One Step Left

2003-07-01T15:39:00.000-04:00

I'm Sailing...Away?

It's been almost one year.

One year since I've divulged the non-secrets and excruciating minutia of everyday life, the half-thoughts and semi-truths, the things which mean nothing to most and not much more to a few select others.

I stopped writing because I was uninspired. Truth be told, I felt I had become boring. Blogging became like homework. It was daily drudgery, and it wasn't fun anymore.

I took more pleasure from reading the rants and raves, non-secrets and semi-truths of other people's lives.

But I began to realize the theraputic value of expressing the half-thoughts tumbling in the dryer of my mind. And while decluttering my house last night, I began to realize that no Tide or Windex or even those Scrubbing Bubbles could wipe clean 10 months worth of stuff piling up.

It's been almost one year.

And in a year, nothing is terribly more exciting, although I'm about to sail into Pittsburgh, figuratively speaking. I've been on a nice, relaxing, quiet journey up the Ohio River. Soon, I'll have to make a choice.

The Monongahela, or the Alleghany?

If you're familiar with baseball, Western Pennsylvania, or are just a river buff (what makes one a buff, by the way? Wasn't that a Seinfeld episode?), you know Pittsburgh sits "Where the Monoghela and the Alleghany meet to form the Ohio.

One river will take me down familiar waters through a new environment. A new job in an old career.

Another river will take me down unfamiliar waters through a completly different environment, where instead of getting orders...I'll give them...all day long...to pilots. How many of you would trust me guiding your plane into Springfield, C-Bus, Knoxvegas, Ft Myers, or Charlotte? Actually...I'd do better than some of you might think. ;-)

Then of course...I could say "Screw you, Pittsburgh!", turn my vessel around...and sail right back where I came from...where the water is like glass, the scenery is beautiful, and all sorts of fun people board my boat, guitars and six-packs and card decks in hand.

This used to be a familiar topic on My Arch Enemy's blog. He ended up leaving us to go be a hack.

Wherever my ship goes, I hope you'll sail along. And maybe read about the trip along the way.

2002-08-27T10:43:00.000-04:00

Blogging is so passe

I thought as my life got better, so much better, I'd want to write more.

Turns out, I really don't. In fact, I've considered revamping this in some form...or getting rid of it completely.

I enjoy the writing exercise, but figured out I enjoy pouring over the excruciating minutia of everyday life with friends over a cold beer instead of on a computer keyboard.

Hmmm, I just blogged though. Maybe I'll wax poetic again in some other form sometime soon.

2002-08-06T14:29:00.000-04:00

Tee-hee

Otis sat in Emilio across the intersection from me this morning. As he drove by, he gave me Wootlers. I love a good early-morning chuckle. Thanks, Otis.

2002-08-06T14:27:00.000-04:00

The Emperor's New, Uncomfortable Clothes

When I was just a wee lad (which is years ago, despite the fact that if I don a baseball cap, an untucked t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, I still look 12), I had ambition and aspiration in the career world.

I wanted to be a "doctor heart".

Mom still thinks that's the cutest thing (ain't it though?). Never mind these days I can't even watch ER on a full stomach for fear of...an empty stomach...it was what I wanted to be. I believe doctor heart is kid-code for heart surgeon, by the way.

By 1st grade, I'd jumped into the technology world...despite the fact it was only 1983, when most people thought a hard drive was something you got in a cheap car...I wanted to be a computer salesman. Although I continued to like computers and had some nerdy friends you would refer to as "hackers", my interest in sales waned...selling candy for every junior high activity you're involved in will do that to ya (but don't ya miss those flavored suckers? Mmmmm).

After shutting down the career-oriented part of my mind for several years, I turned it on again sometime just before high school and decided I was going to be a weatherman. 'Weather is cool. Wouldn't being on TV be cool too?' Somehow, no matter how tough the going got on the road to 'becoming a meteorologist', I never took a side street. Stubborness more than anything, I suppose. But being on TV still seemed cool.

And here I am with more suits than I ever thought I would own in my closet...nice ties...even a clothing allowance to buy them. And I hate wearing every one of them. I see people on the street doing their jobs wearing t-shirts and shorts and jeans and whatever the hell they want. Jackhammering pavement, climbing telephone poles...delivering mail even. And I am jealous of them. I want a job where I don't have to dress up every morning and look freshly-creased. I want to grow a beard and not have anyone tell me I can't. Being able to do it for just 8 days a year isn't enough.

I chose a profession...and now I have to look like a professional, both in skill AND appearance. What the hell was I thinking?

2002-08-05T11:05:00.000-04:00

Hey, look what the Jewish kid is doing!

He's not stealing your money, thank you. And no, he's not running a bank or figuring out how to control Hollywood. He's not even eating Matzah (though he could really go for a nice Manischevitz chocolate macaroon or two right now).

I'm entering the Methodist church. Two days a week. Soon to be three. No, I'm not kidding.

Blame Mom and the countless years she dragged me to piano lessons. Really, it wasn't all that bad. I mean I learned how to play pretty well. Sheila Stephenson was my piano teacher, and I don't remember much about her. In fact, if you asked me to describe her, I would only remember jet-black hair worn in some kind of bouffant. And I could be entirely wrong on that. I believe she also wore thick 50s-like horn rim glasses. This too could be entirely untrue. That's just how I remember her for some reason. She was a good teacher. I got a lot of gold stars at the top of my sheet music. Nothing like sticky foil to make you feel good about what you're doing. The second teacher, in Illinois, was named Beth Jones. I remember exactly what she looked like, and it's not just a re-fabrication in my mind's eye. She had greying hair and looked like a very trusting lady. But this woman put such an emphasis on technique, by the time she was done mutating my hands into "proper curved position", I looked like I was suffering from malnutrition-based atrophy. Worse than that, this woman smelled like she had been sucking on a clove of garlic all day, earning her the dubious nickname of "Bad-Breath-Beth". I truly think my Mom sympathized with this and allowed me to quit at age 13 or 14.

But anyway...all those years of lessons fostered an ability and a desire to sit down in front of 88 keys and use them as a creative outlet. It clears my head to play the piano. And it's fun, even when the music is difficult...I love a good challenge.

Which is how I ended up playing piano/keyboard for a production of the musical "Godspell" (which, if you haven't heard, has some very cool songs...go on, sing with me, "Day By Day..."). It will be at St. Peter's at Hudson & Devenger in late October.

You should come see it. And if you don't, I will pray for you. Aww, damnit. The South has got me in another one of it's evil clutches.

Just kidding...but come see the show anyway.

2002-07-29T05:50:00.000-04:00

It ain't Orange Glow...

...but if my life were an advertisement by Billy Mays, the storyboard would read like this:

(video: grouchy Ted typing)
Announcer: "Tired of being down in the dumps?

(video: man and woman talking, man pointing, woman rolling eyes)
Announcer: Are your friends sick of hearing you with the mumble-grumbles?

(video: Billy dressed in superhero outfit, with giant 4 on chest)
Announcer: Try new Billy(tm)!!

(video: Billy perfoming various tasks in newsroom environment)
Announcer: Billy(tm) will wash away your troubles by taking over the crappy work shifts in your life, and performing them with ease.

(video: Ted smiling, laughing, eating dinner and looking at clock that says 7:30pm)
Announcer: Meanwhile, you can go back to your semi-anonymous life working shifts designed to better keep your body running. Watch with amazement as you eat regular meals...exercise...stay awake during your favorite TV shows...and do the things you never thought you'd do again at the same time everyone ELSE was doing them!

(video: man and woman used previously with Ted, pointing and laughing at Billy)
Announcer: And remember...Billy loves mental anguish, and isn't ashamed of it. Now YOU can do the pointing and laughing...guilt free! Try new Billy(tm) TODAY!

I'm ordering mine. It should be here August 20th. Three cheers for getting off the morning shift...since Su seems to be our resident online cheerleader, I'll let her take care of it. In the meantime, let the countdown again. Sorry, no COD.

2002-07-22T05:22:00.000-04:00

Blind

Some of you have reported problems seeing my title image (particularly inside the friendly confines of Double-U Why Ef Ef). I blame AOL (they probably have bad accounting practices too, but I'm more concerned about their FTP servers). The image is moving to Su's website...so the problem should be fixed soon.

2002-07-22T05:14:00.000-04:00

Turn down the oven

From the "TMI" file...

I had to change underwear after work Saturday. It was soaked through after shooting SOT teases in 95 degree heat. I wear boxers, fortunately. Autumn can't come fast enough.

2002-07-18T01:05:00.000-04:00

Where?

is updated again. What in the world is he drinking? Take a guess in comments. Save the knife...the knife is good.

2002-07-17T10:16:00.000-04:00

At the end of a long, frayed, dirty rope

"Accept the things you can't change, and change the things you can."

It's a motivational speaker/teacher/parent/coach/good buddy/psychic advisor line we've all heard about a million times. It's really the polite way of saying 'deal with it'. I don't buy it. But it's a subscription I've signed up for anyway. And even though I've been asked to be placed on it's 'do not call' list, I keep on getting it. Week after week. Month after month.

For 1 year, I got up and came to the job I work at and loved every single morning. The bitches were minor. The problems were few. Any that sprung up were solvable. It's nice to like your job.

For the last 3 months, I've been getting up every morning and hating work. To go into the situation is moot, by this time most of you have already heard the story...seen the story...and don't care to hear it again. I know I don't want to tell it. It gets me down.

The problem is, there's no forseeable end in sight. Sure, there's a "glimmer of hope on the horizon" the situation will change. That glimmer seems to stay just out of arm's reach. I've stopped reaching for it. It's getting to the point where I hardly notice it's there.

"Change the things you can".

This one I can't. I signed my name on a dotted line that essentially whored myself out to an organization for a period of 3 years. What they do with me, to me, in those 3 years, beyond capital punishment and starvation, is basically legal. I can complain, bitch, moan, whine, sulk, sob, and pound my fists till the bones in my hand are mere fragments. The result would probably just be a sore hand.

Friends, I don't know what to do anymore. I've never felt this demoralized before. Life's rich pageant has marched down another street, and I'm left cleaning up the ticker-tape. If you're missing the ol' Ted, maybe he'll come back. After all, there's still that glimmer...as long as the rope doesn't break in two.

2002-07-15T18:12:00.000-04:00

A real winner

I had the misfortune of being subjected to about 60 minutes of Christian radio today. Mind you, I'm not anti-Christian. I'm just anti-getting-Jesus-forced-down-my-throat. Anyway, I let it go...simply because it kept the person I was in the car with quiet. But I felt almost insulted when I heard this:

DJ: It's time to play 5 in 10...we'll take the 2nd caller...caller, are you there?
Bland woman: Yes.
DJ: OK...you know what 5 in 10 is...I'll pick a category, you have 10 seconds to give me 5 things in that category. Ready?
Bland woman: Yes.
DJ: The category is...ice cream flavors. Ready...set...go!

Perhaps this is how we should elect South Carolina's next governor. The woman, believe it or not, won 2 tickets to Carowinds.

2002-07-15T05:35:00.000-04:00

2 bedroom, 1 bath

I've got dwelling envy. And it hurts.

For the last 5 days, I've had the chance to play king of the castle. Not that I'm not the supreme ruler of my nicely appointed yet decidely small duplex...but an opportunity to house-sit for a devoted Buckeye fan (will he ever learn?) gave me the chance to oversee a single-family home, complete with fenced-in yard and flowerboxes on the windows. I washed dishes by hand, tinkered with things that didn't seem to work (that garbage disposal might need another look, T) and admired the sense of permanency their belongings strewn about the place seemed to give off.

I realize I'm still a youngin' in this world. What the hell does Chief Bachelor need a house for? Mortgages, after all, are for the married and weak, right? Stand alone guys should rent. It's law.

But I'm sick of pissin' my money away every month, getting nothing in return but a roof over my head which I'm now sharing with a plethora of ants. I swear my dog said "Whims" yesterday instead of "Woof", expressing his longing for a place to roam where I don't have to put him on a leash.

I'm sure you homeowners will tell me to enjoy it while I can. Fixing stuff is expensive, blah blah. But I wish I'd had the luxury of having a little more money saved when I'd moved here...so I could have bought a house right away. Now that I've amassed close to enough dough for any kind of a down payment...the uncertainty of where I'll be in a year in a half or what I'll be doing makes buying seem silly. I take enough baths already; I don't need to take one on a house down the road.

Just be careful if you ask me to housesit. When you come back, the locks may be changed...indicating I found a house...without having to apply for a mortgage.

2002-07-09T23:49:00.000-04:00

Where in the world?

Don't forget to check out the adventures of G-Rob's lost knife, updated each Wednesday. :)

2002-07-09T20:45:00.000-04:00

Note: This blog originally began as a comment on My Evil Twin's blog (see July 9...'Chicken Pot Chicken Pot Chicken Pot Pie'), but it's one of my favorite stories...so I thought I'd share it here.

August 28, 1994:

I turned into Classic 50s on Lindsay Street, a Sonic-type drive-in in Norman, Oklahoma. It was my 2nd day ever as a Southerner. My car seemed as thirsty as I was as it winced into the diagonal space between two carloads of sorority girls. "It's the place for chick-watching", my suitemate Rolando told me. It's also the perfect place to get a cold drink, I thought to myself after scowling at the bank clock thermometer's 100 degree reading.

I looked over the plastic menu. A variety of slurpies...slushies...smoothies. What to get? Blue-Meannie Cremscicle slush, Coconut-Mandarin Madness? Daquiri slush...Is that legal?

I rolled down the window, the searing afternoon heat rushing up and smacking in the face like a angry girlfriend. I pushed the little red button and spoke through the speaker in a flat, decidely Midwestern accent:

"I'll have a large coke".

The crackly voice of a high school girl, pretty sounding despite the low quality, cut a path through the heat right to my ears.

"What kind?"

In a foreign place, at a foreign restaurant, between two foreign carloads of hot sorority chicks in convertibles who could hear my every word, my mind raced. What do you mean what kind? This was well beyond the era of Coke II...and before the dawn of Vanilla Coke. Was there any other kind? What the hell was she talking about?

I tried my best to sound like I knew what I was talking about.

"Uh, regular, please".

