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Thanks to this deadly office gig which provides me with insurance and 401k, and keeps the lights on, I have a new word to fear: Outlier. In my current straight-job line, an Outlier is a Medicare claim that continues after all benefits for the patient are used up. The stage is called Benefits Exhaust. Evocative, no? An Outlier begins at the threshold date of Benefits Exhaust (much akin to a black hole event horizon, except money pours into it, instead of space/time). At that point the government -- for reasons of decency which would hearten me if I weren't one of the chumps who have to make it all square up on paper -- keeps on paying, and they just call it something else: Post Outlier. God, that word. Images of an airless void... the movie Outland... crude graphs of wormholes.... Gregory Peck floating away into Nothing. The sense of freefall is compounded by the fact that I am numerophobic, and Outliers are the most diabolical mathmatic constructs ever to harass human reason. Ordinary Medicare claims are maddening to calculate (or fix, when hospitals inevitably screw them up), but Outliers are a delerium of calendar pages, changing regulations, quantum physics and black magic. God, I fear Outliers. Outliers are the boogy man. Steven King presents: Outlier.
In practice I try to shove them off on people with a level of competence, and concentrate on making myself invaluable with my mellifluous voice and wry bedside manner. This involves a lot of energy: butter doesn't melt in my mouth for ten hours straight, four days a week. Calming a frantic Clinic Director (who actually knows more than I do) is a combination of Barrymore stagecraft and on-the-fly data retrieval and bare-faced bullshit. Brain bursting focus is required. Ugh. I want to go to an After Party when I hang up. Light a ciggie, throw back a cold one, bask in the narrow save and relish the endophrins. What I do is take another call from another F. C. Director. Terrific incentive to get another publisher and get the hell out, except I'm so tired.
Speaking of tired, K.G. is asking if I want to do more for Komikwerks. (say, to all four of you who visit read this, be a logrolling pal and check out the upcoming issue of Nuts&Bolts, in stores April 2004, http://www.komikwerks.com/, http://www.komikwerks.com/nutsandbolts_flyer_color.pdf, there, I've done my bit) So I said, hey, but YES. And I almost said it with enthusiasm. I mean, why am I working a four day week if not to keep my toe in? And I have a book cover upcoming, apparently. Whatever; I'm dazed.
On the Spike front: well, two in the L column for Damage-hopes, though otherwise I am slobbering mad for the ep. No crucifixion pose, and no Slayer Kneeling. Given my current level of enthusiasm for Dana, a character we will probably never see again, I suppose it's for the best. A Spike/Slayer foreshadowing of that sort would have set me up for all manner of hopeless pining.
I keep having a horrible urge to write something AU with Dana and Spike. Something angsty and all. This is not my forte; it would suck. I wish someone else would take up the baton and get off the dime with D/S, already, and spare me these compulsions. I just wanna read.