Paradise Redux(ed)

Greetings, Patient Readers.

First off, a sincere apology.  New entries have been materializing here slower then the dinosaur-corpse-to-fossil-fuel conversion rate.

But, hey, at least I've got a good excuse!  Pursuant to this particular post, I'm putting priority on cash-paying gigs in an effort to stop my savings from hemorrhaging.  And I'm proud to say that these recent ventures have been either writey and/or editey, so I'm afraid that economic concerns and life-long wish fulfillment trumps free-content punctuality.

I do have a couple of fun things in the hopper, though, so it's just a matter of finding the time to hammer 'em out.  Stay tuned.

Until then, here's a l'il sumfin', sumfin' to tide you over...

Spring is coming to Eastern Canada this year in much the same fashion that Winter is supposedly coming to Westeros.  Nevertheless, as the snow recedes and wilderness paths once again become clear, I find myself trolling through the woods in an effort to repair my sun-deprived, ice-atrophied soul.

And what I'm finding there ain't cool.  

A recent wilderness hike inspired the following goofy little pram:

Paradise Redux(ed)

If everyone knew where Paradise was, would paradise long abide with it?
When larvae and lapdogs and black lung persists,
Can anything hope to withstand this?

The meaning of that which sustains such a tract seems lost on all who repose here.
With yapping and squealing and dumb axes falling will heaven be purged in a leap year?

Aluminum afterthoughts, corroded spike hammerfalls,
Is there any limit to ignorance?
The murder of sentience for the sake of convenience,
Reveals our own dearth of intelligence.   

Should you seek to bring gloom to some paths that are "groomed",
Why not turn your attention to bitumen?
There's a petrol-soaked fissure,
In wan Athabasca,
That requires your immediate attention! 
  
    

April is National Poetry Month. Here, I got you a Haiku...

Greetings, Persistent Purveyors of Poesy!

Wait, I didn't catch that...did you just say that you don't like poetry?  Why the hell not!?  What's wrong with you?  Were you dropped on your head as a kid or something?  Sheesh.

You like music, dontcha?  Music has lyrics, right?  You like lyrics, capish?    

I've always personally defined poetry as "an economic concentration of meaning in as succinct and artistic a manner as possible".  Ever send a text message to someone?  What can be more succinct and meaningful then a text?

Okay, maybe "can i use ur washroooom i realy hav 2 pee" isn't the best example of art, but in this age of insta-communication, I really wouldn't be surprised is poetry doesn't have a major resurgence soon.
 
When you're an English Major, like it or not, there's just no way you can avoid poetry.  Through a mix of dedicated study, personal predilection or even osmosis, you eventually become intimately familiar with Shakespeare's sonnets, Blake's head-trips, Wordsworth's daffodil fetish, Dickinson's vigorous verses, Coleridge's epics, T.S. Elliot's dirges and Shelly's romantic surrealism.  Eventually it begins to bleed into you.  You become obsessed with seeking out works of renown, analyzing everything for deeper meaning and reading it aloud to people in the hopes of possibly having sex with them.

One of the coolest things that a bunch of us did while we lived in residence was compose poetry during some of our more pedestrian classes.  At the end of the day, we'd gather in someone's room and read what we'd composed.  Mercifully this never resulted in us having sex with one other.   *Shudder*  

So why did we do it?  Beat's me.  It might be because that, at the time, some of us considered folks like Leonard Cohen and Jim Morrison to be kinda "pimp".  Maybe it's because we had no creative outlet otherwise.  Maybe it's because we were just stone-cold bored in class.  Or perhaps we wanted to write something good enough to impress the ladies.  

Whatever the reason, we were pretty prolific there for awhile.  Our efforts certainly weren't limited to weirdo English Majors, either.  There were International Studies and Commerce students in the mix as well.  Generally what we wrote was pretty crappy.  I know my first few efforts were alternately waaaaaaay too heavy handed and/or pretentious to see the light of day.

