Being an editor has ruined me.
Apart from being doomed in my career, being an editor has destroyed my ability to enjoy most forms of print entertainment.
Currently, I am reading a widely respected historical text on the life of Elizabeth I. I bought the book because it seemed quite scholarly and well researched, despite its “bestseller” status, and I thought it would be informative without being terribly dull.
Well, it certainly has been informative, and kept me preoccupied on a number of levels. Particularly, it has apprised me of the fact that no one actually employs editors anymore.
Apart from its staggering redundancies (honestly, I sometimes feel like I’m reading the same chapter over and over), this book is full of copy errors. Of course, it’s written by a Brit, in the standard British style, so I realize that the rules of punctuation are slightly different. That’s fine. I’m not obsessing over these things; I generally have ignored most of what, to me, seems illogical or erroneous.
But not fifty pages into the book, I've come across double commas (wrong in any style), typos, various misplaced modifiers, and unclear pronouns. Sheesh, I mean, even basic programs will correct—or at least alert—an author to these issues. No editor needed!
But, that’s just the problem. Nobody actually uses editors anymore. The advent of online media has made traditionally tight deadlines impossible. The universal deadline seems to always be “right now.”
I accept lazy copy in online content. I’ll overlook misspellings and punctuation issues on just about any website, including the big guns like CNN or People. After all, they are under constant pressure to get ever-new content up as quickly as possible. It’s not that they don’t want editors; they simply can’t wait for them.
But, you know what? There is far little excuse for a book put out by a large and, hopefully resourceful, publishing house. Perhaps an error or two is only natural—hey, we’re all human.
Yet, after one page of The Other Boleyn Girl, I dropped the thing in disgust. The comma splice, not even four paragraphs into the story, was unforgivable. It’s just lazy.
I am not, however, ranting without solutions. I’m not trying to be part of the problem here. I have a perfectly good remedy for any conscientious publisher who finds their copy fraught with errors: hire an editor, any editor.
Better yet, hire me.
May 19, 2008
Road Tripping
Last weekend, I blew everything off. I took a pause in my grueling job search, I failed to water the lawn, and I left all of my writing commitments in the capable—if somewhat annoyed—hands of my Gabber colleagues. And why, you ask?
For the most liberating and singularly satisfying activity that any American can participate in: the spontaneous road trip.
Now, I say “American” because, apart from the fact that I have no idea what folks do in other countries (no, really, I’m internationally challenged, people), we live in a ginormous country united by little more than our insistence that “football” involves touchdowns, and by thousands upon thousands of miles of open road.
The road trip is something of a national pastime. I am certain that a great many of you, Gabber readers, can remember spending your summers in the backseat of a station wagon— poking at your siblings and avoiding the backward swing of your parents’ attempts at discipline—as you barreled down a hot, boring stretch of road toward your relatives’ house in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps you recall your jaunts in college to some remote beach or wilderness destination, fueled by little more than junk food and the high of a new love. (Or, maybe it was some other kind of high. Hey, I’m not here to judge you.)
The point is, as Americans, we all have memories—possibly somewhat romanticized—of extended periods of time spent in a car bound for a holiday. And, if you are like me, the thought of rekindling these memories in the form of an impromptu adventure is all that it takes for you to say “yes” to a weekend in West Palm Beach.
Okay, I know what you’re thinking. It isn’t really that far away, but you know what? It’s far enough. Because, in case it’s been a while since you indulged in a road trip, let me remind you that the glamour wears off after about four hours. And, fortunately, that’s about how long it takes to get to West Palm Beach. If you’re not me.
Maria and I (although one of us was in the dark about the real reason for our trip) were headed to the East coast to meet up with her brother and his girlfriend, both newly graduated from veterinarian school in Philadelphia. We loaded up the car with munchies and maps and music and all of the accoutrements for a proper road trip. And—again thinking it would be a good idea—we brought the dog.
Having traveled with dogs before, I thought this would be a piece of cake. I once drove from Florida to Massachusetts with a Labrador who could hardly be bothered to get out and relieve herself. Surely Mango would sleep soundly once she realized we were not headed to the dog park.
But, clearly, Mango had not been briefed on the etiquette of road tripping, as she spent the entire ride panting and slobbering all over our drinks and munchies, and probably thinking that we were headed to the doggie equivalent of Disney for all of her excitement. We stopped no fewer than 85 times to clean the drool.
Well that, I suppose, is a lesson for the future: Mango’s first and last road trip.
