Saturday, June 11, 2005
Monkey Brains
Scott and I are writing the summary of his book to submit to Harbor House Publishing. We’re writing it in the form of a news story (my idea), and I’m writing it because Scott doesn’t know how to do this. He’s frustrating THE HELL OUT OF ME because - well, here’s an example of how the conversation goes every time I ask him a question.
Me: Okay, how old is this guy?
Scott: He’s... wait, do [the newspapers] have to have his age?
Me: Yes. It’s part of the three identifiers required by AP Style.
Scott: Okay, he’s 67.
Me: And what does he do?
Scott: He’s a retired professor.
Me: Cool. And this guy? How old is he?
Scott: Do they have to have everyone’s age?
Me: Yes. It’s part of the three identifiers required by AP Style
.... ad nauseam until I’m flapping my arms and saying: “YES! IT’S PART OF THE THREE IDENTIFIERS REQUIRED BY AP STYLE! WHY DO YOU KEEP ARGUING WITH ME!”
Actually, AP style just requires that you identify people with three separate identifiers and that you be consistent about it. Age is just an easy choice. Anyway, so then he apologizes and we go on. I try not to ask anyone’s age. Instead, I ask a name.
Scott: Do they have to have her name?
Me: Uh, yeah.
Scott: The newspaper in this town would never print her name.
Me: Yes, they would... or they wouldn’t mention her.
Scott: No, they would have been instructed not to.
Me: Okay, it’s not a real town. It’s fiction! It’s doesn’t exist. You asked me to write this as a news story. I have to have names. Why do you keep arguing with me?
Scott: Okay! I’m sorry. Ask me a question.
Me: I DID! WHAT! IS! HER! NAME!
You’d think it would get better, but no. Finally, I get fed up. It’s like trying to play basketball with chimpanzees.
Me: Scott, SERIOUSLY, get out of character.
He laughs.
Scott: But you don’t understand! They would never print this in the Cularville newspaper.
Me: Okay, you need to get real. This is not a real place. This is marketing yourself to a publishing company. Get with the program.
Scott (with dramatic hand gestures): I’m sorry. You married an artiste!
Me: No, I married someone who calls themselves an “artiste”, which is worse than just marrying one.
By the way, he’s the one who came up with “basketball with chimpanzees.”
Me: Honey, what’s hard to do with chimpanzees?
Scott (without even a split second of hesitation): Basketball.
Me (amused): Why basketball?
Scott: Because they’re short.
Not because they’re fucking CHIMPANZEES, and everything is difficult with them?
Me: Okay, how old is this guy?
Scott: He’s... wait, do [the newspapers] have to have his age?
Me: Yes. It’s part of the three identifiers required by AP Style.
Scott: Okay, he’s 67.
Me: And what does he do?
Scott: He’s a retired professor.
Me: Cool. And this guy? How old is he?
Scott: Do they have to have everyone’s age?
Me: Yes. It’s part of the three identifiers required by AP Style
.... ad nauseam until I’m flapping my arms and saying: “YES! IT’S PART OF THE THREE IDENTIFIERS REQUIRED BY AP STYLE! WHY DO YOU KEEP ARGUING WITH ME!”
Actually, AP style just requires that you identify people with three separate identifiers and that you be consistent about it. Age is just an easy choice. Anyway, so then he apologizes and we go on. I try not to ask anyone’s age. Instead, I ask a name.
Scott: Do they have to have her name?
Me: Uh, yeah.
Scott: The newspaper in this town would never print her name.
Me: Yes, they would... or they wouldn’t mention her.
Scott: No, they would have been instructed not to.
Me: Okay, it’s not a real town. It’s fiction! It’s doesn’t exist. You asked me to write this as a news story. I have to have names. Why do you keep arguing with me?
Scott: Okay! I’m sorry. Ask me a question.
Me: I DID! WHAT! IS! HER! NAME!
You’d think it would get better, but no. Finally, I get fed up. It’s like trying to play basketball with chimpanzees.
Me: Scott, SERIOUSLY, get out of character.
He laughs.
Scott: But you don’t understand! They would never print this in the Cularville newspaper.
Me: Okay, you need to get real. This is not a real place. This is marketing yourself to a publishing company. Get with the program.
Scott (with dramatic hand gestures): I’m sorry. You married an artiste!
Me: No, I married someone who calls themselves an “artiste”, which is worse than just marrying one.
By the way, he’s the one who came up with “basketball with chimpanzees.”
Me: Honey, what’s hard to do with chimpanzees?
Scott (without even a split second of hesitation): Basketball.
Me (amused): Why basketball?
Scott: Because they’re short.
Not because they’re fucking CHIMPANZEES, and everything is difficult with them?
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