Periodic boredom in the classroom eventually gave way to chronic boredom in the workplace.  Call centers, with their regimented protocols and lack of innovation, are a veritable breeding ground for composing verse.  I wrote a fair bit during this time and some of my cubically contained inmates followed suit.  Occasionally my pathetic plea for a creative outlet would raise it's head when trying to cope with the sometimes surreal office environment  or worm its way into supervisory emails sent to staff members prone to fleeing the work place:

Revealing A Mystery...

"Reading fleetly 'tween the calls
Phone and clock upon the walls
Scream in your ear 'You must take flight!'
Alight in carriage, bold and bright.

Epiphany strike, a thought declare:
'I left my book and notes back there!'
Dawn a class comes, naught to show.
'I'll skip the damn'd thing, I WILL NOT GO!

So knowledge gain'd and lesson learn'd
Accoutrement all I must confirm
Before the mad dash to the brink
FOR THE LOVE OF PETE, JUST ONCE, PLEASE THINK!

Sorry, I couldn't resist.   You'll find your Edgar Allan Poe book and binder at the Coaches desk.

P.S. Make sure you read The Tell-Tale Heart.  Good stuff."

When finishing my book became priority one, poor, neglected verse fell by the wayside.  That is, until this time last year.  I had the good fortune of reading the following article in Halifax's Weekly Dose of Realistic Optimism, The Coast:

http://www.thecoast.ca/ArtAttack/archives/2010/04/21/open-heart-forgery-poetry-journal-debuts

For those of you too lazy to click on ye olde link (I'm lookin' at you, bub!) it tell the story of one Donal Power, a former journalist turned editor who's been passionate about poetry since High School.  In this wacky modern world he just can't wrap his head around why an art form which was once so pervasive and easy to practice has fallen into cultural oblivion.  He can't conceive as to why reading, sharing and publishing poetry has become so academic and insular.  He struggles with how local institutions seem more concerned with creating a cottage industry for people already published versus fostering talented but yet-unheard voices.

His solution to this deficit was so simple it was brilliant.  He created Open Heart Forgery, a self-described "grass roots, guerrilla journal of poems and lyrics that seeks to energize the writing community in Halifax and the HRM".  Every month Donal asks creative folks (just like you, Gentle Reader) to email their lyrics and poems to him.  He then turns his aesthetic, analytic and editorial eye on each submission, separates the wheat from the chaff and publishes the ten-point font, 28 line max results on a tri-fold sheet of colorful legal paper. 

In addition to his own distribution efforts, he invites readers to literally "forge" every issue by going to the OHF homepage, printing it, copying it and then scattering it all around the Halifax Regional Municipality.  If you live in the area, keep an eye out for it the next time you're out and about: it could turn up on a bus, in a coffee shop, at the library, in a pub, in a bookstore, at the laundromat or in the waiting room of the place where you routinely get a high colonic ("Hey, waitaminit, this isn't a Doctor's office!").

And I'll tell ya right now, folks, OHF certainly makes for more soul-nourishing, karmically fulfilling lunchtime reading then say, that crappy Flying Cow ad rag.   

Since I've been chasing the dream of official publication for years like Jeremy Wade after a River Monster, I decided to throw caution to the wind, nut up and send in one of my poems.  For the record, here is the very pram in question:

Anticipation

An obligatory glimmer of promise provided.

The unconscious optimist now resurrected.

His sermons of hope are ever-alluring.

The masses will follow, never returning.

Empowered, he usurps the throne of despair.

Just as the bullet will dagger the air.

The flock and the spirit will perish within him.

But that's the way it is without him.

The martyr must fall from the golden barony.

All for the sake

     of a little something

                   called "tragic irony".

To my amazement, here was Donal's reply a few days later:

"Hello David,

Thank you very much for your submission 'Anticipation' to Open Heart
Forgery (I particularly enjoyed the deft line  'the bullet will dagger
the air' - very deft and evocative). We've got it queued up for the
upcoming June issue.

