No one ever gets there/But you can try...
So I got far enough in my grand scheme of revenge - you remember, the one where I flit back onto the Kalan Porter fan forums just long enough to post a link to the PopMatters article and "Who's unreadable now, hey?! Hah-hah-hah-hahhhhhhh!" - to try and sign back up. But the confirmation email hasn't come thru after two days, so I guess I've been fairly thwarted.
Probably this is a good thing, as choosing the username 'shoebox2' indicates I'm not exactly cut out as a master criminal anyway. I feel a little bad, thinking of all the people whose nominations I've now permanently scotched just because they might think some variant of 'shoe' would make a cool username. Sorry, guys.
As penance I will just mention that I did finally check out the most recent video on
shing 's blog - the one that offered Single, tambourines and Michael Jackson all in one go - and boy it did not disappoint. In fact I submit this to be the most original piece of film ever captured of an ex-Idol anywhere, unless somebody can finally unearth that long-promised footage of Clay Aiken kicking puppies.
Frankly it has the potential to revive my Porter fanhood in something very very close to its former glory... assuming he fulfils my fantasies of performing it just once more, this time without lyrics at all, just the tambourine and that half-interested smirk. After which he becomes a practitioner of Kabbalah, also a vegetarian, and upon returning from retreat - having made headlines by dragging with him a girlfriend whose name he has tattooed on his bicep, and who was trying to sneek controlled substances through Customs - records a CD consisting of the most whacked-out pretentious electronica ever, the kind where the videos involve ironic homages to classic children's stories, and I will promptly march right out and buy fifteen copies I do solemnly swear.
********************************************************
Meanwhile. It's been quite a week here @ Shoe Central. Thus far I've been concentrating on the good bits, which have been mindblowingly good no question...but there comes a time at which you have to put aside pleasant daydreams and start focussing on the stuff that matters. Either that, of course, or you have to find better daydreams. In an odd way, the current job situation promises quite a bit of both, over the next while.
To make a rather long and involved story short, the Hudson's Bay company offices are consolidating @ Zellers HQ in Brampton starting this August. As part of the reorg/streamlining, they're basically eliminating my position as it now exists. Some of us MAs will be able to take over versions of our duties; others...won't. At least, not unless others decide they don't want to go to Brampton, at which point they'll be slotted in.
Right-ho. No points for guessing which scenario your correspondent was confronted with upon being called into the Big Boss' office for The Talk. I was treated well, and I appreciate that, but firmly. If they haven't found a matching slot for me by August, I get put on temporary layoff, and thirty-five weeks after that I get cut adrift altogether.
Not exactly 'you've ten minutes to pack your box before security's here to march you out', no. Still, though, quite the shakeup for the ol'psyche. I am not a particularly ambitious person, in re: the corporate world; however the Big Boss said something about 'the chance to reinvent yourself', and it's been kicking round the resonance chambers in my brain ever since. Reinvent myself...as what?
In my tenderest fantasies, I am strikingly unoriginal, one of those starry-eyed wannabes whom Colin Watson gently teased in Snobbery With Violence:
There was something tremendously attractive in the independent life that writing was popularly supposed to make possible...One might have to wait awhile before anchoring one's yacht...but in the meantime there was always that country cottage and the respectful glance of the postman as he handed over the envelope containing one's monthly (would it be monthly?) royalty cheque.
...So dreameth the HS graduate with the co-op on the Niagara community paper and the A in Writer's Craft OAC. Unfortunately for stars, Shoemom and the feline companions have gotten used to such perks as food and shelter. I'm kind of fond of the occasional black-and-white mousse, myself.
Back in the real world, what I can do, reliably and with some distinction, is provide admin support for whatever corporate type requires it. I suppose the logical place to start looking is within the business model I've been inhabiting up to now, but somehow the idea doesn't appeal as much as it should.
Really, I don't mean to appear ungrateful; as drones go, at least I've had the chance at some real fun, interest and even excitement over the years. It's just that there's a coolness-demarcation line in the fashion world that I don't think I'll ever cross. When you're twenty-something, size six, and know what you want from Starbucks without prompting, being stuck in a low-rent version of The Devil Wears Prada offers compensations enough to keep going. When you're, well, not, and thus in a position to realise just how much actual return you're getting for dealing with all that 'personality', it's an uphill grind plain and simple.
And now suddenly I've been handed the equivalent of a 'get out of jail free' card. If I can't get to the heart of the matter, at least I now have a sporting chance to see how much further I can come. Plus, I get to spend more time on my writing, on the grounds both that I need the distraction and that it now has the bare glimmer of a real-world point.
