Wow! What a novel idea! OMG NOBODY has ever suggested that to me! Actually all my life I’ve wanted to be a secretary. I used to write next to my goals in grade school right next to wanting to be a princess and wanting to be the head coach of the Canucks.
Hey buddy, here’s an interesting idea how about you take your preconceived notions about what makes someone a writer and shove it! It’s not the 1980s anymore. People aren’t defined by what they do from 9-5 pm. I’m a sister 24 hours a day and nobody ever calls me that ( well except of course for my sister).
A job is a job. And I shouldn’t be judged on whether I seem too smart for the job or what my motivations are for the job. I should be judged on whether I can do the job. And you know what? I can. It’s not brain surgery. Don’t try to cram everything you learned in your three-week Human Resources workshop into a series of juggling acts for a basic admin job. Get over yourself. It’s not that hard.
Humpfh!!!!
Showing posts with label the craft. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the craft. Show all posts
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Saturday, October 18, 2008
F*** the Media....
Can you imagine a time when being a journalist was as reputed as being a doctor? Today's reporter is on par with divorce lawyers or used car salesmen in terms of respectability. Some people see the Internet age as the death of the media. We see it already in the slow and terminal decline of the newspaper. Why read something that is so big and clumsy everyday when the "news" in it is already at least 24 hours old? When was the last time you read a daily newspaper from cover to cover ( the Globe and Mail weekend edition does not count!)
The only thing in print media that is actually increasing in sales is tabloids and that triggers another rant on the hypocrisy of celebrity culture and its impact on the Western World as a whole.
But does the rise of the Internet really mean the end for trained journalists? We can see the scary world of convergence all around us when we turn on Global and see a Province news writer delivering his take on the latest Premier's address; or when we flick on the Fox and hear the weather girl from CTV giving the afternoon traffic reports. The loss of independent news Media also means the loss of jobs for those of us standing on the outside of the inner sanctum of the CanWest conglomerate. But that is a given. If I was the owner of Canwest I don't think I would pay one person to write the news in my newspaper and one person to say it on my TV station and one person to read it on my radio station. You don't need an MBA to see that convergence is just another way for the company bigwigs to squeeze those last drops of water out of a dry well.
Newspapers, radio and TV news are all battling for second fiddle status behind the fast and varied news sources available to us through the click of a mouse. News on the Internet engages the reader in a way news in the paper, on the radio or on television can't. In the Internet age, it is up to the reader to seek out what news they want to know about. The reader seeks out information they want either by subscribing to RSS feeds from sources they trust like the Guardian, the Tyee or StreetNews or by actively searching out what stories they are interested in learning more about. While a snippet heard on the radio or flipped to during a commercial break of the Hills may pique the readers interest it is on the Internet that most readers will head to seek the full story.
It's almost a given that the article in the newspaper or the 2 minute story on the 5 o'clock news doesn't give the full story. TV news is edited for time and maximum impact. Articles in the paper are edited for length and often coloured by the bias of the writer and the publisher. Most conventional forms of news are dumbed down to reach the masses. However, on the Internet you can find news stories that are dumbed down and in-depth and told from a variety of angles.
I believe that the times when the newspaper or the 6 o’clock newscast would shape our days and impact change across communities is gone if it ever existed. The media is not that altruistic. The readers and watchers are not that gullible. Well, I’m sure some are. But those are the same people that buy whatever record gets the most airplay on the radio from Payola. I know there are a lot of people like that but I would argue those are not the people changing the world or contemplating running for office.
Newspapers and newscasts need to embrace technology and encompass it into their approach to news. We can already see that with newspaper websites and in-depth videos available online. But in order for them to continue to hold onto whatever small percentage of the media share they hold they need to increase their web presence. They need to invite pundits and local activists to write online columns and commentary on the stories in the papers and on the news. This would help to stimulate dialogue and help reach that lofty goal of inspiring change within the community. Without embracing the Internet more, the media as we know it will continue to dwindle and suffer from a lack of understanding and a lack of active readership.
