Posted 10:45 PM
May old infections be forgot...

Ouch. Here's a great end to 2001. Friday morning I woke up with something on my body that wasn't supposed to be there. I'll spare the gory details, but long story short...I ended up going to the doctor today, who promptly inspected me and shipped me off to another room so he could shoot me in the ass with some drug I've never heard of, shoot me at the base of this infection with another drug I've never hurt it (that hurt!), and then lance me open. I stared at the ceiling and gripped a roll of ankle-wrap while shouting an obscenity every 5 seconds. I tried to block out my mind that the dressing he gave me for this somewhat personal area of my body (just below the waistline) was sleeping on the job and giving the nurse a sneak peak at the goods, if she so desired. I like to think of myself as a somewhat fearless person, but this hurt. And not just hurt hurt, but bulldog-firmly-clamped-to-your-ass hurt. Ouch.

After I listened to the Doc give me his rundown on what not to do for the next 48 hours, I took inventory of the last 8,760 hours (that's 12 months for you math-deficient kids out there). All in all, not bad. The quick rundown: January: mundane (work, work, work). February: God-awful (car wreck and upside-down job situation). March: Scattered. (New job, new city, new state, new everything). April: Settling (happy with new job). May, June, July: Hot (But oh, those Southern nights, they can make a Midwestern man forget where he came from). August: Mundane (Where'd summer go?) September: Quick (can't remember much...rapid fire at work). October: Revitalizing (Fall arrives & LEAF!). November: Grounding (a trip back home for Thanksgiving). December: Perfection (Friends).

Except, of course, for December 31st. I'm willing to forgive this day though and call it a good year. I'm going to finish the 11 o'clock news, go toss back a few cold ones with my buddies here, and ring in 2002 in Greenville, South Carolina without a single regret for 2001.

Here's to a happy, ouch-less, lance-free 2002 for us all.

Posted 1:43 PM
Senators & Seafood

I like to think I amount to something in the real world. In the blog world, though, not so much. Let's face it, I still have a blaring advertisement banner at the top (I haven't paid the however many bucks it costs to get rid of it). My graphics haven't been altered any from the template. I don't have pictures of faraway friends, frolf scores, or future concert dates I'd like to attend. Trying to get links to other blogs on there took me damned near forever. Still, I make a somewhat half-hearted attempt to keep up with Joneses.

Thank's to my Evil Twin's help, I have managed to stick a webcounter on there to see who passes through the little burgh of One Step Left. He had lots more counts than me, though...and I had a little "blog envy", so to speak. He explained that Google was the key. A search engine bigger than Mars. He pops up in God-knows-how many searches a day submitted by procrastinating accountants, bored housewives, and porn-hungry 14 year olds.

With a little figuring, I submitted my somewhat pathetic website to the folks at Google, to judge whether or not my ranting and blah-blah-blahing was significant enough to be included in their exceedingly large vault of other useful pages and useless drivel.

Lo and behold, I'm insignificant enough. I've been Googled.

Turns out, my first two hits on my page are from someone looking up the loveable, furry "Spokeshrimp" critter form Long John Silver's ads. The third, someone looking up South Carolina's geriatric senator Strom Thurmond's tendency toward being a racist (well, previously anyway). I doubt I provided these searchers with any useful information. But I like to think I gave them a pleasant distraction while they researched their topics which could be term papers in the future...or, more likely, water cooler fodder.

Hmm...a website with shrimp theme...this could be something.

Posted 12:46 PM
Back

I took a blog-vacation, since I'm a working stiff and don't get a real vacation to anyplace tropical like Bermuda or or Hawaii or Indianapolis. I worked Christmas morning, then gathered 'round the Sprint PCS phone (you'd think they're paying me or something) and opened some gifts with my parents and my brother. We made Mom cry (in the good way), which is surprisingly harder than you think, by giving her some pictures we had taken over Thanksgiving. One was an artistic, abstract black and white one and the other was a traditional Sears-portrait-studio pose. Both came out great...Darin's photographer friend is quite talented.

I got a blanket I'd been wanting for my bed (not to be confused with a shawl), some shirts, some ties, and some books...most notably "HTML For Dummies", given to me by Evil Twin. Apparantly he's trying to tell me something about my blog, my life, or just saying Merry Christmas. I'll go with a combination of the three.

I'm back, and someday...I'll be better than ever (well, at least this site might get a couple cool new features or something). I promise not to link you to any porn sites. Well, at least not ones that cost money. Vacation is over...back to work.

Posted 6:03 PM
A lion in winter

It's the Winter Soltice...the shortest day of the year...and one of my favorites.

5:30pm, and almost completely dark out. The air mimics my icebox..chilly, you can see your breath...it will be a cold one tonight. Crank heater, smile smugly. The sun felt good...but it's time to retreat. Hibernate a little. Admire the night and the season where everything is frozen in time, no matter the temperature.

Solstice...is solace.

Posted 5:50 PM
Sugar rush

"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day." A mantra drilled into our heads by moms and dads as children, it's one that shouldn't be forgotten.

Today, like a pilot in a mad rush to beat a storm before getting diverted to an alternate airport, I scrambled to find a different story rather than the one assigned to me in a small town at least an hour from here (not that I don't mind going out of town, but I didn't want to miss the newsroom Christmas party). During this scramble...I forgot to eat breakfast. I slugged coffee instead. Finally, at 11:30am...I figured out that alternative. Armed with arguably the slowest photographer in our newsroom, I arrived at our shoot location with a goal of being out of there in 45 minutes, back in time to feast on all the goodies lovingly prepared (or purchased at the Bi-Lo) by my co-workers.

My ammo blew up in my face. So-slow photographer took almost an hour and a half to complete his shooting. I milled around outside the roadside coffee stand that was my story, grinding my teeth and muttering obscentities as my blood sugar level plummeted like the Dow in September. Crankiness prevailed. In my mind, those goodies were being gobbled up by co-workers, talking and laughing and having lots of fun without me. Bastards.

Arriving back at the station at 1:20, people were still munching. I hadn't missed the group picture. So I grabbed a plate and piled it high with all kinds of stuff I couldn't possibly finish off. 15 minutes later, I stared blankly at a festive red plate with only a shred of coconut and a lone chocolate chip left on it. I zoned out for about 5 minutes as my body tried to reverse the effects of a pathetic morning in the world of news. Then my pancreas forgave my stomach, and all was right in the world again.

