There’s something about the way she says my name. “Bri-annnnn,” and the “n” trails off into infinity like a chain saw, or a motorcycle racing into the distance. It was my mother, of course. It was time for her to make her 13 phone calls to me in the span of 11 minutes. There must be equipment at the phone company that burns out on a regular basis because of her quick-on-the-button redials. I’m also sure there is a man whose sole job is to figure out why it’s happening. “We’ve tracked it to a short woman in Tampa who always remembers something she forgot to ask her sons, and calls back 1,500 times. We also suspect she caused a blackout in China.” I was waiting for the calls, expecting the calls like you expect high tide or bills. I knew they were coming because I knew she was coming. Up to visit for the weekend, the weekend between my brother’s and my birthday. (I’ll be 32 by the time you read this.) As we get closer to one of her voyages, it begins with messages at home, a fleet of them, and then calls to work. The closer we get, the more frantic. The more pressing. The more critical to the fate of the universe. So the phone rang one night. “Bri-annnnn,” she said. “Your brother won’t speak to me anymore so I’m calling you. He’s threatening to change his number and not list it.” No “hello.” No “how […]
Belated Valentine’s Day Wishes
A week-old letter to my wife on the pinkest holiday of them all. Dear Sweet Pea, Happy Valentine’s Day. I know you are a big observer of this holiday, and you’re shackled to a man who likens it to being pitched off a cliff into a field of sandspurs, or worse, having his toenails clipped by a badger. But, learning to recognize fights I can’t win after 7 years of marriage, I give in and send you Valentine’s Day wishes. All the best. God’s speed. May the wind be at your back and the sun never set. All the typical loving and romantic things Valentine’s cards usually wish. This isn’t to say I understand the holiday. Oh, to the contrary. I still find it horribly irresponsible, and that’s saying a lot coming from a guy like me. But how, as a society, can we possibly condone giving a bow and arrow to a little baby named Cupid? My brother and I each had a bow and arrow when we were kids, and family members quickly realized how foolish a decision that was when their car tires went flat and we almost pierced a neighbor’s ear by accident one day. And even worse, we actually allow this little baby archer to run around and shoot people? Uh, hello! Maybe rob from the rich and give to the poor, but don’t be shooting people. Alas, I won’t discount a holiday because its symbols are a bit violent. But a little explanation: My […]
Super Bowl Mania Strikes
Super hype. Super hoopla. Super shindigs. Super headaches. Whoo! Thank goodness it’s over. The Super Bowl blows in and out like a hurricane, folks, and the good thing is there are no tree branches left to pick up. Has it already come and gone? All these years of preparation, and it’s over like that? Little left to show for it but stale beer cups and pins that didn’t sell. For me it was not successful. My attempts to rent a room at the last minute to some needy celebrity pretty much went down in flames. Amenities! It all comes down to amenities. And when all you have to offer these people are overdone poached eggs, a bowl of Special K, slightly worn slippers, whatever beer’s in the fridge and the promise that you will be woken up in the morning by a dog sitting on your face, it’s a tough sell. Real tough. And my asking price — $100,000 or a part in their next movie — was a little steep. Alas, my room went vacant. There weren’t many celebrities that I could tell. No shortage of sightings. Everybody had a sighting. Vin Diesel spotted at the drive-thru at Chick-Fil-A; Brad Pitt shopping for art; Celine Dion staying at a B&B downtown and breaking glass with her singing. A few you may not have heard: • Hugh Heffner and a couple of the Playboy Bunnies enjoyed a bag of pork rinds at a Jiffy Mart before heading for the airport. […]
The Trappings of a Good Newsroom
A Good Newsroom … It doesn’t matter if it’s the New York Times, The St. Augustine Record or the Flagler College Gargoyle. As far as I’m concerned, a newsroom is a newsroom is a newsroom. I’m thinking this because I spent the past week working with the “kids” of the Flagler paper. They listen to alien music and talk in a strange free-flowing language I can’t seem to understand. I’ll say it: I think I’m getting old. But it was a blast (even if they did call me Old Man Magoo.) Sure, no police scanner, AP feeds or people yelling, “I brought pruning sheers if that page isn’t down by six,” but it was the same old thrill. I always loved newsrooms because you never knew what was going to come your way. And you never knew what was going to be thrown your way. I’ll tell this little story since I don’t work at the Record anymore, making it a little harder to fire me. One day someone threw a ball in my direction (I swear I was not participating) and it ricocheted off my computer. Now, a ball has 20 million places it can ricochet to, but this one decided to pick a full glass of water. It toppled in a giant flood, and despite the 20 million places it could have spilled to, it drowned my keyboard instead. I stared in shock expecting sparks to fly. When they didn’t, I turned the keyboard over to drain it […]