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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
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Now the Magazine was a job I lucked into last spring via a Nelson friend, I was familiar with it, sort-of an internet come to print in a high-gloss format, quarterly, published on different themes. I liked it. And as she worked for them doing their books she lined me up a job, some writing on spec, and I took it on remotely from Calgary.
They'd send me proofs of the layouts, lists of the bands they were looking for print on, and I'd hack out the articles. The research aspect of it was interesting, I learned far more about a lot of bands then I ever knew, and was introduced to a lot of styles of music that I never would have been otherwise. The format of the magazine meant that I would read up on certain artists or groups - Led Zepplin, Pink Floyd, for example, Wikipedia articles, often in the league of 30 to 40 thousand words, then condense them into a 100 word salacious factoid meant to give the reader some slight titillation and urge to explore further.
It was harder than it sounds. Some of the articles would come pretty easy, but given the "equality" - meaning that Joni Mitchell and Leonard Cohen would each get the same number of words, say, as Randy Bachman, well, it didn't seem fair. It didn't matter, it was experience in an industry I was curious about, and my theories and understanding of the whoring ethics of journalism were proven. Meaning that it would have been far, far better to be writing to my own ends, but like a lot of journalists and copywriters, this was to be my springboard...
After a couple of months of slow and fractured communications I drove out to Nelson the meet the people with whom I'd long corresponded with, a small office out of a house, nice folks, putting a face to my prose, as it were, as they (and I) were curious...
In the end the magazine fell through, I didn't understand why but it was explained to me as follows. The publisher/owner had brought in another writer from Calgary, highly recommended, they had an "understanding" which revolved around the writer expecting to be paid around $10K per month, and the publisher capping his salary at $2K per month, and adding to his list of responsibilities some graphic design and web presence...
The writer, meanwhile, for want of anyplace to stay, had settled into the publishers house and helped himself to his wife...
In the end the publisher tanked the magazine, fired everyone that worked for him (or laid off, it was contract work, after all, and the magazine was supposedly done), then packed his wife off to Bali...
Random letters followed, demanding refunds for work paid, as the magazine hadn't gone to print, checking with my friend I found that everyone was getting them, and the best thing to do was ignore them.
Thus ended my short and inglorious career in journalism...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
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With the new apt, I'm finding myself making more and more trips to the locker, looking to free up various of my possessions & ornaments, while the flat may only last 6 months, I want it to be a comfortable 6 months.
The locker, Stygian, boxes piled high and falling on my head, stereos, boxes of cuff-links raining down, watches in chests, a surprising number of chests, trunks and suitcases for somebody with no discernible organizational skills. It's like, in a way, attending the best garage sale ever, in every box a forgotten treasure or surprise, but inaccessibly packed beneath, behind another, art supplies - paints, easels, mixed media Starbucks cards, buttons, postage stamps, postcards, boxes of vintage neckties, buckets of rocks, prospecting equipment, stray pots and pans, working my way to the back where - if I can reach it - I can free up a few paintings to ornament my walls.
I'm within 5 feet, but it's a towering 5 feet, dozens of boxes will have to be moved to the apartment, reorganized, repacked, and the last 3 lean years, with no more possessions than I could fit in my car, well, they've made me question the necessity of storage, this endless acquisition of momentarily useless clutter, my thoughts are broken by the distant tinkle of glass as another box shifts, ...
It's Aladdin's cave, in a way, and in another less subtle way it's become the metaphor for my subconscious, the unending work of organization, editing, cleaning and purging, and it scares me almost as much as 2 hits of acid at clown and puppet festival, but I'll get it done...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
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And my first find, a chair at thrift shop, $15.00. Perfect, comfortable, not too fine, not too shabby.
And, upon loading it up and getting it into the place, a drive around the block turns up a perfectly fixable antique oak desk:
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We're off to a good start...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
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It's been a week since I last went out to eat, surviving on leftovers and handfuls of nuts and berries. Getting ready for prospecting.... Today I'm a bit hungry, but there's a problem, the Indian curry shop I frequent is next to the hairdressers.
Alberto's or Alfredo's, I don't know which, but I stopped by there a couple of times and got my haircut. Alfredo/Alberto - a short, muscular greek/spaniard/??, thick accent, long permed hair, mullet in front, lisps his words as he massages my scalp, tells me not to stand under the shower, that's why it's thinning on top, too much water, he explains, will kill your hair just like it will kill the grass...
I wonder, especially as I have to duck in the shower to wash my hair, and the hair on my ears is growing in at a record rate (I have an ear-to-ear combover planned in the next couple of years, not long now...)
His haircuts, they're OK, he's very meticulous, but somehow they always seem to grow out in a couple of weeks and I find myself needing another. SO I give up, go to Jen, dire salon in the NE of Calgary close to my thrift shop tour, Jen, a huge girl, 6' tall, 300 lbs, covered in tatoos and piercings, but she's quick, no BS, in-and-out with the haircut you wanted...
And with the haircut I wanted I can't walk past Alfredo's/Alberto's, walk instead around the block, approach it from another angle, eat, but on the exit he's there, outside the salon, having a cigarette, he just looks at me sadly as I guiltily hurry past...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
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Almost forgot I was young once, until the brother hauled up a couple of vintage pictures of me from the basement. From when I was 21, living in London...the squatters life...
Hiking around Glencoe with Stephane...Always the rain...