The only thing in print media that is actually increasing in sales is tabloids and that triggers another rant on the hypocrisy of celebrity culture and its impact on the Western World as a whole.
But does the rise of the Internet really mean the end for trained journalists? We can see the scary world of convergence all around us when we turn on Global and see a Province news writer delivering his take on the latest Premier's address; or when we flick on the Fox and hear the weather girl from CTV giving the afternoon traffic reports. The loss of independent news Media also means the loss of jobs for those of us standing on the outside of the inner sanctum of the CanWest conglomerate. But that is a given. If I was the owner of Canwest I don't think I would pay one person to write the news in my newspaper and one person to say it on my TV station and one person to read it on my radio station. You don't need an MBA to see that convergence is just another way for the company bigwigs to squeeze those last drops of water out of a dry well.
Newspapers, radio and TV news are all battling for second fiddle status behind the fast and varied news sources available to us through the click of a mouse. News on the Internet engages the reader in a way news in the paper, on the radio or on television can't. In the Internet age, it is up to the reader to seek out what news they want to know about. The reader seeks out information they want either by subscribing to RSS feeds from sources they trust like the Guardian, the Tyee or StreetNews or by actively searching out what stories they are interested in learning more about. While a snippet heard on the radio or flipped to during a commercial break of the Hills may pique the readers interest it is on the Internet that most readers will head to seek the full story.
It's almost a given that the article in the newspaper or the 2 minute story on the 5 o'clock news doesn't give the full story. TV news is edited for time and maximum impact. Articles in the paper are edited for length and often coloured by the bias of the writer and the publisher. Most conventional forms of news are dumbed down to reach the masses. However, on the Internet you can find news stories that are dumbed down and in-depth and told from a variety of angles.
I believe that the times when the newspaper or the 6 o’clock newscast would shape our days and impact change across communities is gone if it ever existed. The media is not that altruistic. The readers and watchers are not that gullible. Well, I’m sure some are. But those are the same people that buy whatever record gets the most airplay on the radio from Payola. I know there are a lot of people like that but I would argue those are not the people changing the world or contemplating running for office.
Newspapers and newscasts need to embrace technology and encompass it into their approach to news. We can already see that with newspaper websites and in-depth videos available online. But in order for them to continue to hold onto whatever small percentage of the media share they hold they need to increase their web presence. They need to invite pundits and local activists to write online columns and commentary on the stories in the papers and on the news. This would help to stimulate dialogue and help reach that lofty goal of inspiring change within the community. Without embracing the Internet more, the media as we know it will continue to dwindle and suffer from a lack of understanding and a lack of active readership.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Five-Day Old Pizza and Maxi Pads.....The Long Anticipated Conclusion....
I'd seen Greg's filthy basement suite a few times before, so I'm not sure how my overly-dramatic pubescent head morphed the smell of dirty laundry and half-eaten food into the mirage of vanilla-scented candles and freshly laundered linens; but so goes the mind of a girl who for years well past her teen cursed herself for not sending a b-cup bra to Luke Perry for him to autograph instead of her real Warner's A-cup sports bra.
But even in hindsight, the suite was messier than I'd ever seen. I guess the honeymoon was officially over. There was no more hiding stuff in closets or behind the couch, this was Greg; this was Greg's filth: love it or lump it.
So I loved it. I loved it with all I had. I just closed my eyes and tried to remember the lines from every schmaltzy first-time teen love scene I could remember. Downing that half bottle of jack really helped me get into character. We weren't two rebel without a cause teens in a condemned basement tryin to fumble our way through baseball metaphors; we were Brenda and Dylan at the Bellagio on Prom Night; we were Diane Court and Lloyd Dobler in the back of the car after graduation. We were anyone we could think of to be except ourselves.
Because we were embarrassing. There was hapless clothes pulling; there was awkward shifting and accidental hair-pulling; there was outright shock and full-on staring; and most unexpectedly there was a surprise visit from my Aunt Flo that was not only unexpected but unknown until after the fact.
