Meet Gerald -- Our Copy Editor
Here’s my 12.12.2012 “All Over the Map” from Arkansas Weekly:
I’m well aware that these weekly dispatches of mine do not set the world on fire with provocative thought and intelligent discourse. I mean, I’ve written columns about Santa partying with Snoop Dogg, the private lives of certain Sesame Street characters (twice), and my penchant for collecting severed heads.
Still, it really burns my ham that for the past few weeks, I’ve discovered a few major errors in some of my recent columns, both grammatical and factual, after they’ve been published. One in particular referred to Robert Gates as the current Secretary of Defense when, in fact, he’s been enjoying private life for over a year now.
(Oh, and I really don’t know what “burns my ham” means. It just sounded right.)
I guess the thing I really should do is have Gerald stop editing my columns. Gerald is an unpaid intern here at Arkansas Weekly. He’s been part of the team since 1997 when his mother dropped him off at the door. That was the last time anyone ever saw his mom around these parts. The last report of her whereabouts had her working as an assistant cleavage enhancer for the waitresses at a Tunica casino.
Gerald was just 31 when he was abandoned at our offices. He’ll also be the first to tell you that he can’t remember much of his life before his 29th birthday. It was around that time that Gerald stuck his tongue in a lamp’s empty bulb socket while playing a game of “Truth or Dare” with his dad. It took at least three orderlies at his dad’s nursing home to pull Gerald’s tongue out of the lamp – one holding the lamp, and the other two holding each one of Gerald’s legs. Word was that Gerald’s dad laughed so hard he had to be sedated.
Most of us like Gerald because he really doesn’t get in the way, and during the winter, we let him stand by the door and hold our coats and hats while we work. Some days, Gerald does get a little loud when he argues with the men’s room doorknob about Gerald’s theory that aliens have stolen all of the Twinkies, but for the most part, when he is not editing my column, he simply keeps quiet and plays in the corner with his G.I. Joe action figure.
Today, after I realized the amount of errors in my previous columns, I decided to confront Gerald about his sloppy work. I found him on his cot in the janitor’s closet where he sleeps and eats. He was wearing his big round headphones and listening to his cassette Walkman. He sat up quickly when I opened the door causing his old Rush concert t-shirt to hike up across the top of his fuzzy, ample belly.
“Hi Mr. Rob!” he yelled, still wearing his headphones. “Mr. Rob! Mr. Rob! I wish they would make one of these things for 8-tracks.” He held up his Walkman with a jiggle of his hand. “I have lots of 8-tracks! I’ve got Rush. I’ve got Mac Davis. I’ve got lots of Ray Conniff. I’ve got Boz Scaggs. I’ve got Rush.”
I motioned to him to take off his headphones.
“Shhh…,” I said. “No need to yell, Gerald.”
He swiped his headphones off his round, fuzzy-curled head. “Sorry,” he whispered. He put his forefinger to his lips. “I’ll go shhhhh. See, I get excited when I listen to my Rush cassettes. Mr. Rob, do you know Mr. Sony? Maybe you can tell him to make one of these Walkguys for my 8-tracks.
I’m well aware that these weekly dispatches of mine do not set the world on fire with provocative thought and intelligent discourse. I mean, I’ve written columns about Santa partying with Snoop Dogg, the private lives of certain Sesame Street characters (twice), and my penchant for collecting severed heads.
Still, it really burns my ham that for the past few weeks, I’ve discovered a few major errors in some of my recent columns, both grammatical and factual, after they’ve been published. One in particular referred to Robert Gates as the current Secretary of Defense when, in fact, he’s been enjoying private life for over a year now.
(Oh, and I really don’t know what “burns my ham” means. It just sounded right.)
I guess the thing I really should do is have Gerald stop editing my columns. Gerald is an unpaid intern here at Arkansas Weekly. He’s been part of the team since 1997 when his mother dropped him off at the door. That was the last time anyone ever saw his mom around these parts. The last report of her whereabouts had her working as an assistant cleavage enhancer for the waitresses at a Tunica casino.
Gerald was just 31 when he was abandoned at our offices. He’ll also be the first to tell you that he can’t remember much of his life before his 29th birthday. It was around that time that Gerald stuck his tongue in a lamp’s empty bulb socket while playing a game of “Truth or Dare” with his dad. It took at least three orderlies at his dad’s nursing home to pull Gerald’s tongue out of the lamp – one holding the lamp, and the other two holding each one of Gerald’s legs. Word was that Gerald’s dad laughed so hard he had to be sedated.
