Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
Or at least so some Irish guy said/wrote. I'm not sure I ever took those words to heart as I have now that John is gone. (Yes, I realize he's not gone gone... he's actually cavorting en Italia with loved ones, following an itinerary crafted over a period of two to three years that surely has all of them impenetrably insulated against any possible mishap).
And yes, Matt is here, but, regrettably, his kind manner and graceful competence has not been able to stem the sad and inexorable fraying of my office relationship with Rachel Duguay. I am sorry to report that in the mere day-and-a-half since John's departure, I suddenly want to kill the bitch.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Where did all the naps go?
*heavy sigh*
Who knew I'd miss Old Man Bowman's napping so much? I mean, Matt doesn't use sunglasses when he naps. Not even a newspaper. Colorless.
And who here is bold enough to shove size 10 feet on the table in my face all day?
It's too soon. I need more time before I post more.
Who knew I'd miss Old Man Bowman's napping so much? I mean, Matt doesn't use sunglasses when he naps. Not even a newspaper. Colorless.
And who here is bold enough to shove size 10 feet on the table in my face all day?
It's too soon. I need more time before I post more.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Empty Chairs At Empty Tables
Our first meeting took place at approximately 1:30 PM Pacific Time, or 10:30 PM in Rome, Italy.
We gathered in the conference room, unsure where to sit, how to behave, or what to say. Rothpan seem most affected by the disappearance of our fearless leader, wearing clothes in the wrong places.
For a moment, the chair at the head of the table remained empty. Emotions ran deep, as the image so clearly resonated with this weekend's edition of "Meet the Press." After a few desperate moments, Matthew Wickline allayed some tension by taking the foreman's chair. And the room exhaled.
Eventually, routine set in. We watched a DVD "stringout" of some sketches. We laughed, probably a bit more timidly than usual. I could see in the eyes of my colleagues that we were all waiting for Bowman's familiar voice to echo through the conference room with a simple "Lose the last line" or "Yeah, you don't need that."
Instead, only a lucky few in Rome, Italy will be lucky enough to hear that familiar baritone.
Assholes.
We gathered in the conference room, unsure where to sit, how to behave, or what to say. Rothpan seem most affected by the disappearance of our fearless leader, wearing clothes in the wrong places.
For a moment, the chair at the head of the table remained empty. Emotions ran deep, as the image so clearly resonated with this weekend's edition of "Meet the Press." After a few desperate moments, Matthew Wickline allayed some tension by taking the foreman's chair. And the room exhaled.
Eventually, routine set in. We watched a DVD "stringout" of some sketches. We laughed, probably a bit more timidly than usual. I could see in the eyes of my colleagues that we were all waiting for Bowman's familiar voice to echo through the conference room with a simple "Lose the last line" or "Yeah, you don't need that."
Instead, only a lucky few in Rome, Italy will be lucky enough to hear that familiar baritone.
Assholes.
Day One
We are not here by choice.
Yes, we are all happy to be here. We work, we create, we are among friends. But starting today, "here" is a very different place.
"Here" is sans Bowman.
We are but eight writers left stranded in the Hollywood desert. Where we will go from here -- indeed, how we will go from here -- remains unclear. Questions hover above us like the Sword of Damocles:
Who will read the stage directions?
Who will throw us a frozen Twix?
Who will nap on our couch just after lunchtime?
I have no idea. In all candor, I am fucking terrified. God help us.
God help us all.
Yes, we are all happy to be here. We work, we create, we are among friends. But starting today, "here" is a very different place.
"Here" is sans Bowman.
We are but eight writers left stranded in the Hollywood desert. Where we will go from here -- indeed, how we will go from here -- remains unclear. Questions hover above us like the Sword of Damocles:
Who will read the stage directions?
Who will throw us a frozen Twix?
Who will nap on our couch just after lunchtime?
I have no idea. In all candor, I am fucking terrified. God help us.
God help us all.
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