Well, almost all. I left out the part about hateful feelings toward a fellow co-worker who at this point has blown any chance of earning my respect...and the fact that a lack of motivation on my Friday is putting up a writing blockade higher than pile of laundry at the foot of my bed.

I need a beer and a plate of coconut-chocolate-chip-cookies. Knowing me, I'll probably just wait until breakfast...or lunch.

Posted 10:24 PM
Sleeping with the enemy

Being a bachelor has its advantages. You don't really have anyone to worry about but yourself. Sometimes, that's enough of a challenge. Lately I've been wrestling with the idea of getting a dog. I want a big dog, one that says "Yeah, that Todd's great...but check out his dog". Not that little dogs don't say that. I'm just not one for the yapiness.

My Evil Twin and his wife Woo-doo are in Springfield, Missouri right now, enjoying some family time for the holidays. For him, the sad part is he has to leave a part of his family behind...the beloved wonder-dog Scoop. I'm not sure what breed of dog Scoop is...but she's the kind of dog that's really loyal to her owner. And wouldn't ya know it...she shows that same loyalty to the dog-sitter...me, the bachelor who doesn't have anyone else to worry about. I watch Scoop when they go away not only for the oh-so-delicious Chicken Tetrazzini he fixes for me...but because it's easy and something nice I can do for a friend.

The only time I ever question Scoop's said loyalty is at night. Sure, most of us like to snuggle with someone under the covers. But Scoop likes this a little too much. Before I can even finish yawning at the end of the day...Scoop's already bounded up the stairs as fast as her little dainty dog-legs can take her. She sits on the bed and waits for me to jump in. And at that very moment when I'm slipping under the covers, she does too. She plasters herself to my body right down by my legs and refuses to move for the remainder of the night, no matter how many times I "accidentally" give her a cross between a shove and a kick.

Last night I let Scoop get away with this. The dainty-legged dog who once tore a chunk out of my while I tried to wrestle someone else's grilled chicken out of her mouth got to sleep right alongside me, under the covers, right where she wanted to be. She's lucky I was so tired from the suicide shift. I don't think she woke me up even once. If she did...I was too tired to care, or even question her loyalty.

Maybe the dainty-legged dog is growing on me. Note to self: Go pick out a big dog tomorrow. And fast.

Posted 2:01 AM
Otodda bin Workin'

In the news world, there are 3 shifts...dayside, nightside, and suicide. The 3rd one is no fun. It involves sleeping only in brief naplike periods of time and being on the air a LOT. I drew suicide this weekend. So for my fans (all 5 of you or so), fear not...I will not be in a cave in Afghanistan this weekend...I'll be at work. Posting may suffer as a result.

Overtime is great...but 6 shows over 2 days has to be equivalent to some kind of terrorism.

Posted 2:12 PM
Osamalettes?

I'm the only one in my family who can't really cook. But I do have one specialty: omelettes. 3 eggs, a splash of milk, all whisked together with a fork and poured onto a searing-hot nonstick pan coated with just a little real butter (margerine is for communists). Wait until it all starts to bubble up...then work around the edge counterclockwise with a fork, lifting the cooked part, tilting the pan slightly, and letting the un-cooked part fill in. At the same time...throw in some ham....some cheese....maybe some peppers. Wait till it's pretty much non-runny...then slide it right out on to the plate, with a little flip of the pan giving that satisfying symmetrical fold. Top with dill and some ketchup. I'd kill for one right now.

Unfortunately, my refrigerator could serve as another cave in Tora-Bora for the Al-Qaeda network. It's so empty. As previously mentioned...I hate shopping. I'll go every now and again. I attempt to stock up, but by the time I get to aisle 2A in the Bi-Lo...right as I'm cruising by the Honey Nut Cheerios...I lose steam, I get tired of navigating a metal sculpture with squeaky wheels past housewives with screaming kids and geriatric women stocking up on Ensure, and I bolt. I scan my 4 items on the U-Scan (which by this point means I've got carrots, lunchmeat, and some bread) and head home for a sandwich.

I want an omelette, now. And I want Osama out of my fridge, please.

Posted 1:15 AM
"C'mon it's lovely weather..."

50-some odd degrees...one of those skies where the clouds are so thick, it looks like dusk even at midnight because the downtown lights from the mini-skyscrapers (more like skybrushers, if you will) are reflected back toward the earth...a light mist falling. Riding down the hill on Main Street tonight coming into downtown for a few beers at Connolly's Pub with Elder-Statesman and Champagne, the fine mist dancing among the holiday lights on the trees made me think for about 2 seconds, I was happy with the illusion that it was snowing.

Less than 2 weeks from Christmas, I'm finally in the spirit. Ready, to shop and ship with wreckless abandon and extra care, respectively. My Dad, after spending 6 months out of work as a victim of the Grinchy economy, has a new job he just started (at 63 years young, a bold step). Touched, by the story of a family of 6 who lost all their meager low-income possessions in an apartment fire. Hankering, for just one of my Dad's sugary-sweet wreath cookies, iced individually with white icing and a stripe of green, with precisely 3 red-hots that burn your tongue for just a fleeting moment.

There really is a lot to be thankful for this Christmas. At the risk of sounding like an ABC after-school special, friends and family seem just a little more important this year. I will miss my folks on the 25th. Maybe instead of gathering around the tree like I've done the last 25 years...Mom, Dad, and my brother can gather round the phone to open a present or two courtesy of Sprint PCS. I'll share Christmas with both the station (hey someone's gotta work) and with friends. It'll likely be somewhere in the 60s on Christmas day. But I'm pretty sure...it will be snowing.

Post over....must....resume....cynicism!

Posted 2:14 AM
The Bored Gordons

In this profession, I am often at the mercy of other people. I can pitch a story I want to do on a given day, but I ultimately have to surrender to the producers and management if they want something different covered. I then proceed immediately to my desk to make 6 or 7 phone calls, then wait as if Publishers Clearing House was going to show up at my desk (complete with baloons) and announce I was the grand prize winner (complete with the oversized check which I'm certain you can't cash). When someone finally does call me back, I head to the assignment desk where a photographer is assigned to me. Then, the real trip begins...putting your life (so to speak) in the hands of someone else.

