Pulp Friday Comeback (PF 6)

I've made some edits to the previous installments of the Pulp Friday series and I'm trying to pick it back up. Obviously, today isn't Friday, so I'll just try to keep updating this, regardless of the day. It's still going to be Pulpy and it'll still be called Friday to keep to its roots. Now, back to the series.

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2
PF 3
PF 4
PF 5

After giving Brian more bewilderment by abruptly leaving, I'm on my way to Welles Park, which is within 10 minutes walking distance of our building. Nice to know that whoever broke into my apartment hasn't gone far, but unsettling to get a call from them them right after receiving a photo of my dead wife mailed via cinder block delivery through front door.

The dusk is gathering as I walk east towards the park. The rain has stopped, but the gray still lingers and seems to latch on to the coming dark.

There’s very few people venturing out in this weather. Welles Park is huge and wide-open, but the drizzle will make this a pretty private meeting.

I’m hoping that, in the next few minutes, I’ll be able to make sense of what’s happened in the last half-hour. Getting smacked by my front door and finding a handkerchief with a photo of my (I think) dead wife sewn inside just before four cinder blocks crash through my apartment building’s front door is strange enough. Add that to my downstairs neighbor Brian overhearing a conversation I wish he hadn’t and a high-pitched voice telling me that I need to meet in Welles Park or something wouldn’t be good for my wife that I thought was dead. Top that with a photo of my wife (that I know is dead because I saw her die) attached to the cinder blocks and I can’t keep anything straight.

The street lights look purple instead of their usual dark pink. Is that from a blow to the head or the confusion of the events of today? Probably both. I could really use a little order and coherency at this point.

As I approach the tennis courts in Welles Park, I see three figures standing together in the center court. This would probably be the three people who broke into my apartment earlier today, but then I remember one person was being forcibly dragged out by the other two. Still hoping for order and sense.

I go through the gate to the courts. I head for the center court, where the three figures in black overcoats are standing with their heads down and their hands in their coat pockets. As I get to mid-court, one the figures says, “That’s far enough, dear.”

I stop and stare at the figures standing on the other side of the net, just beyond on the in-bounds line. No one says anything for a while. I wait for someone to serve.

I lose my patience and finally bark, “What’s this about?” I’d hoped to sound tough and intimidating, but when I say “about” my voice cracks like I’m the middle of puberty. I curse my genes for not making me taller, manlier, and more threatening.

The middle figure lifts its head a little bit, and I can see the same smirking mouth from earlier today.

The high-pitched voice coming from the smirking mouth says, “Well dear, it’s a little complicated. It was going to be easy, but somebody didn’t give me what I wanted and you broke with your normal work schedule. Both of you have made my work much too hard.”

I ponder how cryptic this is and say, “’Kay.” When none of the figures say anything, I add, “Sorry?”

The smirk gets a little wider. It says, “How sweet. But you know that won’t quite be enough, right?”

Hoping for a hard-biting, sardonic reply, I droll, “I didn’t expect so.” My latest attempt at toughness makes me sound like a stoner valley boy because I say “Ah didn’t expect so-wah.” Damn.

“Well, you’re a real pro then,” the sarcastic smirk says. “Here’s what I want from you.”

The two other figures take two steps toward the net and me, keeping the high-pitched smirking mouth between them. High-pitch smirk-mouth figure finally removes his hat, revealing a thin-faced, black-haired man with a daggered nose and wide ears. The smirk disappears and his face darkens. His formerly wide mouth now looks like a beak. It’s strange to see the full face matching the voice. Then he speaks again, and the pitch seems higher and more piercing, like a field mouse as talons sink into its flesh.

“You’re going to clean up the mess you made in Maui.”

I was afraid he’d say this. Depending on how much my neighbor Brian heard, I may have to kill him if I live through this.

This will continue...

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 7
PF 8
PF 9

First Spam!

I just got my first spam on the blog! To think that someone searched and found this post and then put their crappy advertisement here. I'm so flattered. I wonder, did they just do a search for "shit," decide that tons of people would read this "shit" and then gloriously flock to their spam site? Wonders never cease. I feel like I've been put on the Prom court. I'm so excited.

Puns and Passing Time in the Corp-zone

Checking the spelling and page numbers of a machine industrial parts catalog for eight hours a day necessitates plenty of mind wandering to pass the time. When I've run out of music, I finally stop acting like an anti-social a-hole and listen to what my co-workers in the adjoining cubes are saying. I discovered one co-worker passes time with puns. He demonstrates these puns for the other cube denizens. Example:

Person A: "I feel sad for those casters and bolts that can't find a home."

