Recently I was going through a shit-ton of my old emails in order to consolidate things as I have used an astonishing amount of the free space gmail provides to you, and I discovered something completely inane saved in a draft, as I am wont to do. This particular draft contained a job posting for a Freelance Copy Editor for an unnamed book publisher. I've only included a segment of it for the sake of space, with my favorite bit in bold.
In addition to reviewing text for typos and grammatical errors, the copy editor is responsible for:
+Making sure that all text follows house style.
+Checking that images align.
+Assuring that formatting is consistent.
+Making sure that the text wraps do not look awkward and are applied consistently.
+Eliminating orphans and widows.
I like when an otherwise serious job post has a sense of humor. The shitty thing is, half the time I might read this thinking, "what a great little joke they stuck in," and the other half of the time I'm thinking, "really?" It's all in how you read it...
But that job posting and description has nothing on the letter of interest the late Hunter S. Thompson presented to Jack Scott, editor of the Vancouver Sun. The man may have been somewhat insane, but you gotta admire his no bullshit attitude. At least when you're someone who smiles and takes a lot of shit.
The other night I also had the pleasure of interacting with a large volume of individuals from South Bend, Indiana. Now I had been there all of once, and stayed in something akin to a Motel 6. This was in that year 2005. But I really didn't see much of the town or interact with any of its inhabitants and was content to go on my way. Well this past Saturday I met a good number of folks from that area and they were all remarkably solid. They may not all have hailed from there initially, but they settled there and had a good vibe permeating them. So many people I run into are such absolute dingleberries that it makes it refreshing to kick it with chill folk.
The vibe continued when I headed to an establishment one might commonly refer to as a club. I will not give this club a name but will describe it as a warehouse type setting. Inside were not the individuals I expected. I don't go to clubs as a general rule, but I've wandered in here and there, and what I found could fit most stereotypical representations of clubs. The clientele here, instead, ran the gamut, and again everyone was just there to have a good time; no one was being a total dickhead. Now, in a mean-spirited vein, I could have done without a few of the creatures who had flung themselves into the throngs on the dance floor, but hey, hideous people have to party too.
You know what's way worse than a couple of creatures in a bar? When people talk shit about you and don't think you know it. It's not just that they don't think you're clever enough to realize, it's that they think you honestly could give a damn what their opinion of you is. Newsflash: I think you're a piece of shit, so that you don't like me is rather commensurate with my own opinion of you. Again, sometimes it might not hurt to be a little more Hunter S. Thompson. I feel as if this is not the first time I have raised this very thing in this here blog. And of course, by addressing that as I just did, it does imply that I give a bit of a damn what they think, but it's really the associated sentiment drawn from the actions. Semantics, posturing. Anyway, it's rather early in the morning and I have to be up rather early in the morning so I'm taking this opportunity to expire.