But this was not my first or last. And, frankly, I should have known better. But, the last time I planned to hop into a car for more than an hour, I woke to a flat tire; surely, surely, it could not happen again. Indeed, how blinded we are by the romantic notion of road tripping.
So, add another half dozen stops—and a strangely oriented side mirror—to monitor the ever-decreasing pressure in our back right tire, and you can imagine why it took us nearly seven days to reach West Palm Beach. No, really. We just unpacked the car.
But, it was all worth it in the end, right? I mean, what’s a drooling dog and a flat tire compared to all the fun we would have with family members who—after four years of a sadistic curriculum—were ready to party like they’ve just been released from prison?
So we arrived, finally, at Maria’s family condo in West Palm. I scurried around cleaning while Maria procured refreshments and enough chicken to feed Puerto Rico, but ultimately we settled into a semi-conscious relaxation and awaited our guests.
And they came. And we ate, and drank, and made merry until the cows came home. (Assuming, of course, cows come home around midnight.) Then we slept in big, comfy beds thinking all was right with the world.
The next morning I sat on the porch, leisurely taking in the West Palm humidity and a zucchini muffin before asking—in that lazy and innocent way that people on holiday do—what plans were to be made for the day.
“Well,” our guests responded, “All we really need to do today is unpack the moving van at the storage unit, and then return the van, and then get the rental car.”
I had been hoodwinked. This, as everyone but myself seemed to know—and I’m even suspicious of Mango at this point—was no impromptu road trip. This was no weekend meant for revelry. This was a business trip for Maria’s brother and his girlfriend, who were relocating to Florida for their residencies.
Many hot and sweaty hours later—and, indeed it was hours, as absolutely nothing in the sprawling, stripmall wilderness of southeastern Florida is convenient—we found ourselves back at the condo, weary and disillusioned. Maria’s brother and his girlfriend had plans to party with friends in Miami for the rest of the weekend, so after many thanks, they left us to our own devices.
The next morning, Maria and I cleaned the apartment once again, packed up the car, and headed home through the desolate back roads of south-central Florida. For hours, neither of us said a word; the radio was switched off. Mango finally went to sleep, and we drifted into a trance as little towns and sugar fields and orange groves passed by our windows and into the rearview mirror.
I do not know what Maria thinks about on road trips, as she never seems to recall when I ask. Perhaps, like me, she is lulled by the sensation of four, nearly-inflated wheels closing the distance between here and there. Perhaps, like me, she wonders at how big this country is—how varied and beautiful and limitless it seems.
And, after all—after all of the stopping and the slobber and aggravation—I was again taken by the adventure of road tripping. I was again reminded—by the singular freedom that is a car and an open road—it’s not the destination, but the journey.
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 5/15/08
For the most liberating and singularly satisfying activity that any American can participate in: the spontaneous road trip.
Now, I say “American” because, apart from the fact that I have no idea what folks do in other countries (no, really, I’m internationally challenged, people), we live in a ginormous country united by little more than our insistence that “football” involves touchdowns, and by thousands upon thousands of miles of open road.
The road trip is something of a national pastime. I am certain that a great many of you, Gabber readers, can remember spending your summers in the backseat of a station wagon— poking at your siblings and avoiding the backward swing of your parents’ attempts at discipline—as you barreled down a hot, boring stretch of road toward your relatives’ house in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps you recall your jaunts in college to some remote beach or wilderness destination, fueled by little more than junk food and the high of a new love. (Or, maybe it was some other kind of high. Hey, I’m not here to judge you.)
The point is, as Americans, we all have memories—possibly somewhat romanticized—of extended periods of time spent in a car bound for a holiday. And, if you are like me, the thought of rekindling these memories in the form of an impromptu adventure is all that it takes for you to say “yes” to a weekend in West Palm Beach.
Okay, I know what you’re thinking. It isn’t really that far away, but you know what? It’s far enough. Because, in case it’s been a while since you indulged in a road trip, let me remind you that the glamour wears off after about four hours. And, fortunately, that’s about how long it takes to get to West Palm Beach. If you’re not me.
Maria and I (although one of us was in the dark about the real reason for our trip) were headed to the East coast to meet up with her brother and his girlfriend, both newly graduated from veterinarian school in Philadelphia. We loaded up the car with munchies and maps and music and all of the accoutrements for a proper road trip. And—again thinking it would be a good idea—we brought the dog.
Having traveled with dogs before, I thought this would be a piece of cake. I once drove from Florida to Massachusetts with a Labrador who could hardly be bothered to get out and relieve herself. Surely Mango would sleep soundly once she realized we were not headed to the dog park.
