deconstruction
In one day Willamette Week runs two articles. One article lumps Every Room is Empty into a broad category signified by "violently bad acting, makeshift sets borrowed from mom and dad, and criminally dull subjects." And the other suggests my dayjob is tanking by downplaying the $120M hit film we just put out and, um, up-playing the departure of Henry Selick and some outdated and incorrect news about lofty plans to build a campus.
Meanwhile, my trip to Downstream today lasted all of five minutes and consisted of putting my hard drive in the colorist's hands. The rest of the day was spent lying in bed watching The Office, not-so-gradually coming to terms with having a pretty bad head cold, and waiting for a phone call I was assured was two hours away. The phone call came more than six hours later, and the short version is I am rescheduled for tomorrow morning at 8:30am. I get that Downstream doesn't do much film these days and my understanding is they aren't actually set up to just up-and-go when someone wants a transfer anymore (bad sign, but there it is), and I wouldn't even mind the twenty-four hour delay at all -- I'm not in such a rush -- but the disorganization and lack of phone calls or communication kind of bummed me out. Well, so it goes.
So, I'm sick. Sitting at home. Out of Office episodes to watch. Too stuffed up and headachy to write. Missed a whole day of work waiting for a phone call, which means I really have to be done with the timing session by noon tomorrow to make it up to Melissa. Oh, and I'm fucking sick.
So, awesome.