The look of horror on Greg's face is something that haunted me for years to come. Any delusions of his cool exterior and sexual experience fizzled into nothingness as I tried to explain that sometimes "Aunt Flo" came unexpectedly and I swore up and down and even looked up for him on the Internet that he was not going to 'catch anything' from me.
I guess the copious amounts of drugs and alcohol consumed that night did nothing to ease the tension of the awful conclusion to our soap opera rendevous. There was no closing our eyes and pretending anymore. I thought I was going to literally pass out from embarrassment. I seriously was periodically checking my pulse and putting my head out the window for some air. Greg was so red. Not just red in the face; his whole body was red with embarrassment.
Everything was way too real. There was blood: on the bed; on my clothes; on him. Then I started to notice other cracks in the facade. There was a moldy pan with what seemed to be old mac and cheese next to the night stand. there were about three empty pizza boxes at the foot of the bed. There were fruit flies buzzing around a heap of dirty laundry.
While Greg was in the shower "decontaminating himself," I was becoming more and more aware that I was not in the penthouse suite of the Bellagio or even the comfortable back seat of a car. I was in a pig sty and I was starting to feel itchy and nauseous. I suddenly started to notice three tiny pink marks on my thigh. I scratched them and they almost instantly turned into red protruding welts. I couldn't take it.
I called my dad and asked him to pick me up. When Greg got out of the shower he was a bit less disgusted with me but still none too pleased that I had somehow become "allergic" to his place.
"you've been here before, and never had anything like this happen!," he grumbled, still stumbling from the booze and the atrosity that we had both participated in." Well his place had never been this disgusting I thought. And I'd never spent more than twenty minutes at his place before. And I'd certainly never done anything like whatever we had just done at his place before.
He didn't put up much of a fight. We both wanted the night to be over. Neither of us could look the other in the eye. Greg locked up the basement and decided to spend the night on his parents' couch. He left in such a hurry but I was too relieved to see him go to care.
No hug, no kiss not even a wave goodbye; just a random nod in my direction. But I certainly wanted no bodily contact with him at that moment. I didn't think I wanted any bodily contact with anyone ever again.
But even in hindsight, the suite was messier than I'd ever seen. I guess the honeymoon was officially over. There was no more hiding stuff in closets or behind the couch, this was Greg; this was Greg's filth: love it or lump it.
So I loved it. I loved it with all I had. I just closed my eyes and tried to remember the lines from every schmaltzy first-time teen love scene I could remember. Downing that half bottle of jack really helped me get into character. We weren't two rebel without a cause teens in a condemned basement tryin to fumble our way through baseball metaphors; we were Brenda and Dylan at the Bellagio on Prom Night; we were Diane Court and Lloyd Dobler in the back of the car after graduation. We were anyone we could think of to be except ourselves.
Because we were embarrassing. There was hapless clothes pulling; there was awkward shifting and accidental hair-pulling; there was outright shock and full-on staring; and most unexpectedly there was a surprise visit from my Aunt Flo that was not only unexpected but unknown until after the fact.
The look of horror on Greg's face is something that haunted me for years to come. Any delusions of his cool exterior and sexual experience fizzled into nothingness as I tried to explain that sometimes "Aunt Flo" came unexpectedly and I swore up and down and even looked up for him on the Internet that he was not going to 'catch anything' from me.
I guess the copious amounts of drugs and alcohol consumed that night did nothing to ease the tension of the awful conclusion to our soap opera rendevous. There was no closing our eyes and pretending anymore. I thought I was going to literally pass out from embarrassment. I seriously was periodically checking my pulse and putting my head out the window for some air. Greg was so red. Not just red in the face; his whole body was red with embarrassment.
Everything was way too real. There was blood: on the bed; on my clothes; on him. Then I started to notice other cracks in the facade. There was a moldy pan with what seemed to be old mac and cheese next to the night stand. there were about three empty pizza boxes at the foot of the bed. There were fruit flies buzzing around a heap of dirty laundry.