Thanks again David and happy writing!"

This led me to my first public poetry reading at Local Jo's cafe at the end of May.  Being forced to do presentations in university as well as training and presentations at work really served me well.  It was a major ego boost to realize that I'd completely conquered my crippling fear of speaking in front of crowds.  It was also inspiring and enriching for me to witness other shy people screw up their courage, march up to the podium and pour their creative little hearts out in front of total strangers.  Bless 'em...often they'd be up there with their voices cracking, bodies trembling, clutching sweat-soaked sheets of parchment in their white-knuckled mitts.

But in the end, they conquered their fears and survived the process intact.  I watched with growing pride as they became increasingly confident and bold.  I soon found myself falling in severe like with this crowd of supportive, interesting, quirky and sometimes wiltingly sensitive misfits.  

I was also amazed by the ever-increasing turnout.  Partnered with the already well-established Left Bank Poetry Reading group (featuring such local literary luminaries as David Rimmington, Meg Baird, Heddy Johannesen, Anna Quon, Steve Vernon and David Williams) we eventually outgrew our available space and moved into the tres popular Just Us! coffee shop on Spring Garden Road in downtown Halifax.

During this time I was fortunate enough to be published in Open Heart Forgery three more times.  I was so taken by Donal's contagious enthusiasm and his noble struggle to foster creative awareness that I pledged my ongoing support to help distribute new issues every month.  A few months later, I became OHF's official Distribution Manager.

April 2'nd saw us hit yet another milestone.  On the occasion of OHF's first birthday (and in honor of National Poetry Month)  Donal managed to bring the whole concept to its logical extension by publishing the periodical's first Anthology.  Readers and listeners alike gathered to celebrate it's launch at Halifax's venerable Seaport Farmers Market.   

I was blown away.  For the first time ever, I could open up a book and point to something I'd written and say: "Hey!  Check this shiznit out!  I wrote this!"

So where will Open Heart Forgery go from here?  Frankly, the sky's the limit.  We're starting to take our new issue launches on the road to libraries all over the HRM.  Our last gathering at the North Branch of the Halifax Public Library was a resounding success.  Frankly I'm not surprised that, despite a change of venue and a two-month hiatus, it's still growing.  In an age of people communicating vicariously though social networking and smart phones, there's something primal and visceral about gathering together in a common space to share stories, songs and poems with real people face-to-face.

If this blog has inspired you at all, then get choppin'!  Compose some verse!  Come to one of our readings!  If you're reading this in some far-flung corner of the earth and you feel compelled to act, then email Donal @ editor@ohForgery.com and see if you can start up your own regional version of Open Heart Forgery! 

Above all, stay creative!  The world really does belong to people that bring beautiful and artistic things into being versus taking things away.

If you're already one of those people, please know that your not alone.  When you're ready to share your unique voice with others, be heartened to know that you already have a built-in audience out there.

EPIC
Open Heart Forgery's official site and on Bookface.

SUPRA-EPIC
For any readers not in the area (or for those who missed the launch event), you can pick up a copy of the anthology in person or request a mail-order from local independent bookstore the Bookmark on Spring Garden Road in Halifax. 

SIMILARLY EPIC
The next Left Bank Poetry Reading will be Thursday April 28 from 6:30 pm to 8:30 pm at Just Us! Cafe on 5896 Spring Garden. 

FAIL
Hey, if Stimson J. Cat can write a poem, what's your excuse?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lRwnD-XyltA

Skool Daze : Part II

Greetings, Kind Reader.

Before I began my sophomore year at St.Mary's university I had to select a major.  Normally in order to do this you get thrown into a huge room with about a thousand other people all clamoring for academic attention like pasty, sweaty, prematurely balding inside traders at the New York Stock Exchange while the Dow Jones plummets by seven-hundred points.

When I walked into this fray the following things were paramount in my thoughts:

(1)  I need to select a major that's in tune with my career goals.
(2) I need to select a major in a subject that I have an aptitude for, a vested interest in and have a proven track record with.
(3) I need to see what the shortest lineup is because, Man, am I hungover!