Person B: "The casters and bolts that can't find a home?"

Person A: "You know, the Pneumatic ones."

Gotta admire the continued use of lingual irony while the brain numbs from spreadsheet and PDF overexposure. These staffpersons pass their time on much more honest fashion than I. I've given myself five email boxes to check because checking email was not forbidden. Most likely, this composition is being watched through the mirroring and monitoring software, but I'm keeping it within break time length. Besides, it's good to exercise cognition during the brain-freeze tasks, whether by puns or meaningless electronic scribbling. Next break, I'll write about the creepy woods that surround this corporate compound. That'll keep my horror-movie imagination running; one my most prized mental possessions. I refuse to lose that level of my cognition. That would just be horror-ible.

The Sound of Brain Slowly Frying (UPDATED)

History behind this post.

I gotta do hit & run posts with limited time. The temp job is well paid, but excruciatingly mind-numbing: comparing and correcting catalog entries for machine parts. I never knew there were ACME Threaded Rod Lubricants. Sounds porno, especially as it's listed next to the Threaded Studs and Acrylic Extruded Balls. Not a porn catalog, I swear. These parts are what keep our American industrial machine running. My eyes dry and my mind wanders; in the end, it's similar to grading papers but with much greater detail. It's a good way to kill time and pay bills, but I hope my mind wanders off into better territory when checking the spelling of Shaft Adapters.

UPDATE: I just discovered that this catalog also sells nipple wrenches. This is an industrial tool. My mind is doomed to filth.

2nd UPDATE: I was cruising along until I saw the catalog entry for prick punches. So much for a clean run.

I'm Still Here

Yes, it's been a long frikkin' time, but there's been crazies in the life. I'll write very soon because I just started a hideously boring new job and I love to slack off. Don't tell anybody.

The Slippery Slope of Googling Oneself (Updated 2008)

To my very happy surprise, several people I haven't seen or spoken to in years have found me through this blog (and haven't run screaming from the content). This blog shows up through a Google search on my name. Quite a few other things show up under a "Colin Milroy" google search, so I thought I should clarify what I've actually done.

Sadly, the very successful Canadian real estate agent is not me, nor am I on the Superintendent's Honor Roll at West Montgomery High School in North Carolina. 2008 UPDATE: There's another name thief in England! This fellow looks to be a successful engineer in England, further knocking down the Colin Milroy totem pole. But I have been able to earn the title of "awkward weirdo creepball" by one of my former students through the nice, anonymous Rate My Professor. Luckily, my other reviews are positive and I'm no longer teaching English.

I also did not place third in the South Jersey Jr. Honda (B Main) race of the Quarter Midgets of America. I'm not a successful real estate agent or quarter midget racer. However, I was in successful shows in Chicago such as A Clean Well-Lighted Place and Siskel and Ebert Save Chicago as a happy part of the Factory Theater ensemble (2008 Update) as well shows with Hi-Volt Theatre and several different shows with the Hypocrites theatre company as an actor and technician. I've done many shows with the Raven Theatre, I was part of Imagination Theatre, I worked as staff at the DePaul University's Theatre School, and I am a UIC alumni (scroll all the way down to the M's if you really want to see my academic identity). I'm very happy about most of the things that come up under Colin Milroy on Google because I actually earned some of these posts. However, I can't claim the fame of taking on the fog and turning upside down, but I love the "B" horror movie reference on that post. "B" horror and my name should always be synonymous.

What to do next...

I've got to continue with the writing despite my best attempts at putting it off. The last completed work of writing was Clarity in Amsterdam, and I really need to complete a story about my uncle. Like the Amsterdam story, I don't quite know how to wrap it up, but I hope the process of posting and editing will help. Speaking of unfinished business, I will get back to Pulp Friday, though it's been ages and that really is something that's developed as it's typed. I'm even ridiculous enough to look at little places for publishing this crappy writing. Lord knows I need the work. I did look over my thesis the other day since commencement is coming up, and I swear to God that no part of my thesis will ever be on here, except for humor's sake (shudder). So I'll try to get back to writing while on the maddening job search. Hope that helps.

Oh, and I got cast in a play. That immediately makes my life better. My first play in over three years. It's been too damn long and I'm so happy to be back there.

