1) This week I acquired two excruciating copyediting projects, both of which I considered turning down; but then I realized I couldn’t bypass the $1200 I’ll make by suffering through them, especially now that I may have to pay a real estate client $5000 for a mistake I didn’t really make, but which a judge will nail me for if it goes to court … so I’d rather settle with the client privately before it gets to that point.  Therefore, I’m working a second job to be able to afford my first job.

Anyway, the book I started on first is a political thriller (I use the term very loosely indeed) about a secret operative doing something with the Middle East.  It’s so incoherent that I can’t follow the plot, but at least it will be incoherent and properly punctuated by the time I’m done with it.  The author has no idea how to punctuate dialogue, and he runs it all together in a paragraph, so I have to both correct it and try to pick out who is saying what, in order to indent properly … which is more easily said than done, in many cases.  The dialogue itself is absolutely mind-numbing.  Every single time the main character — code name “Ricochet” — enters a new situation, there’s a dialogue block similar to this:

Ricochet walked into the bank.  There was a young woman behind the desk.  “Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” she said.

“My name is Paul Snow and I am here to see Mr. Wells Fartgo, the bank manager,” Ricochet said, using his operative name.  He did not introduce himself by his code name.

“I do not know if Mr. Fartgo is in,” the woman behind the desk said.  She picked up her intercom phone.  “Mr. Fartgo, there is a Mr. Snow here to see you.  Are you available to see Mr. Snow?  You are?  Thank you.”  She turned back to Ricochet.  “Mr. Fartgo can see you in five minutes.  Can you take a seat in the lobby please, Mr. Snow?” she asked

“Thank you.  I am very happy that Mr. Fartgo can see me in five minutes.  I will sit in the lobby until he is ready,” he said.

“Thank you.  I will call you when Mr. Fartgo is available,” she said.

… and so forth.  Except that before I work on it, it looks like this:

Ricochet walked into the bank.  There was a young woman behind the desk.  “Hello.” He said. “Hello.” She said. “My name is Paul Snow and I am here to see Mr. Wells Fartgo, the bank manager.” Ricochet said, using his operative name.  He did not introduce himself by his code name.”I do not know if Mr. Fartgo is in.” The woman behind the desk said.  She picked up her intercom phone.  “Mr. Fartgo, there is a Mr. Snow here to see you.  Are you available to see Mr. Snow?  You are?  Thank you.”  She turned back to Ricochet.  “Mr. Fartgo can see you in five minutes.  Can you take a seat in the lobby please, Mr. Snow?”She asked.”Thank you.  I am very happy that Mr. Fartgo can see me in five minutes.  I will sit in the lobby until he is ready.” He said.”Thank you.  I will call you when Mr. Fartgo is available.”She said.

2) Yesterday I drove down to Eugene to enjoy a wonderful performance of Haydn’s “The Creation,” which was part of the Oregon Bach Festival.  (Thank you, PP, for taking me.)  On my way down, there was a smartarsed little shit in a sports car behind me in the fast lane.  There was some road construction, so there was a lot of stopping and starting.  I had the proper three car lengths between me and the car ahead of me, but Mr. Convertible was riding my tail the whole time, and more than once had to veer off into the shoulder to avoid hitting me.  I thought about changing lanes to get away from him, but then I started hoping he would hit me; I’ve ruined my back bumper by misgauging the location of posts, rocks, walls, and similar nonvehicular inanimate objects when backing out of parking spaces.   How wonderful it would be, I thought, if he hit me and paid for my new bumper.  But of course, that didn’t happen.  I felt cheated.

3)  Recently I watched the film adaptation of Doubt whilst trotting on my treadmill, and I was very disappointed by it.  Meryl Streep was wonderful, as she always is, but Philip Seymour Hoffman was woefully miscast as Father Flynn — who is a good-looking, athletic, Pied Piper of boys in the original play.  I was enormously irritated by the painfully obvious visual “cues” in the film … oh, how very ironic that Sister Aloysius, searching for truth, keeps having to replace a burned-out bulb in her office!  Gosh, the film should come with an Anvil of Unsubtlety so the viewer can whack himself over the head with it at suitable intervals.  There was also a moment in the film that reminded me of something that annoys me in film generally speaking … characters who cry, and who have snot running out of their noses as they do so.  Does anyone *ever* do this in real life, when in the presence of someone they don’t know very well?  I really don’t think so.  Sure, sniffling would perhaps spoil the dialogue, but then again, so do snail-tracks of mucus on film.