Just kidding.  *Ahem*  I'd actually selected all my courses in the middle of the summer (what else was I going to do while bored to tears at home?) Based on my first year spread I decided to go for an Honors Degree in English leading up to a path in journalism mayhaps.  Here's a look at what was in store for me:

The Early Novel  The course load for this one initially scared the bejesus out of me.  I remember the prof doling out the reading list and I began to hyperventilate in the middle of the lecture.  I called my parents just as soon as the first class was over and told them "Look, guys, I'm really not sure I can do this!"  as if I was about to audition for "2 Boys, 1 Cup".  Look, if you doubt me, the next time you're in a book store just pick up and flip through a copy of "Roxanna", "Moll Flanders" or "Tom Jones" and ask yourself if you could get through it.  Often times these early novels had nothing resembling paragraph breaks, chapters or organization, which in retrospect should have been the argument I  used when I passed in those first few atrocious essays the previous year.

Mercifully armed with a surplus of available time, a genuine interest in reading and an old set of encyclopedias with plot summaries in the back I managed to survive it, garnering an "excellent discussion" and an "interesting analysis" even while tearing into Jane Austen's precious heroine "Emma" for being "consistently shallow, overindulged and biased."  Kinda like a Georgian-era Heidi Montag. 

An Introduction to Poetry This class was overseen by a professor whom I believe was one of the original masons on the McNally Building and the powers that be just kept him around to grade papers.  This dude was older than Yoda.  Whenever he'd lecture about something particularly exciting he'd launch into a bizarre aerobics routine which normally saw him bobbing in place, grabbing out at the air with alternating fists, and shaking his head up and down like a cartoon character eating a cob of corn.  Typically the first two rows in the class were vacant since there was no guarantee you'd still be dry at the end of the class from all the wayward spittle.

Although I admired his moxie (in fact he may have invented the word) he wasn't the best provider of feedback.  Most of the papers that came back were marked up with cryptic red pen scrawls (words underlined, question marks, exclamation points) and one-word demands like "EXAMPLES!" , "WHY?" or "PUDDING!".  Typically you just took your arbitrary mark of "B-" and considered yourself lucky, since the prospect of reviewing your grade in his office was scarier than playing Russian Roulette with Conrad Black on Angel Dust.

An Introduction To Canadian Literature Was one of my favorite classes that year since it exposed me to the brilliant literary efforts of my very accomplished countrymen (and women).  Alice Munro, Timothy Findley, Margaret Laurence, Michael Ondaatje and David Adams Richards all gave me hope for the first time that my voice could be heard in poetry and prose.  It also began my life-time love affair with Leonard Cohen (not biblically, of course, but...yknow, I could be persuaded) who's works such as "For Anne", "What I'm Doing Here" and "I Have Not Lingered In European Monasteries" actually inspired myself and an unexpected cadre of unlikely people including (EEEK!) commerce students on my floor to start up an informal poetry-writing cabal.  Often in our more boring classes we'd compose, go back to the floor and read our latest creations which were often alternately crude, pretentious or schmaltzy.  But, hey, it was fun.

The prof for this course was the same for "Early Novel" and we'd already established a great rapport.  I kicked ass and took names in this one, earning a shiny "A" with my "careful and excellent discussions".

Hey, look, I haven't gotten any encouragement for anything for the past fifteen years, so please forgive your Humble Author for blowing the dust off some ancient laurels, a'ight?

Narrative in Fiction and Film  This would prove to be my favorite course during my four-year tenure at St. Mary's.  The entire thrust of the class was reading stories, watching the resulting film adaptation and comparing the two.  It was presided over by Glenn Walton, a sharp and classy dude who was heavily involved in the local film scene.  At the time of our meeting he'd already completed several short films and years later he appeared as an extra in  "Titanic" and his 35 mm short Chamberpiece was featured in the Atlantic Film Festival.

