LETTITOR Writing always causes me mental anguish. It’s a bit like Hunter S. Thompson said: “I’ve always consid- ered [professional] writing the most hateful kind of work. I suspect it’s a bit like fucking, which is only fun for amateurs. Old whores don’t do much gig- gling.” I actually liken writing more to natural child- birth. It oscillates between brief moments of absolute beauty and long spans where you want to tear a phone book in half before grabbing the closest person and bludgeoning them in order to ransom their aorta for six Dos Equis and.a bagful of epidural anesthetic. Today, however, I get to add a physical aspect to the pain writing causes me. It turns out I have some forearm / wrist inflammation called de Quervain’s Syndrome, and let me tell you, it hurts like H.E. double hockey sticks. My arm feels like I imagine the Tin Man felt,when he needed oil in the Wizard of Oz, except I don’t need oil, I need painkillers. Besides the brief passage you're currently read- ing, the only other writing I’ve done in the past 48 hours was the following email, which was summar- ily sent for immediate posting on Craig’s List: WANTED: One curvaceous and scantily clad vixen to act as a mentor and scribe for wounded writer/editor. Must type at least 75 words per minute and possess the ability to open cold cervezas, fine wines, and other distilled spirits. Preference will be given to applicants with Kung fu grip and fantastic taste in music. Serious, yet light-hearted, inquiries only. So, until my dream transcriber appears like an apparition from the ether, I’m going to chill out, attempt to crack a quality bottle of red wine using only my left hand, wits, and teeth, and wish you all a healthy and prosperous last week of February. Enjoy this week’s Other Press. We went through great pains to bring it to you. — Colin Miley, Managing Editor News 4 = Opinions 7 Ase 10 WIF 23