12 Day Hiatus

The grades are posted. My second go-round with teaching is in the bag. The second semester was definitely harder than the first, much to my surprise. Instead of teaching four different classes, I was teaching two sections of two classes, which is easier in theory because there's prep for two classes instead of four. Unfortunately, I discovered I still don't have a gauge for time in teaching. One class will fly by while I get to only two of the ten things I put on my lesson plan. Another class will fly through all ten lesson plan items in less than a half an hour, and I need to improv the rest of the class. Some lesson plans take 10 minutes, others take over an hour. Some papers take 15 minutes to grade, some take less than three minutes. If I teach again, I'll see if I can do a better job of planning and estimating. I also need to be crabbier. That way, there might be less late work and incomplete homework. While I appreciate the time taken to craft elaborate excuses, I can't deal with the ensuing logistics. Papers end up being in three different places in 10 different stages of grading. The best excuse to date; "I didn't do my homework because I got a concussion from hitting my head on a moving box while I was changing apartments." No more credit for alibi creativity. Frank McCourt was right to give his students a late slip writing assignment. Creativity and storytelling are at their best when making excuses.

The Grade Monster

I've got bittersweet feelings about today.

Sweet:
>March Madness begins today. Some the best games, competition, and sports drama of the year for the next couple of weeks. I'll be able to watch/listen to college basketball as I grade all of my final papers.

>I got to spend a little time in my nice DePaul classroom today, peacefully grading and listening to satellite radio music.

>My students are coming by my office with intelligent questions on their research papers.

>Despite a lot of mishaps, the quarter went pretty well and I learned a lot more about teaching.

>I've heard back from a lot people about possible work.

Bitter:
>This may very well be my last time of teaching at DePaul. I have to find work and I probably won't be teaching here in the fall. I can't afford to putz around with too much temporary work anymore. Student loans are hell.

>I have a mountain of papers to grade, and this only for two of my four classes. Over 40 final research papers on the legal system, 8 - 10 pages each, will surely drive me insane by Saturday, but I have to post final grades next week.

>Good teaching work is ending and there's currently no work to replace it. Hello, financial stress.

>Freshman research papers make for hard reading and grading. Assigning final grades is difficult because assessing performance is more than numbers. There will be people pissed with their grades. I have to document the grades very carefully, sifting and organizing loads of information. The grade monster is hungry, impatient, and still intimidating to me.


I hate letting go of things, and I'm still early in my teaching career, so I'm going to miss the connections formed with some students. I'm also glad that I won't see some of them ever again. I'm definitely going to miss the process, the routine established over the past 10 weeks, and the familiarity of setting. I predict there will be large consumptions of alcohol and basketball today and tomorrow to help me through the process: screaming at KU and Illini players to work the clock while I read my fifth paper about euthanasia, abortion, or the death penalty. It's going to be a beast.

Horrors!

My mind got rolling around last night, thanks to a great conversation with several good folks after a delightful Factory Theater show (go see it; lots of fun). Not only was the Factory Show a welcome break from the job stress and general Anxiety Monday dynamic, but I also got to talk about one of my favorite subjects: horror movies. Many topics within the subject were bandied about in the bar (Wes Craven, High Tension, really good movie scares, and lots more), but one of my favorite topics was the course of horror movies today. I saw Hostel, which was crazy over-the-top gore, but I have not seen the re-make of The Hills Have Eyes, originally done by Wes Craven. Apparently, The Hills Have Eyes goes much farther than Hostel in certain scenes in terms of realism. When I see the The Hills Have Eyes remake, I suspect I'll take issue with it if the gore and sadism is focused on being as real and graphic as possible. Horror movies are swinging back towards a trend they reached in the late 1980s when gore and special effects took precedence over scares and stories. Here's the thing: I love my gore and I love my sadism in horror movies. They're integral. I also love to have the shit scared out of me; gore is usually not as applicable to fright as is good composition. I want one or the other from my horror movies. I want straight-up shallow characters getting hacked to glorious bit with lots of bloody squibs, naked boobs, nubile-young-and-dumb victims from frat boys to coeds, comical torture, cheesy dialogue, and predictable settings. Or, I want a well-constructed scare along the lines of The Ring or the first Nightmare on Elm Street. I don't need ultra-realism from my horror. My own mind is sadistic and gore-filled enough; I don't need my horror fed to me. Intensely effective horror/torture scenes don't show all the details. A Clockwork Orange, Bill Pullman's nuts getting hammered in The Serpent and the Rainbow, and Janet Leigh's run-in with androgynous biker thugs in Touch of Evil all spring to mind, and there are many others. These movies left the money shot up to your mind, where it's far more depraved and horrible than any special effect could conjure, certainly if you have my mind. I'll still watch the Hills remade, just because of curiosity, but I wish for the swing back to a well-balanced horror genre of scare with story and effective gore. Otherwise, some outraged, uptight social group is going slow the genre down because of whatever spiritual virtue of theirs is getting too molested. I fear for our society if we don't get ourselves a good dose of movie horror.

