembering that, and how important it was, and how it'd been a couple of weeks since I'd written anything -- longer than that since I'd written anything substantial -- besides my column, which after ten years I can almost do in my sleep, sad to say.
And so, with the burning urge to write, you headed to blogger.com and started to work?
Ah, no, actually, I went and read some old Roger Waters interviews.
Oh.
But I knew I was only stalling, so in the end, yeah, I came over to blogger.com. Obviously.
Do you think anyone really cares about this?
No. But I'm kind of having fun doing it, so fuck 'em.
Are you ripping off Tony Pierce right now?
I don't know what you're talking about.
With the whole "conversation with your blog" thing which he does often and, I might add, so, so well.
Is that what I'm doing? Talking to my blog?
You tell me.
I haven't said you're my blog. Neither have you.
Correct.
I could be talking to...I could be talking to anyone, really. I could be talking to my computer. Or some random person online. Or some fictional creation. Or even, I mean, I could just be talking to myself right now.
True.
As schizophrenic as it might seem.
Mm-hm.
Because, I guess, really, at the end of the day, that's exactly what I'm doing right now. Right?
Pretty much, yes. So if you're not stealing from Tony...
Yes?
And this is, essentially...would you say this whole conversation thing is meant to allow you to talk a bit about what's been happening in your life without making a boring post out if?
Um...
Sort of a literary trick, I guess, creating a fake interview kind of situation...
Well...
...which is, I think I should point out, very similar to some stylistic tricks used in "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius"...
Oh, for Christ's sake...
...which is a book that you have, on more than one occasion, claimed a fondness for.
Will you shut the fuck up?
I'm just looking out for you.
How's that?
I thought I'd point out all the places where you could be stealing this style from, and acknolwedge them publicly, to disarm those that might accuse you of ripping off those other sources.
Oh.
Like I said, just looking out for you.
Yeah. Thanks.
I must confess, though, this is nearing a point where it will cease to be entertaining.
Agreed.
Any final words?
Well...I noticed in my StatCounter logs that someone on August 23 decided to poke through my entire archives to get all caught up on everything. So, Hi to whoever you are. Anything that makes my statcounter counter spike like it did that day is welcome. Drop me a line and tell me how miserably boring I am. Whoever you are, strange mystery person.
Anything else?
I really, really want a cigarette right now?
How many days since you've had one?
Two...?
Good boy.
Shut up.
Anything else?
Only that this wasn't a very short conversation after all, was it.
No. No it wasn't.
Monday, August 16, 2004
Sunday, August 15, 2004
Misery and Company
I've discovered something lately, about my blog reading habits, which has come as a bit of a surprise.
I have a think for well-written blogs that are authored by unhappy people.
Now, these aren't the only kinds of blogs I read. I also like tech-blogs and hollywood-gossip blogs and entertainingly well-written blogs. But I noticed this taste for blogs written by unhappy people recently one of those blog writers suddenly had their life take a turn for the better.
Now, I don't know this woman, I could certainly not begrudge her her happiness, in fact I'm thrilled she's happy, given some of the things she had talked about in her blog in the past.
But the funny thing is this: I just don't find her blog quite as compelling anymore.
She had a great way with words when she was depressed or when she was angry. And she still has that great way with words, but the words just don't resonate with me in the way they used to.
I guess that's because I'm still looking for the moment in my life when the sun breaks through the clouds.
On that topic, I've decided to finally give in and fire up a second blog -- an anonymous blog -- where I can talk about anything that crosses my mind. But, most specifically, the kinds of embarassing things that could be reognized by people who know me and read this little ol' blog.
I'm not sure what that'll mean for this blog. It's had some peaks and valleys since I started it, and my initial cause for concern in starting a new anonymous blog was that this one might take second place and see fewer updates.
Of course, I've done significantly fewer updates in the last month, so that's less of a concern now. And on the bright side, writing two blogs, if the second doesn't take too much out of me, might even inspire to me write even more often, meaning even more updates over here too.
Oh, and as for the blog I mentioned earlier -- Bellow -- it's officially added to my linkage section. Give it a read. It's still terrifically well written, even if, somehow, I don't find happiness quite as compelling.
I have a think for well-written blogs that are authored by unhappy people.
Now, these aren't the only kinds of blogs I read. I also like tech-blogs and hollywood-gossip blogs and entertainingly well-written blogs. But I noticed this taste for blogs written by unhappy people recently one of those blog writers suddenly had their life take a turn for the better.
Now, I don't know this woman, I could certainly not begrudge her her happiness, in fact I'm thrilled she's happy, given some of the things she had talked about in her blog in the past.
But the funny thing is this: I just don't find her blog quite as compelling anymore.
She had a great way with words when she was depressed or when she was angry. And she still has that great way with words, but the words just don't resonate with me in the way they used to.
I guess that's because I'm still looking for the moment in my life when the sun breaks through the clouds.
On that topic, I've decided to finally give in and fire up a second blog -- an anonymous blog -- where I can talk about anything that crosses my mind. But, most specifically, the kinds of embarassing things that could be reognized by people who know me and read this little ol' blog.
I'm not sure what that'll mean for this blog. It's had some peaks and valleys since I started it, and my initial cause for concern in starting a new anonymous blog was that this one might take second place and see fewer updates.
Of course, I've done significantly fewer updates in the last month, so that's less of a concern now. And on the bright side, writing two blogs, if the second doesn't take too much out of me, might even inspire to me write even more often, meaning even more updates over here too.
Oh, and as for the blog I mentioned earlier -- Bellow -- it's officially added to my linkage section. Give it a read. It's still terrifically well written, even if, somehow, I don't find happiness quite as compelling.
Saturday, August 14, 2004
Uber
Main Entry: uber-
Function: prefix
Definition: the highest or most extreme of its kind: ubernerd; to an extreme degree: ubercool; also spelled über-
Etymology: German über: over, beyond; related to English
Function: prefix
Definition: the highest or most extreme of its kind: ubernerd; to an extreme degree: ubercool; also spelled über-
Etymology: German über: over, beyond; related to English
Thursday, August 12, 2004
HBD
I turned 31 today. Figured that was a good excuse as any to blog -- given that I don't seem to have any other excuses to blog lately.
Had a script-reading / scheduling meeting tonight with the principal actors. One part had finally, after months, been cast. The other part had just been recast after my original pick moved to Kamloops. After the reading, I think I'm going to recast that part again. Nothing against the fine fellow who read tonight -- he's a good friend of mine -- but he's just not right for the part. Besides, there's another part he's desperate for, so he'd be perfectly happy if he got to return to doing that part.
The female part which I finally cast after months of stressing...well, I'm super happy with my choice. She read the part cold today, having never even so much as looked at the script, and she was great. And surely she'll only get better as she actually learns her lines.
Oh, and when she had to read her lines as a phone sex operator...super hot.
After the meeting I went for a few drinks with my actors and miscellaneous others, and had a bunch of laughs. Nothing over the top, but I think that's what I'm most comfortable with. Just a few drinks with friends, some laughs, and then home to have a few more drinks before bed.
First day of shooting is Tuesday. We're shooting about three pages of script. It's a small shoot, but there's lots of coverage to be done. It's one of those funny scenes were nothing much happens, but there's a lot of editing, a lot of jumping around from shot to shot -- a need to establish a degree of urgency, a sense of panic.
The scenes were chosen because A) they didn't require anyone but the one actor, and B) because they didn't require any of the other extravagant props that will come up later. Like stacks and stacks of porno mags.
Just a guy and his telephone.
It should be an easy shoot. And it's officially the first shoot of the film.
I wanted to start with the first few scenes of the film -- they're bigger and require actual location work, but they're also the only shots that the lead female are in, and I thought it would be best if we could get her involvement over with as quickly as possible, so she could return to her regular life. Unfortunately, we're waiting on the arrival of a microphone / portable power supply for microphone, before we can do those scenes, so until it arrives, we're stuck shooting in locations with power outlets.
Like my house. Where the majority of the film will be shot.
I'm excited. I'm nervous. I hope I don't botch it.
The difficult thing about this scene is this: It's not supposed to be shot in this house. It's supposed to be shot in the house I lived in six years ago.
When I've written scripts that I intend to actually shoot myself, I tend to write for locations I know. It's easiest that way. If you let your imagination wander into any and every possibility, you very quickly write yourself out of scenes that you can actually shoot with a limited budget and ability. So, knowing that going in, I try to restrict myself to scenes that can be shot in locations that I have access to.
Unfortunately, this scene -- thought written years later -- was conceived to take place in a house that I no longer live in. So, even now, as I run the blocking over in my head and think about the framing of the shot, I'm seeing the geography of a house I no longer inhabit. And that's going to be a problem.
It's unfortunate, because it would have been so nicely framed in the other house.
Although the other house would have created some ugly back-lighting issues, with its massive windows right where I would have shot the scene.
So maybe everything's going to work out for the best.
Had a script-reading / scheduling meeting tonight with the principal actors. One part had finally, after months, been cast. The other part had just been recast after my original pick moved to Kamloops. After the reading, I think I'm going to recast that part again. Nothing against the fine fellow who read tonight -- he's a good friend of mine -- but he's just not right for the part. Besides, there's another part he's desperate for, so he'd be perfectly happy if he got to return to doing that part.