I suppose that's what's called adventure for most of us, isn't it?
Probably this is a good thing, as choosing the username 'shoebox2' indicates I'm not exactly cut out as a master criminal anyway. I feel a little bad, thinking of all the people whose nominations I've now permanently scotched just because they might think some variant of 'shoe' would make a cool username. Sorry, guys.
As penance I will just mention that I did finally check out the most recent video on
shing 's blog - the one that offered Single, tambourines and Michael Jackson all in one go - and boy it did not disappoint. In fact I submit this to be the most original piece of film ever captured of an ex-Idol anywhere, unless somebody can finally unearth that long-promised footage of Clay Aiken kicking puppies.
Frankly it has the potential to revive my Porter fanhood in something very very close to its former glory... assuming he fulfils my fantasies of performing it just once more, this time without lyrics at all, just the tambourine and that half-interested smirk. After which he becomes a practitioner of Kabbalah, also a vegetarian, and upon returning from retreat - having made headlines by dragging with him a girlfriend whose name he has tattooed on his bicep, and who was trying to sneek controlled substances through Customs - records a CD consisting of the most whacked-out pretentious electronica ever, the kind where the videos involve ironic homages to classic children's stories, and I will promptly march right out and buy fifteen copies I do solemnly swear.
********************************************************
Meanwhile. It's been quite a week here @ Shoe Central. Thus far I've been concentrating on the good bits, which have been mindblowingly good no question...but there comes a time at which you have to put aside pleasant daydreams and start focussing on the stuff that matters. Either that, of course, or you have to find better daydreams. In an odd way, the current job situation promises quite a bit of both, over the next while.
To make a rather long and involved story short, the Hudson's Bay company offices are consolidating @ Zellers HQ in Brampton starting this August. As part of the reorg/streamlining, they're basically eliminating my position as it now exists. Some of us MAs will be able to take over versions of our duties; others...won't. At least, not unless others decide they don't want to go to Brampton, at which point they'll be slotted in.
Right-ho. No points for guessing which scenario your correspondent was confronted with upon being called into the Big Boss' office for The Talk. I was treated well, and I appreciate that, but firmly. If they haven't found a matching slot for me by August, I get put on temporary layoff, and thirty-five weeks after that I get cut adrift altogether.
Not exactly 'you've ten minutes to pack your box before security's here to march you out', no. Still, though, quite the shakeup for the ol'psyche. I am not a particularly ambitious person, in re: the corporate world; however the Big Boss said something about 'the chance to reinvent yourself', and it's been kicking round the resonance chambers in my brain ever since. Reinvent myself...as what?
In my tenderest fantasies, I am strikingly unoriginal, one of those starry-eyed wannabes whom Colin Watson gently teased in Snobbery With Violence:
There was something tremendously attractive in the independent life that writing was popularly supposed to make possible...One might have to wait awhile before anchoring one's yacht...but in the meantime there was always that country cottage and the respectful glance of the postman as he handed over the envelope containing one's monthly (would it be monthly?) royalty cheque.
...So dreameth the HS graduate with the co-op on the Niagara community paper and the A in Writer's Craft OAC. Unfortunately for stars, Shoemom and the feline companions have gotten used to such perks as food and shelter. I'm kind of fond of the occasional black-and-white mousse, myself.
Back in the real world, what I can do, reliably and with some distinction, is provide admin support for whatever corporate type requires it. I suppose the logical place to start looking is within the business model I've been inhabiting up to now, but somehow the idea doesn't appeal as much as it should.
Really, I don't mean to appear ungrateful; as drones go, at least I've had the chance at some real fun, interest and even excitement over the years. It's just that there's a coolness-demarcation line in the fashion world that I don't think I'll ever cross. When you're twenty-something, size six, and know what you want from Starbucks without prompting, being stuck in a low-rent version of The Devil Wears Prada offers compensations enough to keep going. When you're, well, not, and thus in a position to realise just how much actual return you're getting for dealing with all that 'personality', it's an uphill grind plain and simple.
And now suddenly I've been handed the equivalent of a 'get out of jail free' card. If I can't get to the heart of the matter, at least I now have a sporting chance to see how much further I can come. Plus, I get to spend more time on my writing, on the grounds both that I need the distraction and that it now has the bare glimmer of a real-world point.
I suppose that's what's called adventure for most of us, isn't it?