erroneous Times

The Copy Desk, Defined

Q. O.K., I’ll ask. What is the copy desk? What, briefly, is it’s history? Was the copy desk the place from which young copy boys [never girls] would run with paper to “stop the presses”? Is it really a “desk”? What do you do to manage them?

— Robert M. Lefland, New City, N.Y.

The copy desk is what should not have let the contraction "it's" pass for the posessive "its" in Rob's question.

proofreading

"Neat or disheveled, even asleep, snoring from a stuffed nose and drooling from the corner of her mouth, a woman is beautiful."
--Louis Ferrante, Unlocked: A Journey from Prison to Proust

Louis, I'm slowly learning that realization.

I'm proofreading at Café Grumpy, and there's a hipster giving me googly eyes while typing on his Mac. At first, I thought if I checked out Craig's List's Missed Connections, I'll find a post similar to: "Hello, redhead with a ton of paper. You were on your Mac with Bose in-ears, and I was opposite you, bespecled and bearded and on a Mac of my own. Let's say we get together some time and swap applications?" However, this guy had balls.

He walked toward me and said: "Proofreading? I'm a copy editor." I learned he's edited Barack Obama, James Frey (the Million Little Pieces liar), and a handful of other names that escape me, mainly from Random House. Instead of being impressed, I asked if it ever crossed his mind that Frey was a liar, and he seemed offended that I questioned his skills.

"What are you working on?" he re-directed. I told him and then brought up an error that the original copy editor -- and all other eyes that passed the page during production -- missed. On page 220, I pointed to this sentence: "I sometimes spoke to myself in Old English, like Chaucer might've spoken."

"You're mistaken if you think you need an 'e' at the end of 'Old.'"

"Too bad Chaucer spoke Middle English. Old English would have been too Germanic for him to understand."

He smirked, did a gentlemanly "get back to your work," and asked if we could continue our fact-obsessed conversation at a bar later. I declined and mentioned I frequent the café if he needed to a refresher in English-language history.

my kind of customer service

"Thank you for calling the [bookstore]. This is PR. How may I help you?"

"I purchased the SPSS software with my textbook for statistics in psychology. I've used it about four times without a problem, but the Web site told me my code is invalid today. What should I do?"

"Did you call SPSS?"

"No, because I bought it from you."

"Well, we have nothing to do with the software or its Web site. You should complain to SPSS."

"But I bought it from you. There's nothing you could do?"

"If the disk had been defective, we would have exchanged it, but that can't be the case since you've successfully used the software."

"But if I buy a DVD from Best Buy and it doesn't work, I get a replacement from the store."

"That's a bad analogy. A better one is me buying an Adobe product from the Apple store, then after a month Adobe tells me my serial number is invalid. I take it up with Adobe, not Apple."

"I want to speak to your manager."

***
Earlier, my manager had said: "Going to be an editor soon? We're knocking all the temps down a day." So really trying to get a job isn't good enough?

At least my horoscope is optimistic:

March 20, 2008 -- One of the very best times of the year begins for you today and if you are the kind of Leo who is ready and willing to take risks there is no limit to what you might accomplish over the next four weeks or so. Do only what feels right for you, not what feels right for other people.

***
Insult Me, I couldn't have put it better myself, and your post puts my attempt to shame.

bittersweet St. Paddy's

I didn't celebrate St. Patrick's Day this year. I don't remember celebrating it last year either -- the last proper St. Pat's celebration I had was when Ash, Jess, and I proudly supported Stanners marching up Fifth Avenue -- and a quick search of the LJ says I was writing a paper on "Little Red Riding Hood," fueled with the excitement that comes with having a summer internship with the rock stars of publishing. I was also thrilled that Neil Gaiman would be in town in a month.

This year I'm disenchanted with my lack of permanent employment. Didn't I do everything right: summa cum laude, honors program, certificate in publishing... Copyediting Prof, who's training me in proofreading, said I might be too smart for an editor looking for an assistant. Too smart? Since when does intelligence hinder someone working in an erudite field?