The female part which I finally cast after months of stressing...well, I'm super happy with my choice. She read the part cold today, having never even so much as looked at the script, and she was great. And surely she'll only get better as she actually learns her lines.
Oh, and when she had to read her lines as a phone sex operator...super hot.
After the meeting I went for a few drinks with my actors and miscellaneous others, and had a bunch of laughs. Nothing over the top, but I think that's what I'm most comfortable with. Just a few drinks with friends, some laughs, and then home to have a few more drinks before bed.
First day of shooting is Tuesday. We're shooting about three pages of script. It's a small shoot, but there's lots of coverage to be done. It's one of those funny scenes were nothing much happens, but there's a lot of editing, a lot of jumping around from shot to shot -- a need to establish a degree of urgency, a sense of panic.
The scenes were chosen because A) they didn't require anyone but the one actor, and B) because they didn't require any of the other extravagant props that will come up later. Like stacks and stacks of porno mags.
Just a guy and his telephone.
It should be an easy shoot. And it's officially the first shoot of the film.
I wanted to start with the first few scenes of the film -- they're bigger and require actual location work, but they're also the only shots that the lead female are in, and I thought it would be best if we could get her involvement over with as quickly as possible, so she could return to her regular life. Unfortunately, we're waiting on the arrival of a microphone / portable power supply for microphone, before we can do those scenes, so until it arrives, we're stuck shooting in locations with power outlets.
Like my house. Where the majority of the film will be shot.
I'm excited. I'm nervous. I hope I don't botch it.
The difficult thing about this scene is this: It's not supposed to be shot in this house. It's supposed to be shot in the house I lived in six years ago.
When I've written scripts that I intend to actually shoot myself, I tend to write for locations I know. It's easiest that way. If you let your imagination wander into any and every possibility, you very quickly write yourself out of scenes that you can actually shoot with a limited budget and ability. So, knowing that going in, I try to restrict myself to scenes that can be shot in locations that I have access to.
Unfortunately, this scene -- thought written years later -- was conceived to take place in a house that I no longer live in. So, even now, as I run the blocking over in my head and think about the framing of the shot, I'm seeing the geography of a house I no longer inhabit. And that's going to be a problem.
It's unfortunate, because it would have been so nicely framed in the other house.
Although the other house would have created some ugly back-lighting issues, with its massive windows right where I would have shot the scene.
So maybe everything's going to work out for the best.
Monday, August 02, 2004
Sunday, August 01, 2004
Off-Sales
Was out drinking with a friend tonight. At the end of the eve, as I was chatting with another party, I handed $10 to the previously mentioned friend and asked her to grab me some off-sales. She asked what I wanted, and I said "Molson Dry" for reasons I can't even begin to guess -- I don't think anyplace has offered Molson Dry in off-sales in the last three years.
So of course she didn't get Molson Dry -- I don't think that was even remotely an option. Instead she came back with Budweiser: The most contemptuous liquor in all the free world.
Fuck, I hate Americans, if only because they invented this swill.
Still...it's all I got. So...
ah...
erm...
this Bud's for. I guess.
Blech.
So of course she didn't get Molson Dry -- I don't think that was even remotely an option. Instead she came back with Budweiser: The most contemptuous liquor in all the free world.
Fuck, I hate Americans, if only because they invented this swill.
Still...it's all I got. So...
ah...
erm...
this Bud's for. I guess.
Blech.
Thursday, July 29, 2004
nothing
Bored. Nothing to do. Too much to do.
I have dishes that need doing, a kitchen that needs cleaning, floors that need vacuuming, food that needs eating, water that needs drinking. Instead, I do nothing. And I'm smoking while doing it.
Yeah, smoking. Those cigarettes, those fuckers.
Made through the whole work day without one, but stress atop stress atop stress during that work day left me with an itchy craving at the end of it. So I broke down and a smoke with a coworker at the end of the day.
This is going to be a bad week. I can feel it already.
By already I mean that, in spite of the fact that this is Thursday, this is the start of my work week. It'll last until Tuesday.
So yeah, the stupid week's just starting, and I can already tell it's going to be bad. Made that way, in part, by the long weekend. I hate fucking long weekends. I think I've said as much in the past. They're worse when they're on Monday -- when our papers go to press at varying times on Tuesday, a holiday on the Monday does wonders to fuck with our schedule.
Wish I had a beer.
Too much to do, and not enough desire to do any of it. Worse yet, there's something I really *really* need to do -- I need to pick up the phone and call someone up and offer them a small but vital part in the movie I'm hoping to start filming in just over a week. I don't have anyone for this small but vital role yet, and if I don't get it filled, I don't really know what I'll do.
I had a name suggested to me weeks back, someone I've seen act before, and she'd be just about perfect for it -- she's a strong enough actress to be able to hit some of the bizarre and conflicting moods that I want her character going through in the ten minutes that she's on the screen.
So I need to make that phone call.
But I had cold calling -- I hate picking up the phone and dialling someone out of the blue.
"Hi! It's Todd Sullivan! Remember me? Want to be in a movie?"
Feh.
I'll sit around, I guess. Finish the other half of this smoke. And maybe, maybe, by 7:30 I'll pick up the phone. Time's running out. I need this role filled -- I already have the other two primary roles taken care of, this is the last of the major ones. Everything else I can fill up with friends and family -- tiny little two line roles that take maybe 30 minutes out of a person's schedule. This one...I'm fucked if I can't get this role filled.
And I need to know *right now* whether or not I need to start looking elsewhere for someone to fill.
7:30. I'll make the call by 7:30.
Hope I can coax her into doing it...
I have dishes that need doing, a kitchen that needs cleaning, floors that need vacuuming, food that needs eating, water that needs drinking. Instead, I do nothing. And I'm smoking while doing it.
Yeah, smoking. Those cigarettes, those fuckers.
Made through the whole work day without one, but stress atop stress atop stress during that work day left me with an itchy craving at the end of it. So I broke down and a smoke with a coworker at the end of the day.
This is going to be a bad week. I can feel it already.
By already I mean that, in spite of the fact that this is Thursday, this is the start of my work week. It'll last until Tuesday.
So yeah, the stupid week's just starting, and I can already tell it's going to be bad. Made that way, in part, by the long weekend. I hate fucking long weekends. I think I've said as much in the past. They're worse when they're on Monday -- when our papers go to press at varying times on Tuesday, a holiday on the Monday does wonders to fuck with our schedule.
Wish I had a beer.
Too much to do, and not enough desire to do any of it. Worse yet, there's something I really *really* need to do -- I need to pick up the phone and call someone up and offer them a small but vital part in the movie I'm hoping to start filming in just over a week. I don't have anyone for this small but vital role yet, and if I don't get it filled, I don't really know what I'll do.
I had a name suggested to me weeks back, someone I've seen act before, and she'd be just about perfect for it -- she's a strong enough actress to be able to hit some of the bizarre and conflicting moods that I want her character going through in the ten minutes that she's on the screen.
So I need to make that phone call.
But I had cold calling -- I hate picking up the phone and dialling someone out of the blue.
"Hi! It's Todd Sullivan! Remember me? Want to be in a movie?"
Feh.
I'll sit around, I guess. Finish the other half of this smoke. And maybe, maybe, by 7:30 I'll pick up the phone. Time's running out. I need this role filled -- I already have the other two primary roles taken care of, this is the last of the major ones. Everything else I can fill up with friends and family -- tiny little two line roles that take maybe 30 minutes out of a person's schedule. This one...I'm fucked if I can't get this role filled.
And I need to know *right now* whether or not I need to start looking elsewhere for someone to fill.
7:30. I'll make the call by 7:30.
Hope I can coax her into doing it...
Sunday, July 25, 2004
Stickage #8 (and then a whole lotta rambling)
Introducing "Bi-Polar Gemini Girl" in the pages...er, page...er, single panel...of Stick Figure Drama!...er, Stick Figure Action! Yeah!
http://members.shaw.ca/todd_sullivan/stick/stick8.jpg
The li'l cartoon marks the 8th appearance of Stick Figure Drama, meaning that I've been doing absurd thing for two whole months. And y'know, I'm still having a ball.
There's something about this medium, and something about being published in a community that I don't reside, that allows me to strip off *any* elements of self-censorship and just do anything that crosses my psychotic little mind. I don't have to worry about whether or not someone I bump into in the supermarket liked or didn't like what I put in last week's cartoon, I don't have to worry about pissing off the town as a whole..I can just do, and say, anything I like.
I think this is proving to be an incredibly solid learning experience for me. As I've said in (much) earlier blog posts, my goal, artistically, is to be able to just say and not stress out about what people think or feel about what I've said. Of course, this is a "perfection" kind of goal, and one I struggle and strive towards, having not yet quite reached it.
But this stupid little cartoon, with badly-drawn stick people, has given me the outlet I've always wanted, the platform where I can just say whatever the hell is on my mind.
And I swear to God, two months into it, they'll have to pry Page 6 of the 100 Mile House Advisor out of my cold, dead hands before they replace Stick Figure Drama.
Where I'm sitting right now, I feel like I did nine years ago with my column -- excited at the prospect of publishing, thrilled at the notion of communicating something to people. And it's kind of a weird but ultimately positive time for this cartooning gig to appear, as I plan to bring my column to a close at the end of the year. Now I've got another creative outlet to replace it with, one that I'm actually excited about, one that I'm actually thrilled to be doing, unlike the column with, some weeks, has become a chore.
