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The five-year high school reunion.  The invitation is sitting on my desk ... and it has been staring at me for the past two weeks. November 27. By chance, it appears I will be back in Pa. during that time. There's something strangely interesting about the people from your past, the people you went to school with. You basically knew everybody, even the people you never spoke to. You had opinions and theories about each one of them, even if you didn't care at all about them. Some of the best stories that people tell are ones that involve kids they went to school with. Someone will say: "Back in high school there was this kid, Marty Johnson," and they'll shake their head, images of Marty Johnson from age 8 to 18 flashing through their memory, reminding them of what they once knew about the kid and where he fell into grade school society. I love those stories. No matter how much someone tells you about someone they knew from high school, you can never fully know what these old aqcaintences meant to the people who remember them. But, I'm sorry. There's no way I can possibly go to this reunion. As much as I like to hear about people I went to school with, I'd really rather not see most of them. I don't car how long the bar will be open (just 2 hours, actually), all the alcohol in the world couldn't get me to go. Don't get me wrong. Some of my best memories are from my high school days, and there are some people I would like to see. But with my luck, those people wouldn't even be there and I'd end up stabbing someone in the neck with a spork. And believe me, you don't want me stabbing anybody with a spork.  For those curious about what I'm actually doing down here: (You'll need Adobe Acrobat, and the files are kinda large, so you'll probably need a decent connection too. - Most of our readers don't read the cover stories or columns. They turn right to page 8 for the our take on police blotter. - In looking at page 1 just now, I found a surprising amount of errors in the copy. Chances are good that these errors were caused by final edits at our sister office in Louisville ... Or maybe I should just lay off the crackpipe at work.)   
  
  
   1:53 AM Tonight, by chance, I discovered a new, incredibly effective - yet surprisingly easy - foosball move that I can't believe I've never seen another player use (at least not intentionally). Some of you will never understand what an epiphany this really is. Rusty 1986 - 2004 
 I haven't said much about the woman with the gold tooth that lives below me, Bridgette. In the few -- but lengthy -- conversations I had with her, Bridgette has told me she doesn't like Savannah, despite that she has lived here since she was born. She even fondly recalls a time when everyone in her neighborhood not only knew each other, but ate together every summer night to save money. "If someone had a lot of vegetables, they'd bring the vegetables. If somebody had some chicken, they'd bring the chicken," she has said on numerous occasions. Still, she said she doesn't understand why people like me move to Savannah. Bridgette tried a few times to convince me that our apartment complex is a good place to live, a good place for families. After all, her daughter works in the leasing office. The day after she first said this to me, a woman was abducted at gunpoint from the parking lot and raped. "I don't want you to think I'm a liar," she said to me the following day. By then the local TV stations had tarnished whatever good image the apartment complex had, and she was genuinely angry. "He doesn't even live here," she said about the rapist and hoped the owner of our complex would sue the TV stations, for what I am still uncertain. A short time later, a kid was shot and killed in the parking lot. That night, I saw Bridgette on the news, still defending our apartments as one of the best places to live in town, despite the incidents that had occurred. She means well. Bridgette also happens to work in the deli of the local Piggly Wiggly, a popular grocery store in the South. She serves me my sliced Cajun chicken and smoked turkey along with plenty of gossip about her coworkers, and for that I am thankful. Despite that I have told her I work with friends from college, I think she also believes I am lonely. Any time she introduces a girl to me, she says, "Y'all should go visit him sometime," to which I smile and nod my head, thinking there's no way in hell I'm gonna let one of these crazy bastards in my home any time soon, no matter what Bridgette says. Today, as I was at the office, the property manager came in and asked if I knew where she could find Jacob, the publisher. While I wrote down his cell phone number for her, she asked how business was. "Pretty good, actually," I said, thinking about my work cell phone that had been disconnected yesterday due to late payment, and our office phones that went dead this morning for the same reasons, and our freelancers that haven't been paid since the middle of September, and our internet connection which could be cut off tomorrow. Yep, everything's just dandy, I told her and she took his number and left. When I later spoke to Jacob, he told me she had come to ask him about the bank putting a stop on our latest rent check. My friends, the end is nigh. The introspection is destroying me. In the moments when I can take a step back and realize this (hence more introspection), I can't help but marvel at the progression. And acts like a duck, And quacks like a duck, It probably is a duck.  