The Second Horror Movie Soapbox Moment
A Truly Good Horror Movie

Back to the Search

Yesterday was the last day of classes at DePaul, so today should be all about the job search. I'll have a huge pile of research papers to grade come next week and one less paycheck. I'll apply pretty much anywhere now. I'll go to my old PC technician agencies, try other agencies, check Craig's List, and whatever else. I will NOT waste my time with Career Builder, which I tried for nine months, sending over 50 applications and getting not one single response. As evidenced by previous posts and additional rantings, the job search is a high source of frustration. Sending my resume into mail and digital oblivion has gotten very old and cost way too much. The only jobs I've secured in the past six years have been from some pre-existing connection: I knew someone who worked where I was applying or I had some past connection to the organization (I now welcome myself to the real world). The problem now is, being in the middle of a career change from tech support to teaching, I've got precious few contacts in the teaching world. I see no currently open teaching positions and my existing adjunct positions have run out. I was a bad-ass data entry man back in the day, and I actually know how to change jumpers on a motherboard (that's not a euphemism for anything, but it should be), so I have options. However, I got out of PC tech work for a reason: it blows. But having no money also blows, so priorities shift. Okay, self-analytic procrastination ends, now back to the job search, after pouring coffee, checking email, looking at the Tempo section in the Trib, and doing laundry. Really.

How to Get A Bad Evaluation from Your Students

Short, simple story method: look like an unprepared, unqualified, inexperienced dumb ass.

Long story method in ten easy steps:

1. Think you allowed yourself enough time in the morning to download and print two worksheets on the most crushingly boring subject in English, MLA documentation and citation (there's never enough time to do anything in the morning but shower and eat).

2. Lose the web page that you found last night to download said worksheets (email it to yourself, dummy).

3. Realize that the worksheet does not have anything for in-text citation, which is where most of your students need their help (d'oh!).

4. Rapidly download another worksheet on in-text citations with answers (this ought to work, but see what happens in the next steps).

5. Remove the answers so that your students can actually the worksheet in class as an exercise (again, this sounds fine, but bad things are coming).

6. Arrive late to class for the third time in a row (yes, the copiers are all broken and missing staples and everything had to be stapled by hand, but you don't accept whiny excuses from your students so they sure as hell won't hear any of the same crap from you).

7. Pass out the worksheets, one is for reference, the other a class exercise (ah, finally, I can take a breath and mark attendance...).

8. Notice sounds of papers turning rapidly and puzzled looks of students. Look at your copy of the worksheet and realize that you've deleted a crucial part of the exercises, along with answers. Now the exercise makes no sense without the stuff you deleted. Nervously ask your students if they're missing said part of worksheet knowing the answer already (SHIT! FUCK!!! Steps four and five are biting me hard in the ass).

9. Sheepishly bring up an electronic copy of the worksheet, put it up on the projector, and fill in the answers for the students while they fidget (be thankful you're in a technologically advanced place, dumbass, or this would be a total loss. Oh wait...)

10. Do all of this on the day of student evaluations. Pass out evaluations and pencils to students, give instructions for filling out written documentation of your incompetence, slink back to the office you share with a zillion other people and hope the reviews aren't too brutal. Lose the title of "professional."

So there we are. That's what I accomplished for American education today; a suck-fest with only myself to blame. I'll find out the reviews in a few weeks. Last quarter, I got some nice reviews and some negative reviews, mostly nice ones. I felt I did my work well, considering it was my first quarter of teaching, and the reviews fairly reflected my accomplishments. This quarter, I'm definitely not so sure I'll achieve the same results. I only wish I'd brought my clown suit today so I would at least have been able to put in some pratfalls or hit myself in the face with my briefcase for the class today. Then I might get a more balanced review: "Teacher looks like an unprepared, unqualified, inexperienced dumb ass, but that's what I expect from this clown."

Take That, Creative Circle! (A Welcome Balm for Anxiety Monday)

Now THIS is a nice response to a job inquiry:

On Mon, March 6, 2006 9:08 am, [name removed] said:
Hi Colin,

I do remember you and did forward your resume to the Upper School Head in consideration for the English position. You are correct, we have been receiving many resumes and are doing as thorough a job as possible in narrowing down the field. I expect the entire process to take at least a couple more months due to the importance of this position. Please keep an eye on our website, faculty contracts are just starting to trickle back in, and I do anticipate a few more open positions for the fall. In addition to the US English, if any other position is available that interests you, please feel free to send me another email or phone call. Please note that all open positions will remain on the website until a contract has been issued at which time the posting will be removed immediately. Thanks for your continued interest in Francis W. Parker School.