Not lately, mind you. Truth is, this whole year has, so far, been a thrill. Since admitting in January that I planned to end the column at the close of 2004, and that I'd write any damn thing that crossed my mind, I've done just that. It's still been probably 75% similar to "Caught in the 'Net"s of past, but that other 25% -- when I've really let loose and just written about anything that took my fancy, that has been a blast.
Even that other 75% has been fun for a change, because I knew that if I had wanted to write about something else, I could. And would. The weeks I spent *not* writing about something else, that was a choice, and there's nothing wrong with that -- choice might start with the same two letters, but it's not a "chore".
For that reason, I'll admit I've had some second thoughts about ending the column. It's starting to be fun again, but at the same time, I kind of feel like I can only play this "I'll write anything I want, and you'll like it," for so long before even *that* gets old.
I really, at this point in time, do not know what I'm going to do come year's end.
I'll tell you, though...I got what is probably one of the best pieces of advice I've ever received just today, and it came courtesy of this ol' blog right here, and the little "comments" feature. Take a gander at this:
While I'm not sure I'd necessarily agree at the terminology (I'd be more inclined towards "North Americanitis" as opposed to "Canadianitis") I certain agree that it's not healthy.
And really, I could write -- fiction, journals, film scripts, whatever -- from anywhere in the world, if I wanted to. Heck, thanks to the Internet, I could continue cartooning from wherever I happened to be -- Samoa or Micronesia or even Botswana (don't ask -- private joke).
So, why don't I? Why haven't I?
Well, I'll tell ya...
Something occurred to me tonight. And yes, it was a relevation that followed a few drinks, and might not be a relevation I agree with come tomorrow, but it's not tomorrow yet.
I've long felt that I wasn't properly and truly experiencing life. I was just kind of sitting back, playing more the role of an observer than participant, and kicking myself in the ass for it.
But tonight it struck me for the first time that, maybe, as much as I kicked myself in the ass, maybe I didn't want to be anything more than an observer. Someone who does what he can to record the goings-on of the world around him. Someone who is best suited to slither back into the shadows and let things occur without his direct involvement.
Communication does not necessarily demand involvement. And really, that's all I've ever wanted, I think.
I remember, as a child -- probably no more than nine or ten years old -- putting on little plays for my brother, starring a half-dozen teddy bears that we had accumulated over our childhood. Satirical knock-offs of Star Trek (though I'm sure the word "satire" wouldn't enter my vocabulary for another few years) they starred Captain Kirby of the Starship Enterpoop (the latter ripped unashamedly from the pages of Bloom County) and involved a whole of silly, mindless, but on-the-edge-of-your-seat kind of adventure.
I wasn't a terribly popular kid in school. I kept to myself, was quiet, got my work done, mostly maintained pretty good grades (up until high school, but that's another story altogether), but I didn't have a whole lot of friends. I was shy, yet desperate to break through that silence and actually *communicate* with people.
And when I acted out my terrible space operas for my brother, using nothing but teddy bears...that was my outlet. That was my forum for communication. And I'll tell ya -- as much as he'd hate for it to be said now that he's an adult -- he was a fantastic audience. He laughed in all the right places, grew quiet in all the right places...and those moments right there are, probably, what spawned the story-telling instinct I have.
Unfortunately, that story-telling instinct kind of merged with the bitterness that grows out of being the shy and quiet kid that doesn't have a whole lot of friends. Leaving me telling stories now about people who are lonely and at the end of their rope.
I think I've lost my train of thought somewhere...
Ah, yes, communication over participation.
I guess what I learned from an early age is that communication was what mattered -- whatever medium it appeared in. Participation was secondary, and, really, not even necessarily relevant.
I think that's what's wrong with me; why I feel it's so difficult to actually *live* my life, instead of wasting it by just sitting at home and, say, writing in a blog. Because the participation was always secondary.
I got lucky and found an outlet for my desire to communicate at an early age -- I started my column when I was 20. Ten year of communicating. Ten years of not really participating.
Fuck it's terrifying to be coming to these kind of realizations at 30, with almost half your life behind you, thinking about how much you've missed out on, thinking about how much is still left to miss out on if you don't *do* something about it, now that you've finally figured it out.
Thank you, S. O'Sullivan, for making me think about getting out of this rut. I'm not sure, at this point, if I'll follow your suggestions to the letter. But hopefully, between them, and the realizations I was already dancing around, I'll find some way, before I die, to make my life mean something to the only person it should really matter to -- me.
http://members.shaw.ca/todd_sullivan/stick/stick8.jpg
The li'l cartoon marks the 8th appearance of Stick Figure Drama, meaning that I've been doing absurd thing for two whole months. And y'know, I'm still having a ball.
There's something about this medium, and something about being published in a community that I don't reside, that allows me to strip off *any* elements of self-censorship and just do anything that crosses my psychotic little mind. I don't have to worry about whether or not someone I bump into in the supermarket liked or didn't like what I put in last week's cartoon, I don't have to worry about pissing off the town as a whole..I can just do, and say, anything I like.
I think this is proving to be an incredibly solid learning experience for me. As I've said in (much) earlier blog posts, my goal, artistically, is to be able to just say and not stress out about what people think or feel about what I've said. Of course, this is a "perfection" kind of goal, and one I struggle and strive towards, having not yet quite reached it.
But this stupid little cartoon, with badly-drawn stick people, has given me the outlet I've always wanted, the platform where I can just say whatever the hell is on my mind.
And I swear to God, two months into it, they'll have to pry Page 6 of the 100 Mile House Advisor out of my cold, dead hands before they replace Stick Figure Drama.
Where I'm sitting right now, I feel like I did nine years ago with my column -- excited at the prospect of publishing, thrilled at the notion of communicating something to people. And it's kind of a weird but ultimately positive time for this cartooning gig to appear, as I plan to bring my column to a close at the end of the year. Now I've got another creative outlet to replace it with, one that I'm actually excited about, one that I'm actually thrilled to be doing, unlike the column with, some weeks, has become a chore.
Not lately, mind you. Truth is, this whole year has, so far, been a thrill. Since admitting in January that I planned to end the column at the close of 2004, and that I'd write any damn thing that crossed my mind, I've done just that. It's still been probably 75% similar to "Caught in the 'Net"s of past, but that other 25% -- when I've really let loose and just written about anything that took my fancy, that has been a blast.
Even that other 75% has been fun for a change, because I knew that if I had wanted to write about something else, I could. And would. The weeks I spent *not* writing about something else, that was a choice, and there's nothing wrong with that -- choice might start with the same two letters, but it's not a "chore".
For that reason, I'll admit I've had some second thoughts about ending the column. It's starting to be fun again, but at the same time, I kind of feel like I can only play this "I'll write anything I want, and you'll like it," for so long before even *that* gets old.
I really, at this point in time, do not know what I'm going to do come year's end.
I'll tell you, though...I got what is probably one of the best pieces of advice I've ever received just today, and it came courtesy of this ol' blog right here, and the little "comments" feature. Take a gander at this:
Todd, dear heart, I strongly recommend you sell a few things, buy a ticket, and get out of the country for an adventure in another culture, another country. I'd suggest the South Pacific: Samoa or Micronesia are great places of indolence, self-indulgence, lethargy, and vivid people and scenery.I think, more than anything, you are suffering from Canadianitis; a condition of cultural tunnelvision and angst that isn't even remotely healthy.Get out for a while. You'll have fun whether you want to, or not!
-- S. O'Sullivan
While I'm not sure I'd necessarily agree at the terminology (I'd be more inclined towards "North Americanitis" as opposed to "Canadianitis") I certain agree that it's not healthy.
And really, I could write -- fiction, journals, film scripts, whatever -- from anywhere in the world, if I wanted to. Heck, thanks to the Internet, I could continue cartooning from wherever I happened to be -- Samoa or Micronesia or even Botswana (don't ask -- private joke).
So, why don't I? Why haven't I?
Well, I'll tell ya...
Something occurred to me tonight. And yes, it was a relevation that followed a few drinks, and might not be a relevation I agree with come tomorrow, but it's not tomorrow yet.
I've long felt that I wasn't properly and truly experiencing life. I was just kind of sitting back, playing more the role of an observer than participant, and kicking myself in the ass for it.
But tonight it struck me for the first time that, maybe, as much as I kicked myself in the ass, maybe I didn't want to be anything more than an observer. Someone who does what he can to record the goings-on of the world around him. Someone who is best suited to slither back into the shadows and let things occur without his direct involvement.
Communication does not necessarily demand involvement. And really, that's all I've ever wanted, I think.
I remember, as a child -- probably no more than nine or ten years old -- putting on little plays for my brother, starring a half-dozen teddy bears that we had accumulated over our childhood. Satirical knock-offs of Star Trek (though I'm sure the word "satire" wouldn't enter my vocabulary for another few years) they starred Captain Kirby of the Starship Enterpoop (the latter ripped unashamedly from the pages of Bloom County) and involved a whole of silly, mindless, but on-the-edge-of-your-seat kind of adventure.
I wasn't a terribly popular kid in school. I kept to myself, was quiet, got my work done, mostly maintained pretty good grades (up until high school, but that's another story altogether), but I didn't have a whole lot of friends. I was shy, yet desperate to break through that silence and actually *communicate* with people.