As far as I was concerned, this man was Orson Welles.  If I'd considered film-making sorcery up to this point in time, well, I'd just met friggin' Gandalf. 

The course itself was fantastic, and if I wasn't completely mentally drained as well as terrified by insurmountable student loan debt when I eventually graduated, this class really represents the crossroads of an alternate reality for me.  If I could just jump in that time machine and go back to this point I'd tell myself:

"Did you notice how interested you are in all this?  Look no further for what you want to do with the rest of your life!  Pursue a career in film with the same tenacity that 'The Dog' hunts bail jumpers!"

To which I would have replied:

"Whoa, old dude, will I really have that much gray hair when I get to be that age?  F#@^!!!  And who is this 'Dog' you speak of?"

I had a blast with this course, particularly in writing movie reviews.   I got an "A-" for my review of Zeffirelli's "Hamlet" starring Mel Gibson (which I groaningly referred to as "Great Dane!").  For my review of David Lynch's "Wild at Heart" (titled "Rockin' Good News"!) Glenn responded "This is insightful, intelligent and reads with the kind of energy the film must have.  You're style successfully emulates the film's".

The highlight of the course, however, was a term project that was right up my alley. I was asked to either take a pre-existing thirty-page short story and adapt it into a screenplay or create an original thirty-minute script.  I opted for the later, interpreting a creepy horror story I'd written in High School called "Dark Harvest".  I pounded it out in a few days, completely driven to see it appraised.  Typically residence is a procrastination factory but no distraction proved tempting enough to stop me.  Professor Walton's comments regarding the submission still can't help but make me beam with pride:

"Brrrrrrr...This has lots of chills and weirdness, is well set up visually and catches the gothic, small-town ambiance.  The church scenes are particularly good.  I can see this on the screen and the actors could have a great time with subtext."

Up to this time this was the greatest thing anyone ever said to me.  Until I submitted my final paper to him, which was a review of the film version of George Orwell's "1984":

"This achieves your usual excellent standard, David.  The review is full of intelligent comment.  I wish you all the best - you have a definite talent for writing and I'd like to encourage you to continue with this rare ability.  Good luck!"

Yknow, I've always bitched that I never had a mentor.  At the risk of sounding maudlin, Glenn Walton was as close to one as I'd ever meet.  I wish I hadn't been so damned shy and reserved at the time other wise I would have put him in a choke hold, forced him to the floor and screamed at him  "Luck?!??  My gray-haired, pathetic future self says I need more than f#@%*&; luck!!! Help me, you motherf#@&a@!!!"

* Ahem *.  Goodness, where did that come from?  

Political Science 200 To prove that everything didn't come up smiles und sunshine that year: here's into Poly Sci!  I was prompted by my academic adviser that I'd best start getting acclimated to learning about Canadian Politics.  Frankly, the concept was about as exciting as watching paint dry but I wanted to ensure that my studies remained at least semi-practical.  Boredom in the class is is clearly evident in my  hand-written notes, which are filled with references to "Poly-Why?", "I Wanna Be Sedated" and open invitations for people within line of sight to "Please Shoot Me".  Occasionally the margins are filled with itemized lists of how many Iron Maiden songs I could remember off the top of my head or as many professional wrestlers as I could name.

The Poly-Sci prof was a feisty Philippine lady who certainly cut us little slack.  After disaster was averted with formatting and pagination in my intro courses I though I'd ironed out what was being asked of me but I continued to struggle with the lack of consistency amongst the departments.  A paper submitted to the English department wouldn't be suitable for a History assignment.  An essay intended for Poly Sci would be rejected for Intro Marketing.  It was a constant juggling act.  Eventually, since the lion's share of submissions I made were for English classes, this became the most familiar process to me so often I'd throw caution to wind and ignore the sometime-stinging comments that came back.  

Her notes on my papers are amusing to read now.  They sound like a mother urging her child to take it's first steps.  Some prime examples: "This is a good effort - as far as it goes", "You have only begun to answer the questions you've posed", "Your reference form is inaccurate" and my personal favorite: "Keep trying, L'il Shaver!"