[name removed]
Director of Human Resources
Francis W. Parker School

-----Original Message-----> From: Colin Grant Milroy
Sent: Sunday, March 05, 2006 2:49 PM> To: [name removed]
Subject: Colin Milroy follow-up email

Hello [name removed],

I wanted to send you a follow-up email since we met at the Diversity Fair on February 4. I'm a friend of Beau Johnson, and you and I discussed how you live close to Beau and how he has raved about teaching at Francis Parker. I hope you won't think it too forward of me to send a follow-up email regarding your Upper School English Teacher position that starts this September. I ran across your ad in the Chicago Reader and I thought that I should check back in with you since you undoubtedly receive quite a bit of applications. I've attached a current copy of my resume for your review. Please contact me if you need any additional information from me. You can reach me at this email or call my cell phone at (xxx)xxx-xxxx. Thank you very much for your time.

Sincerely,
Colin Milroy

No promises, no guarantees, just communication and assurance that my time has not been wasted unlike other parts of my job search. At this point, I'm still freaking out about uncertain job status adding to my Anxiety Mondays, so I'm a wee bit sensitive. The original title of this post was going to be "RANT!!!" and I was just going to go from there, but big points to Francis Parker school for acting like a professional and being courteous enough to interact. It's nice to have something positive to say. I'm still facing joblessness in a few weeks, but it's encouraging to know my voice has been heard.

The Next Pulp Friday (PF 5)

Pulp Friday continues...

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2
PF 3
PF 4

Brian stares at the wreckage of our building's front door while I look at a a picture of Jenny, my dead wife. The door of our building being smashed in is one thing wrong, but the other is I've never seen the picture of my wife that I hold in my hands. I'd be more concerned with the latter except that the picture I'm holding was taped to the cluster of cinder blocks that were thrown through the door. I have to give equal attention to both abnormalities.

Brian, my downstairs neighbor in this building, shakes his head. "Jesus Christ," he says, "Chung's going to flip."

Chung's our landlord. A very stiff fellow who hates to spend money on this building.

I say, "Now we don't have to nag him about replacing the broken panes."

Still shaking his head, Brian says, "I'm worried because now we have to actually convince him to buy us a new front door."

That is a tall order, but I'm too immersed in this photograph to attempt any sort of conversation. My wife is in this photo, but her face is distorted, as if she was crying out in pain. It's just her head and neck, nothing below that. I can't imagine what's causing her face to do that.

Brian says, "Hey, there's a number on the back of the photo."

I turn the photo around and, sure enough, what looks like a phone number is neatly written on the back.

"Call the cops," I say to Brian, "I'm going to try this number."

I go back upstairs to my apartment and dial the number.

After four rings, there's a click and the ringing stops. No voice speaks on the other end.

"Hello," I finally say.

A high-pitched whisper on the other end says, "Sorry about your head. We weren't expecting you home for another hour at least. Make sure you use some ice."

"Who the hell-" I begin.

"Better just listen, rather than talk. There's a problem we need to discuss. It involves you personally."

"Swell. My day gets better."

"No talk, dear. Meet me in Welles Park on the tennis courts in ten minutes and come alone. Company wouldn't be good for Jenny."

Then the voice is gone and the dial tone growls at me.

This will continue...

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 6
PF 7
PF 8
PF 9

Clarity in Amsterdam, Part Five.

Continuing writings from travel about a year ago...

02/07/07 UPDATE: This piece was originally in five parts, but I've made changes and will be posting another part (maybe two) soon...

PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR

We’re confessing our sins in a city of vice. A city of legalized vice. Terrifying and thrilling at the same. There’s shame, pleasure, guilt, abandon, and no answers. A drawn-out, hazy and muted catharsis that’s unlike the instantaneous, knee-buckling tears usually expected from an absolving event. We both want to be condemned by the other. We’re looking for disappointment from the opposite face, a frown, an unspoken judgment, a confirmation of guilt. With that, we could collapse, let the shame, anger, and loss pour out, and we could scream our pain with fists clenched and knives in our guts. Then, there would be comfort, a possibility of understanding, and hopefully forgiveness.

Instead, we skip straight to forgiveness and understanding. The mystique of our secrets drops its heavy load, yet clings because the soul cleansing didn’t quite pan out. There will be no condemnation, but there will be no full release of the past, either. Instead, there will be the friendship that always was; someone there when you need them most, not to guide or absolve, but simply to be present. There is hope and support there and answers will come on their own time. Yet this is still unsatisfying.

