Monty Python - Spam

Lovely spam, wonderful spam

I'm not sure whether this is spam. It sounds vaguely like a bizarre yet sincere fan letter:

Just wishing you well, since
the gist of you,
from scanning a bit of your blog,
is much worth well-wishes. . .

Also, a tip, from one who values carefully horrified words, to another. . .

Right-Means matter!

And now for something completely different:

I'm an asshole (he's an asshole, what an asshole)

Are all men jerks, or is it just the ones in my life?

See that bed? That's the most comfortable bed in the world, a Marriott hotel bed, and I was supposed to be sleeping in it tonight and tomorrow night and the night after that, at the San Francisco Marriott, but instead what I did this afternoon was call and cancel my reservation, and it's all the fault of the Librarian, because he's an asshole.

Let me back up.

Last fall, before he became an asshole — or, at least, before I realized exactly how much of an asshole he truly is — he and I got to arguing about U2, and The Buzzcocks, and bands that either have or have not "sold out" by licensing their music for use in television commercials. He knows about music, and I know about advertising, and so as we argued we bashed out an idea for a paper we could write together. Rather than bash each other over the head.

We agreed, surprisingly enough because we so rarely do, that this would be a brilliant paper to give at the Pop Culture Association conference in San Francisco in March. We submitted an abstract and it was accepted and so, whenever we would hang out together, which was frequently two or three times a week, we would talk about our paper.

As the date of our presentation crept up on us, the first sign of incompatibility reared its head when, referring to the stack of papers he'd gathered for our initial research, he said, rather pointedly "I'll look through them first."

A week later he realized the deadline was approaching and not only hadn't he looked at the papers yet, but he was planning to go out of town for the weekend. He dropped by my office with the stack, and began whining about how he had no time. I asked how he was travelling. By plane, he replied. Then why not take the stack, or at least part of it, with you? Because I can't read on planes. What about the rest of the weekend, then? I don't know whether I'll have time...

Then leave them here, and I'll vet them. I have the time.

Well, I think I should look through them first...

Then take them with you.

Oh, I don't know, it's just too stressful...

I refrained from calling him a girl and said, How about this: why don't we divide the pile in half? I'll look through some; you take the rest with you, and if you have time, look at them. When are you coming back?

Sunday afternoon.

Why don't you give me a call when you're back, and maybe we can get together and see where we're at then.

No, I can't, I'll be too tired from the trip, and I know I'm going to need to relax and recover, you know?

Then give me at least some of the papers, and I'll look at them this weekend, and start drafting out our paper and our Powerpoint. He sighed, as though this were all too much for him to handle, and reluctantly agreed.

Last Monday, after his weekend away, we got together and I showed him what I had done, and what I had done was this: I'd vetted 20 papers and noted half were worthy of citation, and I'd cited them in Endnote. I'd begun a draft document (with citations) of our paper. And I'd created about a dozen snazzy slides, with links and pictures, in Powerpoint. I put it all on a Flash drive for him and told him I'd be out of commission all day Tuesday, because I had to be with a friend who was going to be in the hostpital. He said that's ok, he would work on it on Tuesday. I said I'd call him Tuesday night when I was home, and he could tell me where he was at.

Meanwhile, I'd long ago made my reservation at the hotel where the conference would be held, and had planned to be up there for the duration. I figured that, if there was still work that needed to be done on our paper, that we'd do it in my room

— I don't like the way that sounded —

and I felt confident, since both of us are, we said, deadline-driven, that we'd have our presentation ready to go on Friday morning.

On Tuesday night he called me and said, I've decided I'm not going to come up to the City on Wednesday or Thursday, I need to stay in my office and work on the paper alone.

What do you mean, work on the paper alone? We're supposed to be in this together.

I'm not like you; I can't work on a train or a bus or wherever; I have to be in my office, it's my sanctuary.

Um... this is not a novel you're writing, this is an academic paper. We need to be in the same place, brainstorming, looking things up, discussing, and writing.

I can't do that. I can't work that way. When I'm writing I have to write here, and alone.

Look, Kapp, this is not what we agreed to. We're supposed to be doing this together.

Why can't you go up there, and I'll stay here, and we'll just talk on the phone and email?

Because I'm going to strangle you, Jennifer.

We need to work on this together. I have the hotel room. We can work on it there. I thought you wanted to go to some of the conference sessions? They start tomorrow.

I know, I know, but I started thinking, if I go I'll have to change my voice mail message.... it's just too stressful, I don't want to do that to myself.

You have got to be kidding, Marsha.

That's just lame. I mean, seriously, that has to be the lamest excuse I've ever heard. Are you listening to yourself? You don't want to go because you'll have to change your voice mail greeting?

Oh... I don't know... I don't want to fight about this... I have to go, my ride is here. I'll call you when I get home.

Kapp doesn't have a car, and he doesn't have a computer at home — that's why he stays late in his office when he has work to do. He's not exactly a chart climber, if you take my meaning.

An hour later the phone rings. He says, how's this for a compromise. If you can postpone your reservation and stay in San Jose tomorrow, we can work on it tomorrow. Then you can go up on Thursday and I'll stay here and write the paper.

Do you hear yourself?

What?

You'll write the paper? What do you call that eleven page Word document I gave you on Monday?

Well, I thought those were just rough notes —

They are. That's how you begin a document. Kapp, have you ever worked on a paper with another person before?

Yes, once. And I guess I sort of took over then, too. I'm sorry, I'm being a jerk, aren't I?

Yes, you are.

Oh, oh, I'm sorry...

And that's when he started to cry.

No, I'm not kidding.

Then he said I have to go and hung up.

He's a big giant baby with a penis, and I'm done with him.

* * *

No More Words

I'm talking and it all seems fair, but really, I have no excuse.

Oh, I could tell you about how, for the past five weeks, I've had no Internet access in my apartment. I could explain to you how one day of "it's down" becomes a week of trying something that doesn't work, to another week of excuses, to another week of making do by going to the building's coffee room and drinking cup after cup of café au lait while emailing and Facebooking until my laptop's battery runs down, all the while thinking, I don't have enough time to write a blog story, I'll just check my email...

But finally last Saturday, without any help from my favourite geek (since, well, he's currently being an asshole) I set up a wireless router and now I've got my pretty Mac-top running my iTunes over there on the built-in with my stereo components, and at night I can unplug it and take it to bed with me and watch episodes of Terminator on Fox.com; and over here at my desk I've got my USJ work computer, a beat-up old Dell laptop, for writing.

I'm getting back into the swing.

Today I got a letter from George Bush. You know the one, you got one too, didn't you? The notice about the Economic Stimulus package? Those billions of dollars George is going to send to us, a couple of hundred dollars at a time, that we're all going to run out and spend, and stimulate the economy.

I'm not American, so what do I know, but I just don't get how this is going to work. I mean, if you got $300, or $600 in the mail, wouldn't you apply it to some existing debt? And if you don't have any debt, well, are you even eligible for this money?

I've thought about what I'll do with my money. I considered spending it frivolously; buying something I've wanted, but was never willing to spend the money on. Like that pair of pink Chanel sunglasses I've always wanted. Or a super duper Swiss Army Knife. Go ahead, laugh. Or maybe I'll get my birthstone ring redesigned — I have a nice stone, but the setting is worn thin and the band is on the verge of breaking.

Any of those purchases would stimulate the economy, wouldn't they?

I think that, instead, I'll send it home to my bank in Toronto and have them apply it to my mortgage. (Attention Alanis Morissette: That would be ironic.)

Next, The Librarian turns out to be an asshole.