BoingBoing reader David Adams says,
There's currently a writer living in Antarctica, over the winter, no less, (though he's also earning an honest living working in the warehouse). His name is Phil Jacobsen, and his blog is at philjacobsen.com.
I'm going to email him about the writer job [BoingBoing post here], and I'm sure he'll be pissed to hear about it, since he's currently doing the writing for free, though I don't suppose Raytheon would necessarily want all those stories about drinking, gambling, and generally goofing off.
Here's a snip from Phil's live-from-Antarctica blog:
The wind. The wind. The wind. Before I came to Antarctica, I logged onto McMurdo's newspaper called the Antarctic Sun and there was a poetry writing contest in the first issue I read. Every single poem was poorly written and always about the wind. Certainly, I thought there was more to inspire a poet than the wind. Last night I wrote:
Must you always blow? Wind.
My hair is messy.Wind.
Ouch, my corneas just froze. Wind.
Why is all this dirt in my room? Wind.
Who left the window open? Me.
Who took advantage of this opportunity? Wind.
Hey there. Wind.
Go to Hell and let the Devil have a snowball fight.Dumb poem, sure, but for some reason I felt inspired. Wind. Do you remember the cartoon drawing of old man winter, this image of an old man in the clouds blowing winter breezes through his puffy red cheeks. Well last night he was blowing and huffing all of that energy into my room, it was like he thought he could get high if only he blew and toked enough on my bedroom window. He may not have gotten high, but I got cold. When I got to work, my eyes were puffy and my coffee had only begun to reverse the frozen lobotomy going on in my brain, my friend Alia said, "Your eyes look so sleepy."
"It's not just my eyes. It's my body."
Wind.
Link.
Previously on BoingBoing: – Job ad du jour: Raytheon needs writers in Antarctica