I heard giggles. The kind of giggles that come from sorority girls when they're making fun of a guy they think is a total idiot. I stared straight ahead. My thirst was replaced by a pounding in my temples, a slight feeling of nausea, and the thought that maybe I had no earthly business taking my corn-country ass down to tornado alley.

The high school girl crackled through once again. I sensed she had been giggling too.

"Um, regular what?"

This had to be a joke, I thought as my Blazer's heat-stressed engine idled higher as if it sensed the beads of sweat forming on my forehead. But only friends play jokes on you. And with just days of Oklahoma under my belt, friends were still on the to-do list.

I glanced out of the corner of my eye at the hot-chick-mobile to my left. Maybe they didn't think I was an idiot...maybe they found my decidedly Midwestern upbringing cute and charming. I could handle cute and charming. A perfect chance to make conversation by recognizing my own regional dialect deficiencies and playing it up as something that's 'just so sweet', as they say in the South.

I turned instead to the speaker.

'I'll have a Blue-Meanie Creamsicle Slush instead', I told the high school girl. The only question she fired back was 'what size'. Size, I know, is universal.

Rolando would later tell me that I was an idiot for not talking to the chick-cars. He would also tell me that any soft drink in Oklahoma & Texas is called a "Coke". A Sprite is really a Coke. So is a Dr. Pepper. If you want a Coke, order it as a Coca-Cola. It saves time and confusion.

I would later go on an uncountable number of "Coke Dates" (where it was OK to order a Sprite or a slushie if you wanted) with giggling sorority girls much like the ones who flanked me on that August day. I'd also learn the intricacies of 'fixin' to' and my favorite, 'jeet yet?' By the time I left Oklahoma, I could turn the native charm on as much as I could turn the foreign charm on with that same old familiar flat Midwestern accent.

But no matter how hard I tried, the one thing I could never could learn to do was eat a Blue-Meanie Cremescicle slush without the searing Oklahoma heat turning it into mush about halfway through.

Next up in "The Life Of A Nomad"... Chapter 14: I might could mash the button for y'all

2002-07-02T19:15:00.000-04:00

A June to be reckoned with

I'm not dead. Seriously. You may not have seen much of me recently...both in the blogger world...or the real world...but I continue a somewhat satisfying existence.

If the last 20 days were a room in my house, it'd be the attic. Crammed full of "stuff". Some of it is interesting because it's nostalgic...some is uninteresting because it's repetitive...and some you just wonder, "how the hell did that get there?"

I went home to see good ol' Ma & Pa and the younger brother for a 4 days. For the first time in my life, I took a vacation where I did nothing and was happy to do it. The highlights included 8 hours of sleep each night, going to bed at roughly the same time each night. Waking up, stepping outside, and feeling the damp air of a post-rainy morning breeze over my skin and whisper, "Hey man...it's only going to 62 degrees today...pretty cool, eh?" (Yes, breezes talk on occasion). I read books. Mind you, this might sound like something a 3rd grader would brag about...but I don't read. I hate reading. Yet in 2 days I finished half of a book and read an entirely new one from cover to cover (with chapters and NO pictures!) I felt accomplished. My brother laughed and said it was 'beach reading'. So what? I'd much rather be in Kelly Ripa's book club than The Today Show's.

I got to see Tom & his brothers. We went out for a night of drinking. We laughed till our sides hurt and then paid our tabs and went home to sleep it off. Life should be that simple.

I ate 4 consecutive dinners at home. Real dinners, with spices I can't ever remember and side dishes that sound fancy and taste even better. My dad is the best cook in the world. Sorry, Otis...he's got you beat...only because of experience.

I returned to GreenVegas feeling genuinely relaxed for the first time in months.

Upon return, typical June frivolity ensued...after long work days in increasingly-higher temperatures, we turned the thermostat down with some porch sitting and guitar strumming. I hate the summer days here...they burn a hole through my soul. Night seems to patch those holes, or at least mask them in a cool grip.

Then, the long goodbye. I've grown so frighteningly callous to tossing friendships across state lines, that a hearty handshake and a combination pat on the back hug seems to be sufficient. None of us were happy to see C-fate become a Floridian....so we did our best to give him several round of goodbye dinners peppered with evenings of debauchery. Then, last Wednesday, he and I hopped in his weighed-down Cherokee and headed South. Savannah is a cool town, even though we only stayed for a night...the last Wednesday night I'd get to sit side by side with my Wednesday drinking buddy and have Wednesday beers and mindless Wednesday conversations (we spent almost 30 minutes 2 weeks ago analyzing the camera shots on 'Match Game PM'). Post Savannah, we battled Orlando traffic and meandered down to Tampa to stop and say hello to my favorite aunt and uncle, the neatest most honest simple people you'll ever meet. Then, we headed down to geriatric, steamy Fort Myers...and after a day of helping him house-hunt, headed to the airport. I was callous as usual. It's a poor attempt to mask the fact that I will really miss him. Tee-vee sucks.

Brad-o-ween was the perfect diversion from that. For once in my life, I didn't let the "Cinderella Syndrome" attack at midnight, and I stayed up and out with the best of them and the rest of them until the wee hours of the morning. I wore sunglasses and a silly lei, and reminded myself that it's OK to break the rules every now and again. The next morning, my body reminded myself that it's tough top operate on 3 hours of groggy sleep. The glass slipper is now safely tucked away once again.

The last of the summertime treks begins late this week...the annual trip to Seattle. Since my buddy Chad from high school moved there five years ago to go be a Microsoft guru, I've made it a point to visit once a year. I had never been before. I feel at home in that city. If I had to pick one big place to live, that would definitely be it. It's cool, literally and figuratively. I love the architecture and the fish. The mountains and the coffee. It's a first-class city in second gear. Traffic is bad, but hey, so is Woodruff Road.

If distraction is the way to beat the summer doldrums, I think I've succeded to this point. Whatever it takes to get me through to the Fall. LEAF, anyone?

2002-06-13T01:23:00.000-04:00

Somewhere else

There are few things better then leaving a world you love so much behind...for one you know is just as good.

A 59 degree breeze is blowing in through the windows of a bedroom that was never mine...but can still be called home.

No news, no photogs, no scripts, no lousy interviews, no deadlines, no reason to move any faster than first gear.

Moving on now...to the rest of 'the rest'...and feeling good.

2002-06-10T00:44:00.000-04:00

Open to interpretation

Most of you who know me know I'm a vivid, lucid dreamer...either because I've told you, or you've had to listen to the 10 minute recounts of my eyes' rapid movements throughout the night.

Most of you who know me also know that sleep comes at a premium for me. I sacrifice a lot of it just so I can live a normal life of sporting events, concerts, and porch sitting.

But when it comes time for the suicide shift...two days of doubleshifting...my body gets so out of whack, it doesn't know when to get tired.

Usually, sometime during this shift...it hits. The point where my body says, plain and simple, "I give up".

My eyelids droop so severely you'd think they were being clothespinned to my cheeks. My legs ache, just above my knees. I get as parched as an Upstate lake in the middle of a 5 year drought.

And the second my head hits the pillow...the acid trip begins. Or at least what I've come to imagine an acid trip is like. (I've managed to keep myself away from those tiny postage stamps...but thanks to a slight Codeine intolerance, I've experienced something close to it.) The sleep-deprived mind falls immediately into vivid vignettes...pieces of dreams...almost flashy images from which I wake with a jolt through my body like a spike of electricity.

Then, as the minutes tick by...the dreams get calmer...and longer...but still very vivid. One from last night is significant. It's the first of the "prediction" dreams I've had in awhile. I'm no Nostradamus, but 2 years in a row when I was 14 and 15...I had dreams about tornadoes and specific dates they would strike in the beginning of the long, unpredictable Illinois summers. And two years in a row, I was right. I was heralded by the White Eagle pool staff as a "somewhat clairvoyant thinker with a penchance for Snickers Ice Cream bars". That's a big title to uphold.

Anyhow, last night's dream is summarized like this: I was in Vegas, in a casino. Many of you were there -- Gdill, T, etc. It had been 3 days, I remember thinking to myself. 3 days where things hadn't gone as well as we'd all hoped. I was sitting at a crowded blackjack table, wondering if I was ever going to turn my luck around. I remember glancing around the room at other casinogoers happily rejoicing in their newfound riches.

I got up from the table and walked by a craps table. To the left of it were 2 slot machines. There were people crowded around them, watching intently. I wanted in. Badly.

I realized you needed coins to play the slots...and conveniently, to the immediate left of the two slot machines, was a change machine. It looked only slightly different than the everyday change machines you remember putting dollar bills in at the bowling alley for quarters to play "Mr. Do" and "Galaga".

I put a dollar in. And coins came out. Lots of them. It equaled a lot more than the meager bill I put in. There were 10s of dollars worth of coins.

I did it again. More coins than should be. Did anyone notice? Not hardly.

Again, and again...more money.

(Note: I know what your'e thinking here. If you watched "Vegas Vacation", Rusty's "I put a dollar in, I get a car" line is going through your head. And there's also some sitcom or comic strip that showed a guy putting money in a change machine because, as he puts it, he's always a winner)

I digress. I got a lot money out of this machine. I was happy. Very happy. And, somewhat wealthy.

What's this mean? A He-Con premonition? Or just the silly inner-workings of an over-worked mind?

I should tell you...shortly after the part where I got wealthy, the dream ended with me walking over to a table full of sorority girls watching a beauty pageant, me commenting on how the top 3 winners were all named "Debby", me asking a hot blond girl to go get married right now because 'We're in Vegas!', and her telling me 'No way' and leaving.

I need sleep.

2002-05-29T11:07:00.000-04:00

"I lost the time"

Whenever I'm asked for my favorite movies, my mind goes pitifully blank (man, that seems to happen SO MUCH these days). But when I'm not on the spot, I can think of several of them. "Shawshank Redemption" has fantastic storytelling and character development. "American Beauty" left me guessing until the very end...and the photography is amazing. "Sliding Doors" explores the bizarre world of "what ifs". And my favorite law/crime thriller without a doubt is "Primal Fear".

Whenever "Aaron" blacks out in the movie...he has this great phrase. "I lost the time". We used to throw this around in college pertaining to any night where one may have suffered an unfortunate blackout, necessitating a lengthy explanation of the past night's events (or not, depending on what he/she may have done).

I lost the time this weekend. I think I only asked what time it was once.

It felt so good to do that. I hadn't needed a vacation that badly in the history of my life. I need another one again already.

It's a good thing my dog, who had lost the time by running away for 4 days, came back.

And while writing this, I've lost the time again.

Tick tick tick

2002-05-12T08:06:00.000-04:00

Food For Thought

If we're Doritos...somebody forgot to close the bag.

Now, the air wreaks of staleness that has a hold on us like Super Polident (whatever happened to those Martha ads...did she finally kick the bucket?).

I have to admit...I read the industry websites. That's a good thing and a bad thing when your nose is this out of joint about your job. In a lot of cases, you can find people on there who have it way worse than you do. Other times, it just makes you more angry when you realize that we're all in the same "let's get screwed" boat.

But I came across this post from a woman who goes by "Mom"...she's usually a protaganistic instigator on the message board known for thoughtful discussions in a wasteland of bitching.

Suppose you could name your own salary. What are you worth? If you were allowed to name your salary but couldn't use any sort of comparison data to arrive at a figure how would you do it? By that, I mean, as an example: You're a reporter in Market #130 and you make 25K. The ND tells you to name your salary based on your own personal value to the news operation. Could you do it? Do you have a solid understanding of what your value is to your shop or are you more concerned with salary because you know someone else who does less than you is making more than you. Let's say everyone gets to choose their salary (realistically) so there's no reason to be envious or jealous of the other guy. Try not to base your salary on your financial needs. Using your worth to the company as your only criteria will you give yourself a big raise, a small raise, no raise or (gulp) a cut in salary. What are you worth?

One of the first responses...was from this guy, who called himself 'Stock Plummeting'. Read on:

How introspective! How self-aware! How utterly, repulsively banal. Sorry mom, but given years of degradation at the hands of unappreciative superiors concerned only with monetary streamlining, my self appraised value is skewed to say the least. There was a time, long before cynicism overcame my zest for the business that I could (and did) confidently ask for what I believed I deserved. I break big stories. I win awards. I consistently do work that I am proud of and others acknowledge. What do I get in return? Backstabbing malevolence at the hands of insecure management coupled with nakedly brazen nepotism on the part of insipid, out of touch ownership. Makes a guy feel real worthwhile. Sorry to vent spleen here, Mom, but your post reminded me of a better time when I was a better man...or maybe just more naive. Either way, I miss him...so does my family.

I sure hope we have the good sense to avert something like this happening to all of us. Fortunately, I think we can thank our lucky Budweiser that we've found a way to vent some of those frustrations with guitars and mountainsides. And God forbid if any one of us ever DOES get this jaded...this cynical...I hope we'll be dragged up the mountain by the rest of us and beaten into submission using only CWs and a lake.

By the way, here's Mom's response:

Stock Plummeting,
I wish I could offer you a raise...or at least some homemade cookies.

I'd settle for the cookies right now. Thank God we all get a batch in about 11 days. Hang in there kids...

2002-05-06T19:07:00.000-04:00

There's no wrong way

It's been a long day. Lots of time on my feet. They said thanks when I kicked my shoes off and peeled off my socks tonight (yes, it was warm out...and socks really do peel). When I got home, I wanted a smile from my dog and a hug from my couch.

And dinner. Damnit, I knew I forgot something.

So it was off to the Bi-Lo of Broken Dreams (copywrite Woo-Doo) to dodge homeless people and welfare folks to find somethin' to eat. No-prep was the only requirement other than...it had to be one of those (I hate this term) "comfort foods" (Damnit, Oprah)

I came home, heated for 12 minutes in the microwave, and sat down to eat it.

And just like every time I've ever eaten a pot pie, I poked about 20 holes in the crust with a fork. I let it cool for a minute or so. Then, I pried a piece of the crust up with my fork...subsequently rolling the fork sideways and mashing that piece of crust into the middle.

Then, a big bite. Mmmm....pot pie.

Systematically...crust-piece by crust-piece, that's how I eat a pot-pie. When all the crust is gond...i just mash up what's left of the middle and finish it off.

