This Blows!

Well, wouldn't you know it?--it seems I've received that most supremely dubious of honours, the obscure (yet coveted, I'm sure, in certain insalubrious circles) Woodie Award. For the first time in my life, I find myself able to tell the world I've got a woodie, and mean it. (Cue riotous laughter from the cheap seats.)

In the spirit of said award, which is all about joy and laughter and ladies' underpants, I've got a funny story to tell, a real corker of a one. It all began on an Internet art forum:

I was just waiting for you to post here again, Socar...

Oh? Well, colour me flattered. Lovely to know I've got an audience, sort of thing--even a following, one might say. Can you call it a following if there's only one person? I mean, they're still following you, aren't they? So, technically--

...I was waiting, so I could tell you...

Yes? (I'm Frazetta! I'm Elmore! Da Vinci!)

...that I was shocked to see your piece in last year's publication of Spectrum.

Wait, what? Avast, foul following! You're meant to adore me, not--

See, it said (psst, psst, psst).

(Gasp!) It never!

Don't read ahead to find out what it said. That would be cheating. It was right shocking, though. It was unbelievable, in that Mr. Meldrew sort of way. At first, I assumed a Practical Joke was afoot. Folks've been playing jokes on me on a more or less constant basis since the Reclaiming Art fiasco of '04. (I pretend to be discombobulated and mildly embarrassed, but secretly thrive on the attention.)

Still, a seed of doubt had been planted. There was only one thing to do: take my concern to a second, impartial art forum, and get someone to check their copy. (My copy got lost in the post again, see. Happens every year. I mean, I only entered twice, but both times, it happened. And after what they wrote last year, why, I'm glad I couldn't afford the entry fee this time around! That's what I'll be telling myself, anyhow, when everyone else is celebrating their inclusion and I'm sitting home in obscurity.)

So, anyhow, I duly presented myself in a second forum. "This is going to sound a bit silly," I said (feeling, indeed, a bit on the barmy side)--"this is going to sound a bit silly, but next to my entry in last year's edition of Spectrum, did it really say--?"

It was only a minute before the answer popped up, with visual proof following soon after (ah, the wonders of modern technology!):

"Indeed it does! :-D OMFG! How did that slip through editing?"

How, indeed? I mean, I've had my name misspelled in print once or twice, and I've been written up as a man more times than I can count. I've even had spelling mistakes added to my comic-book scripts. All that, though, it makes sense, in an irksome sort of way. I have a strange name, which does sound a bit on the XY side. And as for the spelling mistakes, well, loads of people can't spell. They probably think they're correcting my scripts when they go through and louse them up. They probably think they're doing me a favour.

This, though--there's just no rational explanation for this:

Medium: Blow.

I mean, what is that? Their opinion of my work, perhaps? (This painting blows, man. Indeed, I'd classify it as a great, flakey pile of blow.) A cruel and perjorative slur on my character? (This artist was clearly on blow.) Now, I'm sure I used some stimulants while I was working on The Revenant, but they were all of the sucrose-and-caffeine variety. Or could it be that my handwriting is so utterly illegible that "Photoshop 7.0" could be interpreted only as "Blow"?

Next year, should I find myself with a spare twenty bucks, I'm sending them a painting of a rat having a snort, I think. "This painting," I'll write, "although not quite executed entirely in coca powder, is dedicated to the wonderful editorial staff at Underwood Books, who, albeit unwittingly, provided me with immense amusement this past year. Please find attached this scan from Spectrum 11, page 190. Affectionately yours--S. Myles."

Blow, indeed. Every time I think I've seen it all....