Have you ever thought about how vulnerable you are riding in the passenger seat of a car (or how weird it feels, especially when you ride in your OWN passenger seat?) Here's someone I know at the very least in a working capacity...maybe a little better if I'm lucky...chauffering me around town. And I'm totally in that person's hands...there is no drivers-ed type brake thing if he's not paying attention. That can be a little scary sometimes...I've had a few near-sideswipes and have found myself doing the mom thing where you put your arm across the driver's chest when they stop too quickly(as if your arm is going to save someone in the event of a crash!)

Most are great to ride with though. One in particular my Evil Twin refers to as "Mr. Efficiency" is a hoot. Here is a man so regimented and routine, yet so happy with it. It's almost mechanized: load gear. leave station. drive to Dunkin' Donuts. Purchase coffee and crullers. Put in CD (either Sopranos or, lately, Christmas music medleys he got from the inside of a Rice Chex box). Eat while driving. Rinse, lather, repeat.

But for a man with such a mechanized schedule, his conversations are anything but. We talk about some of the weirdest things...which is very cool. Foreign countries...horses...inventions...his daughter...sandwiches...lots of things. We make fun of other people too (you know, cause we're both so perfect), and somehow...ended up talking about another anchor/reporter's habit of pretending to be interested in conversations (you know, when you do the obligatory mmmm-hmmmmms when you really could give a rat's ass). Thus, he was deemed "Bored Gordon"...which we decided, pluralized, would be a great name for a band. We had come up with a whole CD-full of titles for the debut album. It's amazing the things you'll do on an otherwise ordinary day for self-amusement...but we'd all go insane without The Bored Gordons and other made-up creations.

Tomorrow I'll be at the mercy of others once again....but for now, I'm only at the mercy of my imagination. Did I just hear Publishers Clearing House knock?

Posted 11:47 PM
I am Norman Fader

If you're a Saturday Night Live fan like I am, and I'm talkin' about the classic stuff before it got all sucky in the mid 90s, you know Roseanne Rosannadana (my mom does a killer impersonation). One of my favorite skits it's when she's reading letters from her mailbag. One goes something like this:

Dear Roseanne Rosannadana,
Recently I quit smoking. Since then, my feet hurt, my face is broken out, I've got gas, cramps, I'm nauseous, I'm cranky, etc....
Signed, Norman Fader

Her reply:
Dear Mister Fader...you sound like a REAL attractive individual.

I got in another bitchin' session today...a lack of sleep tends to do that to me. I'm not feeling creative or motivated. I spent hours today in Spartanburg...which is very Spartan but hardly qualifies as a burg. One highlight: I got to meet some of the surviving family members of World Trade Center victims. Not what many people would call a highlight, but I hadn't really been able to put a tangible emotional spin in my mind on that stuff until today. They had been flown down from NYC by Spartanburg County to be given money the county's 9-11 fund raised...close to $250,000 smackers. They seemed at peace even though they shed a few tears. Our gang-bang interview of them was a huge discourtesy but a necessity in this business (gangbang: a news term for many cameras and microphones in a single person's face, done in the interest of saving time). I left the Spartan non-burg late, but the day didn't seem like a total waste. I guess I'm kind of a softy somtimes.

On another nice note, I was feelin' my first touch of holiday blue the other day. Friends and our holiday party for work quickly washed out the blue into a periwinkle of some kind. Friends are better than any tree I could throw up in my living room. Besides, friends don't need nearly as much water.

I can't keep my eyes open anymore. It's either a sign I'm going through some kind of evolution process, or I just need to get in bed and try to make it through the next 3 days of my workweek. If you call, and my answering machine says "You've reached Norman Fader", don't worry. I'm usually only grouchy long enough to write a quick letter or blog.

Maybe it's time to change "One Step Left" into "Dear Roseanne Rosannadana".

Posted 9:39 AM
I've got a what on my where?

If you haven't already gathered from previous ramblings...both friends and music are a big part of my life. When I can put those two things together, it's even better. Last night we ventured out to Barley's so Scrappy Hamilton could put a little boogy-woogy in our veins. I'd describe it as a rockin'-jivin'-wailin' kind of thing. Deep-crust pizza and some kind of red beer mixed through the melodies. Looking around at the table, I felt good...like we were something out of a scene from St. Elmo's Fire. (ooga ooga ooga...ah ha ha! OK, so I like the 80s...shoot me)

My sophomore year in college was the first time I ever picked up a guitar. It was in the hallowed halls of Beta Theta Pi where a true countryboy by the name of John Whiteside decided he was going to teach me how to play. This guy was amazing...he could play anything by ear and knew exactly how to make it sound just like the real thing. I tried my best to turn envy into effort. I'd go down to his room every afternoon after I got out of class (or bed, depending on whether Keystone Light ruled the previous night) and learn a new chord or two. He was very patient and by the end of the year I'd learned the 6 basic chords and some variations on them. Couple that with what some might describe as a semi-quick wit, and I found I was able to whip up songs about people with just a little effort (and a little alcohol). Needless to say, it was entertaining for us during a night of drinking...the main act being, not Dylan or Hendrix, but something of a male version of Phoebe from 'Friends'.

7 years, 2 guitars, and many beers later...I still love sitting around, drinking beer, and writing songs. Last night in the general debauchery, an impromptu song had most of us to the point of crying. I really don't know how "My cat's got a capo on his tail" got started...but I'm glad it ended 30 minutes later. Otherwise, I might have been dead from forgetting to breathe during laughing.

Pizza, beer, friends, music. It's the kind of thing that balances out the fact that it's 9:37am and I've already been up for some 5 hours. If I had a tail...capo or not...it'd be wagging, guaranteed.

Posted 12:57 AM
Polio Arrow

Some of my friends, in particular my Evil Twin and his wife Woo-do, call me the "REM", or Remorseless Eating Machine. I've been fortunate to keep the furnace going inside my body, possibly carried over from the swimming days...or it could just be a parasite. In any event, I like to eat...and when I eat, I eat lots...yet somehow keep this svelte, girlish figure.

