being a MANAGER.

it occurred to me, only the other day, with no small amount of awe, that i am a MANAGER.
A production MANAGER. Which means that, without even knowing it, for the last almost two years, I have been attending, daily, along with my MANAGING editor partner-in-crime, MANAGERIAL lunches.
And here i was feeling like a non-corporate bum.
Well. Today is therefore officially Completely Dedicated to our upcoming MANAGERIAL lunch, now that we can officially exhale, safe in the knowledge that we have unhanded the next issue of our magazine to the bouteous serfs that prepare it for us, post-layout. Shameless slave-drivers. The lot of us.

instructions for a new toy.

instructions are silly.

TONIGHT!

(What follows is a shamelessly plagiarized announcement.) (I have no excuses for this. Except perhaps that the milk in my tea was off this morning, which didn't bode well for the day, so I thought I'd conserve energy wherever I could)

Toronto is home to some of the best known comics artists in North America. We have an active and vibrant community putting out some of the highest quality comics to be found anywhere. The SpeakEasy ComicsShow features an eclectic mix of Toronto's talented comic book artists- from those who do newspaper strips and political cartoons, to underground comix and mainstream superhero comic books!

The event promises to display an exciting cross-section of the comics communityhere in Toronto, as well as a glimpse into how good comics are made. As the old cliché goes, there really will be something for everyone.

Time & Space: Thursday April 5th, 8pm-Midnight, The Gladstone Hotel, 1214 Queen West Second Floor Lobby
Cover: Pay What You Can ($4.00 Donation Suggested)

This Month's Featured Artists:
Attila Adorjany
Kalman Andrasofszky
John Bride
Willow Dawson
Arthur Dela Cruz
Tom Fowler
Jesse Gayle
John Lang
Jeff Lemire
stef lenk
Francisco Ribas
SketchKrieg!
Diana Tamblyn

Come visit us!

subject heading (an email that somehow made its way into today's spam box)

You inherited a small dick from your father and there is no way to help it.

It's the personal touch that impressed me.
a] They know my father is defunct
b] they've one-upped my actual (non)-inheritance to a small dick (so that's where that small dick came from),
and
c] they know I am powerless to help it.

Today I feel like the world is looking out for my needs, however meagrely.

ok i'm going now.

I really am. I'm walking away from the blog. Trawling my ample bosoms behind me.
for now.

sundries of an editorial nature from my little office.

I remember trying to get my head around the concept of nothing as a kid and couldn't. I just didn't get it.

It's dramatic irony, i think i can't take.

(Re: comma use.) Do you like open style?
I don't know it's kind of growing on me...

ah yes, the bourgeouis pronoun error.

Magpie helmets.

I was informed the other day that magpies attack children in Australia in the springtime and so they wear ice cream tubs with eye holes cut out to protect themselves. Tubs they cover in stickers. Excellent.

UnUtterably Busy.

But a moment at least, for a few of my stockpiled bloggables.

on Busking
I ran into my neighbour Fred the other day as I journeyed on the streetcar up to Jane and Finch, and he gave me a lowdown on the politics of busking in this city, which I had NO idea about. I was shocked (or maybe i wasn't) to find out it's practically corporate.
One needs to audition (250 people are chosen), acquire a license (100 licenses given out, a bunch of people are put in a waiting line) schedules are made, and said qualified buskers have a particular station they are allowed to stand at which rotates every three days. There are a few loopholes; if you arrive at a designated busking spot and if it is vacant you can perform there until the performer scheduled arrives; if s/he doesn't, you're in. There are all the typical human foibles: hogging the "sweet" spots, holding places for strategically chosen colleagues, waiting in "line" so if the scheduled busker doesn't show up the sweet spot is yours, etc.
I guess what I find strange about it is the realization of just how much our "public" spaces are commandeered.
I suppose this administration is yet another helpful tactic in that endless struggle to end natural human conflict, but one never hears about this sort of thing in the storybooks.
(No I haven't. But I would, in a pinch, read a storybook about a busker. If one existed.)

my last book-making class
Why Jane and Finch you say? Friday was my last class teaching a book-making workship affiliated with AGYU up yonder. I had this moment of envy; The kids, who had come in with cell-phones and chatter and that buzz of gossipy worry one always has after school (or so I found) were practically transfixed an hour later by the task of sewing pages into a book. I'm sure there was a time when simple things like threading string could override my own worries and become just as valuable an occupation.

my little window-home at Pages
Has been passed on. As of about an hour from now. May the rain hold off until I get everything home. And though those drawings now feel ancient and I'm happy to retire them, it's like handing off the flame or something, I'm back to that little vacuum of "private beneath-the-bed artistry". It's amazing they don't create an art gallery whose rooms house all their art beneath beds. Or in old suitcases or atop armoires. It would be very accurate.

That said, I must to Pages now. However not before I record this:

peregrine vindemiator.

I remain, dear reader(s), despite the relentless pursuit of business, your humble and most obedient blogger.