I haven’t found any direction, I haven’t discovered anything new, and I wonder if I’ve really helped myself or done anything with meaning or importance. I begin to think I’ve been looking for a mental quick-fix. I suspect I may have put all my emotional investment in the wrong place, that putting all my issues in the open with my closest friend won’t be the instant balm I wanted it to be. I wonder if there will be anything of significance to help me or if this is simply an aimless distraction that further obscures uglier truths. The latter seems more likely.

Nevertheless, after a healthy combination of hashish and hot chocolate, I did experience some things that certainly felt like meaning for me.

The shit will continue...

PART SIX
PART SEVEN

Guess I Won't Be Working There

Here's my irked response to a impersonal company advertisement. Ah, the joys of a job search. Scroll down to the bottom if you want to read the email string from the very beginning. For the record, the only responses to this point I'd gotten out of the company were identically scripted as follows:

"Thank you for your interest in applying with Creative Circle. You have a
very strong work history. Unfortunately, at this time, we have no positions
available that are a good fit for your background. We will keep your
information on file. Should we find a project that is a good fit for you, we
will be in touch. Best of luck in your search!"

Getting this response once is fine. Getting the exact same response to a different job app at the company is not so fine. Anyway, to the irked response:

Dear [name removed],

Thank you for your personal response to my inquiry. While I understand the load of receiving hundreds of emails per day, I feel it is bad form to talk of wasted time and threaten someone with the label of "serial applicant" when I have only applied for three positions in the past week and five positions in the past six months, and the only responses I have received are indentically scripted emails to two applications. As I said, a personal response such as yours is preferable to the carbon copy email responses I have received as it demonstrates some actual attention to my application. In addition, I'm quite certain that your office does have a tremendous workload of sifting through responses, inquiries, and hirings that do not always allow for individualized responses. Nevertheless, if my resume is "on file" as the carbon copy email responses from your company suggest, then there should be greater time taken to filter your job alerts to cater towards potential applicants that are "on file." To be fair, my body of work does not contain the advertising background mentioned within the ideal candidate, but your job alert said that "Your conceptual skills (good headlines and ideas) are valued above all else," and I was hoping my concepts and ideas might be applicable to this position. In the future, I will take more care in looking for a better match to job opportunities at your company, but it would help if I felt that responses to my inquiries about your company will go beyond identical emails generated by a mail server instead of someone who could help me figure out whether my skills are a potential match. Don't waste my time and I won't waste yours. Thank you again for taking the time to respond to my email and for reading this one.

Sincerely,
Colin Milroy

On Mon, February 27, 2006 5:15 pm, [name removed] said:
> Colin,
>
> Please make sure to apply only to the listings that are a fit for you.
> This
> posting is asking for someone who has come from mainline advertising. It
> will not benefit you to submit to every listing we have. We continuously
> have to sift through hundreds of emails a day. We feel that it is time
> wasted when we open an email from a candidate who doesn't fit the
> description we have carefully crafted. When we see your information on
> such
> a regular basis, we flag you as a serial applicant. In order to avoid this
> category, please make sure to read the postings thoroughly. We want to be
> a
> successful resource for you!
>
> Sincerely,
>
> [name removed]
> Creative Circle
> 233 North Michigan
> Suite 1960
> Chicago, IL 60601
>
>
> -----Original Message-----
> From: Colin Grant Milroy [mailto:cmilro1@uic.edu]
> Sent: Monday, February 27, 2006 4:40 PM
> To: [email removed]
> Subject: Re: Junior to Mid Level Copywriter (Fulltime)
>
>
> To Whom It May Concern:
>
> Thank you for sending me a notice of your Junior to Mid Level Copywriter
> opening. Please see my attached resume for consideration toward
> copywriting positions at your company. I'm anxious to learn more about
> your company, its mission, and your use of creative business concepts.
>
> A little about me and my job experience: I earned my Master’s degree in
> English from the University of Illinois at Chicago and my Bachelor’s
> degree from Baylor University in Theatre with a History minor. I
> currently teach English as adjunct faculty at DePaul University and also
> at the International Academy of Design and Technology. This past year, I
> also taught Composition as an adjunct at St. Augustine College.
> Previously, I worked at DePaul University in academic advisement, degree
> auditing, and administration at the Registrar’s office. I have an
> extensive background in the arts and performance production as well as
> composing creative, academic, and technical writing. I work very well as
> a team player in all environments and my diverse work background readies
> me for many contexts: professional, academic, corporate, and creative.
>
> I sincerely hope that we can combine our creative energies. Please
> contact me via this email or call my cell phone at (773)519-3162. I look
> forward to hearing from you!
>
> Sincerely,
> Colin Milroy
>
> On Mon, February 27, 2006 11:11 am, Creative Circle said:
>> Hello Creative Circle Copywriters. We are currently seeking a MID-LEVEL
>> copywriter for a unique opportunity. Here are the details.
>>
>> Position:Copywriter
>> Location: Chicago
>> Duration: Full-time
>> Salary: DOE
>>
>> Job Description:
>>
>> We are looking for a strong conceptual copywriter at the Junior to
>> Mid-level
>> point in your career. The ideal candidate will be interested in making
>> the
>> switch from a traditional advertising background to the interactive
>> space.
>> Your conceptual skills (good headlines and ideas) are valued above all
>> else.
>> .
>>
>> Skills/ Software Requirements:
>>
>>
>> If you feel you are qualified for this position please send your
>> materials
>> to chicago1@us-circle.com with a copy of this posting.
>>
>> To view additional job opportunities through Creative Circle please go
>> to
>> our website at www.us-circle.com.