As for my Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, I usually gnaw off the sides of those all the way around...and then eat the middle. Somewhat similar. Never realized that till now.

And as for corn on the cob, I take random chomps here and there. not row by row, not around the cob...just wherever I can get a mouthful.

So how do you eat a pot pie? What are your strange eating habits?

And no one better answer, "Uh..huh huh...I can eat a whole packet of powdered cheese".

2002-05-06T06:16:00.000-04:00

Same idiot, same great taste

Fear regression.

I've talked about how much fun it's been to go back in time in the past couple of weeks. How sentimental things reviving youth can be very refreshing (you know, like a Junior Mint).

I may have changed my mind.

Notoriously stingy (insert religion joke here), I will jump at the opportunity to make a guaranteed buck. Or 5. Often, this meant I was 'dare guy'. 'I dare you to pinch that girl's a** and drive off...c'mon, I'll throw in 5 bucks! So will he! So will she!' How simple. I do something half-assinine, I get cash in hand. Easy concept.

You'd think you'd outgrow stunt-related peer pressure as you approach your upper 20s. You'd think wrong.

5 bucks was as great a motivator as any. I had no cash in my wallet. I wanted a hot dog and a beer. I remember some cheering and chanting and egging. But more than anything, I wondered what it would be like...what it would taste like...and if I could do it.

Insert: Woo-Doo: "Hey y'all, watch this!"

And that is why I chugged the packet of powdered cheese.

Yes, it was worth it.

No, I'll never do it again.

Well, maybe if you sweeten the pot to 20 bucks I would....

Fear regression.

2002-04-29T17:34:00.000-04:00

Careful now...

A recent rant from About That Time...

DUMB.. DUMBER... AND JUST PLAIN F***ING STUPID..

Weekends around our newsroom are usually pretty quiet. Tonight wasn't. We spent several hours under tornado watches and warnings tonight.. there were even reports of funnel clouds and tornado touchdowns in our viewing area. We took several calls from people who were concerned about their safety. When things got really bad - at about 9:30 - we started doing regular cut-ins to prime-time programming. That's when it happened.

Let me say upfront - I'm a huge Law and Order fan. Tonight was the season finale of one version or another of that show. This was the least few minutes of the (much hyped) last show of the year. I would have been upset had I sat home watching for 55 minutes and not been able to see the end. I would NOT have called the TV station and said any of the following:

- Why do you need to keep interrupting my show? Only a few people are in danger, but a lot of us is watchin' the show. (No doubt a "good Christian" who spent the morning in church).
- How stupid are you? Don't you know this is the season finale?
- Can't you just rewind it and show the end now?
- Anderson is in the middle of your viewing area? I think you'd better check a map...

Those weren't even the worst - or most insulting ones. There was the guy who called back three times. Apparently he didn't believe that I really didn't know what show was on our air - and no, in fact, there weren't any other people there he could talk to. There were the ones promised they would never watch us again (then wanted to know again when we were re-running Law and Order).

Of course, there were people who called in on September 12th pissed off because they were missing their soap operas because of "them buildins" in New York. The boob tube comes of age...
--END OF BLOG--

Good point, my friend.
Just be nice. These are the same people you'll be interviewing 3 years from now when their trailer gets swept away by a tur-nader...

[TAKE PKG]
THEY SAID FROM THE START...
(nats/John: Weather could get very nasty this afternoon...)
IT WOULD BE A ROUGH GO...
(nats/Carol: Continuing our team coverage tonight...Newz 4's TG shows us the difference between a watch and a warning)
AND TO TAKE ACTION.
(nats/tornado sirens)
(nats/John cutting in: Tornado warning for Anderson County...)
BUT AS WE'VE COME TO LEARN IN THE UPSTATE...FOR EVERY ACTION...THERE IS AN UNEQUAL AND IDIOTIC REACTION.
(sot/Jeb Hoss/Anderson Estates doublewide dweller) It sounded like a freight train! And I'm steamed up cuz we didn't get no warnin' at all from the danged T-V!
(Begin Pre-prod)
BUT THEY *DID* GET A WARNING. AT 855PM, THE NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE ISSUED A TORNADO WARNING FOR ANDERSON COUNTY. AT 856 PM, NEWZ FOUR WAS ON THE AIR.
(End Pre-Prod)
(nats/John: Take cover immediately!)
WE SHOWED THIS INFORMATION TO JEB...HE SAID HE HAD BIGGER PROBLEMS TO TAKE CARE OF.
(sot/Jeb: Well I was tryin to watch the end of the fishin tourny-ment on that station but they cut off at the end right when they was sayin' the winner and the second I heard beep beep beep I ran for the phone to make calls cause it was a real fox pass to interrupt my fishin show)
NOW JEB HAS NO TV...NO TRAILER...AND NO DOUBLEWIDE...
(sot/Jeb: It was mamas trailer anyway)
AND IF THE NEXT TORNADO DOESN'T KILL HIM...MAYBE DARWINISM WILL FINALLY DO ITS PART.
(covered sot/Jeb: Did I mention it sounded like a freight train?)
TG, N4.

2002-04-26T18:13:00.000-04:00

CW + EFO = WOO

For those of you at the Eddie From Ohio show, I think you'll agree...it rocked! Great energetic set. Entertaining inbetween songs as always.

For those of you who don't know EFO, check em out.

When I win the Big Game, I will sing with them.

As a parting comment...what's your favorite EFO song and why?
Great Day is amazing...wide range of vocals, sweet harmonies, and it just makes ya feel so damned good. Who knew I'd be a fan of faux-gospel?

2002-04-25T13:41:00.000-04:00

PS

He sucks. But he's sucks so much, he's now award-winning. Congratulations G-Rob. You've represented the day-turners well. The coup begins!

2002-04-25T13:40:00.000-04:00

You tell me

This is a small experiment born from brainrot (hey it's my day off, I don't have to think) and curiosity.

As much as we want to admit or deny it, we crave feedback. In a way, we're all a bunch of ego-centric people. Hearing about the things we do, be it good or bad, help us become better at the things we do.

So with little to say, I offer up this: If you're reading this, leave a comment. Not necessarily about this post. How you doin'? How am I doin'? What have you wanted to say to me in the past week or month that you've forgot to say?

Then of course, when I check the "comments" next time and see "20" next to it, that ego-centric feedback craver will be squashed.

Or, leave no comment...as a way of silently saying "Screw You, Ted."

It's up to you.

2002-04-24T18:12:00.000-04:00

Now arriving...

One Step Left International Airport is opening soon. I would normally wait to unveil this, but since we all hate "ribbon cuttings"...I'm just uploading it piece by piece. I still have a few html/java issues to rework (be patient, I'm learning)...just watch out for construction along the way.

2002-04-22T16:55:00.000-04:00

I Panicked

Time travel is possible. I've done it.

Saturday night is an open, empty box. We've filled it with all kinds of things in the past few months. Semi-pro hockey games, where we've turned into beer-swilling hooligans with an affinity for banging plexiglass and telling players we've had phone sex with their mothers. CP conventions, where've we've turned into beer-swilling hooligans with an affinity for banging the table and finding amusing uses for dollar bills other than to hear Gwen Stefani and Billy Joel wail from the loud speakers above us. Guitars, decks of cards, and a lot of laughter...usually makes an empty box seem like a Christmas package -- you're always willing to unwrap it and enjoy whatever's inside for awhile.

The box gets tattered sometimes. It needs some repair work, so you can keep putting those things inside it and still enjoy them. In need of serious repair, Saturday night became a work night. PR_Hack and I looked for some things to fix the box with. Bowling pins, go-karts, and video games didn't seem to work. The box just needed to be a little bit newer. So we took it back in time.

On a clear, warm, South Carolina evening, we threw the top back on Hack's Mustang convertible...blasted Widespread Panic on the CD Player...and went cruising. Up and down the streets of town, we were high school seniors. We went looking for hookers (just to see 'em). We stopped off for Camels and Cokes. We dragged Main Street, speakers thumping, watching the people watch us. We drove north to TR and got lost with little concern for when we'd find our way again. We drove to the top of the mountain and smoked cigarettes while drinking in the view. We dragged main one last time before heading home, like we were trying to beat curfews. Semi-rebels with little-to-no cause. I miss being 18.

Last night, I travelled back to 19 and went to my first Widespread Panic show. The stuff my brother refers to as "Jam Band Crap" was like reliving some point in college....one of the good ones, anyway. When it seems like there's nothing else to do in the world, being a hippie for a day is as good as anything.

I'm back at work feeling somewhere in the 26-31 range today. By weeks end, it may be time to jump in the time machine again and head for the hills on an open road to the future, flooring the accelrator and running over responsibility with a V8 engine that purrs like the past.

2002-04-19T13:31:00.000-04:00

The reset button

The moon that night was incredibly high in the sky...I'd have believed not even NASA could have reached it. Waxing crescent, they call it...when it builds toward being full and beautiful and awesome. Most waxing crescents aspire to be that full moon. Admired, recognized, heralded, talked about, pointed at, pointed out, painted up. This one was different.

He had his choice of a million different seats in the sky, some closer to the action, the sounds of a Spring evening, and the tiny people who hold that admiration for all things cellestial. Yet he took a seat somewhat higher up...just distant enough to make us wonder why, and just a little in back of us...maybe this would assure him he'd be getting that craved respect as heads craned around to get a better view.

But later on, it was clearly evident why he'd distanced himself from us that evening. He wanted some time alone. Next to the beautiful, waxing crescent gazing down upon a sea of frivolous insignificance, was a bright burning, lone star. She was set apart from the other stars only by distance...and a glow only a little brighter than her peers, the reflection of her partner making her own firelight seemingly brighter.

They set in the sky last night, side by side, holding hands as much as celestial bodies could. Astronomy does nothing for me. Page after page of constellation names has long since fallen from of my textbook mind. This was an appendix I'd forgotten about.

It was perfectly fitting for an evening of listening to the lullabys and anthems of my life. Soothing and sweet, as close to any definition of bliss I could have wanted on Carolina Thursday night. Surrounded by the people our parents warned us about, I smiled at the warm embrace of the April evening air...looked back at him and her and smiled as a way of saying thanks, and simply enjoyed the show.

2002-04-16T23:45:00.000-04:00

Meat-iocrity

Friends, don't hate me...hate my cultural upbringing.

I'm fairly certain my folks have direct lineage to neanderthals, cavedwellers, and other hunter/gatherer type clans...as well as the Japanese and their love of sushi.

Growing up in my house, the grill wasn't really used for cooking...but more 'searing'. Friends often poked and prodded their entrees at dinners my parents invited them to. I could see them squirming nervously, trying to decide if it was immature to quickly hide a big hunk of meat in a napkin at age 16. You see, in my house, we eat meat with cold, red centers. That includes a variety of beef cuts...steak tartare...and encompasses hamburgers in there as well.

Sometimes, I forget that other people think cold, red centers are...well...cold, red, and nasty. They're not used to it. Some also say it's unhealthy. I come from a family of cast-iron stomachs.

So I felt a little bad when I heard that a few of you may have had the proverbial "issues" post-Buffett-Buffet.

If I made any of you sick at my rain-soaked cookout, I'm really sorry.

I've been reading up on the subject. The red meat I eat will always be rare...but at least I'm now educated.

Please come back next time I fire up the grill. The theme: Blackened Cajun...heavy on the blackened.

2002-04-15T19:53:00.000-04:00

See Spot Run...

...and sit...and lay down...and drink water...and a whole bunch of other crazy stuff.
Link to pics of the Happy Dawg

2002-04-15T19:47:00.000-04:00

A non-fortunate moment

(In best Seinfeld voice) and what's the deal with fortune cookies?

In a very Zip-like rant today, but in very un-Ziplike fashion...I went off on the small chinese woman manning the cash register at the Orient (My evil twin's favorite chinese buffet).

"What happened to real fortunes?" I asked her, handing her my abused Bank Of America checkcard. Before she could open her mouth, I continued on. "They used to have real fortunes in them. 'Good luck is coming your way'. 'You will find the love of your life in the place you work'. 'Beware of a tall stranger wearing a Fidora'."

"These days, it's all sayings. Proverbs. Catchy slogans almost. 'When it rains it pours'. 'A keen mind keeps cool in all situations'. 'Your father's name is Chuck'. They should be called stating the obvious cookies.", I thought to myself.

The small Chinese woman handed me back my worn checkcard and a receipt. Glancing at it, I smiled to myself. If I'm not going to get a real fortune in my cookie...at least I had eaten much more than my share for the six dollars I was paying.

Reaching into the big bowl of cookies, the small Chinese woman smiled cheerfully. "Here you go", she said with a heavy accent that made me chuckle. "Maybe this one bring you good luck."

As Paw-Paw paid his check, I tore the plastic-wrap from my 'stating the obvious' cookie, wondering what clever phrase I'd later leave in my pants pocket and run through the wash.

I grabbed both ends of the cookie and cracked it open gently.

It was empty.

No fortune. No clever phrase. No lucky numbers. Not even a hint that a rectangular piece of paper ever existed.

I turned to the small Chinese woman. Paw-Paw snickered. I clenched my jaw. "There's NOTHING in this cookie!"

Small Chinese woman smiled. "Oh no!", she said...with a hint of mockery in her voice, "Very bad luck!"

I believe this woman had the empty cookie under the counter, just waiting for a Westerner to come up to her register and start bitching about changed cookies. She was waiting for me. That cookie had my name on it. That cookie had my fortune in it.

I'm sticking to Oreos from now on.

2002-04-13T09:42:00.000-04:00

That's the ticket

It's a wonder how many of us have been hooked by the thought of winning millions. It's the water cooler topic of the week, really. How would spend 200+ million dollars? Or 2 million dollars at that?

The lucky ex-con from Kentucky is spending his 41 million dollars lavishly. 3 homes, 7 cars. An antique sword collection. A $78,000 watch weighing over 2 pounds. The only refreshing thing is his wife...20 years his junior, he met her in a taqueria/bar somewhere. She says they're rich in love. I want to believe her.