And when I acted out my terrible space operas for my brother, using nothing but teddy bears...that was my outlet. That was my forum for communication. And I'll tell ya -- as much as he'd hate for it to be said now that he's an adult -- he was a fantastic audience. He laughed in all the right places, grew quiet in all the right places...and those moments right there are, probably, what spawned the story-telling instinct I have.
Unfortunately, that story-telling instinct kind of merged with the bitterness that grows out of being the shy and quiet kid that doesn't have a whole lot of friends. Leaving me telling stories now about people who are lonely and at the end of their rope.
I think I've lost my train of thought somewhere...
Ah, yes, communication over participation.
I guess what I learned from an early age is that communication was what mattered -- whatever medium it appeared in. Participation was secondary, and, really, not even necessarily relevant.
I think that's what's wrong with me; why I feel it's so difficult to actually *live* my life, instead of wasting it by just sitting at home and, say, writing in a blog. Because the participation was always secondary.
I got lucky and found an outlet for my desire to communicate at an early age -- I started my column when I was 20. Ten year of communicating. Ten years of not really participating.
Fuck it's terrifying to be coming to these kind of realizations at 30, with almost half your life behind you, thinking about how much you've missed out on, thinking about how much is still left to miss out on if you don't *do* something about it, now that you've finally figured it out.
Thank you, S. O'Sullivan, for making me think about getting out of this rut. I'm not sure, at this point, if I'll follow your suggestions to the letter. But hopefully, between them, and the realizations I was already dancing around, I'll find some way, before I die, to make my life mean something to the only person it should really matter to -- me.
Hi! This is a test!
This is a test post just to see if posting...well, anything at all, will fix my screwed up blog template. Here goes nothin'!
EDIT: Well, a new post didn't do any good, but deleting the post from just before this one did. Thankfully I copied and pasted it into notepad first, so nooooooow I'll repost the post from two days ago.
EDIT: Well, a new post didn't do any good, but deleting the post from just before this one did. Thankfully I copied and pasted it into notepad first, so nooooooow I'll repost the post from two days ago.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
I think my computer is melting
Fuck, I think my computer is about two steps away from the grave. And it's starting to get on my nerves.
I like it when my computer works. I like it when my computer works well. I like it when my computer sings and dances and does cartwheels.
It hasn't done that in awhile.
First my stupid video card -- a Geforce 4 I bought last year -- starts freaking out on me. After about a month of banging my stupid head against the problem, I realize the card is overheating because, duh, it's not winter anymore. And, apparently, the fan that was installed on the card isn't sufficient to keep it cool in the spring / summer. No problem, I find a Geforce overclocking utility that'll allow me to...uh...underclock it.
Then a couple of weeks ago, my speakers start to give out this weird, consistant, crackling, static-y sound. At first I assume it's the sound card, because, I think, if it was a speaker problem, it would only be one or maybe two speakers, not all freaking five of them.
That's right, five speakers -- I've got a 5.1 surround speaker setup to go with the sound blaster audigy 2 I bought last year.
So I reinstall drivers and I move the card to three different PCI slots and nothing happens. And I'm pulling my hair out, because I'm trying to listen to some goddamn MP3s and all I can hear is this obnoxious fucking crackling.
Finally, tonight, I'm about to lose my mind take a fucking hatchet to the speakers when it occurs to me to test a different set of speakers on the sound card -- because I've still got my labtec speakers + subwoofer that I had used before upgrading the soundcard and, therefore, requiring a 5.1 speaker system.
And what do you fucking know...
Everything sounds just fine coming out of the Labtec speakers.
Which means my fucking Logitech speakers, which I bought just last year, are fucked.
Fucking fuckdy fuck.
Wonder if the sonsabitches are still under warranty.
I like it when my computer works. I like it when my computer works well. I like it when my computer sings and dances and does cartwheels.
It hasn't done that in awhile.
First my stupid video card -- a Geforce 4 I bought last year -- starts freaking out on me. After about a month of banging my stupid head against the problem, I realize the card is overheating because, duh, it's not winter anymore. And, apparently, the fan that was installed on the card isn't sufficient to keep it cool in the spring / summer. No problem, I find a Geforce overclocking utility that'll allow me to...uh...underclock it.
Then a couple of weeks ago, my speakers start to give out this weird, consistant, crackling, static-y sound. At first I assume it's the sound card, because, I think, if it was a speaker problem, it would only be one or maybe two speakers, not all freaking five of them.
That's right, five speakers -- I've got a 5.1 surround speaker setup to go with the sound blaster audigy 2 I bought last year.
So I reinstall drivers and I move the card to three different PCI slots and nothing happens. And I'm pulling my hair out, because I'm trying to listen to some goddamn MP3s and all I can hear is this obnoxious fucking crackling.
Finally, tonight, I'm about to lose my mind take a fucking hatchet to the speakers when it occurs to me to test a different set of speakers on the sound card -- because I've still got my labtec speakers + subwoofer that I had used before upgrading the soundcard and, therefore, requiring a 5.1 speaker system.
And what do you fucking know...
Everything sounds just fine coming out of the Labtec speakers.
Which means my fucking Logitech speakers, which I bought just last year, are fucked.
Fucking fuckdy fuck.
Wonder if the sonsabitches are still under warranty.
Monday, July 19, 2004
Ouch. Drunken blogging
Well, between the heat and the red wine, I think I lost my brain sometime between 9:30 and 10:00 last night -- not normally such a bad thing, except that I was right in the middle of a lengthy blog post at the time.
That's a little frightening.
I haven't gone back to look at what I may have written, and I don't actually intend to. I think, for better or worse, I'd probably rather not know.
I remember most of the first two posts -- the forward, and Part II of storytime -- but most of the Afterword is just a haze.
For better or worse, I also intend to keep the post there. I'm not big on self-censorship, even I'd only be censoring what could be considered no more than just drunken ramblings. I wrote it, I posted it, so posted it stays.
Just let it be known that, you know, I was actually quite tipsy at the time. So don't hold anything I may have said against me. Okay?
Cool, thanks.
That's a little frightening.
I haven't gone back to look at what I may have written, and I don't actually intend to. I think, for better or worse, I'd probably rather not know.
I remember most of the first two posts -- the forward, and Part II of storytime -- but most of the Afterword is just a haze.
For better or worse, I also intend to keep the post there. I'm not big on self-censorship, even I'd only be censoring what could be considered no more than just drunken ramblings. I wrote it, I posted it, so posted it stays.
Just let it be known that, you know, I was actually quite tipsy at the time. So don't hold anything I may have said against me. Okay?
Cool, thanks.
Sunday, July 18, 2004
Storytime (Afterword)
So, there you go. It's done. Finally.
It's funny. I don't know why this story has been on my mind lately. There's nothing terribly fantastic about it, but for some reason I seem to look back on this as the high-point in my life for the last few years.
And yet, it *isn't* -- I actually had more fun travelling to Quesnel with the theatre this year than I did going to Vancouver.
So what is it?
I think -- I'm not completely sure, but I *think* -- it's because I fell like there was some kind of failed romantic opportunity with Chris. That I had her away for a weekend, sharing a hotel room with me, and I missed some chance to make some bold, overt move. I missed the chance to, at the most, win her heart and, at the least, get laid.
But then, that's my life -- missed opportunities and regret.
And I think, now, *that's* why this story is on my mind. Because, more than any other memory I have, this one sums up everything that's wrong with me and everything I've screwed up in my life by doing absolutely notyhing at all.
Even if nothing would have ever happened between Chris and I, my failure to take a step towards that is representational of every other time that I have failed to take action.
And that, I think, is why that weekend has been on my mind. And why it probably always will be, haunting me, reminding me.
And teaching me how I should be living my life.
Even if I never actually figure it out.
It's funny. I don't know why this story has been on my mind lately. There's nothing terribly fantastic about it, but for some reason I seem to look back on this as the high-point in my life for the last few years.
And yet, it *isn't* -- I actually had more fun travelling to Quesnel with the theatre this year than I did going to Vancouver.
So what is it?
I think -- I'm not completely sure, but I *think* -- it's because I fell like there was some kind of failed romantic opportunity with Chris. That I had her away for a weekend, sharing a hotel room with me, and I missed some chance to make some bold, overt move. I missed the chance to, at the most, win her heart and, at the least, get laid.
But then, that's my life -- missed opportunities and regret.
And I think, now, *that's* why this story is on my mind. Because, more than any other memory I have, this one sums up everything that's wrong with me and everything I've screwed up in my life by doing absolutely notyhing at all.
Even if nothing would have ever happened between Chris and I, my failure to take a step towards that is representational of every other time that I have failed to take action.
And that, I think, is why that weekend has been on my mind. And why it probably always will be, haunting me, reminding me.
And teaching me how I should be living my life.
Even if I never actually figure it out.
Storytime (Part II)
I woke up late, around 10:00 a.m. I had a cigarette on the balcony, listening to MuchMusic play on the television in the background.
Chris was busy getting ready, and I was antsy, wandering around the room, sitting on the bed staring at the TV for a minute, popping out onto the balcony. The awards for my category were to be presented at the luncheon, which was still two hours away.
She suggested I get out for awhile, go for a walk.
