Human ritual, conflict, and self-esteem

I just took fourth place in a barroom spelling bee. Fourth out of about 30. Not bad.

[This is where pictures usually go]

I spelled the following words correctly: tyrannous, misspell, ketch, veldt (the latter two because, not in spite of, a childhood wasted on videogames [ketch coming from Rise of Nations, veldt from Final Fantasy 3]).

On all of these words, I went with my first instinct, spelled with confidence, made sure to ennunciate the letters I thought might be sticking points (v-e-l-D-t, I had said). I lost on "limousine," wherein I left out the "u". Shit.

Including the "u"--though you may not believe me--was my first instinct, which I fought off. I overthought it, decided against the "u" and spelled l-i-m-o-s-i-n-e, with none of the confidence and careful ennunciation of previous rounds.

Let this be a lesson:

Don't drink.

The spelling bee was curated by my colleague at the alternative weekly newspaper for which I work, as he was the previous champion. It was won by my colleague at the alternative weekly newspaper, with whom--over the course of an evening--I had developed a healthy rivalry. He wins, I get fourth. That's irksome. I learned, though, that when it comes down to brass tacks, and I'm concentrating--and relatively sober--I'm not half bad as a speller.

What matters, though--if I may nail myself to the cross of teamsmanship--is that my paper beat the other paper, who had a rather dreadful showing. I myself did better than any of the other paper's humans. I think you know what that means in terms of journalistic superiority.

Though I must confess this: last week, in print for God's sake, I did misspell wierd twice. Rather than the correct way, I spelled it like I just did. Twice. Normally Word would catch and autocorrect such an error (which has something to do with why I have no idea how it's really spelled, Word fixing it automatically, which is no way to learn, children), but I was making two 11th hour changes directly to the page (meaning I typed directly into the paper-constructing aparatus known as Adobe In-Design, which doesn't have its own spell check, stupidly). So there it is, on page, 50 thousand odd copies, under my byline: WIERD.

No matter how many drunken spelling bees I take 4th in, it won't be enough to wash away that stain.

***

It's kinda fun, reading over this, to write something that doesn't have immediate bearing on any current events, but which is simply the outpouring of brain to binary, filterless and without form. I'd forgotten that.

I just interviewed someone today--for a freelance position, which is what I was doing some mere two weeks ago--and asking him all these questions and explaining all these editorial standards and my half-assed vision for my section (over which I have near complete control), and I thought to myself how strange it was that I would be imposing what are, admittedly, my own, fairly arbitrary, aesthetic standards. Speaking like some kind of professional. A journalist even.

Rather than like some kid who started writing, very recently, because he was depressed and narcissistic and desperately wanted the acceptance of others.

That was pretty weird.

From this diarrhetic trough--this thing right here--this flash flood evacuation zone of half-thoughts and poor execution, I have developed a set of standards and practices, with which I rule a small stable of writers.

Take a look back at some of the shit I've written, in all its smugness, hauteur and filth. Is this the kind of shit you want to see your child write?