I can smugly say I wouldn't go the extravagant route as a winner. I think part of me is to simple, and part of me is just too cheap and miserly, no matter how much money is in the kitty. But after the lawyers had been called and met with, this would be the course of action:

1. Out with the bills. There's still a few bills I need to take care of...a polite way of saying debt. It's not large, it's not overwhelming, but it's the thing that gets taken care of first.

2. House. Here, in Greenville. Seriously. Someplace in North Main, or maybe down in Augusta Road...something on the smaller side...older, might need a little fixing...which I'd do myself until I couldn't take it anymore. 4 bedrooms, 3 with actual beds. The other would be a music room. You have to fill the house with some stuff of course. I'd buy a piano...maybe a baby grand. It'd keep my fingers busy. It'd also have a fenced yard for Jacques. He'll probably get a few extra rawhides to eat in the yard.

3. Car. Pay mine off, and keep it. Fix the windshield. Have it detailed. Buy South Carolina tags for it. I'm happy with that truck. I don't want anything else immediately. I might sell it and get something a little fancier...maybe a GMC Yukon or something with 4 doors. Maybe even a Suburban for the gang to pile inside and go places.

4. Family. Pay off Mom & Dad's place (and you thought I was such a disappointment...pshaw!). Pay off their cars and bills. Provide them with another good chunk of change so they could both retire immediately. Give my dad the capital to start another business of his choosing, something that would make him genuinely happy. Pay off brother's car too, and get him a house somewhere after he decides what kind of job he wants and where he wants to do it. He'll also have a good chunk of change, but he really should keep a job. You know, to be fair.

5. Friends. This is where it really gets complicated. You don't have to tell me who my friends are and who my friends aren't. With me, it's pretty clear-cut. Anyway, there'd be something set aside for the friends. The ones far away will have an open-invitation for airline tickets to come down and see me at any time. The ones nearby will be well taken care of. It's OK to put that in generic terms...they'll get what they need plus a whole lot more. Money can't be any fun unless you share it. The best part is I know they'll be there to live my slightly-changed but still non-extravagant lifestyle.

6. Job. I'm contracted. I still owe WYFF-TV 715 days of my life "in the employ". And, also to be fair, I think I'll honor that. After that, some time off. Maybe a year or so. There'd be a lot of travel involved in that year. Australia, Japan, and a return to Europe are a must. Not 5 star hotels, but good solid places that aren't filled with snoots. I'd still travel commercially until I have my pilot's license...then I might get a plane. Then back to work...doing what, I'm not sure. Maybe running a sports bar I build here in Greenville or a restaurant in Seattle with 10 tables, where I hire my dad as a guest cook and mom as a hostess.

7. Other miscellany He-Con:Vegas members have their trip paid for. So do LEAFers. Heck I might even be nice enough to pay for a She-Coner's trip too. Biyatch's contract will be bought, and she will be banished to a faraway land. PR-Hack gets a brand-new kick-ass twelve string. Otis gets a new one too. Mean probucer gets a big-ass TV, and he can give Gladys a raise! G-Rob gets digital cable. Zip gets a bunch of DVDs so he doesn't have to hunt them down on E-bay anymore. Su & Riles get to come visit us at a private EFO/Cigar Store/Acoustic Syndicate show at the Handlebar!

It's a good thing saints don't have a better chance than sinners in the world of luck...that means my crack at 300 million is as good as anyone's come Tuesday. Here's to a little luck, and the creativity and dreams it fosters.

2002-04-10T16:27:00.000-04:00

Looking in the mirror

One of the few things I've learned in this no-frills trip called life is that being introspective from time to time is a good thing. It may point out some things you're doing right. It may point out some things you're doing wrong. It may leave you satisfied that you're doing a good job in your life. Changing for the sake of changing isn't something I find necessary.

G-Rob says he has an ego problem. Who wouldn't agree? He does, obviously. But it's one of the reasons we love him...and tease him about it. Being a friend, he takes this teasing in his good-natured fashion because he is indeed a friend. I often tell people I'm just getting to know "You know I'm a friend if I make fun of you. It lets you know I'm pretty sure you're comfortable with it...and comfortable with being a friend to me".

We spend a lot of time teasing each other...and a lot of times making fun of, slamming, berating, and bitching about other people. For the most part...this is all warranted. These people have, in our minds (and the minds of many others!) wronged us in some way. They don't fit in with our philosophy about what makes a good person. They make us angry. They leave us with no choice but to degrade them behind their backs. I don't have a problem with that. People bitch. It's our nature.

But then there's the other people. The people who probably just don't deserve our ribbing, fun-poking, and other assorted negative comments. They may be fat...stupid...nerdy...and all the other things that we aren't....or are we? Let's face it, several of us could use a "Self Improvement Project" (which some are trying, granted, and kudos to them!). Some of us are incredibly moronic sometimes (driving home after many beers comes to mind). And a lot of us are true geeks (let's face it, we spend an awful lot of our time talking about flying plastic).

I've been wondering what these people who we incessently tease behind their backs...say about us. We get talked about, whether we care to admit it or not. What do you think they say? Is it the same things we taunt each other about in a friendly way, only they do it not-so-friendly? Is it entirely different things we can't see? Do I get called a loudmouth...a spaz...a shifty character while those fat, stupid, nerdy people sit around and drink their beers...wearing THEIR crowns as perfect people of the world?

I don't want to get cliche by quoting 80s movies...but think back to the Breakfast Club. The letter in the end identifies each of them as a brain...a jock...a princess...and a burnout. Maybe that's what makes us all human beings.

The fact that we talk about people...negatively...will never change. I said it before: People bitch. It's our nature. Sometimes, though, it's a good idea to think of the good in the other people...and the bad in yourself. If nothing else, it'll keep egos in check....G-Rob's, Yours, and Mine.

2002-04-06T10:03:00.000-05:00

LOL, SOL, and more

It was a stormy night in Norman, Oklahoma in the Spring of 1998. Low pressure was moving in swiftly from the Texas Panhandle...but the inescapable feeling of high pressure swept over us. Buried among stacks of reference books, well-crafted masters' theses, and laptops was a desire to break away from the confinement of twentysomething-page term papers and looming comprehensive exams.

A road trip was out of the question...there just wasn't time. None of us bought into the meditation craze and frankly, our legs were too sore from sitting in the uncomfortable chairs of Room 1462. There was only one solution...and it could only be seen through the distorted glass of a 3.2 percent by alcohol bottle of Coors.

Shiner Bock flowed as freely as our spirits at a crowded, loud, and none-too-fancy bar called Bison Witches (say the name over and over again and you'll figure it out...hint: it was famous for its chicken salad during the day)...and so the pressure of the end-of-semester rush was relieved. We weren't alone in our decision...in fact, looking around at the other tables loaded with overstressed college students, empty bottles outweighed people by about 6 to 1.

I got drunk that night. Shitcanned, wasted, walk-home-because-you-can't-find-your-car-keys-even-though-they're-in-your-pocket-and-you-shouldn't-be-driving-anyway drunk. We contributed to a lot of noise in the noisy bar. We sang song parodies loudly about hated professors, class brownnosers, and other things we were attempting to wish away though the power of spirits. Greg fell down walking to the bathroom. Let's face it, bars are dark...and spirits don't help balance.

I'm not one for drinking anytime something goes wrong. I manage my life fairly well without needing the crutch of barley and hops to make it through the day or solve a problem. But there's a time when the bullshit is so thick that you're no longer wading in it...you're swimming in it...and the seas are rough.

This week, the seas were angry. I fought back. As I said to my evil twin at the Grrrowl game last night, "I'm going to get Schnookered tonight".

Indeed I did. I LOL'ed my ass off (that's Laughed Out Loud), I even ROFLMAO'd. I sang a silly song parody about Evil Twin that this morning, I can't recall...but I remember much LOLing going on from everyone else and a hearty "Thank You Greensboro" post-performance.

I feel better today. I shoved the neverending multi-page term paper of life aside for about 6 hours and left it all up to Kerrs Light and good friends. It worked...and I'm thinking if I'd done anything truly embarassing, it would have caught up to me by now. Now back to regular programming...and trying to figure out what that song was.

2002-04-05T15:07:00.000-05:00

502 Error

It happened again. I just wasted 19 minutes of my time crafting a well-told story on here, submitted it for posting, and got a "502 error"...something about being too busy.

I clicked the back button, and got nothing.

Post gone.

So here's the short version:

I have to get up earlier 2 days a week now.
I like sleeping.
I won't get to as much anymore.
Screw the world, and technology.

2002-04-01T16:37:00.000-05:00

The night was humid

That's how you start the book.

It's one of my "secret favorite" movies..."Throw Momma From The Train". Secret, because admit it...you'd feel like a fool if someone asked you what your favorite movie was, and you answered with an 80s movie that was, in all honestly, quite silly. And if you don't remember, Larry (Billy Crystal) is a writer...and Owen (Danny DeVito) is in his creative writing class. Larry wants his wife dead because she stole his book and published it as her own. Owen wants his mom dead because she's a crotchety old bitch. They comically and dramatically agree to "criss-cross", with Larry killing Owen's momma and Owen killing Larry's wife. The movie's amusing...full of hi-jinx, and it's a good movie...because I can remember a few lines from it. Forget meaningless "stars" and cliche "thumbs ups", a movie should only be rated by the amount of lines you remember from it.

"The night was humid".

It's how Larry is attempting to start the book that he'll get revenge on his bitch wife with. Only humid doesn't sound quite right. There's another word...something that more descriptively illustrates the fact that there was a lot of moisture in there mixed with tension, swiriling around in the darkness with fury and excitement. But he can't find that word...and stumbles over that opening line for a long time. A classic case of writer's block. The thoughts are in his head, the pen's in hand, the paper, a thirsty river waiting for a good story to fall upon it like a Spring thunderstorm. But nothing comes. Nothing, Jerry.

I'll put part of the blame on a lack of daily blogs on wild schedule shifts and trying to get my well-designed but increasingly stubborn blog online. I'll put the rest of the blame on the night being humid. I've started umpteen posts about one thing or another...funny, sad, neither here nor there. But I haven't been able to finish any of them. I tell half the story, re-read it, and wonder what the hell my mind has been cranking out for the previous 8 minutes. It's jibberish and garbage. It makes no sense. It doesn't have a beginning or an end.

It's 2 pieces of pizza. 2.

And yet I read everyone else's blogs...some poigniant, some pontificating, some playful. But all seemingly well written, well thought out, and well done. They're stories...or at least clever masquerades.

Later on in the movie, Owen, Larry, and Owen's momma are riding on a train. "The night was humid" comes up again. Momma looks at Larry with that bitter, scrunched up face, and in that scratchy voice telling us she's had one too many cigarettes the night before, says:

"Sultry. The night was sultry".

Sometimes, all it takes is one word to realize the complex...really IS simple. Look for more frequent masquerades *and* pieces of pizza in the near future.

2002-03-26T11:16:00.000-05:00

Life Gets Better

Since I'm still on the morning show schedule...my thoughts are nowhere near in-depth. So, I bring you this moment of Zen:

Channel 70, now on my cable. I may never leave the house again.

2002-03-24T20:50:00.000-05:00

Issues

Issue #1: Firewall.
Status: Solved!
Meaning: My new blog will FINALLY go online when I finish uploading it...tomorrow afternoon hopefully!

Issue #2: Basketball
Status: Woo!
Meaning: Sooners ROCK! Terps WIN! Hope for any $$ in tourney stays somewhat afloat...

Issue #3: Jacques
Status: Sick!
Meaning: Timmy is NOT going to offer him any more turkey bones

Issue #4: Love Life
Status: On Life Support
Meaning: My 90 year old grandpa is getting more than I am these days. Somethings wrong here.

Issue #5: Car
Status: Clean!
Meaning: Maybe if my dog gets un-sick, a chick will see him, like him, see my car and how clean it is after a Sunday's worth of washing, and improve Issue #4

Issue #6: Sleep
Status: Lacking
Meaning: I'm tired...I pulled a 1/2 suicide this weekend and now I'm doing 2 days of the morning show...So I'm going to bed.

2002-03-19T11:17:00.000-05:00

The dog ate my homework

No, we're not talking about Jacques here. I sat down last night around 11 to pick up where I've left off in the blogging realm. I'm STILL getting over the cold that knocked me out for a few days last week. In fact, I'm getting a little tired of wandering through the halls at work sounding like a homeless man with pneumonia.

In any case, the blog...a good one..."up and vanished like a fart in the wind" (one free beer to the 1st person who knows what movie that quote comes from). Upon hitting submit, I got the "this page can't be displayed". I hit the back button, and it was gone. Nothing, Jerry...I've got nothing.

So you get THIS instead. It's better than getting a zero on the assignment, right?

2002-03-12T22:55:00.000-05:00

The Pot's 11 Million

Stop thinking about drugs for 2 seconds and shift gears...the title is actually a line from one of my favorite Mary Chapin Carpentersongs. She does country music a lot of justice...she's found her own little niche. Anyway the song is "I Feel Lucky Today"...ironic, since I felt like sh*t all day long...

"I strolled up to the counter/gave my numbers to the clerk/the pot's 11 million so I called in sick to work"

...and even though South Carolina has a 3-month old lottery (represented by a spokeswoman whose name should be BIYATCH), I didn't buy any tickets...but I did call in sick to work. The annual head cold came a little late this year...but nonetheless, it's rearing its ugly head...inside MY head, which, at about 830 this morning, felt like it weighed about 40 pounds.

I spent the day languishing in bed, sucking down glasses of theraflu, watching how-to programs on algebra on TV, and generally languishing and drifting in and out of conciousness. It's about the only way I know how to feel better when fighting a cold. But laying in bed gives you a lot of time to thing about things...things like laying in bed.

Back in 1997 or so, I did a lot of laying in bed. The only problem is, it was when I should have been doing things like going to class, studying, and enjoying interaction with other members of the human race. I was having none of that. Nothing was appealing. I'd lost interest in a lot of things. I was battling, in one form or another, depression.