Okay, I added the "L'il Shaver" part but I'm reading between the lines.  Eventually we had a bit of a breakthrough and I moved from "Don't Stick That Up Your Nose" to "Very Good Discussion!" and finished with a respectable "B-".

I also decided I would rather become a rodeo clown than become a political journalist, so something good came out of it in the end, n'est pas?.

EPIC:
 


























FAIL:  http://www.wanderings.net/notebook/Main/HighSchoolEssayAnalogies   I officially did a copyright on the E.Coli one, by the way, so don't think about stealing it...

The Man on the Flying Trapeze

Hello, Gentle Reader.

Please forgive the following ego indulgence.

Back in April of 1994 I wrote the following which I suppose was my idea of "poetry" at the time. Be gentle:

*************************************************************

The Man on the Flying Trapeze

There is a certain isolation when you are surrounded.
When safety nets fray and the dive is inevitable.
To rely on strangers.
To meet in tribunal.
To pass a secret motion,
and grant you a future.

*************************************************************

I think the way we apply for jobs in this day and age is hilarious. Basically the applicant is a stranger to the prospective company and the prospective candidate is a complete stranger to the company. It's completely absurd.

I was in "Uncommon Grounds" the other day ("Fog Burner": best coffee in the city, respec'!)reading "Pillars of the Earth". I like reading in coffee shops since most of the inane babble around me functions as so much white noise and I'm able to focus on whatever I'm reading, regardless of how dry it is. Now Ken Follett's masterpiece is nothing but dull, but just as he's going into a particularly Machiavellian sidebar about the death of a monarch, likely successors and what potential pretenders of the throne may offer contest, I'm actually distracted by a conversation at a nearby table.

Sitting there is a smartly attired dude about my age who is joined by either a long- time confidant or a retained consultant I'm not sure which. They greet each other like old friends and start to chat.

Smart-Attired Dude: "So, thanks for meeting with me on such short notice. I appreciate it."

Confultant: "No worries, man, my pleasure. So how've you been?"

Smart-Attired Dude: "Alright I guess. I guess I'm still in shock."

Confultant: "Yeah, that's natural."

Smart-Attired Dude: "I still can't believe that(insert name of notoriously greedy regional grocery store conglomerate here)fired me after eight years."

Confultant: "Hey! Don't look at it as being fired, okay. Cripes, I've been fired more times than I've had hot meals. Things is, with me, most times the company didn't let me go but just shuffled me into some other crappy position."

Smart-Attired Dude: "Yeah, well, I guess that just wasn't an option for me."

Confultant: "So how's the job search going?"

Smart-Attired Dude: "Terrible. I had an interview with a shipping company in Liverpool which I really thought would be perfect for me. I'm originally from down around there, so y'know, I figured I'd have a bit of an 'inside track'. Anyway the job ad said that they were looking for a Shipping/Receiving guy, which is exactly what my resume shows..."

Confultant: "Right."

Smart-Attired Dude: "So the interview's going well but all of a sudden the guy starts asking me if I have any experience with box manufacturing."

Confultant: "Uh...huh, okay. So,what did you tell him?"

Smart-Attired Dude: "Well, the truth, unfortunately. I've never worked in a place that actually makes packaging but I told him, c'mon, it's just a BOX. Who cares?"

Confultant: "Jesus..."

Smart-Attired Dude: "Yeah, well, I guess it was important to them. They called me a few days later told me I didn't get the job. I asked for some feedback and they told me I didn't have any experience with box manufacturing. I just had to laugh because if the guy they hired has no experience with day to day shipping and receiving logistics, it's just gonna be a disaster."

Confultant: "Frankly I wouldn't worry too much about it. I think it's good you didn't get the job with an outfit like that."

Smart-Attired Dude: "Yeah, probably."