Seemed like a fine idea, so I did.
I've written in the last couple of weeks about this strange sense I have of being disconnected from the world -- like there's a layer of Saran Wrap stretched around me, preventing me from making contact with reality. Well, this morning in Vancouver was one of the last times I remember feeling like I was really, honestly connected with the world. I don't know if it was the smell of the salt water, or the way the wind drifted through my hair. I don't know if it was being in a new and different place, in a place as beautiful as Vancouver, or if it was just that -- for what would turn out to be the last time -- I had woken up on the right side of the bed; I was a part of the world. And the world was a part of me.
I walked down to the ocean, recognizing some of the areas I passed. I roamed around the familiar areas, trying to track down the apartment I had lived in for a month with a friend just after graduation, but the building was either gone, or my memory was full of holes.
I worked my way slowly back to the hotel, then rode the elevator to the room to get ready for lunch.
I've really got only one fancy outfit -- a suit / tie combo kind of thing. I don't need much, dress-wise, where I work. Never have. But I do have my one outfit, for events like this -- industry awards, that kind of thing. I'd worn it up to the lounge the night before, now I slipped into it for the luncheon. I'd be wearing it again at the end of the day, as we hit a Vancouver nightclub.
But we haven't come to that yet.
Chris and I headed to the awards luncheon. If memory serves, the food was good -- can't remember anything that was on the menu, but I don't recall it being obscenely bad, so that must be a good sign.
The funny thing about these awards...even before you come, you know you've won something. Only three people are nominated per category, so even before you arrive you know that, at the very worst, you're taking home third place.
Obviously, they announce the winners backwards, to increase the suspense surrounding the first place winner. Which means, even before the first place winner is announced, he knows who he is as soon as second place's name gets called. And he has to sit there, sweating, quivering in his seat, while Mr. Second Place heads up to receive his award, shake the hands of those handing them out, maybe take a moment at the microphone -- he has to sit there while all of that is going on, knowing his name's coming up next, knowing that he's nailed first prize for his category this year. And then, at long last, they call his name. And he stands and tries to casually wipe his hands on his pants so his palm isn't overly slick when he shakes the presenters hand. And in a kind of almost-but-not-quite-blacked-out haze, he walks to the podium and shakes someone's hand, takes his framed award, smiles at someone else, thinks about taking the microphone but decides against, and wanders -- all his nervous energy now expelled from this short walk -- back to his table.
And, yes, that pretty much describes what happened to me. Because I took first place that year.
The rest of the luncheon kind of flew by in a half-haze. There were congratuations and handshakes from co-workers and peers. I remember desperately heading for the door at the end of it, hungry for a cigarette. I bumped into another co-worker outside, another smoker, whose keen, journalistic tendencies pushed her to enquire whether Chris and I were sleeping together. I laughed and said that while, yes, technically, we were, it wasn't in the same bed.
So explained the situation to her, how I wanted to come to this *with* someone, but obviously not *with* my ex, and how that prompted me to ask Chris to come along.
To which she responded -- and I remember this vividly: "Good for you."
Post-awards, post-cigarette, I met up with Chris again and, having little else to do with my time, hung out with her as she shopped up and down the streets of Vancouver. She asked my opinion of cute little outfits, confided that she had gotten her belly-button pierced as she browsed for navel jewellery, and bought me sushi (which was a first-time for me -- and I quite enjoyed it, actually).
Somewhere in all of this, we had made arrangements to meet up with a couple of co-workers later in the evening to hit the streets of Vancouver for some Saturday night partying. When the shopping was done, we headed back to our room, briefly, so Chris could change, and I could readjust my one not-slobby outfit for the evening's festivities.
We met up at the upstairs, at the spinning-so-slowly-that-you'd-almost-never-notice lounge, for a quick drink. We hung out, chatted, laughed, spun. But it was only good for the one drink, and when that was done, we hopped in the elevator and rode to street level.
And we walked.
I don't know if we knew what we were looking for or not -- I didn't that's for sure, I know Vancouver like I know the pancreas of a Croatian midget, but a part of me thinks that maybe at least some of the people I was with knew where we going.
It was to be dinner before any further drinks, and we found this tiny little Italian restaurant, hidden on the backside of something tall and made of concrete. It was exactly what you expected from a small Italian restaurant -- small (obviously), candles, wine by the caraffe, and fantastic food.
There was some problem with the Interac machine on our exit, forcing us to pay our meals with cash -- which was fine with me, as I always have cash on hand, but caused a bit of a headache for some of the others in the party.
Eventually the bills were paid and we were on our way, searching for a nightclub.
I don't think it took us long to find one, with a waiting line that made it from the entrance to the corner and then around. We tried pulling some kind of "We're from the media..." trick to get at the front, but no go -- we had to stand in line just like everyone else.
I remember, at some point while standing in line, suddenly becoming incredibly concerned with how I was dressed. I didn't know how people dressed in Vancouver, I didn't know what was "Trendy" or "Stylish" and I was suddenly terrified that what I was wearing was going to make me stand out as some kind of hick from Nowhereville, BC.
Someone reminded me that black is always trendy, and I'd be fine.
Strangely, I don't remember a whole lot after we got into the nightclub, just fragments of details -- it was crowded, the floor seemed stick with a thousand spilled drinks, there were ashtrays around even though it was illegal to drink in bars. Some of the folks I was with headed off to dance sometimes, stayed at the table other times.
I didn't dance -- as a general rule, don't dance. Terrible, terrible, socially-retarding rule, but what can I do. I stayed at the table and found myself getting bitterly drink.
Eventually we got bored, and headed off to try to find something else before everything closed up for the night.
We found something, somewhere, where a live band was playing. We ducked in, paid the cover charge, bought a drink, just in time to hear the last song and watch as everyone headed for the door because it was closing time.
Outside, we split up into taxis, because we were too many for one cab to take. Chris and I shared one back to the hotel, while the rest of the group to another.
I seem to remember her being angry with me for something after we got back to the hotel -- not angry, really, that's too strong, but...annoyed. Annoyed at me for not having enough fun, I think. Like I was holding myself back. Which, I guess, I probably was, still unsure of what it meant to no longer be married.
I'm still not sure of it, really.
I should have been out having the time of life, newly free, newly single, without a care in the world. Somehow, it was as if there was some other thing weighing on me the whole night, keeping me just out of arm's reach of having a good time.
And as much as I knew that was just kind of the way I was, it still pissed me off.
Chris and I slipped into out separate beds, and we drifted off to sleep. And as I went, I wished that I knew what I could do to stop feeling down, stop being so hard on myself.
The next morning, we got up, packed, found a little place just a half block down to have breakfast, and climbed into the car for the ride home. There was something bittersweet about it -- I was carrying the first place award for the category I had been nominated in, and that was good, but the weekend, and whatever potential it had carried for erasing all the bad things that had come before, was gone. It was back to the real world. Back to work. Back to being a guy who had split up with his wife a few months before, a guy who wasn't sure where he was going or what he was doing.
When we made it back to town, I dropped Chris off at home, helping her with her bags. Small-talk, then goodbyes and see-you-laters.
I drove home, brought my own bags in. And on Monday I went back to work.
I left the Tribune probably a month, no more than two months, later. They were going to lay off the junior graphics person, who'd only been there a few months, and who was doing a pretty good job. And I was so desperately unhappy in my job that, as soon as I got word, I went to management and said, "Let me go instead."
Chris left the paper about a year later, transferring to another newspaper in the Okanagan, so she could be closer to a guy she was dating.
I still think about her sometimes. I wonder where she's at, what she's doing, *how* she's doing. She had an e-mail address for awhile, at Hotmail, but last time I tried to contact to her, it was dead.
She was a good friend and, more importantly, she was a good person. Who -- for reasons I'll never know -- was, as far as I could tell, chronically unhappy. Much like me, I guess.
I hope she's broken out of that. I her life is filled with happiness now, because if I've ever known someone who should be able to find it, it's her. She was beautiful, smart, funny, talented, open, giving, and generous.
And she remains one of the most amazing women that I have ever slept with.
Albeit in separate beds.
Chris was busy getting ready, and I was antsy, wandering around the room, sitting on the bed staring at the TV for a minute, popping out onto the balcony. The awards for my category were to be presented at the luncheon, which was still two hours away.
She suggested I get out for awhile, go for a walk.
Seemed like a fine idea, so I did.
I've written in the last couple of weeks about this strange sense I have of being disconnected from the world -- like there's a layer of Saran Wrap stretched around me, preventing me from making contact with reality. Well, this morning in Vancouver was one of the last times I remember feeling like I was really, honestly connected with the world. I don't know if it was the smell of the salt water, or the way the wind drifted through my hair. I don't know if it was being in a new and different place, in a place as beautiful as Vancouver, or if it was just that -- for what would turn out to be the last time -- I had woken up on the right side of the bed; I was a part of the world. And the world was a part of me.
I walked down to the ocean, recognizing some of the areas I passed. I roamed around the familiar areas, trying to track down the apartment I had lived in for a month with a friend just after graduation, but the building was either gone, or my memory was full of holes.
I worked my way slowly back to the hotel, then rode the elevator to the room to get ready for lunch.