How it ever got to that point I'll never figure out. I can remember it starting when I realized I hated my classes and had a general bad taste in my mouth about school. I was getting sick of being a baseball-cap wearing frat-boy, watching weekend after weekend pass by with a different girl crying about what she'd become while throwing up in my trash can. I started going to class less and less, and sleeping more and more. Schedulewise, I was like a senior citizen in reverse...have breakfast at 4pm, lunch at 9pm, and dinner at 1am. I didn't need the latest issue of TV Guide to tell you what was on...I had the damned thing memorized. My best friend attempted to remedy the situation by pulling my blankets off me in the morning and throwing assorted Nikes and Bass loafers at my head. Usually, all I did was growl and tell him to f*ck off (some friend I am!). If you've never dealt with depression, it's a tough thing to describe. Looking back, the only way to picture it to someone else is to imagine your life without any color...in black and white...that's what it feels like.

My 'lying in bed' period lasted for almost a year...but not like your typical 2-hour TV drama. Yes, I did actually get out of bed in 1997...I even went to a few classes, took a few tests, and made a few passing grades. I stayed in Oklahoma that summer and found a pretty nice girlfriend (well, she was nice at the time anyway). The black and white drawings had a few subtle marks of color on them by the end of the year. But for the most part...my friends still wondered when the hell I was going to get back to 'normal'.

One day, I woke up...and I got out of bed. More like a typical 2-hour TV drama, I remember looking in the mirror and telling myself to snap the f*ck out of it. And, strangely enough, I did. Almost instantaneously. The color came flooding back into the picture. I set a few goals for myself...one of them to get the hell out of Oklahoma. Don't get me wrong...I loved the time I spent there...but it was time to finish up the novel there that was taking far too long to write.

I hope to God I never feel that way again. I'd rather have my head filled with mucus for the next 2 weeks than have to deal with that for a second time. Fortunately...I feel as happy now as I've felt at some of the happiest times of my life...even after a day of lying in bed, blowing my nose every five minutes, and hoping tomorrow I'll have the physical strength to get up and head back into a vivid, colorful world.

2002-03-11T18:27:00.000-05:00

Meat my dog Jacques

I promise that this will not turn into an "All about Jacques" blog...but I'm still a new dad and I find this whole dog ownership thing very amusing.

First off, Jacques is way ahead of schedule in the training realm. It would seem he might have been trained before he was ever a pound dog. He comes at my whistle (unless he's chasing squirrels). He sits (about 95% of the time). He doesn't get up on furniture. And the best part -- it appears he's housebroken (which, with the luck my family has with dogs and cats...is very encouraging...but I'm still knocking wood very hard). But as well mannered as he is...the bigpawed bear-dog is a hungry one.

I went home for lunch today to to fix a Gwaltney bologna sandwich. Oh, that rich taste of lunchmeat smashed between two pieces of wheat bread with Miracle Whip...it's like jumping back in time to 4th grade brown-bags, complete with pretzels, an apple, a cookie, and a little note from Mom. Anyway, since I was eating at home...I realized the importance of a pickle with this lunch. A crisp Vlassic dill out of the fridge can make or break a lunch. As I turned around to grab the jar out of the fridge...I heard the subtle tap of big dog claws on a countertop.

I turned around. Jacques...was hungry. He held my Gwaltney bologna sandiwch in his mouth. His tail was wagging.

As I learned from Scoop the wonderdog...you don't take food from a dogs mouth. Jacques got a stern, loud NO! And at that, he put the sandwich on the floor.

Obedience makes a dog a winner or a loser in my book (although even the most devious of dogs have their loveable qualities). But when he put the sandwich down and sat down, with his tail wagging next to it, I knew I had a winner.

The sandwich, by the way, was great...I just picked around the fang marks in the bread. The pickle wasn't half bad, either.

2002-03-07T16:26:00.000-05:00

Woof

Well...my mind and 11 of you crazy folks can't be wrong! Jacques is home now. We're going to the park so he can learn his first game of frolf. I'll post some pictures soon!

Arf!

2002-03-07T13:17:00.000-05:00

Politically stumped

Maybe I should change my name to Shaggy. If you haven't figured it out by now, the best way to get me to go anywhere and to do anything is to offer the promise of something to eat upon arrival. (All together now, flashback to your childhood: "Zoinks!") Especially if it's not something I particularly want to go to in the first place.

Our bosses here are smart. They know that very few people actually want to hang around the station after a long day to hear some politico-schmiticko stand at a podium and lecture us and give us his take on the changing demographics of South Carolina. In an effort to get us to stay (and to just be nice, cause our bosses are like that), they catered in Henry's smokehouse...the juciest, most tender, savory pork barbeque in Greenville. It's only a mile from my house. I sometime feel like I eat there more often than I change my socks. Anyway, they likened this thing to an "ol' fashioned political stump". I'm guessin' it's a Southern thang, but who knows. Politics...quite simply...make me feel like an idiot.

But the BBQ worked. I ate 2 sandiwches and listened to Schmiticko's lecture. By the end, my anti-politics mind actually understood the big races going on this election year, and the important issues. I feel all grown up, like for once in my life, I actually should have been wearing a tie because, that's what people in politics do...go around, shake hands, wear ties.

So now...tie-less...on my day off...I think Shaggy needs to pick up Scooby. (not to be confused with "scoopy" of course...aka the Terror of Jocassee Court).

2002-03-05T23:34:00.000-05:00

Gone to the dogs

It's day #3 in a series of 4 of getting up way to early for my tastes. Mind you, it's not the "slam the alarm clock, groan, and grumble about what the hell kind of alcohol I poured down my throat last night" kind of burden, but losing an hour or 2 of sleep each night is starting to get old. This morning the grumbling wasn't about alcohol...but the man known as Doc Gaines. Ever since way-too-friendly Doctor Murphy got ahold of my mouth, I haven't liked the dentist. I'm not afraid of noisy drills by any means. Hell, that plaque-scraping thing doesn't even send chills down my spine (except when the hygenist picks at my gums, and when I flinch she responds with a high-pitched sing-songy "ooooopsie!")...it's that damned tooth polisher. Nothing that puts a craw in my crotch more than that gritty, "I just french kissed a sandbox" you get after that high-pitched sing-songy tooth polisher molests my mouth.

Anyhow, after that grueling experience...and a fairly low-stress day...I came home to an empty house. Being lonely has never been something I've really dealt with. Ask any longtime friend and they'll tell you I'm easily self-amused (no masturbation jokes, please). (huh huh...I said masturbation). But lately, it seems there should be something there when I come home. And since there's really no one on the dating horizon these days...it seems I should be coming home to a Jacques.

Jacques is friendly. Jacques eyes have something magic in them. I've played with Jacques just a time or two, but we've had so much fun together. Jacques is a shepherd-collie mix of some sort at the Greenville Humane Society. The name on his cage says "Bailey", but G-rob and I decided "Jacques-a-mo" was a much better name for this pup. We visited him about a week and a half ago on a sunny Friday when the first thoughts of getting a "mans best friend" crossed the pathetically vast wasteland known as my mind. As much as I wanted to take Jacques home...I thought better. I didn't want to act impulsively, although I've given this some thought for a long time. Although I consider myself spontaneous...my mind acts incredibly mechanical sometimes.

Tonight...the house was empty again. Seinfeld wasn't nearly as interesting as it usually is. So I hopped in the car to see if Jacques was still at the pound. I was sure that in the past 12 days, someone else had decided their house was too empty...driven to the Humane Society...let Jacques out of his cage...and taken him home. At least that way I wouldn't feel bad. He probably would be happier at that other guy's house. Rationalizing has always been one of my fortes.

I walked in to the long row of adult dog cages. The nice volunteer woman who looked like she'd had a long day too told me adult dogs get adopted on a regular basis...and the Greenville Humane Society doesn't put their dogs to sleep. Scanning the cages...I began to believe her. I didn't see any dogs that looked familiar. They'd all changed in the last 10 days. It was quiet in there though...all the dogs were asleep. All...but that loveable shepherd collie mix in the 7th cage on the left. Jacques was sitting up at the cage door...like he knew I was coming. He looked at black lab he shared a cage with for a quick second as if to say "Ha! Told you he was coming back!" and then looked right back at me. I could almost see him thinking..."Don't take your eyes off him. The eyes are what gets 'em. Focus!" He was right. Those damned eyes got me. That, and the fact that when I said "You still think you're ready to come home with me?"...he answered with a very small, very dignified, very certain "Woof".

I'm ready for my house to not be so empty when I come home. But I'm still wondering if I'm ready to make the dog committment. I like being able to blow out of town on a moment's notice without arranging a kennel or a dogwatcher. I like being able to go straight from work to a bar to go drink for an evening and not have that guilty, "shoulda gone home and played with the dog" feeling. I'm sure Jacques would understand. I think sleeping on it tonight will make the decision more clear in the morning.

Still, I'd rather be stuck in the middle of this decision...then stuck in the dentist's chair awaiting the polisher of doom.

2002-03-04T23:40:00.000-05:00

Letter from camp

Dear Blog Family,

Things at camp are great. I am keeping real busy. Last week Mom came to visit for parents weekend and we had a lot of fun, even though it was cold and rainy. This week I have to get up early every day for a canoe trip (speaking engagement in Laurens), a fishing trip (dentist's appointment), and a breakfast cookout (shooting new re-opens). I don't like getting up early.

Soon though, it will be free day (the weekend), and I'll get to do whatever I want. I think I will sleep in if the counselors let me.

I miss you guys.

Love,
Ted

PS, I lost in the great campwide archery tournament tonight (Scrabble game). I'm getting sick of losing. But the counselors tell me I'm still a winner!

2002-02-28T13:07:00.000-05:00

Following suit

This is especially hard for me because I don't read. Never mind that I could read at age 3 (when, after reading "George Mason Univeresity" on a highway sign, my dad ran off the road and spun the car out), and that I read at a high school level in 2nd grade (AND I GOT A 1500 ON MY SAT). My short attention span gets in the way of reading. I finish a chapter and can't remember what it was about. I have to re-read paragraphs over and over again, and that's frustrating...and slow. However, I have sucessfully made it through a few books. So here's my list, in no particular order.

1) The Weatherman -- A novel by Steve Thayer. Yeah, it's an obvious choice, but it has a lot of elements about it that make it interesting. It's a serial-killer murder mystery (serial killers and their psyches are fascinating), plus has all the little bits of television news innuendo thrown in there which is much more easy to understand now that I've worked in this business. I've read it twice. The last line in the book makes you want to throw it away, but it's so good that you pick it up again a few months later.

2) Airframe -- Are you sensing a theme here? I have to read about stuff I like...among that stuff is the world of air travel. Michael Crichton is a very good author, and I have enjoyed other books of his...in particular "The Andromeda Strain" and "The Terminal Man". Medical thriller/mystery type stuff is also intrguing, even though I could NEVER be a doctor.

3) The Catcher In The Rye -- I was surprised no one had this on their lists yet (or maybe they did, and my reading comprehension is failing me yet again). This was required reading in Mr. Anderson's English III class in high school, but I read it two or three time before year's end. There is a Holden Caulfield somewhere deep down in all of us. Mine pays a visit about 3 times a year or so. I will also lump The Great Gatsby in here, because it was part of that same American Literature unit. One of the fastest I've ever read a book (2 days I think)

4) Lucky You -- Carl Hiaasen writes excellent books that weave together his brilliant and endless imagination and a little bit of US History and Geography. Most of his books are set in Florida, and since I have all that family down there, I'm pretty familiar with it. He's one of the best character developers I've ever run across in my limited reading...and for you South Cackalackians, Lucky You is all about a lottery scandal...with some amusing twists that I'm sure we'll see as a story in Woo-Doo's or Arch Enemy's newscast someday soon.

5) The rest is a tie between a bunch of other books that I really should pick up again. There's 1984, the predictions I find as eerily true as the rest of you...Douglas Adams' The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy, science fiction that's still to bizarre for me to comprehend in some parts...etc, etc, etc.

Oh and I was supposed to talk about The Gulf on this blog too. But I will just pass him a note instead, like we did in grade school. It's the same thing, right?

2002-02-26T23:40:00.000-05:00

No, I didn't photocopy my ass...

I've been accused of looking like a 16 year old, with my fresh youthful face and boundless energy. I've been accused of acting like like a 12 year old, with my fresh youthful face and boundless energy.

The 26 year old went to work...with work far from his mind. He wanted to play. Like a black lab puppy in the park on a Sunday afternoon, jumping here and tackling there. 'Gimme the ball! Gimme the ball! gimme the ball!'

The best way to remedy this kind of feeling at work? Xerox.

When I walked by the copy machine at work...I felt this temptation...this urge...to go in and just f*ck around with it. See what the buttons do. I made all kinds of interesting copies in a 10 minute period today. Anything I could find on my desk got put on that shiny glass, just to see what it would look like when reassembled on a piece of paper via the miracle of "toner". A stuffed cereal mascot combined with a coworker's 5x7 and several of his vices had me laughing to the point of tears.

When I was done, I threw copies of my drivers license, my wallet, an ID card, a comb, and several other associated knick-knacks in the recycling bin, and returned to work at my desk, free of distraction.

The point: Let the 12 year old inside reign for awhile. It's good to let him be king. Sometimes to get rid of distraction...you have to give IN to distraction.

Speaking of distraction...you 12 year olds should all be working right now. Back to it!

2002-02-26T00:33:00.000-05:00

...and Bill Cosby laughed

Screaming kids suck. Cute kids make me smile. Precocious kids make me laugh...the kind of kid that opens his 6 year old mouth and lets something innocently roll off his tongue that could have come from the mouth of a 26 year old.

I went bowling tonight. I hadn't been in a year. I used to cut class in high school and go bowling at the end of the day with my buddies KC and Darren. The alley was 2 miles away, games were 75 cents. We bowled till our arms hung limply at our sides and we couldn't handle the pain caused by a hangnail from a 12 pound ball. I bowled a lot. Consequently, I got somewhat good. I could bowl 170s on a regular basis.

Still, that skill takes a while to come back. In my 2 "warmup" games, I was lucky to break 100. While I'm staring down the white, red-striped enemies at the end of the wood-planked battlefield, Zippy and I notice the kid on the lane next to us. All 4-foot-nothin' of him was rolling a 220+ game. Zip and I (my bowling name, I should mention, is 'Stu') realize the potential to turn this into some kind of feature story. Dumbfounded, I start talkin' to this kid:

Me: Hey kid, you're a pretty good bowler.
Kid, looking down shyly: Thanks.
Me: How old are you?
Kid: 10. I mean, duh...11. Well, technically I can't say that yet. It's still a good 72 hours away.
Me, laughing: You bowl regularly?
Kid: 4 times a week.
Me: Your average?
Kid: Somewhere around 225.