To put things into perspective, weatherwise: tonight is the fourth time since I moved in July 8 that I have turned off my air conditioner at night. It will be the first night that I will have both turned off the a/c and closed one of my four windows in order to keep a comfortable temperature. For those still interested in the boring specifics of my job situation ... There are apparently three things that could result after yesterday's meeting with the investors of our particular franchise here in Savannah: 1) Give up, close-up shop, declare it a huge loss -- and say goodbye to our weekly newspaper forever. 2) The company headquarters in Louisville could buy us out. This would be likely if they were worried that the loss of one of their franchises (the only one of six that collapsed) would look bad on their company, and therefore hurt their appeal to future investors, franchisers. 2a] In the event that this happened, I would most likely still have a job, but I'd be answering to Louisville bosses much more frequently, which would only add more stress than I already have. My current contract with the paper could possibly be void, and I could potentially receive a pay cut. 3) A separate potential buyer could purchase the franchise, another not so good scenario. Rumors are that the owners of the daily paper down here (a fairly large media company in the Southeast) are considering buying us. But, in the event that this happened, I would most likely be laid off while the company brings in a whole separate team of editors, writers, and sales people that can actually sell. There is the possibility that they would keep me as editor, but my contract would still be void, and basically every aspect of our operation here would change. Then again, I would most likely get to use a new computer that wasn't infected with viruses, and we'd probably be moved to an office where I wouldn't have to sit in a broken kitchen chair. At this point, I really don't care what happens. I tend enjoy thinking about what I would do if I were to lose the job. Where to go next? Perhaps stay here, find another job? No, probably not. Atlanta's a possibility, and one that intrigues me. Boston's apparently out of the question, since my girlfriend says I would distract her from studying. I'm definitely not going home, although living in that area could be a last resort. Going abroad sounds nice, especially pending the election results. Regardless, I'd need some kind of work again within like three weeks, otherwise I'm broke and resorting to pimphood in Jacksonville. Anyone have any suggestions? Intricacies In the morning, I have become a creature of habit. From the moment I wake up, every action is something to look forward to before going to work. Each step I take is more precious than the next as they grow fewer and fewer before the moment I walk into that office building. Let's take a closer look! Around 7:30 every morning, I wake up to go to the bathroom "one last time," as I try to convince myself. I tell myself that I will go to sleep for about another hour before the alarm clock is supposed to go off. But no, I spend that last hour tossing and turning, thinking about work, and going to the bathroom about seven more times. I tell myself I will NOT look at the time on the alarm clock before the alarm goes off, and I hold to that promise, until about 8:27 a.m., when the urge of knowing how much time I have left to sleep pushes me to peek. It is then I realize I have no more time, just 3 minutes, and I force myself out of bed, and I turn off the alarm clock before it ever buzzes. But that's okay! I still have the shower to look forward to! Ah, the shower, where I delight in the hot water yet still somehow worry about the things I must do at work. Very specific events in my life, ranging in time from yesterday to about second grade, also come back to me at this point -- things I said to people, ways I acted -- and I begin to talk to myself in early morning insanity. "Fuck you!" I freakishly yell at myself, and then the shower is over. But that's okay! I still have breakfast to look forward to! A bowl of Smart Start cereal, every day. While I eat it, my mind is completely off work while I go online, check the news, obsessively check other blogs ... until the bowl is empty. Then, breakfast is over. But that's okay! I still have the drive to work! It is during this time that I call my girlfriend, wake her up, and pretend to have a conversation. God bless her, she tries, but no matter how long we stay on the phone -- 5, 10, 15 minutes -- she barely remembers these daily conversations ever took place. Hanging up the phone in the morning for her is like turning off the alarm clock and going back to bed ... and that's what she does. But that's okay! I still have the red lights! Red lights. My last allies in a war of getting to work as slowly as chance will permit. Each light is a sigh of relief and another moment stalled -- until it turns green. And that's not okay. Because then I'm at work, walking the steps to the second floor, unlocking the office door, turning on my computer. The day begins, and there is nothing to look forward to again until 5 p.m. Every day. Every. Day. I received