Not My Blog
Friday, April 27, 2001
Yo, Grant! I found an entry for The Dumbass Ad of the Week: from the shampoo hucksters Inner Science. Tagline: "How old is your hair?" Oh, must they? And because this is so obviously targeting women, the ad has all sorts of sexual language in the copy: "penetrates," "lather," "shaft," "body," etc. Not to mention "cream rinse." Sex sells, even in shampoo, apparently.
Actually, Grant, I was wondering if you could move the Grantcam to a more salubrious location - perhaps in the birdcage? Nothing will replace the image of you working diligently at your station, surrounded by books and discs. And the image of your servers stacked neatly in your basement is definitely different. It reminds me of a Terry Gilliam set from "Brazil." Okay, tell you what: Move the birdcage into the basement beside the servers. Just so we can see something alive beside all the computers. p.S. Thanks again for reconnecting us to the world. How much do I owe you? Do tell.
Oh, I have to admit, he's a rare and wonderfully talented human being, even if he did whomp me 331 to 282 in Scrabble.
Can it be possible? Apparently I am not alone in my preference for the term Not My Dog. Thanks to my vigilant and generous friend Nikki Tate, who has not only sent me all of her great books, but found the aforementioned dog tale and mailed it to me.
Sleep, sleep, elusive sleep. Finally I had more than 5 hours at a stretch. Loved it. Yet I still think fondly of those days when I could stay up for 40 hours at a time and still write term papers, letters, and short stories. I'm off for a weekend of kiddie-wrangling in Red Deer tonight, so sleep will be even more of a precious commodity than it already is.
Monday, April 23, 2001
Oh, the weekend. Good from a dog's point of view. Bad from a work point of view. Friday night was the Ad Rodeo, which was a crush of people and spectacle. Odd things happened: it was a mostly entertaining ceremony, but, like last year, there was no suspense or drama in the awards themselves. The only suspense was finding out whether you'd made the finals or not. Often, a particular category would feature three pieces by the same company. Hmm....I wonder who's going to win? So the company would win, yes, but you wouldn't know which of the three pieces was the winner. And then sometimes there was only one company in the category. That's always a nailbiter, she says with just a smidgen of sarcasm. The awards themselves went fairly quickly, with very entertaining emceeing by a local music personality, Tim Tamashiro, a.k.a. the "Wise-assed Crooner." But after the awards, the woman in charge of the event came out, along with the two gents who are organizing it next year, and proceeded to talk for about 15 minutes about details, people to thank, responsibilities, etc. Everyone was dying for a drink, a pee break, a leg stretch, but on and on went the "housekeeping" speech. I think this could better have been handled by an insert in the brochure, frankly, since no one will remember who she was thanking, or who’s organizing the Rodeo in the future.. And then, and THEN--they didn't even thank Tim Tamashiro for hosting the event! Quite a bad oversight, I thought.
Saturday: Early to the park with the mutt. Then off for my long run with the marathon class. I am immensely flab-ridden, but it’s a nice day, and I see an osprey bomb into the Bow River and rise with a trout. Then back to my apartment to pick up junk for local recycling meet. Then back to grab dog and go for long hike along river. Then back to house for long nap. Later in evening, more walks with the hound to get over depression at Edmonton Oilers losing in playoffs.
Sunday: Walk with der hund at Nosehill Park for 2 hours. Then home to stare at pile of work in corner. Then another nap, interrupted by Bryce calling from Vancouver. I reassure him that his dog is still alive. Then out with dog to River Park, where we meet a hippy with a husky. She called it Spirit. I thought she said “Spit.” Anyway, it was a husky, so it didn’t listen. Back to the house, bake for 4 hours to create biscotti and almond choux pastries for the Karo kiddies. Considering getting more than 5 hours sleep a night from now on.
Friday, April 20, 2001
Yay Duane, yay Duane, publishing kingpin-in-training. Flourish mightily in New York, Bad Man. Get in an Ulti game or two.
Up until 3:30 a.m. working on restaurant copy. Will pay good money for synonyms for "savour," "delectable," "delicacy," "tantalizing," "delicious," "luscious," "lush," "flavourful" and "appetite." Considered using the phrase "an espresso/orange infusion that's a total orgasm of the palate" to be accurate, but rejected it as being a shade too risky.
Tonight will gaze at the splendour of Cowtown ad hackery at the annual Ad Rodeo, where I will feel, as usual, out of place and frumpish. I look crappy in animal prints. I'm in the wrong industry.
Wednesday, April 18, 2001
Oh, hey. Thanks, Grant. The cheque is in the mail, or will be as soon as I know what I should put on it, hint hint...
My old pal Laur, a.k.a. Vinnie, just heard that her company may be tits up. Shame. How could that venture fail? These people do great websites for such t.v. shows as Survivor (which, incidentally, uses a couple of images from the old place).
I've been laid off in a major downsizing, and I've survived a major downsizing, and I can tell you, surviving is easier at first.
Marathon training update: To my utter surprise and secret delight, I was able to do a 5K this morning. My legs are cussing at me a bit right now, but they'll get over themselves.
How did you spend your Easter weekend? Food-poisoned for part of it. I thought I was just hungover on Sunday morning, but I stayed all a-sweatin' and a-squitterin' until late in the evening. The pounding headache went away at intervals, but I still have vestiges of it, two days later. Perhaps it was some intestinal microbe, rather than spoiled food. All I know is that there were 15 of us at dinner, including 4 strict vegetarians. The vegetarians didn't succumb, and I doubt that was because of their superior health. It wasn't the potatoes and gravy, because my cousin had that and she's fine. Et tu, turkey? Actually, et too much turkey.