After a long day of final projects in Hendrix Hall, Elder-Statesman (see post below) and I got in his Cherokee to head back up Hwy 123 from Clemson back to Greenville. It was dark out, and I was noticeably hungry. E-S started the car and proceeded to hand me a folded, small rectangle of paper with a simple "here" as he threw the car into reverse. Much like with food, I can smell money from far away...sometimes without even seeing it. The folded rectangle was a check. I looked at E-S quizzically and he nonchantly muttered something about thanking me for my help this semester. As much as I would have pleased the computer space reserved for my money at the Bank of America, I quickly passed the still-folded rectangle back at him with a "Nonsense". It seemed ridiculous to take money for doing something I really enjoyed. Much like when I was a swim team coach, I will miss those college kids next semester. It was an enjoyable distraction from everyday life. But not something I could take money for. So I let E-S take me to dinner, seeing as he was as hungry as I was...and my stomach sounded like an angry Doberman.

The Greek community in Greenville has a fairly good sized presence. There's a big festival in April, with a ton of food in front of the huge Greek church downtown on some street that I can't remember the name of (I will blog about my Geographical Ineptude here at a later date). There is a restaurant called "Never On Sundays" on Coffee Street, one I hadn't been to and one that sounded as good as anything at this point. Never On Sundays is an old house, really. Inside, it's 2 very small, very dark, very narrow dining rooms. There are family pictures all over the place, and maps of Greece and the Acropolis on the tables. When we walked in around 8pm, we were shocked to find we were the only 2 people in the whole place. The grandmotherly Greek woman came out from behind the kitchen area to seat us and take our orders. She was very friendly in the grandmotherly way. She also recognized us as "those guys on TV" and peppered us with a few nice compliments.

She took care of us the same way I imagine she takes care of every one of her customers...like we're the only people in the place. Lemon chicken soup, Greek salad with feta, and a huge combination plate of everything from lamb stew to souvlaki to a bunch of other stuff I can't pronounce. I didn't want wine, but Grandma brought it out anyway. "Drink it, Drink it!" I didn't refuse.

Another glass of wine with the baklava Grandma brought out. We didn't order it. It was delicious. I toasted her, and asked her what the Greek word for "cheers" was, under the impression it was "igiya" or something to that effect. She told me it was "polyero", or something to that effect. It sounds like polio arrow, a medieval type device to ward off sickness. But she appreciated my effort to thank her in her own language.

At 9, we walked out of Never On Sunday, but not before we gave Grandma a hug. I came home and complimented my neighbor Christine on the Christmas lights she's put up on our duplex, making me look good. And I sat down in my easy chair, not to move again for the rest of the night. The Remorseless Eating Machine is stuffed. I doubt this girlish figure will last forever. But if I have the Greeks to blame, I'll probably still be a happy man, shouting "Polio Arrow" from the rooftops with a mouthful of Souvlaki.

Posted 12:04 AM
99 (luftbaloons?)

Tonight my station aired a special called "Strom Thurmond" at 99. It was an hour-long retrospect into one man's life...a stationwide effort that really showed our storytelling side. I wasn't thrilled about watching it...but in the end, I was very impressed with the information to entertainment ratio.

Strom Thurmond, as many of you probably know, is the oldest senator in the history of the United States. But what you probably don't know is the man is a champion of fruits, vegetables, fish, and beef. He's responsible for those alcohol warning labels directed toward pregnant women on alcohol bottles. He used to help farm on his property and pick the vegetables to give to other people. He has sisters. He is from Edgefield, South Carolina (in the low-country), where 10 other governors have some sort of claim to fame (so says the Ten Governors Cafe). From what I can tell, he is reformed racist. And he is still alive today, although the debate rages on between Elder-statesman (my buddy Chris) and Champagne (a reporter friend from Champaign, IL, but Champagne just sounds like a good name for her) whether he actually lives in a hospital or a nursing home.

I'm in my nursing-home right now...on my couch...after a long week. I have been all over the Upstate, from Walhalla in Oconee County for a story on middle school PACT score disparities, to Greenville's beautiful performing arts venue, the Peace Center (including meeting a visual artist who made me want to pick up my colored pencils and draw more prize-winning parrots like I did in high school). I feel tired and maybe a bit on the old side (I've been crochety about how my neck feels out of whack).

I still don't mind getting old. But I don't think I want to be 99. And should I ever get there...please, remember me...but not through an hour-long special, no matter how good or bad it may be.

Posted 5:24 PM
...A not-so-bright loser, baby...

I got this e-mail from mom:

"Hi Honey - for the record...
Kvetching = Complaining
Shrying = Yelling"

Mom's always big on tryin' to fix me up with that pretty girl named Intelligence. Intelligence used to have a crush on me. Why won't she bother me for a date like Warmth does?

Posted 1:10 AM
I'm a loser baby...

...but don't kill me. I think I can hear my Zadi (that's yiddish for grandfather) kavetching (that's yiddish for yelling) at me from Boca Raton right now. Probably something along the lines of "You're an embarassment to the Kaufman family name". My Arch Enemy just beat me in what's become a tradition: the Monday Night Football/Pizza/Scrabble Doubleheader. Alas, that's fine. Today was stress free. I enjoyed my evening. The spokeshrimp is on in a new commercial...this time he's rapping. I'm turnin' in soon. Another good day...ends. I know better to say "the other shoe will drop tomorrow". So I'll turn in under the illusion that Tuesday will be just as good as Monday.

Sorry Zadi. I'll try harder next Monday. I blame the pizza. It was so good...it was distracting.

Posted 8:58 PM
Giving in

Accept the things you can't change, they say. That's something stubborn Capricorns like me have a hard time dealing with. But today, I reached a level of acceptance with Mother Nature. Instead of cursing her, telling her that she never should have sent that hussy Warmth down here to plague me with her taunting sunshine...I went out and gave Warmth a hug. The Frolf (frisbee-golf) was excellent...I didn't play well, but I forgot about the fact it was December 2nd and let the sun's rays warm me from the inside out.

