Thursday, February 08, 2007

Model of Mystery


Many readers may be wondering, what will the coastline look like twenty years from now, given current global warming trends? Others may be asking themselves about the average shelf life of a tuna sandwich (five hours, according to Fakie researchers). Yet others might have burnt out a few synapses wondering what has become of Fakiegrind and it's once-prolific posting output.

Well, the fact is, I've been trying to track down models from old 1970s department store catalogues as part of a "where are they now" kind of article, but I've really been having no luck. Exhausting early on the obvious avenue of telephone inquiry (most marketing firms involved in the production of these catalogues – when they even still exist – flatly refuse to give out information about past or present models), I set about an arduous campaign of gluing fliers to streetposts in the major urban centres of the nation hoping to strike a note of remembrance from the citizenry. But hours turned into days turned into weeks of sitting next to the Modeltracker Hotline and 'nary a call came through, save a couple telemarketers and cranks.

And so, I am left with one last recourse: publishing pictures on the web in the hope that someone will come forward with information about these catalogue superstars of yesteryear and tell us how life has been for them. Perhaps some things best remain as mysteries, but the call is out. If you know anything about this man, his history or current whereabouts, Fakiegrinders want to know.

Friday, February 02, 2007

Reminds me of the time...


I was on assignment, writing copy for a ground beef mine in the hills outside of Yellowknife. It was a warm, glorious mid-summers day, one of two that the region saw that year. My assistant, Natasha Snipetree, a normally reserved and serious-minded typesetter from the Eastern Townships, momentarily overcome by the lushness of our surroundings (we had quit the company bivouac for a grassy knoll overlooking a peat bog) did an impromptu belly dance, waving a couple internal memos in the air as if they were scarves made of the finest Oriental silk. The memory comes back to me every time I inhale the fumes from an antique mimeograph machine.