Don't Add to My Anxiety Monday

Nothing like a really badly behaved classroom to add to anxiety on a Monday. Colleges, revise your student handbook to include the following: there will no, repeat, no whining about classwork and homework if you do not do your homework in the first place. You do not take 30 minutes for the ten minute break and you turn goddamned cell phone off and don't whine about being cut off from the world because you have to turn off your cell phone during class. I'm still learning the ropes as a teacher and haven't grown my balls out enough to yell and throw students out of class, but I can see that day coming. Right now, all I can do is fall back on the "I'm disappointed in you" tactic and garnish it with "this was a really sloppy class" and "you're really hurting your grade if you don't do your work." A few bad apples really did a number today. Luckily, bad class was followed up by well-behaved class that was focused and did their work. Still, Monday mornings are tough, and thinking there will be more Monday mornings like this one doesn't give me happy thoughts. Thank God for tonight: I get to watch Jack Bauer give some horrible sadistic treatment to bad guys threatening our country. 24 has a strangely calming effect on me, despite being a show that involves one nerve-racking world crisis after another. Maybe it's perspective for stress: a bunch of badly behaved teenagers is nothing compared to being faced with corruption, security threats, and death every hour of a day. Or is it?

UPDATE: Here's a follow up to this post.

Some More Pulp Friday (PF 4)

I really, really do want to make a regularly scheduled time of this, but that's proving difficult. This next week should see an actual Friday of pulp. Now, on with the show...

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2
PF 3

"Well, goddammit if there wasn't a helluva lotta hollering by some guy and moaning by some woman the past 20, 30 minutes," Brian says. "My kid started screaming ten minutes ago and I started pounding on the ceiling, but you just made more noise. Sounded like you had three people up here having a wrestling match."

My downstairs neighbor Brian is chewing me out for making a racket above his apartment. My only contribution to the racket was getting clobbered by the three intruders in my apartment who are really responsible for Brian's screaming kid. Brian's kid is notoriously light sleeper, but Brian would say I'm a notoriously heavy walker. It's a neighborly mutual disagreement that we don't deal with too well in this building of creaking floors and thin ceilings. This time, I'm hoping the standard Brian tirade will help me figure out what three unknown people were doing in my apartment.

I say, "I haven't been yelling and I certainly haven't been talking about honeymoon plans, like you said I have, but I sure as hell have money problems. So I don't know where you're-"

"Well, someone was hollering and some woman was crying and mumbling about how she didn't do it and you were only making more noise-"

"How do you know it was my voice? You always chew on me for my heavy feet, not for my conversations."

"Well...okay, but who else could it be but you?" Brian says. "You're the only one who lives up here."

"Yes, and I never have company, and I'm at work until this time, so it wasn't me you heard yelling."

Brian's face goes bewildered. "That doesn't make sense."

"I know," I say, "so can you help me with that? What exactly did you hear?"

Brian's bewilder-face gets tighter. "I don't know, you can't hardly tell with noise from upstairs."

"Yes, but you mentioned something about a honeymoon and money."

"Yeah," Brian says, "You, or whoever, was saying that the honeymoon was supposed to be where you left something. That Maui was the spot and she failed and was going to be really sorry."

"Who failed?" I ask.

"I guess whoever that girl was who here. Ginny or something."

I take a beat. "Ginny?"

"Yeah, something like that," Brian says.

"Could it have been Jenny?"

Brian frowns and says, "I don't know, maybe. Why does it matter?"

"My ex-wife's name was Jenny."

"So?" Brian asks. "Pretty common name for women."

"We had our honeymoon in Maui."

"Oh." Brian takes a breath. "Still, that's nothing, I mean-"

"Did you hear anything about Kihei?"