I've really got only one fancy outfit -- a suit / tie combo kind of thing. I don't need much, dress-wise, where I work. Never have. But I do have my one outfit, for events like this -- industry awards, that kind of thing. I'd worn it up to the lounge the night before, now I slipped into it for the luncheon. I'd be wearing it again at the end of the day, as we hit a Vancouver nightclub.
But we haven't come to that yet.
Chris and I headed to the awards luncheon. If memory serves, the food was good -- can't remember anything that was on the menu, but I don't recall it being obscenely bad, so that must be a good sign.
The funny thing about these awards...even before you come, you know you've won something. Only three people are nominated per category, so even before you arrive you know that, at the very worst, you're taking home third place.
Obviously, they announce the winners backwards, to increase the suspense surrounding the first place winner. Which means, even before the first place winner is announced, he knows who he is as soon as second place's name gets called. And he has to sit there, sweating, quivering in his seat, while Mr. Second Place heads up to receive his award, shake the hands of those handing them out, maybe take a moment at the microphone -- he has to sit there while all of that is going on, knowing his name's coming up next, knowing that he's nailed first prize for his category this year. And then, at long last, they call his name. And he stands and tries to casually wipe his hands on his pants so his palm isn't overly slick when he shakes the presenters hand. And in a kind of almost-but-not-quite-blacked-out haze, he walks to the podium and shakes someone's hand, takes his framed award, smiles at someone else, thinks about taking the microphone but decides against, and wanders -- all his nervous energy now expelled from this short walk -- back to his table.
And, yes, that pretty much describes what happened to me. Because I took first place that year.
The rest of the luncheon kind of flew by in a half-haze. There were congratuations and handshakes from co-workers and peers. I remember desperately heading for the door at the end of it, hungry for a cigarette. I bumped into another co-worker outside, another smoker, whose keen, journalistic tendencies pushed her to enquire whether Chris and I were sleeping together. I laughed and said that while, yes, technically, we were, it wasn't in the same bed.
So explained the situation to her, how I wanted to come to this *with* someone, but obviously not *with* my ex, and how that prompted me to ask Chris to come along.
To which she responded -- and I remember this vividly: "Good for you."
Post-awards, post-cigarette, I met up with Chris again and, having little else to do with my time, hung out with her as she shopped up and down the streets of Vancouver. She asked my opinion of cute little outfits, confided that she had gotten her belly-button pierced as she browsed for navel jewellery, and bought me sushi (which was a first-time for me -- and I quite enjoyed it, actually).
Somewhere in all of this, we had made arrangements to meet up with a couple of co-workers later in the evening to hit the streets of Vancouver for some Saturday night partying. When the shopping was done, we headed back to our room, briefly, so Chris could change, and I could readjust my one not-slobby outfit for the evening's festivities.
We met up at the upstairs, at the spinning-so-slowly-that-you'd-almost-never-notice lounge, for a quick drink. We hung out, chatted, laughed, spun. But it was only good for the one drink, and when that was done, we hopped in the elevator and rode to street level.
And we walked.
I don't know if we knew what we were looking for or not -- I didn't that's for sure, I know Vancouver like I know the pancreas of a Croatian midget, but a part of me thinks that maybe at least some of the people I was with knew where we going.
It was to be dinner before any further drinks, and we found this tiny little Italian restaurant, hidden on the backside of something tall and made of concrete. It was exactly what you expected from a small Italian restaurant -- small (obviously), candles, wine by the caraffe, and fantastic food.
There was some problem with the Interac machine on our exit, forcing us to pay our meals with cash -- which was fine with me, as I always have cash on hand, but caused a bit of a headache for some of the others in the party.
Eventually the bills were paid and we were on our way, searching for a nightclub.
I don't think it took us long to find one, with a waiting line that made it from the entrance to the corner and then around. We tried pulling some kind of "We're from the media..." trick to get at the front, but no go -- we had to stand in line just like everyone else.
I remember, at some point while standing in line, suddenly becoming incredibly concerned with how I was dressed. I didn't know how people dressed in Vancouver, I didn't know what was "Trendy" or "Stylish" and I was suddenly terrified that what I was wearing was going to make me stand out as some kind of hick from Nowhereville, BC.
Someone reminded me that black is always trendy, and I'd be fine.
Strangely, I don't remember a whole lot after we got into the nightclub, just fragments of details -- it was crowded, the floor seemed stick with a thousand spilled drinks, there were ashtrays around even though it was illegal to drink in bars. Some of the folks I was with headed off to dance sometimes, stayed at the table other times.
I didn't dance -- as a general rule, don't dance. Terrible, terrible, socially-retarding rule, but what can I do. I stayed at the table and found myself getting bitterly drink.
Eventually we got bored, and headed off to try to find something else before everything closed up for the night.
We found something, somewhere, where a live band was playing. We ducked in, paid the cover charge, bought a drink, just in time to hear the last song and watch as everyone headed for the door because it was closing time.
Outside, we split up into taxis, because we were too many for one cab to take. Chris and I shared one back to the hotel, while the rest of the group to another.
I seem to remember her being angry with me for something after we got back to the hotel -- not angry, really, that's too strong, but...annoyed. Annoyed at me for not having enough fun, I think. Like I was holding myself back. Which, I guess, I probably was, still unsure of what it meant to no longer be married.
I'm still not sure of it, really.
I should have been out having the time of life, newly free, newly single, without a care in the world. Somehow, it was as if there was some other thing weighing on me the whole night, keeping me just out of arm's reach of having a good time.
And as much as I knew that was just kind of the way I was, it still pissed me off.
Chris and I slipped into out separate beds, and we drifted off to sleep. And as I went, I wished that I knew what I could do to stop feeling down, stop being so hard on myself.
The next morning, we got up, packed, found a little place just a half block down to have breakfast, and climbed into the car for the ride home. There was something bittersweet about it -- I was carrying the first place award for the category I had been nominated in, and that was good, but the weekend, and whatever potential it had carried for erasing all the bad things that had come before, was gone. It was back to the real world. Back to work. Back to being a guy who had split up with his wife a few months before, a guy who wasn't sure where he was going or what he was doing.
When we made it back to town, I dropped Chris off at home, helping her with her bags. Small-talk, then goodbyes and see-you-laters.
I drove home, brought my own bags in. And on Monday I went back to work.
I left the Tribune probably a month, no more than two months, later. They were going to lay off the junior graphics person, who'd only been there a few months, and who was doing a pretty good job. And I was so desperately unhappy in my job that, as soon as I got word, I went to management and said, "Let me go instead."
Chris left the paper about a year later, transferring to another newspaper in the Okanagan, so she could be closer to a guy she was dating.
I still think about her sometimes. I wonder where she's at, what she's doing, *how* she's doing. She had an e-mail address for awhile, at Hotmail, but last time I tried to contact to her, it was dead.
She was a good friend and, more importantly, she was a good person. Who -- for reasons I'll never know -- was, as far as I could tell, chronically unhappy. Much like me, I guess.
I hope she's broken out of that. I her life is filled with happiness now, because if I've ever known someone who should be able to find it, it's her. She was beautiful, smart, funny, talented, open, giving, and generous.
And she remains one of the most amazing women that I have ever slept with.
Albeit in separate beds.
Storytime (Forward)
Well, I just finished the necessary rewrites on the film script, and it's only 9:30-ish and I've still got a hankerin' to write. Soooo...
...guess I'll finish up Storytime. No time like the present, after all.
Just a quick foreward before I get into the guts of it. Don't expect much. It doesn't have what you would call a "satisfying ending" -- it leans far more towards the anticlimactic. I don't get the girl. I don't live happily ever after. I just kind of go on about my business, not really profoundly changed in any way.
So if that's what you were looking for...well, I guess I'd recommend you not even bother, given that you now know how the story ends.
If you still want to scroll through this mess...feel free. I'm writing it down anyway.
...guess I'll finish up Storytime. No time like the present, after all.
Just a quick foreward before I get into the guts of it. Don't expect much. It doesn't have what you would call a "satisfying ending" -- it leans far more towards the anticlimactic. I don't get the girl. I don't live happily ever after. I just kind of go on about my business, not really profoundly changed in any way.
So if that's what you were looking for...well, I guess I'd recommend you not even bother, given that you now know how the story ends.
If you still want to scroll through this mess...feel free. I'm writing it down anyway.
Relaxed
Just enjoying a post-work, alcoholic-beverage before heading home.
Drew next week's Stick Figure Drama today -- a continuation of the Stick Figure Action theme from last week (a continuation which should last for another two to three weeks, depending on how quickly I become bored of it).
That's stick figure drama #8 -- two months I've been doing this ridiculous thing. Hooray!
It'll be posted sometime next week, after Wednesday.
In other news, I took the digital video camera we'll be using to shoot the movie out for a test run last night, and I'm quite happy with hit's performance. It sits in your hand kind of funny -- it has a very different design from most video cameras -- but it's comfortable. The footage is clean, and is pulled off the camera through the firewire port flawlessly; not a single dropped frame. Wooooooooooonderful.
I tried farting around with the video in After Effects, testing out some of the tricks I had read about online to get stuff shot on video to look more like film, but...I don't know...I think I need to know more about AE, because it always seems to do weird things to my video. I used AE to reverse the video clips that I used for "Illuminati" and while it handled the reverse just fine, when it was rerendered back out to an AVI, the video was either kind of squished, or kind of choppy. Don't have the foggiest idea what setting I had wrong.
