From my buddy, Brett (who persists in using my old and outdated email address [poke poke] )
From "Feeling Miss Ivy" by Mike McGrath, in _GreenPrints_ #66
I get an e-mail from the editor of my new book with the entire
manuscript attached. "No rush," it says; I have "until the 21st" to get
back with my final, final, *really* final, no-kidding,
triple-secret-probation final changes. My foolish calendar insists
today is the 22nd. *And* the book is due out later this year, which is
Instant Messaging in publishing time. So I shoot an e-mail back and
ask, "You mean I have a whole month? Or did you attach a time machine?"
She e-mails back frantically that she just got back from a two-week
vacation, had sent me that e-mail right before she left, and just found
out their server was down that day. The information-age version of "the
dog ate my homework." So I call, and in my best Chico Marx voice, say,
"I can't do it yesterday; I was too busy then -- how about last week?"
"Yeah -- I had nothing to do then."
"You could do it last week?"
"Or last year -- maybe June of last year. Wait a minute, no -- I'm
looking in my book and I was busy then. How about 1971? My professors
said I didn't do *anything* that year. 1951 would be even better; I was
in the womb with nothing but time on my hands -- maybe sometimes an
umbilical cord, but mostly time."
"I don't understand what you're saying!"
"Hey -- you're the one who sent me an e-mail today saying I had until
yesterday -- which you called a lot of time -- to get this done, and you
don't understand what *I'm* saying?"