Saturday, June 13, 2009
Tire marks on forehead mean loss of face--Globe and Mail caption winner!
The last time I had a mental block over a novel, I decided to work with my hands for therapy...and it seemed to work.
I got a job in an auto parts company...and suddenly, it seemed I had met all the horses' asses that had been addling me all my life...all over again. The punk foremn who said he would kick my face in if I "fucked up again", the resident genius puzzle solver for the New York times whle himself pushing a broom, the bossy welfare chick who finally got a job and got to be a kind of straw boss trying to boss me around, the reformed biker trying now just to hang onto his mortgage in toubled times; hey, a job is a job.
Now back in the work force, I realized I had been missing something. Missing having to work for somebody else and having people shit on you. Bottom of the pecking order again..Boy, did I need that.
But the masochism was starting to pay off. I suddenly went on a publishing streak in the periodicals and magazines. The more people shat on me, the more productive I somehow became. Yeah, yeah, I know....My favourite novel,--Venus Wore Furs, by Leopold von-Sacher Masoch.
Anyway, bottom of the pecking order, shat upon by those higher ups, I had to make amends. I had to win at something, and win so resoundingly that they would know for sure that they were blind, lazy, stupid, and that I was an enemy not to be stalked ightly.
Well, old Herodotus said never be petty. But damn..
I had to make amends.
So I looked for things in the media having to do with the automobile industry that would somehow elevate me back to fame at least in my immediate bailiwick, the tire storage area, and, well, "God is good!"
I found a contest I could enter that had to do with tires.
Yep, there it was in the Globe and Mail, some poor Chinaman with skidmarks on his face.They wanted a caption.
Hah. Does a cat have a tail?
I used to be champion caption writer for the Sunday Sun.
So I sent them something. You can see it above.
Ah pettiness, thy name is Ivan.
Hey, it got me taken out for dinner by the boss.
Local hero-- very feral.
Also should have had my name changed to Will Bragg.
Vanity, vanity, everything is vanity, says the preacher.
My wife once took my named, anagrammed it and came out with Vain Porkchop.