Same goes for the fiddling I did last night. Something screwy happened to the footage, but I don't have any idea what it was, or what caused it.
I need to learn a bit more about digital video, quite clearly.
Not that I mind. I like learning, if it's learning something that's actually of interest to me. Like digital video is.
Drew next week's Stick Figure Drama today -- a continuation of the Stick Figure Action theme from last week (a continuation which should last for another two to three weeks, depending on how quickly I become bored of it).
That's stick figure drama #8 -- two months I've been doing this ridiculous thing. Hooray!
It'll be posted sometime next week, after Wednesday.
In other news, I took the digital video camera we'll be using to shoot the movie out for a test run last night, and I'm quite happy with hit's performance. It sits in your hand kind of funny -- it has a very different design from most video cameras -- but it's comfortable. The footage is clean, and is pulled off the camera through the firewire port flawlessly; not a single dropped frame. Wooooooooooonderful.
I tried farting around with the video in After Effects, testing out some of the tricks I had read about online to get stuff shot on video to look more like film, but...I don't know...I think I need to know more about AE, because it always seems to do weird things to my video. I used AE to reverse the video clips that I used for "Illuminati" and while it handled the reverse just fine, when it was rerendered back out to an AVI, the video was either kind of squished, or kind of choppy. Don't have the foggiest idea what setting I had wrong.
Same goes for the fiddling I did last night. Something screwy happened to the footage, but I don't have any idea what it was, or what caused it.
I need to learn a bit more about digital video, quite clearly.
Not that I mind. I like learning, if it's learning something that's actually of interest to me. Like digital video is.
Saturday, July 17, 2004
Stick Figure ACTION!
I've slipped into the realm of the craptacular in regards to updates lately, I know. I swear Part Two of Storytime is coming, if I can ever figure out what the point of telling the story is, or how to make it interesting, because God knows, it isn't. I've just been so swamped lately with doing absolutely sweet-fuck-all that I just haven't been able to turn two brief minutes towards the blog.
Saw Fahrenheit 9-11 a few nights back. Two thumbs up. Way up. Great little movie. Love him or hate him, you've got to give Michael Moore credit for dragging the film documentary out of its dusty little corner and sticking it in front of the eyeballs of the average viewing public.
Oh, and here's Stick Figure Drama #7...
Saw Fahrenheit 9-11 a few nights back. Two thumbs up. Way up. Great little movie. Love him or hate him, you've got to give Michael Moore credit for dragging the film documentary out of its dusty little corner and sticking it in front of the eyeballs of the average viewing public.
Oh, and here's Stick Figure Drama #7...
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
Mmmm, rabies
I just bought the special edition DVD of David Cronenberg's "Rabid". I've never seen the film before.
I actually went looking for a movie rental tonight, but I haven't rented a movie in so long, I found all of the options available to me a little overwhelming and couldn't even begin to figure out where to begin.
So I wandered over to the previously viewed movies for sale area, scanned the spines, and caught Cronenberg's name. Gave the DVD case a quick glance. Saw "Special Edition". Saw "Commentary by Cronenberg". Figured that was about all I needed to know -- I'm a huge fan of the guy, but my current DVD collection isn't reflecting that very well; I've only got last year's Criterion release of Naked Lunch on my shelf.
So now there's two.
Plus an upcoming Criterion release of Videodrome, apparently. Which I'll have to get my hands on.
Now if they'll just rerelease their edition of Dead Ringers, I'd be a very happy camper.
I actually went looking for a movie rental tonight, but I haven't rented a movie in so long, I found all of the options available to me a little overwhelming and couldn't even begin to figure out where to begin.
So I wandered over to the previously viewed movies for sale area, scanned the spines, and caught Cronenberg's name. Gave the DVD case a quick glance. Saw "Special Edition". Saw "Commentary by Cronenberg". Figured that was about all I needed to know -- I'm a huge fan of the guy, but my current DVD collection isn't reflecting that very well; I've only got last year's Criterion release of Naked Lunch on my shelf.
So now there's two.
Plus an upcoming Criterion release of Videodrome, apparently. Which I'll have to get my hands on.
Now if they'll just rerelease their edition of Dead Ringers, I'd be a very happy camper.
Monday, July 12, 2004
Behind the wheel
I got my driver's licence back last Friday. I'd been without it for a year because I did a very, very bad thing in the summer of 2003 and the police happened to catch me doing it. They were really nice about it and all, but they still had to take my licence away for a year.
So I'm now newly mobile again, and am off to visit a friend who lives a good long walk away from me, so I haven't been able to just randomly pop over for a visit in over 13 months.
And that's why I'm not going to be writing part two of Storytime tonight.
See you on the flipside, or whatever other meaningless, not-so-terribly-trendy-anymore phrase you'd like to insert here.
So I'm now newly mobile again, and am off to visit a friend who lives a good long walk away from me, so I haven't been able to just randomly pop over for a visit in over 13 months.
And that's why I'm not going to be writing part two of Storytime tonight.
See you on the flipside, or whatever other meaningless, not-so-terribly-trendy-anymore phrase you'd like to insert here.
Sunday, July 11, 2004
Stick Figure Drama #6
Apparently Part 2 of Storytime is taking a little longer than I expected. To tide you over until then, here's another exciting edition of Stick Figure Drama!
Thursday, July 08, 2004
Storytime
Spring 2001.
I’m still working at the Tribune at the time, but even then I know that time is coming to an end. The job isn’t much fun anymore, as it’s essentially the same work I’ve been doing for ten goddamn years and it isn’t getting any more interesting.
Add to that the fact that I’m working next to a wife from whom I’ve been separated since February, and you end up with a less than fantastic employment situation.
It’ll take until August before I finally make it out the door, and before that happens, I find myself nominated for an award in the British Columbia / Yukon Community Newspaper Association’s (or the BCYCNA, for those that can remember all those bloody letters) annual “Better Newspaper Awards”.
This is the second year that a nomination has come my way, and in spite of everything going on around me – a marriage that’s falling apart, a job that’s not satisfying in any way, shape or form – I’m actually pretty excited about it. I had gone the year before and had a lot of fun, even if I did only place third within my category.
So I’m looking forward to going again. And, come to think of it, why wouldn’t I be? It’ll get me away from the dreaded job for a day or two, away from the wife / ex-wife / whatever-the-hell-you-call-them-when-you’re-separated-but-not-divorced-quite-yet for a day or two, and it’ll give me the chance to just unwind someplace else. Doing something else.
The problem I ran into, though, was that I didn’t want to go alone. I hate going places, going to things, alone, I always have. It’s always seemed to me that these sorts of moments should be shared, need to be shared. Shared experiences have a life of their own, they exist between the people who shared the experience, which makes the experience itself that much harder to kill. Experiences that are experienced by a person alone, exist only within him, and might as well have never happened in the first place, if there’s going to be no one around to share them with.
Under ordinary circumstances I would, of course, have taken my wife. But, as of February of that year, those circumstances were no longer terribly normal.
So I asked a co-worker – let’s call her Chris, because that was her name – if she’d come down to Vancouver with me for the awards.
She said she would.
I should admit that there were at least a couple of reasons I asked this particular co-worker (who, I should point out, was, in fact, female, in spite of what her name might indicate). First and foremost, she was a friend, someone whose company I enjoyed, someone I wouldn’t mind having along on the journey.
But I wouldn’t be completely honest if I didn’t fess up to a second reason – she was hot. Super-hot. Supermodel-hot. And yes, I absolutely glowed knowing that my ex would be aware that I was taking the journey with this super-deadly-strike-you-blind-she’s-so-goddamn-hot co-worker.
Moving along.
The weekend of the awards came, and we travelled in my car. I drove, she played co-pilot as best she could – which, sadly, didn’t turn out very well to say the least. I’d never driven in Vancouver before. Any trips I had taken in the past had been with my wife, who had once lived in Vancouver, knew the streets intimately, and so was the obvious choice behind the wheel.
So I set Chris up with the map of Vancouver, and the knowledge of the location of the hotel we were to stay at, and she just kind of stared at the map, not figuring anything out, shoving it in my face whenever we hit a stoplight. Which never stayed red long enough for me to come up with a decent plant for how the hell we were going to get from point A to point Hotel.
We managed, somehow, after getting stuck down one-way streets that took us by surprise, and hitting dead-ends that weren’t properly marked on the map. Somehow we just kind of rolled up to the hotel without even realizing we were in the vicinity. It was as if God himself had gotten tired of listening to us bitch and moan about how we didn’t have a clue where we were going, had reached down, and pointed our car in the right direction.
Thanks God.
Found the underground parking, dug out our bags, wandered blindly around the concrete posts, footsteps echoing madly, until we found the elevator to the lobby.
Took the elevator. Checked in. Got our neato 21st century keycards. Took the elevator to the room (which, I think, was somewhere around the 11th floor, which always immediately makes me wonder what I’d do in case of a fire) and dropped our bags on the floor.
I wandered around a little, had a cigarette out the window, then decided I wanted to go up to the spinning bar at the top of the hotel. Chris declined the invite, so I headed up solo, to have a drink by myself and stare out the window as the city slowly spun around me.
It didn’t move quickly which, I guess, was probably by design. Once a room starts spinning at a certain speed, I guess it stops being a lounge and becomes some kind of midway attraction.