Today's going to be a day of sending cover letters and résumés. And a car bomb or two if my family's fridge still has that Guinness.

***
Andrew was watching "New Amsterdam" last night, a show Gothamist refers to as "a mashup of Pocahontas and 'Forever Knight.'" I'm as glad as the next Knightie to see FK finally in the mainstream vernacular (must've been the only girl in high school crushing on a middle-aged Welsh actor, whom I later saw in a one-man play), but why isn't anyone up in arms that "New Amsterdam" is a complete rip-off of Pete Hamill's Forever? I think the writers sexed it up a bit -- a Native American princess saves the protagonist instead of an African shaman -- but it's the same story.

Do I read too much? I should cut back and then perhaps get a job in books. Well, not if this novelist strike continues. (You don't know how hard I laughed when I read "Richard Bachman."):

Novelists Strike Fails To Affect Nation Whatsoever

LOS ANGELES—The economy has seen no adverse effects, as American consumers easily adjust to the sudden cessation of any bold new sprawling works of fiction.

unoriginal ideas and new horizons

Around Valentine's Day I started writing this post about how phony I find a writer/Internet personality. I don't think it's finished, but it works well with what I have to say now (perhaps appropriately on St. Patrick's Day):

I don't know when Time Out New York decided to change its format -- the magazine seems to be adding new features that clutter its already catering-to-those-with-ADD pages every few months -- but included with the weekly listings of things to do in the city that never sleeps is a section called Seek, and its star is Julia Allison.

In addition to having two first names, she is a faming asshole in the business of writing relationship columns. (TONY snagged her from AMNY.) Somehow, she didn't see her own relationship breaking up from a mile away when the couple decided to blog about their relationship, and he didn't fulfill his writing commitment. (Silly Julia, guys never commit!) I read her column in Seek because it's a column, not just a graphic -- which is what Time Out New York is turning into, a magazine filled with blurbs and pictures instead of writing. Julia's writing usually leaves me with an "Eh," but I wholeheartedly agreed with her opinions about gray relationships. (Are you listening, Guy?)

For Valentine's Day, she's on the cover, showing her digits, and writing about branding yourself. She can switch on Julia Allison™ and become as fake as she wants to snag some guy. I'm all for making a good impression, but soon enough the guy's going to discover the scars hidden with makeup and a c'est la vie exterior.

Perhaps she'll empower enough women to not turn out like herself, but that's giving her too much credit.

I, for one, am not turning into a PR™. Man-less year is over. Though I'm sure we snagged each other thanks to mutual respect, shared aesthetic beliefs, and genuine enjoyment of company, he's mentioned how he likes that I'm a "local girl," recognizes my intensity -- Bill calls it an Atlas Complex -- and doesn't seem to mind my blunt honesty. (My opinion? He's wonderfully quirky, talented, affectionate, and insightful; I am unworthy.) Gradually my hesitations and assumptions are fleeing, and taking everything slowly, though not without drunken reveling, is working.

In short I didn't have to brand myself and simply was, and continue to be, myself. I'm not discounting Julia's unoriginal idea that you need a certain confidence and positive attitude but a brand? Not for me.

So things are developing, acquaintances being made, and I'm still reading TONY. This week Julia acknowledges her failed relationship-blogging experiment and concludes: "When in a relationship and especially when ending one, take a deep breath and Step. Away. From. The computer," because the Internet knows all and will do damage, particularly if you badmouth after a break-up.

The beginning of her sentence, which I emphasized in italics, had already been made an Executive Decision regarding this new horizon on the (private) LJ:

It's strange to see a relationship blossom and crumble on the Internet. ... When you're thrown into a new environment, it helps to have these resources in order to fill in the blanks ... but [reminders of happier times are] probably heartbreaking for them. ... I don't want any of this made permanent in pixels, advice I'm not following by writing this.

So this post is, and will be, the only thing made public about my failed -- though not for lack of trying -- man-less year. And Julia Allison should find some topics to write about that aren't already QED.

don't mess with Texas

And don't fuck with Brooklyn.