While Greg was in the shower "decontaminating himself," I was becoming more and more aware that I was not in the penthouse suite of the Bellagio or even the comfortable back seat of a car. I was in a pig sty and I was starting to feel itchy and nauseous. I suddenly started to notice three tiny pink marks on my thigh. I scratched them and they almost instantly turned into red protruding welts. I couldn't take it.
I called my dad and asked him to pick me up. When Greg got out of the shower he was a bit less disgusted with me but still none too pleased that I had somehow become "allergic" to his place.
"you've been here before, and never had anything like this happen!," he grumbled, still stumbling from the booze and the atrosity that we had both participated in." Well his place had never been this disgusting I thought. And I'd never spent more than twenty minutes at his place before. And I'd certainly never done anything like whatever we had just done at his place before.
He didn't put up much of a fight. We both wanted the night to be over. Neither of us could look the other in the eye. Greg locked up the basement and decided to spend the night on his parents' couch. He left in such a hurry but I was too relieved to see him go to care.
No hug, no kiss not even a wave goodbye; just a random nod in my direction. But I certainly wanted no bodily contact with him at that moment. I didn't think I wanted any bodily contact with anyone ever again.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Five-Day Old Pizza and Maxi Pads.....PART 2.....
Some people describe first love as euphoric and all-encompassing: an exhilarating magic carpet ride that takes you to all the most beautiful places in the world. I would say, not so much. First love is full of missteps and awkward moments intermitten with gooey feelings of attachment and overall horniess. But I wouldn't say I'm a pessimist; more a realist. Let's face it 98 per cent of first loves last a good 6 months longer than they should due to a contagious attachment disease, I like to call Awkward-repetition-avoidance-itis.
I mean, who hasn't comtemplated overlooking the ocassional sexual daliance due to the fact that a) you don't want to go through the whole body positions/body image/bodily functions comfort dance with another new guy; or b) you don't think you will ever be able to afford an apartment as nice as the one you two share, on your own.
But sometimes awkwardness comes upon a hill called horrific embarrassment. For most people, their innate awkwardness would give way to control and thus, they would be able to avoid horrific embarrassment. But when first love awkwardness is coupled with habitual cocaine usage and unbearable PMS cramps, you get a case of horrific embarrassment, or as I like to call it, the tale of Five Day old Pizza and Maxi Pads.......
There was something about Greg that screamed bad boy with a heart of gold. He still had his learner's license when he first met, but he had blacked out some of the letters on his "student driver" sign so it said, instead,"Stunt Driver." Very cool, that was Greg. Very loud, very forward, very abrupt; but very, very cool. He didn't have many friends, which seemed appropriate. Not everyone was in on this secret: Greg was very, very cool.
Greg was the perfect antidote to everything that ailed me. I was mischevious and ready to rebel against anything and everything in my path. I had spent too many summers looking for the perfect Dylan MacKay to match wits with my improbable Brenda Walsh. My own personal Luke Spencer to sweep me off my feet and carry me away from my abismal existence as a wallflowerish Laura Webber. That was one problem straight off the bat. We both watched far too much TV to understand what a real relationship with drugs and curfews and naked bodies and unreturned phone calls would be like.
There was nothing Greg could do that wasn't absolutely perfect. Sometimes I would break a date with him and not return his phone calls just so I could make him mad and hear him scream to me how much he loved me. He loved me a lot. He would scream it from rooftops; outside my house when I was grounded; on the family answering machine so everyone in my family could hear it.
He loved me so much that when I finally got the courage to admit to him that I could not sleep over that night because I had a visit from"Aunt Flo," he was actually relieved. At least I was not falling out of love with him; or worse falling in love with someone else. Besides, it's all part of Mother Nature's plan, right?