Started the Honolulu Marathon Training Course last night. Am only chubbo in class. Perhaps the others secretly fear my superior stem cell storage. Anyway, oy! am I out of shape. The speedskating was good, but I can really tell I haven't been running much lately. I put down my goal of finishing the marathon in 5 hrs. or under, but after the first session, I may change that to "finishing the marathon without requiring repeated application of defib paddles."
Tuesday, April 10, 2001
Update: I'm going to change my business cards. Instead of "Copywriter", they'll now say "Stem Cell Motherlode."
Two hours to go until I hop into a rental car and head out to the mountains, ostensibly to write sparkling copy about the various comestibles and potables of the Chateau Lake Louise for an upcoming conference guide, but really (I suspect) to cadge a few free meals and drinkies out of the client.
Not that I won't do my job, writing, that is. Actually...I just re-read the foregoing and realize that it's my inner Catholic talking, the one who can't allow herself to enjoy any aspect of life without the requisite hairshirt and nettles. Just shuttup, you.
So last night was Grant's farewell party at EyeWire. I showed up shortly after 5 p.m. to find a scant handful of people, the others presumably have eaten, drunk, and run. It was a catered affair, too--and pardon me for saying it, because I think Grant's natural modesty would prefer a more subdued affair, if affair there must be--but dammit, EyeWire! Who's organizing these things? A generic wine and cheeser for the best, most brilliant, maverick, iconoclast, perfectionist, wizardly human you've ever had within your doors? Shee. Where were the skateboard contests? The Spaghetti-Os? The "First one to re-assemble a Studio Mac gets a shopping spree on eBay"?
I agree, though, that it was entirely heartwarming to see former employees from the early years and the many incarnations show up and give tributes to Grant and Terri. And somehow I wasn't surprised to find out he spent $1,647 on an Apple II back in the early 80s, a horrendous sum in those days, only to pull it apart there and then. Grant, Grant....et in arcadia tu.
Thursday, April 05, 2001
Loony Magnet Firing on All Cylinders: My legendary loony magnet, which ensures that I am frequently approached by those with a thin grasp on reality, kicked in minutes ago. I was walking back across the bridge, returning to work, when I came upon a heavyset man in a long coat, lumbering along. As I drew alongside him, he turned to me and loudly declared "JEWISH MAFIA!" I've had years of practise at not reacting to mundane lunacy, so I took no notice. The man kept up a tirade about Jewish overlords, the prophecies, how long will we allow ourselves to be enslaved, more prophecies, Nostradamus, world finance, zombified leaders, and so forth, until I was out of earshot. Frankly the thought of a Jewish mafia is entertaining: "I'm going to make you a knishe you can't refuse."
Wednesday, April 04, 2001
Ah hah! Fearless comes clean. She took the alarming leftovers home from the Sun Chiu Kee, then promptly dumped them into the garbage.
What the? Dreamed that I was recruited by activists to stage a ceremonial protest against J. Edgar Hoover. My role was to have both my feet, clad in gleaming white canvas shoes, nailed to the wall with large spikes. In my dream I chickened out at the last moment, probably when I realized it was going to hurt a lot, only to be pursued by the activists through a rabbit's warren of hallways. I dunno what Freud would have said, but I suspect that if I checked the t.v. listings for A&E, there'd be documentaries on the FBI, religious cults, and North American wildlife. Note to self: stop falling asleep in front of goddamn t.v.
Monday, April 02, 2001
Clarification: My office is the same size and shape as a 2,160 pt. Helvetica comma.
Whatever it was we ate, I'm pretty sure it wasn't flank steak. I'm guessing (a) tongue, (b) sweetbreads (a nauseating term for pancreas), or (c) brains. None of us have died, so it was obviously edible, and somewhat tasty, really, though it had a strange doughy, gluteney texture. But it leaves me wondering if the chef was having a laugh in the kitchen: Let's See What The Foreigners Will Eat if We Tell Them it's Flank Steak. I asked our server, but she insisted twice it was flank steak, even though the bits that had us worried looked *nothing* like the bits that were recognizable as beef. Still, Fearless earned her nickname yet again by taking home the leftovers.
Went to "Worst Case Scenario" last night, a documentary about a small Alberta town opposing the drilling, by Shell Oil, of a large sour gas well near the townsite. As usual, the irony of people protesting the exploration for oil and gas, then driving home in a vehicle that uses both, was bemusing to me. His Eminence David Suzuki was there, his shoulder strapped up from a disastrous bout of snowboarding (he's 65), and he was in a feisty mood. "Alberta is the worst producer of greenhouse emissions of all the provinces of Canada," he stated. You bet we are--because we've got the resources. If the tarsands or gas and mineral deposits were located anywhere else in the country, that region would then be the worst emitter of greenhouse toxins.
I'm not trying to suggest that the oil companies are right, and the townfolk wrong. Far from it. I just think that tunnel vision does no one any good, ultimately. The farmers protesting sour gas--how many of them use devastating amounts of pesticide, equally threatening to water tables and livestock? I think the answer won't come until we run out of non-renewable resources. Then we'll be forced to think of other forms of transportation and heating. I myself am trying to invent a Catholic car that runs on guilt.
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