Confultant: "Look, let me tell you something right now: the whole concept of hiring people based on a resume and an interview is completely pointless."

Smart-Attired Dude: "What do you mean?"

Confultant: "Just think about it. What does a resume tell a potential employer about really important things?"

Smart-Attired Dude: "Like what?"

Confultant: "Like what kind of work ethic does this person have? What type of management style does he best react to? How adaptable is this person? How good are they with multitasking?"

Smart-Attired Dude: "Man, that's so true. Usually I just fire a resume out as kind of a generic thing..."

Confultant: "Exactly! It's like throwing darts blindfolded. And don't even get me started on interviews. These behavioral things now are a friggin' farce. All you have to do now in an interview is memorize some pat answers and hope yours reek less of bulls#!^ than the next guy's..."

Smart-Attired Dude: "Well, what's the alternative?"

Confultant: "The company I'm with right now is doing something brilliant. They don't even ask for a resume or do an interview at first. There's an informal questionnaire that you fill out right on our website that's designed to profile all those things I mentioned before we even call you."

And that's where I had to take my leave, regretting that I would never get to hear the name of the innovative company in question.

I put this in here because I can only rant about the state of the union from a potential employee's position and this dimly-lit street is definitely a two-wayer. I once knew a very capable person who interviewed for a dream job with a non-profit organization. This person went into the interview knowing they were going to have to do a lot of road trips, accept a lower-tier health package and take a pay cut but they hated their current job and wanted to do something more karmic-ally rewarding.

So get this now, after making this poor applicant jump through hoops of fire, in the final stage interview the company representative tells our hero:



Has this ever happened to you before? Have you ever gone through an interview process so complicated you'd think you were applying to CSIS, gotten your hopes up, ready to accept an offer and make a positive change in your life? Then some person who doesn't know you at all decides that either they didn't like your box-assembly-deficient-resume or decides to trowel on a couple of hitherto unmentioned crap duties to see if you'll still bite as if the "sucker" sign on your back is crooked?

I don't know about you but I'm sick of surprise and disappointment. Employers, please consider adopting something similar to what the previously mentioned phantom company has set in place. From the perspective of smart, diligent and honest employees we need to pledge the following completely reasonable vows:

* I will not blindly apply for jobs through temp agencies acting for a front for companies with reputations so poor that you would never have applied for them in the first place.

* I will tell any potential employer to "cram it with walnuts" if they mention in the 11'th hour of an interview that you will be paid not in cash after all but with bits of wool, twigs and dead budgerigars.

* I will also tell any potential employer to "go pound sand" if, during the moment they shake hands with you after accepting the job, they suddenly produce a laundry hamper filled with the v.p.'s sweat socks which they promptly describe as "your first action item".

* I will no longer toil away for people markedly stupider than I am. And trust me, this is a modest proposal since I'm not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer.

* I will not slave away at a McJob where process and procedure is so homogenized that either you or a syphilitic brain-damaged rhesus monkey could do with equal proficiency.

* I will not pimp my priceless time to a company that, instead of hiring more staff to replace attrition losses, just trowel their extra duties on top of some other economically ransomed, borderline-suicidal serf.

* I will never sell my soul to an employer who's idea of training and investing in their employees is a thumb absently jabbed in the direction of your battleship gray cubicle prison.

* I will not pledge my allegiance to an employer that regards it's staff's merely as asses warming seats.

Even as I look at this through the eyes of a potential employer all I see are ways to make their lives easier as well. After all it's gotta be expensive, frustrating and a poor reflection on your operation if it's hemorrhaging veteran staff and new hires alike. Especially if they try and act surprised when they can't find suitable candidates to interview.

So, what say you, fellow Trapeze Artists? Let me hear from you! If we have solidarity here, I promise we'll spark a revolution that Jamie Oliver would be proud of.

EPIC: The Pillars of the Earth

FAIL: http://www.bcjobs.ca/re/hr-resources/human-resource-advice/recruitment-and-retention/employee-turnover--how-much-is-it-costing-you