After a day of sun and frolf and waking up too early for work, I'm pretty much dead to the world tonight. Even getting up and putting my shirts in the washer seems equal to the effort of buildling a Toll Road through protected wetlands in Illinois. I probably shouldn't have stayed out so late last night, but we were celebrating My Evil Twin's birthday over at Shecky's Dad's house. He snickered at my gag-gift of "Just For Men" gel...but I'm really hoping he's not as idle as I am this evening. Otherwise, I'm afraid we'll be greeted by a suddenly darker-haired Evil Twin at work tomorrow morning. See, he's not happy about aging. Even though he's only 28, it would seem grey temples are a worse fate than a noon live shot for him. I, on the other hand, welcome age. I don't know why, but numbers like 30 and 40 don't really scare me. 30-somethings I've shared this with give me the "big brother" routine..."Just wait till you get there." OK, I'm waiting. While I'm waiting, I'll just keep living my life like I've been doing. Stuff is getting done...and that stuff is interesting for the most part.

More years just means more stuff. Bring it on. The stubborn, happily-aging Capricorn is ready. And he'll never be looking for "Just For Goats" gel.

Posted 6:47 AM
"For the cost of just a cup of coffee [from Starbucks]..."

...you can feed a starving child in Africa. Or, you can play a night's worth of poker.

My Arch Enemy wasn't nice at first...he had 27 to my 26 and a half. My Evil Twin was of little consequence. In the end, the mean men only took 3 dollars from me. Not bad for 3 hours. I'm getting back on the horse. He's just not a Derby winner yet.

I'm going to eat my bagel and drink my orange juice and pretend it's not 6:42am on my Monday morning.

Posted 5:59 PM
The mean man took my money

My arch enemy (you know, the competitive one from the Scrabble games) informs me its poker night. "We're dealing em up, Randy's, 9." I like poker night, but that should go without saying. I mean, when you mix the possiblity at winning money with a supply of spicy beef jerky, rotelle and chips, and 80s music, what could go wrong? The answer: everything.

First off, I've been playing poker for about a dozen years. Games in my family were always big. We had a nice supply of board games. My dad, who I'm convinced could have been a General on the frontlines of a war, taught me strategy games like Backgammon, Chess, and Stratego. Mom taught me Scrabble. And there were the mindless filler games in there too (LIFE and Sorry! come to mind). When I got to high school though, everything took a back seat to poker and its associated games.

Life on the swim team can be compared with Boot Camp: regimented, with long hours and early bedtimes. Even though we had Sundays off, we still stuck together on Saturday nights to hang out together. As a freshman, I can remember watching the seniors all sit around and play poker. Nickel ante, quarter bet max. Easier games made sense..."7 card stud" and "5 card draw". Harder games didn't...but were eqaually as intriguing..."7-27" and "Guts".

Three years later, we weren't watching...we were playing...for three years running. It was addictive. It was entertaining. It was fun. We spent a lot of time sucking down Sunkist Sparkling Lemonades and eating Snyders Pretzel Rods, all the while tossing our silver at one another. Years later (OK, months, but who's counting) we graduated to beers and the kind of money that folds rather than jingles. A few years after that, Hollywood came to Aurora...the Hollywood Casino, that is. As if throwing money at one another wasn't good enough, we now had two floating gambling meccas and a slew of new games...blackjack, craps, roulette. We had a lot of fun times on those boats. A lot of losses too. The wins peppered in there, though, were enough to keep us coming back. We still do.

I like to think I've learned a lot about gambling, and while I'm no Amarillo Slim...I have a decent pokerface and most times, know when to say when. It was enough to win me almost a grand in Las Vegas a year ago. But since then, I haven't done so well. The last 3 times I've played, I've got my clock cleaned.

I'm hoping for better luck tonight. I'm hoping my Arch Enemy won't spring Aces-over-kings against my handful of spades. I'm hoping my Evil Twin doesn't pass me a 2, 3, and a 5 when I'm needing high cards in Anaconda. And should the kind of money that folds decide to flee my wallet for someone elses, I hope the spicy beef jerky can comfort me like mom's soup does when you're sick.

Wish me luck...mean men are hard to deal with.

Posted 8:52 PM
Bah, Humbug

Pass the parka, please. I'll take a heaping side of gloves and scarves, and please...don't skimp on the boots. And throw in a lot of icy, bone-chilling cold for dessert. Sounds like a meal that'd make you wish you'd have taken a Pepcid before, right?

I'm infatuated with a woman. Her name is Winter. It's probably my Detroit/Chicago upbringing that seems to boil to the surface this time of year. The problem is, the thing that's boiling it...its Warmth.

Warmth is the woman Winter hates. Warmth is that popular girl that everybody around here can't seem to get enough of. She makes her presence known, and nearly everyone pays attention. The run up to embrace her. They invite her to join them in pickup games of basketball in Cleveland Park. They beg her to come sit awhile on their deck at dusk, while they unwind from their days and talk about Warmth's crazy cousin, Summer. "Remember that time Summer came, and we all got wasted sitting around the glass-topped table? That was GREAT!"

Warmth blew in to town sometime around Tuesday, angering both me and Winter. Winter couldn't handle losing a popularity contest, so she ran away, hiding her head in shame. This, of course, is the stuff Warmth lives for. She embraced, she joined in baskebtall games, and she sat on my friends' decks. I hate her so much, I did a story on her today. Ron Cooley and Aubrey Camp's Christmas tree farm didn't invite her, but they did share their distaste for Warmth too. Misery loves company, they say. We were sweaty and miserable.

I put up some Christmas decorations my mom sent me last night. Winter loves them, but she ran away before she could see them. Warmth guffawed at them, mocked them, and made me feel bad for even THINKING I could put them up without her telling lettting me know just how ridiculous they look on a November afternoon in South Carolina.

November 28th. 8:45pm. 65 degrees and partly cloudy. I miss Winter. I hope she doesn't break our date for Christmas.

Posted 12:14 AM
How to win friends and influence people

4 times a semester, I get to go down to Clemson and help my buddy teach his Speech class. It's like Journalism 101. Considering I've been in this business for roughly two years, I'd say I'm about the equivalent of Journalism 201. But these college kids look at me like I'm some kind of expert. Truthfully, I'd be an expert when it comes to sitting around in a bar with them and making beer disappear. But they somehow see me as strangely qualified to dole out comments, critiques, and criticism on their writing and reporting skills. They actually listen, and some of them even use my suggestions. That makes me feel good. Tonight, we graded their third project -- liveshot reporting.