this email yesterday from one of my freelance writers: Hi Mike, I spent last night in the good company of cheap beer and Thelma and Louise. Hours earlier, a solitary run along the beaches of Tybee Island alleviated at least some of the stress that has been building at work every day. High tide and a rough ocean had pushed the water far up on the beach, but still plenty of children were playing in the sand, digging miniature trenches, searching for shells. Even at dusk, surfers were waiting for the best waves and couples were just beginning to set up their chairs and open their coolers. Years from now, when I look back on this strange experience that is my time in Georgia, moments like these will be even more memorable than those spent with the people I have met here. Only in these moments can I truly comprehend and appreciate where I am, what I'm doing and where I'm going. Or maybe I've just watched too much Thelma and Louise.  This is somewhat neat. (The Britney Spears one is actually pretty freaky.) Hindsight is 20/20. I won the foosball tournament last night. In fact, you might say that I annihilated the competition. On the way home, a little after midnight, I passed a man in a white robe walking down the street with a book in his hand. If it was Jesus, he probably didn't make it home safely in that outfit. 1:03 AM A music video worth the watch:  Good evening and welcome to my brain! Tonight I spoke at length with a very liberal reverend who was once shot at five times while he was driving down the road. One bullet entered the car and hit him in the leg, hospitalizing him for days, almost killing him. He is also, as I witnessed firsthand, very afraid of cats, dogs, and basically any non-human creature that moves. He also doesn't like boats. --- In an attempt to find new music, I have been searching through individual p2p user's list of songs and downloading artists I have never heard of, only to be extremely disappointed with the amount of crap that these people have on their computers. --- As I have been discussing with a few people lately, I really think slaughtering my own cow is necessary before I die. In fact, I think it's something most meat-eaters should experience in life. In fact ... even vegetarians should experience it. There should be game shows and carnival competitions. "SLAUGHTER THAT COW!" It should be our rite of passage into adulthood. --- Did you know that if you remove the s from slaughter, you have laughter? This is the second time this weekend that I was fascinated by a word that has a completely different pronunciation when the first letter is removed, although I don't remember what the first word was. Is there some part of my brain that is begging me to notice these things for a better understanding of my existence? And is this the same, or different, part of my brain that is telling me to wear sunglasses while writing this post? --- In Boston last weekend, I was reminded how much colder and hard-faced Northerners can be, but no matter how tough some of these people may look, the fear of being knifed in the back just isn't quite as urgent as it is down here. Getting a haircut is still one of the most nerve-wracking things in my life.  I admit, this is one area that I wish was controlled by robots. I want to be able to push a button, maybe select a few preferences and let the machines do their work ... with the same precision and exactness every time.
Today was one of a handful of times that I had my hair cut outside of my hometown. Even during college, I always waited until I was home. And this is not to say that I always went to the same barbershop at home ... I just preferred getting it cut while I was in good ol' Willow Grove, Pa. But there are a few things that just make me uncomfortable about the whole process. Every time I go, I am asked how I want it cut, an understandable question, but every time I am at a loss to explain what I want, despite the fact that I have the plainest haircut in the world. Sometimes they ask me if I want them to use the clippers ... and as the years go by, I am losing my understanding of what clippers even are. I always assumed they were scissors, but in the context that some of these hair-cutting people mention them, I have begun to think that they are talking about the electric razor. But why are they asking me anyway? To me the answer is obvious: I want both. This is the point where I just want to hit the "DEFAULT" button on the barber chair, have a robot come out from under the counter, put some kind of intricate device on my head and have me out of there in 37 seconds. Until then, I wait. |
Late night snacks. Bite-sized ramblings. Old-fashioned eats, served fresh daily. Open 24-7.  Other blogs Fireballs and Tsunami JeffreyDavis.net Mismatched Parentheses NimbleSixpence One Tortured Soul Palpably Inadequate Picnic, Lightning Pony Legs, Temporarily Supernouveau Wander Lust In my DVD player Archives June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 June 2006 July 2006 August 2006 September 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 June 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 Other stuff Homestarrunner One Slime DeepDiscountDVD Olde English Sketch Comedy Live Music Archive Copy Army Copywriting Service Love & Radio This One Time Email me mmjunior / at / hotmail   
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