Amazing. This goes on, and I can't believe it. He bowled a 285 once. I believe him. Finally, Mr. Newsman goes in for the kill:

Me: Have you ever been on TV?
Kid: Nope. But I've been in the paper 4 times.
Me: How'd you like to be on TV? I'd like to tell a story about you.
Kid: No thanks, mister. I've famous enough. I don't really need to be a centerpiece of the news. Bye!

And with that, he put away his ball, put on his real shoes, and skipped off to go find his Dad. After all, he had absolutely no use for me. In 15 years when he's on the Pro Bowling Tour and his publicist calls me, I'll remember his name. [It's Shane, by the way (I can see Woo-Doo rolling her eyes).] I'll ask for the fax. Then I'll politely put the fax in the garbage can. It'll land right on top of my scorecard from Star Lanes. 3 game average....155.

2002-02-23T10:03:00.000-05:00

So much to say?

Everyone knows him. That shy, little kid in the back of the room...who never says anything...and consequently gets dragged through the mud all year long...making his 4th grade a miserable experience. John Heller never said anything in school. I've been rather...well...John Heller lately. Not blogging for 6 days might be a felony in some states. Anyway, for those of you who skip on by from day-to-day, sorry...I just haven't had much to say or ponder lately. That's not a bad thing...I've just been a little introspective for the past few days. Most psychologists (or psychiatrists? Can someone please explain the difference to me?) would say that's healthy. I just think it's a necessary evil.

In another episode of the post-hockey CP Chronicles...there weren't too many John Hellers around the table. In fact, the discussion was a little bit like swedish meatballs...enticing, but a little too heavy for my tastes. Daniel Pearl came up. If you haven't read what Elder Statesman has to say about him, stop, go there now, and read. Being Jewish and a journalist...this Daniel Pearl thing nauseates me more than "The Demon" rollercoaster at Six-Flags. I get that eerie feeling that I got when I was in Berlin...when it felt like no matter what I looked like, people could see through me and pick me out as a member of the Jewish faith. I'm not all that religious. But I'm very aware of who I am. Hearing that Daniel Pearl may have been killed for being a journalist infuriates me. Hearing that Daniel Pearl may have been killed because he was Jewish makes me sick. It doesn't matter that it happened in Karachi. It's hits close to home.

I couldn't go over there right now. I wouldn't want to. I love telling stories, but I don't WANT to tell stories from over there. Maybe I'm afraid. Maybe I'm an idealist. Maybe a small part of me just wants to close my eyes and wish it all away. I'm afraid that part of me takes over too much sometimes. I said outloud last night, "The World Trade Center already seems, in some ways, insignificant to me". That's sad. It shouldn't be so insignificant. But I don't live it everyday. I don't see a lesser skyline every single day, or work with someone who's grieving a loss there. I did what everyone said...go on with your life. Maybe I'm wishing it away. But honestly (and they say honesty doesn't work on these blogs) I'm just concentrating on keeping myself going. If you don't put yourself first, EVERYTHING becomes insignificant. So, I'm first. September 11th is still in my mind...just a little further back than some of my friends. Daniel Pearl will fade into the distance too. But not because I'm wishing things like that away...but because we move on, as other things move to the fronts of our minds...to be chronicled at the CP.

Take that, John Heller. More lighthearted blogging returns on Monday.

2002-02-17T08:17:00.000-05:00

My 66 cents

I guess even creativity grows tired of lounging around the deck of a Southbound cruise ship, enjoying drinks with pineapple slices and sunning himself. So creativity came home. It snapped into place sometime Friday night at Casa Whims.

This after what ranks up in the top 5 of "worst service ever" at the Alley Gator. The place is known for its Shrimp Po-Boy sandwiches, decent priced beer, and good lookin' waitresses that the old suit-types in there call "Doll" and "Sweetheart". The place is NOT known for these Dolls and Sweethearts being very good at their jobs. Usually the Po-boys and beers can smooth that over. But it was a long time before we got anywhere with our food. Doll-sweetheart let several Coors Light requests slip her mind. She was unapologetic. And so were we, when we proceeded to leave 5 percent tips. I don't think I've ever left such a small amount...but D-S had to realize she was doing something wrong. I felt bad...for about a minute...when I realized I didn't get the water I'd asked for an hour prior.

So look forward to more creative, daily-reads in the near future. Leave a comment...and remember we automatically add 15 percent to that comment for parties of one or more.

2002-02-13T10:16:00.000-05:00

It's Been Awhile

And the only reason is...I'm totally devoid of creativity. Apparantly, when I was thinking about places to take a vacation...the part of my mind that makes funny, inspirational, thought provoking words pour from my fingers got up and TOOK a vacation.

So, until that vacation is over, the part of my mind that can't count past 10 and thinks words shouldn't be longer than 9 letters is here to stay.

Enjoy him.

2002-02-08T00:32:00.000-05:00

Warm Milk

I can't sleep. I'm tired, but not sleepy. This must be the end result of doing little-to-nothing all day long, then attending a hockey game. It's rained for two straight days. I'm starting to believe this is Seattle. Of course, when you're the weatherman...this isn't a good day to be out anyway. If I had a nickel for how many times I was asked 'Can you make this rain go away?', I'd have approximately 35 cents. Not even enough for a 20 oz. Coke from the vending machines at work. I can't make the rain go away, unfortunately. But I smile and put on that fake half-chuckle laugh that makes people say "That guy on TV is nice in person too!"

That being said, I don't have much more to say. Here's some humor I got forwarded to me that I enjoyed. #8 seems especially appropriate for this weatherman today.

TEN TIMES IN HISTORY, WHEN THE "F" WORD WAS
APPROPRIATE:

1. "What the @#$% was that?"
Mayor of Hiroshima, 1945

2. "Where did all those @#$%ing Indians come
from?"
Custer, 1876

3. "Any @#$%ing idiot could understand that."
Einstein, 1938

4. "It does so @#$%ing look like her!"
Picasso, 1926

5. "How the @#$% did you work that out?"
Pythagorus, 126 BC

6. "You want WHAT on the @#$%ing ceiling?"
Michelangelo, 1564

7. "Where the @#$% are we?"
Amelia Earhart, 1937

8. "Scattered @#$%ing showers...My ass!"
Noah, 4314 BC

9. "I need this parade like I need a @#$%ing hole
in my head!"
JFK, 1963

10. "Aw, c'mon. who the @#$% is going to find
out?"
Bill Clinton, 1997

2002-02-05T23:51:00.000-05:00

Shane, That Ain't Right...R-I-G-H-T...Right

What's better than spending 8 hours with 3 liveshots in the town of Cowpens, America?

How about being a caller for a spelling bee?

Yes, this is what my life has come to. Podunk towns and educational showdowns. I got such a big slice of Americana today I can hardly stand it. I'm full. Throw the napkin down and push back the chair from the table. Check, please.

First -- a spot news story to start the day. Very rare for me. I like the challenge. I hate the locale. 45 minutes away from "homebase". A cold, chilly, 'it's going to snow soon' Tuesday. Driving there, I know when I arrive...I will have to interrupt people's lives. A house burned. An 81 year old woman was inside it. The great-grandkids had left just an hour before. Now it's time to ask people to put the grieving process they haven't even started on hold while I have them rehash memories of what kind of woman she was. It never ceases to amaze me though, the outpouring of thoughtful things some people will say. She was the neighborhood watchdog. At 81, she helped push cars that needed a boost while someone popped the clutch. She'd set on her porch and watch 10 grandyoungins (the PC term for grandkids...PC being 'podunk common') at a time, patient with each one. This was a morning and afternoon in Cowpens, America. These people shared it with me...and in turn, turned a heartbreaking event...into a successful day.

Public appearances are a part of living in the glam-world of television. I will soon emcee a science fair and sign autographs for throngs of "adoring public" (read: psycho rednecks). Tonight, I was a caller for a district-wide spelling bee. Remember pronounciation keys? Remember how to use them? Webster would have smacked me around if he knew I actually had to go home and study these words because I don't remember how to read the emphasis marks. I actually thought of ordering hooked on phonics for awhile tonight. I even misprounced a word which the judges corrected me on....mauve. Look it up. Say it out loud. Bet you say it wrong.

Anyway, I spoke in plain English. Clear English. Non-Americana english. That means I had to forget the last 8 years of my life of living in the South and go back to that Continental accent I've developed for television purposes.

Me: Dilate.
7th grade girl: Dialate?
Me: DI-LATE.
7th grade girl, frowning: Di-a-late?
Me, slower, louder: DI-LATE.
7th grade girl: That's what I said...DI-A-LATE.

Southerners stretch out and combine the two syllables into one. Which means this poor little 7th grade girl was under the impression that there's actually an "a" in the word. She spelled it wrong. She frowned...she even stomped a little offstage. It was no surprise a few words later when a parent submitted an appeal (yes, you don't have to be in court to do that) that I had pronounced it wrong. In reality, I had pronounced it right. I just didn't pronounce it Southern. The girl was upset. The parent was livid. They left the auditorium in a level somewhere between a huff and a ruckus. The judges told me I did a great job and did everything correctly. Yet I still half-expected this parent to be waiting outside the auditorium when I left.

Otis: "Hey Ted, how'd you get that black eye?"
Me: "An overbearing Southern woman said it wasn't dialated enough."

She'll probably tell her friends the story...and will add a patented "That ain't right" to the end of it (spoken in my best Woo-Doo impression of an impression). Another story onto the buffet of Americana. It's good to fill your plate from it every once in awhile. Just don't overdo it.

2002-02-03T23:46:00.000-05:00

Root For The Underdog

Who doesn't love an upset? The Rams are a powerhouse team. Personally, I thought they'd steamroller the Pats. But secretly, deep down inside, you hope the Cinderella Story won't end. It didn't. It's the first time I can remember having a lot more interest in the game than in the ads (which were disappointing at best this year...although monkeys ARE always funny).

My Evil Twin and the little Woo-Doo had a Super-Bowl Shindig. Very small in nature, which was perfect because after two days of getting up at 5am, I wasn't keen on a throng of people, having to mingle, and the like. But since there wasn't that throng...ET didn't cook nearly as much as he normally does. His peppery potato soup was great -- but when I heard what everyone was bringing, I didn't hear any meat dishes. I like dead cow. Always have. Cold-in-the-center-rare for the most part...but red meat is a staple of my diet. Take that, vegans.

Since I'm a bachelor, I'm not expected to contribute much on the "grazing" front. The couples usually do all the stuff that involves an oven, crock-pot, or the like. I'm usually heralded for bringing a case of Coors Light and a bag of Tostitos or Beef Jerky. But tonight, with the party sadly sans-meat...I got adventurous. I scanned a recipe website I've been salivating over for a week or so. I picked something that I classified as easy (fewer than 6 ingredients), trekked out in the grey, wet Sunday to the Bi-Lo, stocked up, and whipped em up in a hurry. While they baked at 425 for 35 minutes...it smelled good. But I've learned that scent does not necessarily equate with taste. Pulled them out of the oven successfully (i.e., I didn't burn the crap out of my hand like I've done so many times in the past), threw tin foil on them, and took them over to La Fiesta. I hesitantly tasted one as I put them out on the table. It was good...but that doesn't mean everyone else would like em. However, T and ET took a bite...and gave me the thumbs up. That's when I knew they were a true success. Those guys can cook. I envy them. I always think my green thumb ended up in the kitchen...which is why I suck at cooking AND taking care of plants. But it doesn't discourage me from trying. I think I would have even done my dad proud tonight...the equivalent of winning "Iron Chefs" in my book.

So with a winning last minute field goal and a winning last minute recipe, two underdogs came out on top tonight. I'm going to Disney World!

By the way, here's the meatball recipe in case you want it. Good stuff!

2002-02-02T09:39:00.000-05:00

A

I got a 95 on the Rule 605 test. Apparantly I can't cover trials but I can cover my own classroom inadequacy fears. I'll take the A. Because you know what? The "A"...ain't that bad!

2002-01-31T15:03:00.000-05:00

School Daze

How many little things can go wrong in your life before you realize it's actually all added up to one BIG thing? It's been a bone of contention among people I've asked lately. While soliciting numerous opinions, I think I finally decided that it is still just small stuff.

And to think, I actually had to think yesterday...I think. As the result of a cranky judge getting upset at one of our photographers during a court case last month, the entire news department was required to strap on the thinking cap and attend class last night. For 45 minutes, our legal guy stood up at the front of the old studio while some 60 of us sat in neatly arranged rows of folding chairs. Rule 605 is the reason why South Carolina courts will, under most cases, allow TV cameras in courtrooms. It applies while court is in session, in the courtroom, and to areas adjacent to the courtroom like hallways. It means don't wear insignias or logos, and dress nicely. Don't use distracting lights. If your equipment breaks, don't try to fix it right then and there....wait until the judge takes a break. Basically, don't be an ass.

As if the lecture wasn't enough, we had to take a test. A real written test, with true/false and short answer questions. I hadn't taken a written test of any kind in 2 years. That somewhat nervous feeling came back...and there's always that one question that you're not quite sure if you answered it right. The guy in back of me (who shall remain unnamed) started heckling people (people, being me). Is that allowed during a test? Out Loud? Bueller?

This morning I found that somewhat nervous feeling of "did I pass?" sticks with me. I tried to wash it away with a big breakfast of eggs and english muffins but it still sticks with me. If I don't pass, I can't go into courtrooms to cover trials. In reality, that's a good thing. And it's a small thing. But somehow, when something small is associated with a test...it seems bigger.

And to think I once thought I was done with all those number two pencils. I'll be using them for decades.

2002-01-29T19:31:00.000-05:00

The Good Humor Man

What a lousy day.

I spent an entire day trying to make a mountain out of a molehill. We do it often in news. "Feeding The Beast", my Evil Twin calls it. But today was pure hell. I had nothin', Jerry...nothin'. No nuggets. No surprises. No tidbits. Nothin'. Calgon, take me away.