Most of us like Gerald because he really doesn’t get in the way, and during the winter, we let him stand by the door and hold our coats and hats while we work. Some days, Gerald does get a little loud when he argues with the men’s room doorknob about Gerald’s theory that aliens have stolen all of the Twinkies, but for the most part, when he is not editing my column, he simply keeps quiet and plays in the corner with his G.I. Joe action figure.
Today, after I realized the amount of errors in my previous columns, I decided to confront Gerald about his sloppy work. I found him on his cot in the janitor’s closet where he sleeps and eats. He was wearing his big round headphones and listening to his cassette Walkman. He sat up quickly when I opened the door causing his old Rush concert t-shirt to hike up across the top of his fuzzy, ample belly.
“Hi Mr. Rob!” he yelled, still wearing his headphones. “Mr. Rob! Mr. Rob! I wish they would make one of these things for 8-tracks.” He held up his Walkman with a jiggle of his hand. “I have lots of 8-tracks! I’ve got Rush. I’ve got Mac Davis. I’ve got lots of Ray Conniff. I’ve got Boz Scaggs. I’ve got Rush.”
I motioned to him to take off his headphones.
“Shhh…,” I said. “No need to yell, Gerald.”
He swiped his headphones off his round, fuzzy-curled head. “Sorry,” he whispered. He put his forefinger to his lips. “I’ll go shhhhh. See, I get excited when I listen to my Rush cassettes. Mr. Rob, do you know Mr. Sony? Maybe you can tell him to make one of these Walkguys for my 8-tracks.
“Hey, Mr. Rob! Mr. Rob! Have you seen my collection of nail clippings? The jar is almost full, Mr. Rob! I would show you my scab collection, but I ran out of Doritos the other night during NCIS.”
“No thanks, Gerald. How are the breathing exercises going?” The staff here at the office have been trying to teach Gerald how to breathe through his nostrils instead of always through his mouth.
“Um, pretty good, Mr. Rob. I think I might be able to inhale in one nose hole by Christmas.”
“That’s wonderful, Gerald! Now listen, Gerald, I appreciate all of your help when you edit my columns -- you know that, don’t you Gerald?
“Yes, Mr. Rob, and do you like it when I draw the elephants with the polka-dots on the back of your pages?”
“Oh, they’re delightful, Gerald. Gerald?” I patted his fuzzy knee and noticed what I hoped were chocolate stains on his shorts and socks.
He looked up to me. “Yes, Mr. Rob?”
“Gerald,” I said, “there have been a few problems, though.”
Gerald’s eyes widened and his chin began to quiver.
“Now, don’t start crying on me Gerald. I’m not upset. Besides, you’re 46 years old. You should be able to take constructive criticism by now.”
“Oh, you’re right, Mr. Rob,” he said with a sigh. “I just want to make sure you’re happy so I can continue to live in this really nice closet, and eat my Pop-Tarts every morning, and shave my back in the sink, and go through your computer files while you’re not here, and stuff.”
“That’s right, Gerald. That’s right. That’s a good, mature way to – wait, what was that last part?”
“I said, ‘…and stuff.’”
“Oh, yes. Okay. I thought, I heard, uh, you say…never mind. Anyway, the point is I need you to read over my columns much more carefully. There have been a few mistakes, and I have egg on my face when those things make it to print. How am I going to win my Pulitzer if I have all these mistakes?”
“Okay, Mr. Rob,” he said. “I promise I’ll be extra, extra careful on your next column. Hey, while I think of it, did my Joey Lawrence poster come in the mail yet?”
“Not yet, Gerald. Now, I’ve got to scurry. I have a 10:30 spray tanning session to attend.”
He smiled and shrugged. “Aw, thanks, Mr. Rob. I promise you won’t see a single mistake in your next column.”
“Fantastic !” I said. .
So, dear readers, with Gerald’s xtra – villiagence, I’m now extremelty secure That for decades come and with Gerald’s xtra-villigance. This kolumn will be thanksfully free of any factual or grammertical errors that I might have over –looked while I wrote this .
Thanks, GErald for your newfind passion for acccuracy and correction.]
It is appreciated
1 comment:
"...and stuff."
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