But, clearly, Mango had not been briefed on the etiquette of road tripping, as she spent the entire ride panting and slobbering all over our drinks and munchies, and probably thinking that we were headed to the doggie equivalent of Disney for all of her excitement. We stopped no fewer than 85 times to clean the drool.
Well that, I suppose, is a lesson for the future: Mango’s first and last road trip.
But this was not my first or last. And, frankly, I should have known better. But, the last time I planned to hop into a car for more than an hour, I woke to a flat tire; surely, surely, it could not happen again. Indeed, how blinded we are by the romantic notion of road tripping.
So, add another half dozen stops—and a strangely oriented side mirror—to monitor the ever-decreasing pressure in our back right tire, and you can imagine why it took us nearly seven days to reach West Palm Beach. No, really. We just unpacked the car.
But, it was all worth it in the end, right? I mean, what’s a drooling dog and a flat tire compared to all the fun we would have with family members who—after four years of a sadistic curriculum—were ready to party like they’ve just been released from prison?
So we arrived, finally, at Maria’s family condo in West Palm. I scurried around cleaning while Maria procured refreshments and enough chicken to feed Puerto Rico, but ultimately we settled into a semi-conscious relaxation and awaited our guests.
And they came. And we ate, and drank, and made merry until the cows came home. (Assuming, of course, cows come home around midnight.) Then we slept in big, comfy beds thinking all was right with the world.
The next morning I sat on the porch, leisurely taking in the West Palm humidity and a zucchini muffin before asking—in that lazy and innocent way that people on holiday do—what plans were to be made for the day.
“Well,” our guests responded, “All we really need to do today is unpack the moving van at the storage unit, and then return the van, and then get the rental car.”
I had been hoodwinked. This, as everyone but myself seemed to know—and I’m even suspicious of Mango at this point—was no impromptu road trip. This was no weekend meant for revelry. This was a business trip for Maria’s brother and his girlfriend, who were relocating to Florida for their residencies.
Many hot and sweaty hours later—and, indeed it was hours, as absolutely nothing in the sprawling, stripmall wilderness of southeastern Florida is convenient—we found ourselves back at the condo, weary and disillusioned. Maria’s brother and his girlfriend had plans to party with friends in Miami for the rest of the weekend, so after many thanks, they left us to our own devices.
The next morning, Maria and I cleaned the apartment once again, packed up the car, and headed home through the desolate back roads of south-central Florida. For hours, neither of us said a word; the radio was switched off. Mango finally went to sleep, and we drifted into a trance as little towns and sugar fields and orange groves passed by our windows and into the rearview mirror.
I do not know what Maria thinks about on road trips, as she never seems to recall when I ask. Perhaps, like me, she is lulled by the sensation of four, nearly-inflated wheels closing the distance between here and there. Perhaps, like me, she wonders at how big this country is—how varied and beautiful and limitless it seems.
And, after all—after all of the stopping and the slobber and aggravation—I was again taken by the adventure of road tripping. I was again reminded—by the singular freedom that is a car and an open road—it’s not the destination, but the journey.
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 5/15/08
The Not Diet
Let’s examine one of the peculiarities of the human brain, shall we? It seems easy enough to dismiss our desires and cravings with the glib “You always want what you can’t have.” But, seriously, has anyone ever conducted sound scientific research on the subject? I mean, why?
Why, oh why do I want to walk the dog only when it’s raining? Why have I always pined for straight hair? Why do I need to use the bathroom the minute I’m buckled into the car, merging onto a highway? Why do I dream of a strong Democratic candidate for the presidency and then curse the gods when I get two?
Some might call this “Murphey’s Law,” but really, what is the scientific, evolutionary purpose for desiring what you do not—or cannot—have? Is there some sort of productive, biological importance to perpetual discontent?
Okay, before I start sounding like Carrie “Rhetorical Question” Bradshaw from Sex and the City, let me get to the point: I am on a diet. Ugh. The very mention of that word sends me lunging for the nearest deep-dish pizza and a pint of beer.
But, really, maybe this one’s not so hard; diets, after all, suck. I guess there are very sound evolutionary reasons for not wanting to starve. The body is very clear on this subject. But why, instead of a filling and sensible plate of grilled chicken and vegetables, does my stomach scream for ice cream?
I guess, for me, the best way to avoid this conflict is to trick my body. If I tell myself that I’m quitting smoking, my brain immediately triggers a chain of unfortunate—and completely uncontrollable—events that result in me holding a cashier hostage until he has delivered all of the cartons in the stock room.