At the end of the day though, I made something work. Weaving together bits and fragments of information, I presented something in 3 different newscasts that made me look like I knew what I was talking about...and gave the illusion that it mattered to you if you were watching.

Upon return to the station, the quiet, unassuming webmaster...said this:

"I thought your story did a wonderful job of masquerading as information!"

I'm still laughing. Until the next masquerade...I'm going to get a beer.

Getting A Complex

I got a piece of mail today at work. Coupons to one of my favorite restaurants, Stax Omega...the Greek Diner that has 350 items on the menu...and every single one of them is delicious.

The mail was addressed to Godd Gladfelter.

I'm not sure I'm living up to my name as a higher power. But praise be to me, hallelujah, anyway.

2002-01-27T23:38:00.000-05:00

Shoulda Bought The Deluxe Version...

I dream in color. Vivid color. Lucid, vivid, "that has to be real" color. I'm beginning to wonder if a deranged family member or family friend slipped a little acid into the ol' baby formula. Or if Mom & Dad really only let me roll of the changing table twice.

A buddy bought me "10,000 Dreams Interpreted" one year for Christmas. You look up the objects or occurences in your dreams and find the corresponding message. There wasn't an entry for Katie Reily.

It would take me an hour to type out the details of last night's dream, so here's a quick summary. I was at work, but in a much more futuristic environment (think track lighting and sliding doors). I was hammering away on a computer working on a script for a 5pm liveshot. Looking at the clock, it was 3pm. I turned to my right, and my Mom suddenly appeared. "Surprise!", she said. I looked away, and looked back again...and she was a transparent ghost. I looked again and she was back to normal. I headed out into an airport concourse of some kind and talked to my brother, nothing out of the ordinary. The next two things though, bizzare...looked across the concourse and saw the McKay sisters -- two girls I knew in high school. One was in a wheelchair and looked like she'd been beat up. Even more bizzare: a girl named Katie Reily (whom I also went to high school with, but wasn't friends with) saw me. She waved but continued to talk on a cell phone. I approached her and she told me she was registering for classes. I told her to call me if she ever needed ANYTHING. Suddenly, I was on a plane...and it was taxiing for takeoff. I was freakin' out because I realized it was 5pm and I hadn't even written my liveshot script. The dream ended here, but when I woke up, I felt the need to call people I knew to cancel nonexistent plans because my Mom was in town.

I can accept bizzare dreams, but what's Katie Reily doing there? I haven't seen her in 8 years, and really never talked to her. What's this mean? Anyone? Bueller?

Note to self: Buy 20,000 Dreams Interpreted next go-around. Oh and Mom, don't freak about the ghost thing. It's just a dream...right?

2002-01-27T23:28:00.000-05:00

Detour Ahead

OneStepLeft is about to be one step better.

Thanks to an HTML For Dummies book and a little "blog envy" (admittedly, my blog is the...uh...simplest of everyone I know), I came up with a vision and the code to turn that vision into a neat lookin' website. I've made some new graphics and am working on laying them out so it all looks right. For some reason, I just can't sit at this machine for 6+ hours and work into the wee hours of the night on it. Reminds me too much of college term papers, I guess.

Anyway, I expect this to be done sometime in the next week. I'll try to keep blogging during construction. In the meantime, expect lane closures and the removal of way too many trees.

2002-01-25T00:52:00.000-05:00

Fresh & Full Of Life

Apocolypse, Schmockolypse.

For days we've been talking about being sideways. Bad Ju-Ju. Karma issues. It seemed to grip everyone in a mass-hysteria sort of thing. Groupthink is always powerful.

And although the rain continues to fall biblically, there's no need to go running for the ark.

Sleep is treasured. Sleep is valued. Ask Mom and she'll tell you I slept an extra month inside her before weasling my way out into the world. The first night home from the hospital, I terrified my parents by sleeping through the night. For years and years, I cringed as Dad came thundering into my room on Sunday mornings about 11:30, demanding that I quit wasting away in my bed and get outside and mow the lawn. Alarm clocks cringe when I buy them, knowing they will receive countless abuse right on the "Snooze" at my hands. My college buddies always knew to call me about 4 in the afternoon on weekends to invite me along to the Kettle or the IHOP, a place where they could get dinner and I could get breakfast.

But as of late, in the last year or so, I just can't do it. My body won't allow me to sleep more than 9 hours or so. I wake up with this feeling that I've forgotten to do something, or something needs to be done urgently, or that I'm just being too damned lazy and should get on with my morning, live life, and seize the day. Apparantly you don't need as much sleep when you start to age. REM: "Sleep delays my life".

Rain drowned out the alarm today. I went to bed late last night, around 3...expecting to be up, bright eyed and bushy tailed (without the capo) and ready to face the world about 11am.

So it was a big surprise when I rolled over and the ol' LED display showed me 3:00pm. 12 hours of uninterrupted, sawin' logs slumber.

Flippin' on the TV, wading through bad soap operas and watching Shirley attempt to save Laverne from the edge of a 12 story building, another reason to believe that everything really is right in the world caught my eye...and ear. I've always had a penchance for funny commercials. Long before the Long John Silver's spokeshrimp (or spokesshrimp, or however you spell it), there was that soothingly familiar "Doo-doo-doo-doo, doo-doo, doo-wah". Mentos -- the Freshmaker! Those crazy kids were always getting into a zany mess. I mean seriously, a limo blocking the street! What horror! No fear though, pop a Mentos or two in your mouth, and it's smooth sailing, right through the back of that limo. Don't forget to show em how you did it to put everyone at ease, smiling---Mentos--the Freshmaker!

Sadly though, Mentos felt the need to update its image. That soothing, schlocky music was replaced with some high tech y2k jingle. It was like switching to Coke II. No good reason, and nothing good comes from it.

But sometime after Shirley pulled Laverne off the flagpole and they ended up in "Fabian"'s hotel room, Mentos corporate-Madison Avenue-types showed me they realize the value of original success and returning to their roots. There's a new Mentos commercial...and the old music is back!!!!!

12 hours of sleep AND Mentos has gone retro. Now that's fresh. Apocolpyse, Schmockolypse.

"It doesn't matter what comes,
Fresh goes better with life
With Mentos fresh and full of life
Nothing gets to you
Staying fresh, staying cool
With Mentos fresh and full of life
Fresh goes better, Mentos freshness...
Fresh goes better with Mentos fresh and full of life!

Mentos...the Freshmaker!

And now, official Bad Ju-Ju stopper of the year 2002.

2002-01-23T10:27:00.000-05:00

My Karma Ran Over Your Dogma

My Evil Twin said he felt it coming. Bad Ju-Ju...whatever Ju-Ju is...got here yesterday.

Like a Ford Expeditition with a sticky gas pedal, Bad Karma raced through the workplace at speeds of up to 100mph. No one was safe. Not even me.

No one would call me back. My story was a fish floundering about on the pier, gills moving slower and slower, to a slow death.

As always, you make do with whatever you get. The recovery process begins today. As a show of "Let's Forget Yesterday" goodwill, I'm passing out 13 year old pencils that say "Celebrate with Todd" on them. They are souvenirs from my Bar-Mitzvah. I figure this is as good a use as any for them.

If you see that Expedition coming, run...fast.

2002-01-22T11:09:00.000-05:00

Is It Lupus, Jerry? Lupus?????

Maybe age is contagious.

I got back from Florida yesterday morning feeling pretty good. Relaxed even. Able to forget about work for an entire six days.

But after working last night...and now back at work just 9 hours later...I'm a walking zombie. In the dead zone. Unable to keep a single thought in my head. My body aches from tossing around my cousin's 8 year old and 4 year old for two hours. I didn't realize there was an imminent danger from simple piggyback rides.

My mom tells me I sound like a crochety old man on here sometimes. Mom: 1, Me: Zero.

Those who know me best will understand me when I say this: I could use my shawl right about now.

2002-01-20T01:31:00.000-05:00

All Hail Brother Beaker

One Step Left is banner free, courtesy of a guy I've met only once. But he is my Evil Twin's brother, so I guess that makes him my Evil Brother. Or he could be good. Who knows. Whatever the case, I tip my hat and offer a thank-you. I just hope Brother Beaker doesn't like umbrella drinks. I hate buying those.

2002-01-20T01:24:00.000-05:00

The B-block Of The "B" Side

9 pieces of breaded pork tenderloin, one long snowy football game, 8 bucks more in my pocket, and several hours later...here's "The rest...of the story".

Anyhow, Lynne -- or simply "FA" (favorite aunt), is more like a sister to me. You know what it's like -- the kind of person who thinks just like you -- the kind of person you can speak your mind to without fear of stepping on anyone's toes. And we can bond as easy over dinner or a trip in the car as we can over a smoke. Because she IS a smoker, despite what Grandpa thinks.

Grandpa, a widower 2 years prior, lives here with Lynne and Dan. He's very independent -- has his own little section of the house -- and is a full contributor, from paying the rent to washing the dishes. Awhile back, Dan (a Carolina countryboy we can all appreciate) had some kind of health issue where he had to give up his 2 pack a day Merit habit. Cold turkey, no problem. I am jealous of these cold turkey quitters. Where the hell is MY will power? Anyway, I digress. Lynne had some health issues too. After her hospitilaztion, she decided it was time to kick her 2 pack a day habit too. "You've got Merit" became "You've got cleaner lungs". A non-smoker. Free from the chains of tar, nicotine, and other addiciting additives.

Grandpa, the proud father that he is, bragged. "My daughter finally quit smoking". He told all his friends. He told all the family. While he was telling however...he wasn't foretelling. 5 weeks after "quit day", Lynne weakened. I know the feeling. That craving kicks in. It paralyzes your mind. You look at a pencil and wonder if you can light the end, suck on the eraser, and get a buzz. The thought of chewing another piece of Wrigley's Spearmint is nauseating. A trip in the car takes you by that convenience store...where convenience gets the best of you. Phillip Morris 1, You zero.

What I'm getting to in all of this: Grandpa is still bragging. Lynne is still smoking. Both are occuring under one roof. Like a European spy slipping through the streets of Prague, Lynne slithers off to the bedroom, shamelessly but not-so-shamelessly, to light up a Marlboro Light and uncover that wonderful feeling of a long draw while continuing to cover up the smoke-free sham. She knows it though: as 89 as Grandpa is, he's no dummy. He knows. She knows he knows. But why do we play charades at parties? It's a game, and games are amusing.

At 1 am, I'd curse myself for being up this late on a work night. But vacation continues. I finally feel rested and relaxed, for the first time in months. But come Monday morning, after a lazy Sunday in the Florida sunshine, I'll be ready to head back to South Carolina. I came down here to visit family. I will return to a different family on Monday. Greenville, I miss you guys...and Uncle Ted's comin' home soon.

2002-01-19T18:16:00.000-05:00

The "B" Side...aka Blogging From Tampa

One good coast deserves another. So yesterday around 9am, I gave my Zadi a hug, schlepped my stuff out to the car, and headed up I-95...destination: Brandon, Florida (suburban Tampa). First off, there's really nothing better than the solitude of travelling alone. In 1998, I spent 30-some odd days travelling through Europe with a big-ass backpack slung over my shoulders and my best friend Aaron. By the end of the trip, I could have done without the backpack...and I was ready to cut Aaron into little pieces and ship him back to the states (OK, so it wasn't that psychotic...but if he missed the train I was on I wouldn't have cared one iota). Travelling alone is thought-clearing and thought-provoking, especially when it's in a car. Alamo Rental Car (a nice plug here) provided me with an affordable compact...a Mitsubishi something-or-other. It had a tankfull of gas and a CD player, and I had a foot to press the accelerator and some great mix-CDs from friends. A perfect match. Anyway, the drive over was fine. I didn't stop once, except when traffic held me up on Route 60 just outside of Yeehaw Junction.

Sidebar: Would anyone else mind living in a town called Yeehaw Junction? If Atlanta or Boston or Indianapolis was called Yeehaw Junction, would they still have million-plus populations? Giddyup!

Return from sidebar: Brandon is where my Uncle Dan & Aunt Lynne share their many-bedroom house with 'Grandfather B'. He is simply called Grandpa, though his name is Carl (a family name which I will likely pass along to one of my kids someday). Dan & Lynne are, simply put, good people. They have hearts of gold and started out with very little. Dan is what many would refer to as a character, and Lynne is a great balance of sweetness & feist.

Here's your 6pm tease: It's dinnertime and I have to leave this. We'll see you back here at 6...thanks for watching. (cue: schlocky music)...

2002-01-18T00:56:00.000-05:00

Bye-bye Banner

Brother Beaker, the man who I have to watch with a weary eye because he boycotts my girlfriend (a.k.a. Winter), has offered a deal. I buy his first drink in Vegas, he gets rid of my banner ad. Whether he's serious or not, the banner will be gone soon. I'm sick of it too. And as part of project betterblog, it's coming down. By the way Beaker -- glad you're making it for He-Con. Look out, Sin City...

2002-01-18T00:42:00.000-05:00

Blogging Is Free (a.k.a. Blogging from Florida)

Greetings from the Treasure Coast...Boca Raton, Florida...where the geriatric stench of arthritis cream and Metamucil hans thick in the sultry nighttime air. Truth be told, as much as I dislike Florida...it's not bad to stop in here for a few days...especially to see family I haven't seen in some 2 or 3 years.

I've spent 2 days now with 'Grandfather A', my Zadi (the Yiddish word for grandfather...Mom will not have to correct me on this one). Zadi is a great man...the ultimate storyteller. He was a print journalist for newspapers in Detroit and Lansing, Michigan. And in all that time, he interviewed a lot of neat people. His big claim to fame is being called in by rioting prisoners in Jackson, Michigan to be the only one they would talk to...a negotiator of sorts. To put it adolescently, "that's cool".