Today, Journalism 201 gave me the opportunity to shake hands with probably the richest man I've ever met to date. Mr. Tate, an entrepreneur-turned-philanthropist, decided the 2 million smackers he had sittin' around...didn't need to be sittin' around anymore. He gave it to our Technical College. It's chump-change to him, but to the suits in this place, he gave them the world. I'm glad he gave it to schools. I would have liked just 100 bucks of it. I settled for a free lunch from the suits at their "Thank You For Making Our Ass Kissing Pay Off So We Can Keep Our Jobs" luncheon. The chicken was marinated, the rice was spicy, and the vegetables were steamed. Yum.

I gave 16 Journalism 101 students Bs tonight. I gave 5 Journalism 101 students As. And I gave this Journalism 201 student a B. I feel above-average. It could be the fact that, occasionally, people listen to me and I can moisten up bone-dry stories.

Then again, it could just be the marinated chicken.

Posted 1:24 AM
Dead Weight

I'm a slug. A sofa fixture. A champion of the couch. I haven't moved tonight except to order a pizza, and to pay for the pizza, and to get a plate from the kitchen on which to eat the pizza. Oh, and I played 2 games of scrabble with my arch enemy. We split, but he's still up 4-3 in the series. I watched football. I couched some more. Surrending yourself to the warm embrace of sofa cushions is a good thing.

It looks like my shows will get better. The producer (a major player in those shows) is now gone. Fired. Kaputsky. Adios, sayonara, buh-bye. I hate to see that happen to anyone. I felt a tinge of guilt when the formal announcement was made by our boss. Hushed whispers and quiet phone calls were made, alerting the rest of the people who weren't at work to witness it. The "confirmation calls", so to speak. Some smiles. Some private "hoorahs". Celebrating in someone's demise probably isn't right. But even Mister Honesty had a smirk on his face...so I guess it's OK.

Getting rid of dead weight is a good thing for an organization. My olive green, firm yet oh-so-comfortable couch is probably thinking the same thing right now. Unfortunately, I'm not going anywhere.

Posted 9:19 PM
Drive!

My brain has officially short circuited, I'm thinking. Not for any particular reason. My show this morning was better for me, but that's relative...for the most part, it was like that broken, crumbly, just-over-stale chocolate chip cookie you find at the bottom of the jar. It's not what you wanted, but it'll do.

I played frolf this afternoon and watched my fantasy football team have its worst week since the 2nd week of the season. That made my mind wander even more. For some reason, I started thinking about a nice, long, put-on-some-good-tunes-and-clear-your-head kind of drive. In no particular order, these are my favorites:

St. Louis to Springfield: Westbound on I-44, you roll down from St. Louis into the wide open spaces of southwest Missouri. The terrain continues to roll. It's not congested and there's some exhilirating carving through river valleys and granite sections.

Knoxville to Asheville: You wind through the heart of the Blue Ridge mountains, twisting and turning down a Lombard-Street-like I-40. Tunnels make you feel like a kid on Space Mountain.

Glenwood Canyon, Colorado: I-70 feels more like "The Beast" rollercoaster at Cincinnati's Kings Island, particularly westbound. The Rockies tower tall above you on either side, making you feel small and significant. Tunnels envelop you periodically, giving you that youthful, on-the-edge-of-your-seat feeling with just a few halogen yellows guiding you.

Those are just a few that me and my truck, Tripper, love. Wouldn't it be perfect to take one of those drives right now. Unfortunately, I have no drive. It seems my fantasy league players don't have any either. And my running backs didn't drive at all today.

Perhaps I need to check my steering wheel. My rack & pinion is probably out of whack.

Posted 8:57 AM
Showers and blunderstorms

Is there anything better than rain? It hadn't rained here in 28 days. Last night, a bumpy descent into GSP International Airport prefaced a mad dash from the American Eagle regional-jet's door to the terminal, in what could only be described as a total washout. People were grabbing umbrellas and scowling. I was grabbing my carryon and drinking it in. Literally. For a minute I looked Andy DuPhrane from The Shawshank Redemption, where he stands in the middle of the river after escaping and lets cascading torrents wash him clean. Then, I came to my senses and went inside after realizing it was somewhat cold out there. Still, the sound of my "windshield wipers slappin' out a tempo" on the way home was better than anything I could have found on the radio dial.

More importantly, I was thankful to have something to say during my show the next morning other than "Live Super Doppler not picking up any rain...". My friends, whom I met with for a few beers at the Handlebar last night, were actually happy for me.

Alas, when I got to work this morning, the harsh reality which I fled from on Tuesday greeted me. Working a morning show is difficult. It's an hour long. The format never seems to be the same. And thanks to a little "miscommunication" between some folks (we'll leave it at that), I had a less-than-perfect show where it seemed like everything was a hassle. Now I get to sit here and mull it over while watching 2 Buzz Lightyears perform triple axels at Rockafeller Center. Does it get any better than this?

Sometimes cliches are so fitting. When it rains, it pours.

Posted 2:03 PM
Beers with the boys (and girls)

Thanksgiving is all about tradition. Let's all get together, take a helpless bird, clean out its insides, put something different in as a substitute, serve it, and watch it seemingly last for a lifetime. Sure, call me a Scrooge or a Grinch...I'm just not a fan of the fare...or the fanfare...that goes along with the holidays.

Something I am a fan of, however, is good friends from way back...and seeing those friends after you haven't seen them in awhile. THIS is a Thanksgiving tradition I like. Every Wednesday before Thanksgiving, we all return "home", go out, and drink ourselves silly. We open up the books to our pasts and read a few of our favorite pages. The stories are always the same, but they're always great. And the beer always tastes a little better when you're drinking with people you've known for more than a decade.

Last night, tradition lived on...although it has aged a little. Suddenly, as 26 year olds, we decided not to go to our usual haunts of "Pockets" (it's since closed) and "Jimmy's Grill" (think college bar, in a not-so-college town). It was time to move on to a new venue..."Your Neighbors". It's a corner bar in a strip-mall of all places, next to the DMV on 75th Street. It's full of mostly 30 and 40 somethings, but no one seemed to mind our group. And it was a big group. One by one, tradition drifted in from the chilly November air to grab a glass and take a few draws off the pitchers sitting on the table. Handshakes and hugs, a lot of laughs. Success stories. A few minor bumps in the road. The death of a classmate. "My kid is cute, want to see some pictures?" "I'm moving to Indianapolis in January". "Can you tell your brother to shut up?" "Is Smyser coming?" "Shut up!" "2 more pitchers please". "Quit drunk-dialing people, Artis." "Wait, make that 4 pitchers please". "Let's hit the boats...ship, captain, crew!" I like those sounds. A lot.