"Key-HEY?" Brian says, "What the hell's-"

"Did you?"

Brian stares at me and says nothing, so I add, "It's a place in Maui. It's on the middle of the island, but still on the seashore."

A little something clicks and Brian says, "Oh, that was it. Okay. Yeah, now that makes sense. Yeah, I did hear that word a few times."

I say nothing because I hope this doesn't mean what I think it means.

Brian finally says, "You're not actually thinking your ex-wife was up here arguing with someone else, are you?"

"Couldn't be," I say, "She's dead."

"Huh?"

Just then, there's a huge crash from the landing below. It sounds like something big just plowed its way through the front door to the building. As the sound of the crash and tinkling glass end, there's a high wailing sound that fades away after a couple seconds. The sound could be from a car's tires or engine, but it could come from a person, too.

Brian and I run downstairs and see that four chained together cinder blocks have broken down the front door, causing quite a bit of damage. There's no one in sight outside.

"How the hell did that happen?" Brian asks. "That must weigh a few hundred pounds."

I'm not thinking about this because I'm staring at a large photo taped to the center of this cinder block missle that somehow came hurtling through our building. I want to look away, but I can't. It's a familiar photo, but there's something strange and different about it that I don't want to investigate.

Brian gapes at me and the cinder blocks, then finally removes himself from his transfixed state and tears the photo from the cinder blocks. He looks at it and then holds the photo to me.

"You know this girl?"

I do, but there's something very wrong with the picture.

My voice does something weird as I speak. "That's my wife."

"That's your dead wife?" Brain gawps. "Did she always look like that?"

"No," I say, "but I know that's her. I just have no idea how she got that way or where this picture came from."

The wind gusts through our smashed door pretty hard.

This will continue...

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 5
PF 6
PF 7
PF 8
PF 9

Ice Fishing: Heavy Drinking Required

Okay. So I spent twelve hours snowmobiling last Saturday and then about four hours ice fishing on Sunday. Ironically, there was heavy drinking involved before, during, and after snowmobiling (a not-so-safe practice) and no drinking whatsoever during the ice fishing. Dear Lord, what I wouldn't have done for some liquor during ice fishing. ANY liquor. Schnapps and Schlitz would have been heaven. Ice fishing is boring. Heavily boring. I know I said there was a walleye with my name on it, but that was not to be, and even if it was, I still would've needed booze to fill the empty space between the fish. Catching a fish is mildly exciting, but what thrill there is lasts a few seconds, sort of like a Victoria Secret catalogue with bra sale. Snowmobiling was good and that wasn't just because of booze, although booze improves many a thing. Maybe someday I will have the heavy booze to go along with the hours of nothingness in ice fishing, but there'd better be a few dozen walleye for me to catch.

Pulp Friday Delayed

A little trip to Minnesota for some unsuccessful ice fishing necessitated the delay. Now, on with Pulp Friday, even though it's Tuesday...

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2

It's absurd.

It doesn't make the slightest lick of sense.

How could I find a photo of my dead wife sewn into a damp handkerchief I just found on the floor of my apartment after I'd just been clocked in the head by own front door by some unwelcome visitors?

Things are just getting too weird when there's a knock on my front door.

On instinct, I go to open the door, but the large identation in the wood reminds me I've just had intruders. I snatch up the baseball bat from the floor, put on my gruffest voice and say, "Yeah, who is it?"

"It's Brian. You wanna keep it down in there? My kid's trying to sleep."

My downstairs neighbor. Him and his loony wife don't believe in babysitters, and like everyone else in the building, they're a long way from wealth. So one of them works days and the other works nights so that someone's with their child all of the time. I don't think it's helped the kid's development any and it's certainly damaged the parents. Brian works from 4 a.m. until 3 p.m., so he's always grouchy by early evening when I return to the building. I'm inevitably disturbing some combination of him and/or his kid, so this is nothing new.

"Sorry, Brian. Bad day at work."

"That's no reason to take it out on my ceiling and my kid's nap. You and your old lady just work out your bad days some other way."

"My old lady's been gone a while now, Brian. Thanks for the painful reminder."

"Yeah, you and your new girlfriend have been doing lots of damn painful grieving the past 30 minutes. Enough's enough. Quit pounding on each other."

"I don't have a new girlfriend, Brian."

"Whatever. You and her and her pals been making can stop your thumping and screeching. No one cares about your honeymoon plans and money problems anyway, so stop yelling for all the building to hear."

I take a moment and, still holding the bat tightly in my hand, crack the door open and ask, "What exactly did you hear, Brian?"

This will continue...

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 4
PF 5
PF 6
PF 7
PF 8
PF 9