So, I cannot “tell” myself I am quitting smoking. I must simply say that we, dear body, are “waiting” a few minutes longer to have a puff. Similarly, I cannot “tell” myself that I am on a diet. We, dear body, are just delaying the gratification of a calorie bonanza. I promise you, it will come.
In order to prove this very point—and because you can only lie to yourself for so long before your “self” becomes suspicious—I took my body to Ceviché in downtown St. Pete last weekend. Okay, fine. I suppose taking a fat person to Ceviché is like taking a sailor on shore-leave to the red light district, but what better way to prove to your “self” that no, we are not on a diet. See? Just look at the crème brulee!
The jury is still out on whether my new slim-down strategy is working, but in the meantime, why don’t we discuss my dining experience? Because, as the Beach Boys once, so wisely, sang, “You know it seems the more we talk about it, it only makes it worse to live without it. But, let’s talk about it.”
Okay, so you know what I like best about Ceviché? It’s tappas. Tappas is Spanish for “Food for people who are easily bored.” It entails lots of little plates of this and that, melty cheeses and garlic sauces and shrimp and sausages and crusty bread to dip into it all. It is a meal devoid of planning in which you sit around a table with a bunch of your friends, tick off a laundry list of whatever sounds good, and then sit back and watch all of those little plates roll in. It’s perfect, actually, for dieting, because this time the body tricks the brain. “See?” it says. “We’ve only had one bite from each plate. How could we possibly gain weight from that?”
The brain wisely agrees, at which point it takes the body downstairs to Ceviché’s Flamenco Bar for many beers as a reward for being so sensible. I’m telling you, people: this is the new fad in dieting. I’m calling it the Not Diet, and I see a huge, New York Times bestseller in my future.
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL
Why, oh why do I want to walk the dog only when it’s raining? Why have I always pined for straight hair? Why do I need to use the bathroom the minute I’m buckled into the car, merging onto a highway? Why do I dream of a strong Democratic candidate for the presidency and then curse the gods when I get two?
Some might call this “Murphey’s Law,” but really, what is the scientific, evolutionary purpose for desiring what you do not—or cannot—have? Is there some sort of productive, biological importance to perpetual discontent?
Okay, before I start sounding like Carrie “Rhetorical Question” Bradshaw from Sex and the City, let me get to the point: I am on a diet. Ugh. The very mention of that word sends me lunging for the nearest deep-dish pizza and a pint of beer.
But, really, maybe this one’s not so hard; diets, after all, suck. I guess there are very sound evolutionary reasons for not wanting to starve. The body is very clear on this subject. But why, instead of a filling and sensible plate of grilled chicken and vegetables, does my stomach scream for ice cream?
I guess, for me, the best way to avoid this conflict is to trick my body. If I tell myself that I’m quitting smoking, my brain immediately triggers a chain of unfortunate—and completely uncontrollable—events that result in me holding a cashier hostage until he has delivered all of the cartons in the stock room.
So, I cannot “tell” myself I am quitting smoking. I must simply say that we, dear body, are “waiting” a few minutes longer to have a puff. Similarly, I cannot “tell” myself that I am on a diet. We, dear body, are just delaying the gratification of a calorie bonanza. I promise you, it will come.
In order to prove this very point—and because you can only lie to yourself for so long before your “self” becomes suspicious—I took my body to Ceviché in downtown St. Pete last weekend. Okay, fine. I suppose taking a fat person to Ceviché is like taking a sailor on shore-leave to the red light district, but what better way to prove to your “self” that no, we are not on a diet. See? Just look at the crème brulee!
The jury is still out on whether my new slim-down strategy is working, but in the meantime, why don’t we discuss my dining experience? Because, as the Beach Boys once, so wisely, sang, “You know it seems the more we talk about it, it only makes it worse to live without it. But, let’s talk about it.”
Okay, so you know what I like best about Ceviché? It’s tappas. Tappas is Spanish for “Food for people who are easily bored.” It entails lots of little plates of this and that, melty cheeses and garlic sauces and shrimp and sausages and crusty bread to dip into it all. It is a meal devoid of planning in which you sit around a table with a bunch of your friends, tick off a laundry list of whatever sounds good, and then sit back and watch all of those little plates roll in. It’s perfect, actually, for dieting, because this time the body tricks the brain. “See?” it says. “We’ve only had one bite from each plate. How could we possibly gain weight from that?”
The brain wisely agrees, at which point it takes the body downstairs to Ceviché’s Flamenco Bar for many beers as a reward for being so sensible. I’m telling you, people: this is the new fad in dieting. I’m calling it the Not Diet, and I see a huge, New York Times bestseller in my future.
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL
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