IF you just wish hard enough, on a burning pile of AIDS...

Yes, well. It's been two weeks and a half since my last confession.
Father, I must admit, I did indeed spell the names of the deceased and her mother incorrectly. And yes, it did go to print in My Daily Newspaper. And the family's pain may have multiplied because of my foolishness.
But am I to be fired for this crime? Am I to be let loose, after 18 months of tireless Saturday work, or treated like a criminal?

Listen up, you young pups. I've been working at newspapers for 10 years this year. I don't fuck up out of the blue. And I will not become part of a managing editor's plan to "clean up" his newsroom by firing everyone who makes more than $27,000 a year. Not that I make anything near that...

That's basically the situation, though. Last week, I fucked up the name of one of the young girls who died in a severe all-terrain vehicle accident out here, and the name of the other girl's mother, in a story about the funeral of one of the girls. The media was asked to stay away, so we went anyway. It was one of the saddest funerals I've ever been to. The piece I wrote... let me find it. "Hundreds mourn 'brightest light'". Search it in infomart. My lede has been replaced by a tacked-in correction. So my fuck-up is permanent. But it doesn't mention that that article is the first time that someone spelled the name of the other dead girl correctly. Nor does it mention that I went to the scene of the accident, completely out of the way, to see if there was anything there for my story. There was. It's called "atmosphere." The Daily Newspaper don't usually concern itself with it. The copy editor read my little bit of "atmosphere," labeled it "the birds chirping part" and cut it out immediately. I don't think it mentioned birds.

Copy editors at that newspaper are a little bit of a misnomer. They obviously don't edit copy, since they had my story at least four hours before deadline. They couldn't note that the name of that girl was spelled wrong, even though the newspaper had been entirely FILLED with news about that accident fat he past week, with up to 4 pages of coverage at times. Something slipped there. I know it should have been spelled right in the first place, but they're supposed to be able to catch things like that. And the mother's name was just wrong. My fault. No question.

But is this a firing offence? Should I be removed?

And, within the bigger picture, bigger questions:
Do I even LIKE writing for newspapers? Not really. Not for news, anyway.
Do I want a career likely to kill me of a heart attack and leave me divorced, or better yet, unmarried? Not really.
Do I like using the internet at the library? I don't know. It might be worth it to get the internet at home, since these punk kids think it's damn funny to shoot a kid beside me in the face with an elastic.

I need a job, too. If anyone sees anything nice, let me know, too. I'm not picky. Just unemployed.

Depressasaurus Us!

So wow, did we ever pick the wrong time to start this group blog, huh? Seems like everyone's got a little sadness in their hearts these days, and frankly, I've been no exception. I know that almost two weeks ago now I promised an update about our trip to Montreal, but you know, every time I think about sitting down to write it, I just kinda found something else to do, of which there are several in my life at the moment. (Plus, I've got to write the thing for Rue Morgue anyhow, so why would I do it up twice? I imagine RM would feel a little ripped if I gave them a dressed up version of a blog account. If you want to read it, by the magazine, you cheapasses, when the story runs next October. Don't worry, I'll remind you.)

Rest assured, however, that a good time full of terrified little kids, creepy French theatrics, pounding Ministry songs and, unbeknownst to me at the time, fake blood dripping off my chin all over my rented "costume" (which consisted of a frilly white shirt and an ill-fitting sport jacket that I rented for $40, but could have easily bought for $10 at VV before I left), causing the rental place to get all poopy and say they might have bill me. But the jokes of them, you see, because I don't live in Quebec, and also I don't care. Seriously, Joseph Ponton's Costume Shoppe; if Club Fit wasn't able to pry the $200 I "owed" them out of me in two years of trying, there's no fucking way I'm going to write you a $5 cheque for the dry-cleaning. Ha! Eat it, Frenchlords!

Anyhow, things have been less than awesome lately, mostly due to my suddenly realizing that my boss has no problem with stepping in and telling me exactly what to run and how wide I should smile while I'm doing it, despite the fact that he's always talking about how every newspaper in the CanWest world is evil because they tell their writers what to write. The difference, as far as I can tell, is... well, hmm. At least CanWest doesn't bother pretending they don't? Whatever. The point is, I'm extremely tired to caring about the things I'm supposed to care about as an editor of an "alt weekly," which I've come to learn is really just a fancy way to describe a wad of local ads stuffed into the same space as a bunch of stories about whatever the ads say, and as such want out.

Where to go from here, though, is as of yet unclear. I'd like to stay in Edmonton for the next few months if possible, but I guess I wouldn't rule out moving to Toronto earlier than I thought if I found a decent-sounding job. Which also means that I should start seriously looking; a difficult and time-consuming task when you currently have a job, it turns out. If anyone has a line on something awesome (that for some reason you yourself aren't interested in), feel free to let me know. I'm realistic about this, of course—I don't mind being a shill; I just want to be told that that's what I am.

At any rate, wah wah wah. In the meantime, please enjoy this painting of a unicorn, presumably chasing Tron.