So despite my better judgement, and with a lack of understanding what a night at Greg's place would really entail, I preceded to prepare for a sleepover. I left my house that night with stars in my eyes and dreams of a magical night filled with candles and soft music and rose petals. When I returned less than 24 hours later, there were no more delusions of grandeur in my head. Just the all-emcompassing fear that if Greg ever broke up with me I might have to relive that horrific embarrassment all over again with someone new.........
I mean, who hasn't comtemplated overlooking the ocassional sexual daliance due to the fact that a) you don't want to go through the whole body positions/body image/bodily functions comfort dance with another new guy; or b) you don't think you will ever be able to afford an apartment as nice as the one you two share, on your own.
But sometimes awkwardness comes upon a hill called horrific embarrassment. For most people, their innate awkwardness would give way to control and thus, they would be able to avoid horrific embarrassment. But when first love awkwardness is coupled with habitual cocaine usage and unbearable PMS cramps, you get a case of horrific embarrassment, or as I like to call it, the tale of Five Day old Pizza and Maxi Pads.......
There was something about Greg that screamed bad boy with a heart of gold. He still had his learner's license when he first met, but he had blacked out some of the letters on his "student driver" sign so it said, instead,"Stunt Driver." Very cool, that was Greg. Very loud, very forward, very abrupt; but very, very cool. He didn't have many friends, which seemed appropriate. Not everyone was in on this secret: Greg was very, very cool.
Greg was the perfect antidote to everything that ailed me. I was mischevious and ready to rebel against anything and everything in my path. I had spent too many summers looking for the perfect Dylan MacKay to match wits with my improbable Brenda Walsh. My own personal Luke Spencer to sweep me off my feet and carry me away from my abismal existence as a wallflowerish Laura Webber. That was one problem straight off the bat. We both watched far too much TV to understand what a real relationship with drugs and curfews and naked bodies and unreturned phone calls would be like.
There was nothing Greg could do that wasn't absolutely perfect. Sometimes I would break a date with him and not return his phone calls just so I could make him mad and hear him scream to me how much he loved me. He loved me a lot. He would scream it from rooftops; outside my house when I was grounded; on the family answering machine so everyone in my family could hear it.
He loved me so much that when I finally got the courage to admit to him that I could not sleep over that night because I had a visit from"Aunt Flo," he was actually relieved. At least I was not falling out of love with him; or worse falling in love with someone else. Besides, it's all part of Mother Nature's plan, right?
So despite my better judgement, and with a lack of understanding what a night at Greg's place would really entail, I preceded to prepare for a sleepover. I left my house that night with stars in my eyes and dreams of a magical night filled with candles and soft music and rose petals. When I returned less than 24 hours later, there were no more delusions of grandeur in my head. Just the all-emcompassing fear that if Greg ever broke up with me I might have to relive that horrific embarrassment all over again with someone new.........
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Five-Day Old Pizza and Maxi Pads.....PART 1.....
You know how the plucky heroine always seems gets herself into some cringe-worthy jam and then she has to comeclean and get a bit embarrassed but it doesn't even matter because everyone always ends up liking her more for her honesty?
Why is it never like that in real life? How come dumb Baby can tell hot Patrick Swazye she "carried a watermelon" and STILL end up with the guy and everyone rooting for her? How come the Shopoholic can fully plan and pay for two lavish weddings in separate countries and then is just given a playful shove when she admits to her financier fiance that she just wasted like$50,000 and 100 of hours of time planning impractical weddings?
Real Diasters are never that cute and are never resolved tidily. Real disasters involve PAIN, HUMILIATION, and LIFE-THREATENING EMBARASSMENT.
Real disasters involve missteps and drunken decisions and flared tempers and, sometimes, sometimes, if you are really and truly unlucky in love and life, sometimes they involve five-day old pizza and maxi pads....
Why is it never like that in real life? How come dumb Baby can tell hot Patrick Swazye she "carried a watermelon" and STILL end up with the guy and everyone rooting for her? How come the Shopoholic can fully plan and pay for two lavish weddings in separate countries and then is just given a playful shove when she admits to her financier fiance that she just wasted like$50,000 and 100 of hours of time planning impractical weddings?