One sound, though, made me feel a little uneasy. "The wedding is in August"...uttered by Christy. Christy was my first real girlfriend (other than the ones you kiss behind Bus #8 after track practice, or the ones you slow danced with in 8th grade with enough space between the two of you to park a Volkswagen). We dated for 5 years. I can honestly say, we were good together...good for each other. Most people thought the same, maybe even moreso than we did. After 5 years, I decided I didn't want to date Christy anymore. Restless? A little. "Greener pastures?" Perhaps. But when I think about it, now, it was one of the most Sophomoric decisions I've ever made in my life. The wise fool has no regrets...but looks at her, and still feels a little bit of the same thing he felt for 5 years.

She's moved on. Found a great guy, Ryan says. He seemed nice enough when I shook his hand, and he seemed nice enough when he asked me about the news business. She didn't have much to say to me...perhaps because she was as uneasy as I felt. After 10 minutes, she and her...Fiancee (it's even a little tough to type!)...left. I gave Fiancee a handshake. I gave her a hug. Ryan says I shouldn't have. I'm glad I did. She seems happy...and that makes me happy, too.

Strangely enough, it's part of the tradition, I suppose. Christy's cleaned out her insides (of me, anyway). She's put something else in as a substitute. And I hope he lasts a lifetime for her. For a few minutes last night, I felt like a turkey. In a few hours, I'll be eating one. Tradition is funny that way.

Posted 5:58 PM
Green means go

I'm not cut out for big city life. Greenville, fine. Minot, North Dakota...even better. It's not that I couldn't handle thugs on the streets attempting to take my wallet from me. Not as if I couldn't wedge my "I'm-better-than-you-because-my-windows-are-tinted-darker" SUV into a parking space the size my desk at work. It's the traffic.

Naperville has grown from 60,000 people in 1987 when my Dad first moved us here...to the current 120,000 people today. The problem, like in most towns, is that while population grew...roads did not. And on this day-before-Thanksgiving rush to get last minute, overlooked items at the grocery...I was reminded of this. As I drove across town, down 95th Street through former cornfields turned housing developments as if recruited by some ragamuffin gang, traffic was everywhere. A snake of blinking red taillights as far as I could see (which isn't far because it's so damned flat around here). Alas, I clamored my way across the blacktop to Naper Blvd. Oh, blessed, joyous green light! Deliver me to the Dominicks so I can buy my sugar for my mother attempting to spread Thanksgiving cheer with pumpkin pie! I reached out for the green with the front end of my car, tires rolling ever so slowly....and then....

I promptly got stuck in the middle of the intersection. Horns honked at me from either side, as if the cars were poking at me with jousting sticks. Traffic won again. The light was green. All I saw was red. In blinking taillights, and in my mind.

Which way is Minot, again?

Posted 1:37 AM
Home for the Holidays

It's a fact I have long since accepted. It's a fact my parents refuse to accept. And it's a fact I'm not really sure my brother cares one way or another about, because he's so bad with geography. I live far away from, what I have come to call home.

The definition of "home", in my mind, is where you make it. I live in Greenville, South Carolina. I have a semi-affordable 2 bedroom apartment, a semi-well paying job, and a semi-permanent group of friends who, by the way, are some of the best people around. But ask my mother the same question...and you get a completely different answer.

Me, last year at Christmas, to friend on phone: "I'm heading back home [to Amarillo] in 2 days."
Mom, scowling and raising voice slightly: "What do you mean you're going home? You ARE home! And don't slouch!"

OK, so I lied about the slouching part...but the rest is real.

Naperville, Illinois is where my parents live. It's also where they chose to raise me from 6th grade on. And it was a great place for them to do so. They provided a semi-affordable cedar and brick home with their semi-well paying jobs and watched their children grow up along with their semi-permanent group of friends.

Thanks to their guidance, they gave me the lift to spread my wings and leave the proverbial nest. First Oklahoma...then Texas...and now South Carolina. I sometimes wish I lived closer to them. But I'm very happy making my home in Greenville.

Anyhow, the time came about a month ago to go to my mother's definition of "home". This meant buying a plane ticket to Chicago. Thanks (or no thanks) to my job, I had to be back at work on a Saturday morning. So I was forced to buy an airline ticket with no Saturday stay. For you not-so-frequent fliers, this spells disaster in terms of price. 300 bucks, for what was to be a 72 hour stay. Just enough time to maybe say hi to an old friend or two, stuff myself senseless with juicy, tender turkey and savory stuffing, and turn around and go right back home. It seemed like such a waste. I bitched (notice a theme here) to friends. They seemed sympathetic enough. I whined. I rationalized. I still felt like it was just too much for such a short period of time.

With all this flying from one home to the other over the past 7 years, however, I've learned a little trick. Airlines oversell seats. Especially on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. And you can profit like a motherf*cker if you know how it's done. I know how it's done. And today, I exchanged 2 hours of my time for 500 dollars in airline vouchers. I can use these vouchers to go see friends...go to strange exotic places like Portland and Dayton, Ohio...and go to and from anyplace I might be calling home at the time.

Tonight though, after those vouchers were put away safely in my briefcase, I toured my parents' new condo (it's very chic). I ate 2 heaping bowls of Johnny Marzetti (if you want the recipe, ask). And I sat down and had a beer with my family...who I really hadn't seen for the better part of a year. We laughed a lot over the excruciating minutia of our pasts, and talked about the present and future. I haven't felt this centered in a long time. I'm happy. I'm content. And because of switching over to Central time, I'm tired.

Guess Mom's right. I'm home...and going home, I've figured out, can't be valued in airline vouchers. Going home is priceless.

Posted 12:42 AM
Tee-hee

I like TV. I like advertising. So it only makes sense that I like commercials. My favorite right now is for Long John Silvers. I wouldn't eat there if you paid me. But I would go there to meet the spokesshrimp. He's got a Frenchy accent and looks like a Muppet. He says a few lines throughout the commercial. But I can't help but laugh when he looks up plaintively at the end of the commercial and says, "I can start today", with an inflection upward at the end of today.