It moved so slowly that if you stared constantly out the window, you wouldn’t actually notice it moving at all. It was only if you tore your eyes away from it for a few minutes, to stare at your drink or at the live entertainment, that you would notice the movement when you finally looked back at the window again. Sometimes, if you’d get completely distracted by whatever it was you were looking at, the view outside the window was completely different than it had been the last time you glanced in that direction.
More than just a little bit like life, if you ask me.
I had my two drinks and took the elevator back down to the room. Slipped in with my keycard. Chris was already in bed, but still awake, so she was a perfect victim for my attempts at brooding and cynical insight that seemed to be the only kind I was capable of at that point in time.
She listened for a few moments, then offered a quick, curt reply.
The specifics of this conversation are outside of the realm of my memory, and don’t matter much in the grand scheme of things anyway. I was morose, thanks in part to a couple of drinks, as well as the fact that I was pretty sure my whole life was falling apart around me. I should have been enjoying the fact that I was in a new city for a few days, enjoying the fact that I could do anything I wanted, with anyone I wanted, for any reason I wanted. Instead I was moody. And wanted to just go to bed.
So I turned off the light and did just that. And that’s how I ended up sleeping with one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known. Albeit in separate beds.
Part two tomorrow. Or the next day.
I’m still working at the Tribune at the time, but even then I know that time is coming to an end. The job isn’t much fun anymore, as it’s essentially the same work I’ve been doing for ten goddamn years and it isn’t getting any more interesting.
Add to that the fact that I’m working next to a wife from whom I’ve been separated since February, and you end up with a less than fantastic employment situation.
It’ll take until August before I finally make it out the door, and before that happens, I find myself nominated for an award in the British Columbia / Yukon Community Newspaper Association’s (or the BCYCNA, for those that can remember all those bloody letters) annual “Better Newspaper Awards”.
This is the second year that a nomination has come my way, and in spite of everything going on around me – a marriage that’s falling apart, a job that’s not satisfying in any way, shape or form – I’m actually pretty excited about it. I had gone the year before and had a lot of fun, even if I did only place third within my category.
So I’m looking forward to going again. And, come to think of it, why wouldn’t I be? It’ll get me away from the dreaded job for a day or two, away from the wife / ex-wife / whatever-the-hell-you-call-them-when-you’re-separated-but-not-divorced-quite-yet for a day or two, and it’ll give me the chance to just unwind someplace else. Doing something else.
The problem I ran into, though, was that I didn’t want to go alone. I hate going places, going to things, alone, I always have. It’s always seemed to me that these sorts of moments should be shared, need to be shared. Shared experiences have a life of their own, they exist between the people who shared the experience, which makes the experience itself that much harder to kill. Experiences that are experienced by a person alone, exist only within him, and might as well have never happened in the first place, if there’s going to be no one around to share them with.
Under ordinary circumstances I would, of course, have taken my wife. But, as of February of that year, those circumstances were no longer terribly normal.
So I asked a co-worker – let’s call her Chris, because that was her name – if she’d come down to Vancouver with me for the awards.
She said she would.
I should admit that there were at least a couple of reasons I asked this particular co-worker (who, I should point out, was, in fact, female, in spite of what her name might indicate). First and foremost, she was a friend, someone whose company I enjoyed, someone I wouldn’t mind having along on the journey.
But I wouldn’t be completely honest if I didn’t fess up to a second reason – she was hot. Super-hot. Supermodel-hot. And yes, I absolutely glowed knowing that my ex would be aware that I was taking the journey with this super-deadly-strike-you-blind-she’s-so-goddamn-hot co-worker.
Moving along.
The weekend of the awards came, and we travelled in my car. I drove, she played co-pilot as best she could – which, sadly, didn’t turn out very well to say the least. I’d never driven in Vancouver before. Any trips I had taken in the past had been with my wife, who had once lived in Vancouver, knew the streets intimately, and so was the obvious choice behind the wheel.
So I set Chris up with the map of Vancouver, and the knowledge of the location of the hotel we were to stay at, and she just kind of stared at the map, not figuring anything out, shoving it in my face whenever we hit a stoplight. Which never stayed red long enough for me to come up with a decent plant for how the hell we were going to get from point A to point Hotel.
We managed, somehow, after getting stuck down one-way streets that took us by surprise, and hitting dead-ends that weren’t properly marked on the map. Somehow we just kind of rolled up to the hotel without even realizing we were in the vicinity. It was as if God himself had gotten tired of listening to us bitch and moan about how we didn’t have a clue where we were going, had reached down, and pointed our car in the right direction.
Thanks God.
Found the underground parking, dug out our bags, wandered blindly around the concrete posts, footsteps echoing madly, until we found the elevator to the lobby.
Took the elevator. Checked in. Got our neato 21st century keycards. Took the elevator to the room (which, I think, was somewhere around the 11th floor, which always immediately makes me wonder what I’d do in case of a fire) and dropped our bags on the floor.
I wandered around a little, had a cigarette out the window, then decided I wanted to go up to the spinning bar at the top of the hotel. Chris declined the invite, so I headed up solo, to have a drink by myself and stare out the window as the city slowly spun around me.
It didn’t move quickly which, I guess, was probably by design. Once a room starts spinning at a certain speed, I guess it stops being a lounge and becomes some kind of midway attraction.
It moved so slowly that if you stared constantly out the window, you wouldn’t actually notice it moving at all. It was only if you tore your eyes away from it for a few minutes, to stare at your drink or at the live entertainment, that you would notice the movement when you finally looked back at the window again. Sometimes, if you’d get completely distracted by whatever it was you were looking at, the view outside the window was completely different than it had been the last time you glanced in that direction.
More than just a little bit like life, if you ask me.
I had my two drinks and took the elevator back down to the room. Slipped in with my keycard. Chris was already in bed, but still awake, so she was a perfect victim for my attempts at brooding and cynical insight that seemed to be the only kind I was capable of at that point in time.
She listened for a few moments, then offered a quick, curt reply.
The specifics of this conversation are outside of the realm of my memory, and don’t matter much in the grand scheme of things anyway. I was morose, thanks in part to a couple of drinks, as well as the fact that I was pretty sure my whole life was falling apart around me. I should have been enjoying the fact that I was in a new city for a few days, enjoying the fact that I could do anything I wanted, with anyone I wanted, for any reason I wanted. Instead I was moody. And wanted to just go to bed.
So I turned off the light and did just that. And that’s how I ended up sleeping with one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known. Albeit in separate beds.
Part two tomorrow. Or the next day.
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
Saran Wrap Life
One day, I'm going to figure this life thing out. That's unless I were to die in a terrible, tragic bus accident tomorrow. Then, of course, I never would. But hopefully the chances of that are slim, leaving me with the possibility of figuring this whole life thing out.
Because God knows I don't have the foggiest idea what it's about right now.
Terrible, tragic buss accidents notwithstanding.
Thirty years into this bizarre thing we call life, and still no greater an idea of what it's about than what I had when I was 16.
No, not entirely true. I think I have a greater idea, actually. But the amount I've managed to uncover since I was 16 is so small, so utterly meaningless, I really don't feel as if anything's changed in the last 14 years.
According to CP style, you print digits for numbers of 10 and over, and spell out anything less. Like the number two.
Anyway.
Anyway...
I'm looking for something -- have been for years -- without having any idea what it is I'm looking for. I noticed the other day that I feel disconnected from the world, like I'm a few seconds out of sync with everything else, like there's a layer of Saran Wrap between me and the rest of existence.
It's weird, troubling, because it hasn't always been like this. I can remember a time, in high school, when I felt more connected to the world. When I could look at the sky and feel like I was really looking at the sky; when I could lay in the grass and really fell the grass pressing against my flesh.
Is this a part of growing old, or is this something unique to me, some kind of personal madness?
I'm not happy. Right at the moment, I'm not terribly sad either, but at the same time that's not good enough -- to define yourself based on what you aren't. I have moments of happiness. Sparks of joy. But they are fleeting.
More about that another day. Tommorow is story time.
Because God knows I don't have the foggiest idea what it's about right now.
Terrible, tragic buss accidents notwithstanding.
Thirty years into this bizarre thing we call life, and still no greater an idea of what it's about than what I had when I was 16.
No, not entirely true. I think I have a greater idea, actually. But the amount I've managed to uncover since I was 16 is so small, so utterly meaningless, I really don't feel as if anything's changed in the last 14 years.
According to CP style, you print digits for numbers of 10 and over, and spell out anything less. Like the number two.
Anyway.
Anyway...
I'm looking for something -- have been for years -- without having any idea what it is I'm looking for. I noticed the other day that I feel disconnected from the world, like I'm a few seconds out of sync with everything else, like there's a layer of Saran Wrap between me and the rest of existence.
It's weird, troubling, because it hasn't always been like this. I can remember a time, in high school, when I felt more connected to the world. When I could look at the sky and feel like I was really looking at the sky; when I could lay in the grass and really fell the grass pressing against my flesh.
Is this a part of growing old, or is this something unique to me, some kind of personal madness?
I'm not happy. Right at the moment, I'm not terribly sad either, but at the same time that's not good enough -- to define yourself based on what you aren't. I have moments of happiness. Sparks of joy. But they are fleeting.
More about that another day. Tommorow is story time.
Monday, July 05, 2004
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