Real Diasters are never that cute and are never resolved tidily. Real disasters involve PAIN, HUMILIATION, and LIFE-THREATENING EMBARASSMENT.
Real disasters involve missteps and drunken decisions and flared tempers and, sometimes, sometimes, if you are really and truly unlucky in love and life, sometimes they involve five-day old pizza and maxi pads....
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
DEBT!
okay, so may be this whole self-employed thing isn't really going as well as I expected at first. In my head, I imagined it all coffee shops and meetings and quality lap top time. In reality it is a lot of drinking dirty tap water and religiously reading perez hilton until 3 pm when I watch Amanada Bynes in What I Like About You.
Not really a bad life, really, except for one thing. I have no money! And I keep spending money I don't have. And I don't want to stop. And I won't! So what can I do? I guess I willhave to bite the bullet and get a real job. It was a great dream while it lasted!
Not really a bad life, really, except for one thing. I have no money! And I keep spending money I don't have. And I don't want to stop. And I won't! So what can I do? I guess I willhave to bite the bullet and get a real job. It was a great dream while it lasted!
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
To Write is to Live.....
In ninth grade creative writing class, I developed a somewhat unhealthy obsession with melo-drama that I never really got over. I think the instigator might have been the summer of the soaps when I seriously watched All My Children, One Life to Live and General Hospital everyday for two months straight. I was convinced that something life-shattering was going to happen to me just like when Karen Wexler became addicted to pills and a stripper at Sonny's club; or when Marty was gang-banged by a group of drunken frat boys (except Kevin, who felt bad about it and I think later, ended up dating Marty for a while). And instead of being afraid or even worried about what impending travails were ahead of me. I daydreamed about it. I wrote long-winded over-wrought short stories about it.
Everyone has their share of bad teenage angst poetry but how many of us can lay claim to melo-dramatic 'Fear Street' rip-off short stories always staring themselves as the victim/protagonist who repeatedly dies at the end of the 500-word soapy narrative?
My writing teacher started to get a bit concerned. He was also the school guidance counsellor. So he asked me about them and with a little prodding I conceded that my hum-drum life was far too basic and pedestrian for anyone to take interest in. That's when the hippie teacher dropped some of his hard-earned knowledge.
"To write is to live," he said. "And when you have a writer's soul, and believe me, you do, you won't have to sit down and write, one day it will all come out of you uncontrollably."
That has stuck with me longer than anything else I have ever learned. Now I think my naive writing teacher might have underestimated my powers of procrastination and the depths of apathy that lie beneath my cheery exterior, but his message remains the mantra that i whisper to myself when I feel down about my lack of productivity. Through the clouds and beneath the muddy confines of my befuddled mind, there is a Governor General's award waiting to happen. I just have to look for it.... tomorrow.
Everyone has their share of bad teenage angst poetry but how many of us can lay claim to melo-dramatic 'Fear Street' rip-off short stories always staring themselves as the victim/protagonist who repeatedly dies at the end of the 500-word soapy narrative?
My writing teacher started to get a bit concerned. He was also the school guidance counsellor. So he asked me about them and with a little prodding I conceded that my hum-drum life was far too basic and pedestrian for anyone to take interest in. That's when the hippie teacher dropped some of his hard-earned knowledge.
"To write is to live," he said. "And when you have a writer's soul, and believe me, you do, you won't have to sit down and write, one day it will all come out of you uncontrollably."
That has stuck with me longer than anything else I have ever learned. Now I think my naive writing teacher might have underestimated my powers of procrastination and the depths of apathy that lie beneath my cheery exterior, but his message remains the mantra that i whisper to myself when I feel down about my lack of productivity. Through the clouds and beneath the muddy confines of my befuddled mind, there is a Governor General's award waiting to happen. I just have to look for it.... tomorrow.
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