In between Zadistories, we've managed to eat at some great places (including a real Jewish breakfast, complete with lox), a Chinese restaurant WITHOUT a buffet table in it, and a place that had stuff like bisques and souffles on the menu (my definition of a 'fancy' restaurant). I enjoyed the grilled pork chop, the little apple-potato-pancake thing, and the spicy garlic chicken. Here's the thing: all through these wonderful meals, I'm thinking how expensive they are. And while I'm thinking about it...Zadi is verbally expressing it. The man should have been an accountant. His penchance for remembering exactly what he paid for everything is duly noted in the books up in his noggin'. And prices always seem to work their way into the storytelling too. I know now what it cost for him to do everything from visit his psychiatrist to what he paid for his pilgrimage to Israel in 1968. But the more I think about it, maybe there's a lesson here from a Zadi I love very much. After all, at 86 years old...the man may talk about money a lot, but he lives quite comfortably after raising 3 kids. I don't talk about money all that much...and I just started balancing my checkbook again on a regular basis a few months ago. Go figure.

While I wasn't slathered in cocoa butter, I did walk the beach today a little bit...just for kicks. Briny sea breezes are Zen-ful...always make me feel good. Then again...could be just the fact that it's stronger than arthritis cream.

Covering The Carolinas Tonight...

In other news...another day, another blog. Check out Up For Anything, my Arch Enemy's website. The pre-open makes a lot of promises. We'll see how the A-block goes.

2002-01-15T16:29:00.000-05:00

My So-Called Life Continues

Rush, rush, rush. Monday flew by in a blur. The nature of the beast we feed each day called "news" is one of uncertainty. Yesterday I put my boots and hat on, hopped on the Newsbeast, and proceeded to get thrown about wildly while chasing friends of a three-time delinquent from Williamston who just happens to be good at football. Lou Holtz kicked him off the team. To quote his basketball coach from high school, "He's a good kid". Obviously, he's not. Wrecking a friend's car while going 100 mph, hitting a girl, and getting caught packing a blunt in a nightclub parking lot does not fall under the definition of a good kid. Mind you, this "kid" is 20 years old. What happened to being an adult at 18? We'll all shake our heads, say "what a shame", and watch him enter the NFL draft where they give bad people good salaries. Life isn't unfair. But something about that seems backwards.

Speaking of blurs...I began this blog at 10:30am...it's now 4:30pm. I'm off to blur through a liveshot and blur down to Atlanta to head to Florida to see some family I haven't seen in a few months. It's unlikely I'll spend time slathering myself in cocoa butter and lying on the beach. It's likely...that I won't have to rush.

2002-01-14T19:00:00.000-05:00

Brand Spankin' Wrong

Brother Beaker informed me I had done something even worse than regifting...I mis-linked. So now go check out Dead Life Dead and know that you'll actually get there. Enjoy.

2002-01-14T10:32:00.000-05:00

Brand Spankin' New

Another day, another friend begins blogging. Check out Dead Life Dead. Be warned: It's introspective and he's down on himself lately. But his kids are cute.

2002-01-14T01:12:00.000-05:00

Losing My Religion

When my Evil Twin lamented his seemingly multiplying patch of grey hair a few months back, I tried to see the bright side.

"At least you're not losing it."

I wouldn't be surprised if I started losing my hair over the next few weeks. It seems I can't hold onto anything these days. It reminds me of being younger when Mom or Dad would say, "You'd lose your head if it wasn't attached to your shoulders! Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk." It's not the significant things, like wallets or checkbooks or cash. It's the little things that drive me crazy. In the past few weeks:

-3 frolf discs (inadvertenly and carelessly left on the back bumper of my car, which I subsequently drove home, sans discs).
-Elder-Statesman's mailbox keys. (I also forgot to get his mail while he was gone. Good thing he doesn't have a dog.)
-My bat.(A treasured toy of mine. How it got up and walked away is beyond me)
-Several CDs (assumed to be in my car...but I have't searched it thoroughly yet)
-My e-ticket receipt for Florida (but I did find a book of matches from 4 years ago in a coat from one of my favorite places in Oklahoma. Unfortunately, that won't get me on plane to Fort Lauderdale on Wednesday)

Apparantly, the stealing gnomes are at it again. I'm going to have to have a little talk with them, when I finally catch the little bastards. Which brings me to my next point...the small price you pay for fame. The place i go to 5 or 6 days a week in return for a paycheck is a popular place. So popular, tens of thousands of people at one time tune in to watch on any given afternoon. Needless to say, people love Your Friend Four. And seemingly, they love (or at least know) Your Friend Todd. I've grown accustomed to people saying hello in line waiting to pay at a restaurant. I've grown accustomed to people saying hello when I go to pick up my dry-cleaning or return a book at the library. But at Saturday's Grrrrowl game, the proverbial line...was proverbially crossed.

Act I, Scene I
Setting: A men's bathroom at the Bi-Lo Center. Several men lined up side by side at urinals.
Todd unzips his pants to pee.
Man in adjacent urinal looks over casually. Todd does not notice.
Man: So, what's the weather going to be like tomorrow?
Todd, looking straight ahead at the wall: Not while I'm taking a piss, man.
Man: Oh. Sorry.
Close curtain

And women wonder why we can't aim. Being bothered in the middle of something I value as my time and nobody elses is always a little unnerving. Funny, though. I guess I'd rather have someone ask me the forecast while pissing next to me...then yell at me for being wrong or something like that.

The only thing I'm losing right now is sleep...it is time to call it a night. By the way, I also lost two more Scrabble games to my Arch Enemy tonight. It seems I am also losing my mind.

Quick hair check: Yup, it's still there. For now.

2002-01-10T19:47:00.000-05:00

Black, White, And Red All Over

My knuckles are cracking...my bones are creaking.

Hammering away on this keyboard is my first official physical activity of the day (at the tone the time will be...7:33pm). I don't get a normal "Sunday" to be lazy like everyone else. So today, my first day of my weekend, I kept my bed company for awhile. I let the haze of sleep envelop me twice again during the late morning hours...and once in the early afternoon. Shirking responsibility is a dangerous thing. But since I had none to shirk, I was content to enjoy simple things like a 60-some-odd-degree breeze winding its way through my bedroom, with as little care as I did for the passing hours of the day.

It's the first lazy "Sunday" of my 26th year. I watched another January 9th come and go. It was simplistic as far as birthdays go. Well-wishers passed by my desk throughout the day with a friendly greeting or two. Then around 4pm, TV came to life.

There's a commercial on repeatedly that you're probably familiar with...it's for the Six Dollar Burger from Hardee's...or Arby's...I can never remember which. Anyway, 5 TGIFriday-type waitstaff annoy the living hell out of people with a boisterous, overdramatic version of happy birthday.

At 4pm...the clapping in the next room started.

5 TGIFriday-type Creative Services people and Woo-Doo came in singing their boisterous, overdramatic version of Happy Birthday. I laughed...hard...from the gut kinda laughter. Then I felt it. My face got lukewarm. I started to sweat. Then I was hot. Very hot. Cherry-tomato-red-hot.

I was embarassed.

I don't know where I got this whole embarassment thing. Before college, I can't remember ever being embarassed. Embarassment was just not a part of the emotion.tod file.

In college, I did several embarassing things....unabashedly, I might add. I can't remember what I was doing that first time my freshman year, but I remember the same lukewarm, sweatbead, cherry-tomato-red-hot feeling coming on.

Since then, it happens from time to time. Not too often. But when it does prepare to laugh. I look pretty funny.

Maybe the sweating counts as exercise. Speaking of, I've had enough. I'm tired of hearing my 26-year-old-fingers creak.

2002-01-07T12:55:00.000-05:00

Speak!

Effort #1 in Project: Betterblog is up and running. You can now click on the comment link at the end of each post and ramble on. Just try not to ramble as much as I do. I have a short attention span.

2002-01-07T11:19:00.000-05:00

"Wrong, Try Again"

In a world of Palm Pilots and Laptops as small as my motivation level on a Monday morning, it's good to think back on technology of the past. Remember Speak'N'Spell? Bulky, yet portable enough for an 8 year old to lug around the house, bugging parents across America with a mechanized voice reminiscent of the big robot on "Lost In Space". I had the somewhat less trendy spinoff Speak'N'Math. Same mechanized voice..."What....is...64...divided by...8?" Strangely enough, voice technology hasn't come all that far. Call Delta Airlines' Flightline (1-800-221-1212) for proof. I would hate to go out that chick.

Me: What time should I pick you up?
Delta Flightline Girl: You should...PICK ME UP...at....8..0..7..P...M. There isn't any gate information.

Anyhow, Speak'n'math would reward you for good answers..."you are correct", and chastize you for an incorrect one..."Wrong, try again". A simple system. You either felt really smart or as dumb as I do on a Monday morning.

Sunday morning, it was supposed to be a slip-slidin' kinda day...an ice storm. Not uncommon in the South. Very hard to predict. I went with some ice. There really wasn't much. "Wrong, try again". It made perfect sense that my story at 6 and 11 as a reporter/meteorologist was slugged "Why It Didn't Ice". "You are correct".

Now it's time to shift to David Wilkins and the South Carolina House of Representatives going back into session tomorrow.

"Danger, Will Robinson!"

2002-01-05T08:40:00.000-05:00

Sheep's Got The Woo

Regional dialects are funny. I'm going on my 8th year living in the South, and have my "y'alls" and "fixin'-to"s down pat...most natives wouldn't know I was born in Detroit rather than Dallas. I only had to learn a few new ones when I moved to South Carolina -- my favorites, "mash the button" (instead of press) and "you might could" (the extraneous 'might', obviously for emphasis). Local dialects can be even funnier...especially the language of "friendspeak". I personally enjoy saying I'm "rowdy" to go do something (meaning I'm up for it), or I've got "the thooz" (short for enthusiasm). Pre-me, my pals here came up with a simple word to describe a feeling of rowdiness that might be unchanneled, perhaps anticipated rowdiness. It's called Woo.

Woo waxes and wanes, much like the moon, and varies from person to person. While I might be feeling a little Woo on a given evening, someone else may be feeling a lot of Woo...while that person's spouse may be feeling no Woo at all. Woo, however, appears to have some contagious properties...and can be spread amongst a group. Woo is also fickle...it can be with you one moment, and gone with the wind the next.

Last night was a "Bachelor Everybody" weekend. Spouses were either pregnant and sappy, tired and kid-watching, or sick and low-key. MEN (Marathon Euchre Night) began in earnest, with plans to go see Scrappy Hamilton at the Handlebar...but everyone (except me, really) seemed to have their nose out of joint about something. Underlying anger, as it were. Bottled up frustrations from a week that included a somewhat rare snowstorm for the Carolinas (which I was rowdy about) and a bunch of meetings about who's going to get a little wooden plaque justifying the skill level of their jobs (News people get emmy awards too). The anger eroded into some silly arguments, then into mockery, and then just debauchery. A picture frame got broken and my front door got peed on. Taunting and laughter abounded. Suddenly, it was decided...a trip to the CP was in order (favorite dark bar/pool hall)...for 5 of us, by chance, all had the Woo.

After Euchre, Jaegermeister, and Cold bottles of beer danced among us...the Woo departed on schedule. It will wax again, undoubtedly. Hopefully, my front door won't have to suffer the same abuse.

I just realized I did a poor job of constructing this post...I offer the reader a lot of buildup, but don't lead them to a reward or nugget. Alas, that's part of the post-Woo hangover. 8:38am doesn't lend itself to good blogging, I guess. I might could use some more sleep.

2002-01-01T22:36:00.000-05:00

Plowing through breakfast

The confetti has been vacuumed...leftover appetizers, washed down the sink like last year's news...the festivities, are over. Evil Twin and Woo-doo sent it out in style with fully stocked buffet of home-cooked edibles (made lovingly by E.T., who is a whiz in the kitchen) and a bar rivaling my father's liquor cabinet. Elder-Statesman got off work just in time to make it for the champagne toast at midnight, after which I proceeded to assault a bottle of Myers' Rum. Keep in mind I can't remember the last time I drank anything other than Coors Light. I was pleasantly elevated and was among the last to head to bed shortly after 5a.m.

My body didn't complain nearly as much today as I thought it would. If only I were as confident about my ability to repel a hangover as I was in my snowfall forecasting. Not only do I feel a cold one comin' on...a snowy one too. I'm shooting for 2 inches here in Greenville, with more down South...which means I'll inevitably be attempting to inform throngs of viewers in tomorrow evening's newscast about prepping for snowfall. If there's one thing I learned, I also need to prepare to clear the roads. Southerners do not handle snow well. And around here, they have some strange tradition of dropping everything before the weatherman can get the word 'snow' out of his mouth, running to the grocery store, and ridding the shelves of bread and milk like they're stocking up rations for the next World War. I've been told it's so they can make french toast. And while I believe in the power of a good breakfast, I can't see how a sticky-sweet breakfast confection will make 2-4" of snow seem any easier to deal with.

Then again, there is something that warms you inside out about a breakfast smothered in syrup. Maybe it can melt snow, too. As much as I love snow, forecasting snow is tough. I'm sure by tomorrow I'll be wishing it new year's confetti was the only thing falling from the sky.

I'm off to go the Bi-Lo for some bread. Might as well get some milk, too.

2001-12-31T22:45:00.000-05:00

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.

2001-12-28T13:43:00.000-05:00

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.

2001-12-27T12:46:00.000-05:00

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.

2001-12-21T18:03:00.000-05:00

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.

2001-12-19T17:50:00.000-05:00

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.

2001-12-17T22:24:00.000-05:00

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.

2001-12-15T02:01:00.000-05:00

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.

2001-12-13T14:12:00.000-05:00

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.

2001-12-13T01:15:00.000-05:00

"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!

2001-12-12T02:14:00.000-05:00

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?

2001-12-09T23:47:00.000-05:00

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".

2001-12-08T09:39:00.000-05:00

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.

2001-12-07T00:57:00.000-05:00

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.

2001-12-06T00:04:00.000-05:00

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.

2001-12-04T17:24:00.000-05:00

...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?

2001-12-04T01:10:00.000-05:00

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.

2001-12-02T20:58:00.000-05:00

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.

2001-12-01T06:47:00.000-05:00

"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.

2001-11-30T17:59:00.000-05:00

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.

2001-11-28T20:52:00.000-05:00

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.

2001-11-28T00:14:00.000-05:00

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.

2001-11-27T01:24:00.000-05:00

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.

2001-11-25T21:19:00.000-05:00

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.

2001-11-24T08:57:00.000-05:00

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.