Am I easily amused or what? Now my "not-so-terrible, not-exactly-horrible, can't-call-it-no-good, un-very-bad day" doesn't seem so bad.

Laughter rules. Thanks a lot, spokesshrimp. See you in hell, too.

Posted 12:30 AM
Gravity

I haven't invented anything in my life of much consequence. I've had a few theories here and there, but they really never amount to much. So I have a great amount of respect for Issac Newton. The guy gets credit for the reason we don't float away into space just because an apple fell on his head. I'm sure there's more to it, but I'm in a rather simplistic state right now. I may respect the man, but he's not on my Christmas/Hanukkah list right now.

Yesterday, I soared. On top of the world for no particular reason at all. Today, I plummeted. Speeding toward the Earth faster than a 9 year old racing for the Good Humor truck on a July afternoon in Texas. I made up my mind around noon that I am a hopelessly moody bitch. Strangely enough, the 2 friends I declared this to didn't seem to disagree in the least. It was by no means anywhere close to the "Terribly horrible, no-good, very bad day" made famous in children's literature (remember book fairs in 3rd grade?), but my story turned out to be more blah than a January sky before the flurries start to fall. I'm getting sleepy, and I welcome sleep. It's a chance to put 8 hours between me and the day that was, in all honesty, of little consequence to anyone.

Gravity sucks. Thanks a lot, Newton. See you in hell.

Posted 11:36 PM
Soaring

I'm thoroughly convinced that we all have cycles. Men, women, dogs, squirrels, trees. Everyone's got em. I'm riding the crest of the highpoint in my cycle at present. It was like a bad cold I couldn't shake -- nothing could wipe that shit-eatin' grin off my face today. I didn't win anything. I didn't do anything especially noteworthy. My spirit's just kind of soaring for some reason.

This on a day where I had to experience deja vu all over again. September 11th, I walked into the Romper Room (it's like the table where they sit the kids at Thanksgiving...but it's the table that's always the most fun). I put down my keys. I picked up my coffee mug. And I walked into the newsroom to find reporters...photographers...producers...humans...seeking information about something horrible. Today: a carbon copy. This time, I was sent out immediately to the airport, hoping for the best and fearing the worst. As the day progressed, hope conquered fear. Airports opened. People got on planes, and those nice older ladies I interviewed at the airport will get to see their Broadway shows.

Everyone hits those high points in their cycles. And while not everyone is soaring tonight...I'm perfectly content to enjoy the view...from above.

Posted 10:33 PM
Friendship grows on a vine

Living in the South has been an adventure. Sure, I weathered the storm of studying storms...and stormed out west to Oklahoma and Texas to tackle the beginnings of what's been a sunny and pleasant career in the media. But when I moved from Texas to South Carolina last March, I encountered something this transplanted Yankee hadn't ever seen before.

It was a patch of trees on US-25, just south of the North Carolina-South Carolina border. These trees, once tall-standing oaks and terrific smelling pines, looked like they got mixed up in a bad crowd. A heavy weight made them shrink. Twisting lengths of unidentifiable foliage bottled up and corked their natural perfume. It's beautiful and innocent enough, but it's a killer.

Me: "What's that ivy lookin' stuff you see on trees around here?"
Native Southerner: "Are you kidding? That's Kudzu. Boy, you're not from around here are you?"
Me, shaking head and nodding at the same time: "No...I sure ain't."

(I had a similar experience with okra, but I won't go into that right now). Anyhow, I got to know the tight-knit vines called Kudzu very well. Today, I meandered up the mountain, right past the place where kudzu and I first locked eyes, and talked to a duo of men trying to eradicate kudzu in their town. It turned out to be a good story. And 8 months after our first encounter, kudzu and I worked alongside each other like old friends. And I masked the naive, transplanted Yankee in me well enough to pull off a few interesting conversations with two native southerners.

On another note, I've been pretty lucky to stumble into something wonderful here. I've been lucky in my life to always have real good buddies to horse around with, find mischief with, and share a lot of laughter and tears with. But the circle of friends that sucked me in like a top-of-the-line Hoover when I arrived here are really somethin' special. One of those friends is hurtin' tonight. He can't quite figure out why. I can't either. I'm no psychologist, but I do have big ears...and I put them to good use listening. After we talked tonight, I think he felt a little better...and knowing that, so did I. He'll get over it, and he'll be just fine. Back to his ol' delightfully-sarcastic self.

We're a tight knit group. We're kudzu. We're just nicer to trees.

Posted 12:55 AM
Lower lifeforms

I hate cleaning.

They say cleanliness is next to Godliness. If that's the case, my mother has secured herself the equivilent of a half-million dollar home in Heaven or whatever world awaits us beyond.

Mom's always run a tight ship on the housework homefront. Stuff was clean, or it wasn't in her house. Period. When we first moved to Illinois in 1987, it was a brand new house on Burgess Hill Road that greeted us. The setting was the back of a beautiful neighborhood. The style was California-Contemporary. And the inside was untouched...pure...and clean. It was my mother's dream. And if she had it her way, it was going to stay that clean. So when I went to take a shower in my very own bathroom the first morning there, I remember a conversation similar to this:

Mom: "Are you going to shower in there?"
Me, somewhat bewildered: "Uh, yeah"
Mom: "Why don't you go shower in our bathroom upstairs. Your bathroom's so nice and clean, we should just keep it that way."

Years later, I wanted a car. And I didn't want a used one either. My 15 and a half year old mind steered me toward a brand new set of wheels instead of a hand-me-down. To mom's dismay, I worked out a bizarre arrangement where we ditched our cleaning woman provided by Paul the Polish Pimp (that's PO-lish, as in the nationality) and I agreed to clean the house, top to bottom. Dad, in turn, made the car payment on my beautiful, non-california-contemporary Nissan Sentra. This "agreement" was great for all of about 3 weeks. I never could live up to my mom's standards of cleanliness...and friends said I always smelled like Clorox. It was misery for all parties involved.

10 years later, the misery continues. I have a new truck. I have a fairly nice house. And I still have a deep-seeded hate for Scrubbing Bubbles and Tilex. After an evening of cleaning my bathroom, I can't decide if it's the actual de-griming or the fumes that's making me grouchy.

When my ship comes in, Paul the Polish Pimp better be on it. I'm going to put his girls to work.