Today was full of adventures, including mingling momentarily with hipsters in Williamsburg for something their store was out of anyway and cursing Old Navy for making cute shirts that either show too much boobage or make me look preggers. (Sticking with H&M the next time I need something classy and sexy.)

After purchasing Vampire Weekend's eponymous CD, I went to Cosi. As I opened the door, three up-to-no-good-kins figured I was the doorman, so they entered before I did and proceeded to take up the three registers.

As I was readying my Cosi Card, one of the cashiers asked for the next customer. The no-good-kins didn't know what they wanted, and none of them moved out of the way.

"Excuse me," I began. "If you're not ordering, you shouldn't be standing there."

"She be from the ghetto with that attitude!" one of them wrongfully observed.

"No, she be from Brooklyn. Now order or move it."

They did (move it).

periodical round-up

• Time Out: New York loves The Adding Machine. Not usually one for musicals, for one as bleak as this I'll make an exception.

• Bust advertises anatomically correct underwear, and when you check out the seller's complete shop it's practically a love letter to Law and Order: Special Victims Unit. (Olivia has always been my homegirl!)

• Another example of my infallibility: After reading an e-mail where "I like kissing you" was written, I thought: You don't like kissing me; you like kissing. This article in Scientific American: Mind says the same thing with more words.

• I'd link to Psychology Today's article about perfectionists, but the site doesn't allow you to read the whole thing. Long story short: perfection isn't good enough for perfectionists. Who knew?

• Reading the names "Frans de Waal" and "Robert Sapolsky" on the same page is a huge turn on for pseudo physical anthropologists, and sadly the Discover article with them is not yet available online. This rambling will give you you gist.

*EDIT*

• My Pat Kiernan crush beats your Bobby Cuza crush. I can't imagine how much money New York 1 could raise if it auctioned off its men. (And, re: article, thank Jeebus my Xanga is no longer in Google's cache.)

• The "campsite rule" is a misnomer: The site has been used and will be used again. All you can do is spark a fire and stoke it until it you tire of the wilderness or it burns itself out. (Oh, allusions!)

you'd be wrong

If you thought I didn't take recycling seriously.



(It should read "plastic bottles," but I'm not going to re-Photoshop.)

reviews

"I have had it with these motherfucking dinos in this motherfucking park!"
--Samuel L. Jackson

I have a funny feeling the stage production of Jurassic Park last night was illegal. It was held in the attic of a bodega, the audience sat on a bare floor, and the ringleader continually reminded us not to idle in front of the building if you had to step out.

The best summary I could give is from my co-worker: "It's a third-grade production for adults." It was, and the earlier scenes were much funnier than the latter ones -- perhaps the troupe figured the audiences would get drunk or high by the end -- but the staging and music were incredibly inventive: cardboard legs stood in for a full brachiosaur, John Hammond answered his cell phone that rang with John Williams's score, and the Mr. DNA scene (sound completely stolen from the movie) featured excellent puppetry. I found the actors rushed the ending, even messing up the chronology of when the electricity returns to the park, but it was worth the $7 admission.

For no admission I got to catch a screening of "The Family Tie," brainchild of a self-proclaimed film artist, in Tribeca a few weeks ago. Before the thirty-minute featurette began, a handful of other shorts played. I don't remember if there was a plot other than revenge because I was too busy laughing at the resourcefulness of a torturer in an office setting -- screw the glue, he's going to staple those Post-Its to your face! -- and at a successful suicide gone horribly wrong. (Fantastic money shot.)

I believe my favorite video from the director's vault, about banking (or lack thereof) on Columbus Day, wasn't shown that night, so here it is:


I like my paycheck, too. Though depositing can be inconvenient, the gratification received from endorsing checks never gets old.

do the math

Dear Target:

The next time you draw me to Elmhurst due to a sale on eyedrops, ensure the sale makes sense. Why would I buy two 15mL bottles of Systane for $14 when one 30mL bottle is $12.39?

At least you redeemed yourself this trip with Swiffer Wet Jet "rags." When's your next Bausch and Lomb sale?

Hugs for having lower prices and a better selection than Duane Reade,
PR