Sorry for the delay, I had to travel and then come back and start the school year. I also got caught up in a Steinbeck book and convinced myself that if I couldn't write like that, then it wasn't worth writing at all. Then I realized that if everyone thought that way, there wouldn't be much to read in this world so why not go ahead and try to write like me instead. So here we go...
The last thing I really want to do in this column is to talk about politics, but in this kind of environment, it seems to seep into my thinking. I promise to just make it as quick as I can.
I have an open-minded view of the world, and most of the people with which I associate share this view. That's why we become friends with people, I guess. Or, as is the case with me, you just grow up together and share the same experiences, so therefore you end up with similar views.
Whenever anyone talks about American politics, it comes down to the same thing. There's a liberal view, spoken on and defended at length by intellectuals that alienate half the population. Then, of course, there is the conservative side defended by a gun-lovin', abortion hatin' cowboy (white hat, size 8 n' three quawta please). They pummel the given issues, the same ones over and over, and walk away hating each other more. It's pointless, and nothing ever gets done, or if it does get done, it doesn't get done well.
The obvious solution is to ease up a little bit and be a little more tolerant and to practice a little more give and take. The keyword is courtesy. If we can start being more courteous to one another and respectful of their position as a human being, we can have an honest discussion about almost anything. In such a situation, there is less chance of someone losing their cool.
This courtesy has to extend itself into the dealings between the haves, the have nots, and the have enough to make my mortgage payment, but dang, college is gonna be a strains. With a little more courtesy in that dialogue, the chance for violent revolution by the repressed masses decreases. The other central tenet is certainly the issue of religion.
I freely admit that I have many biases and even more of what Socrates called 'cherished beliefs.' They are critical to the foundation of the thing that I call me. I believe what I do because I have interpreted the signs on the side of the diverged road I have chosen. I'm a victim of every turn I have taken since birth. But I am not closing off the possibility that I read something wrong. I did have to get glasses a few years ago, and I don't feel like that much less of a man because of it. Maybe I need something to clarify my spiritual vision as well.
And Socrates said flat out that I have to learn to doubt my cherished beliefs. They have to stand up to scrutiny. I have to advocate for my own personal devils, and I have to be able to accept their assault from other humans of opposite view. This is called being open-minded.
I should note that my wife would disagree with my declaration that I have an open mind, but there's clearly a right way to put a roll of toilet paper on the roll. I'd be willing and able to organize a rally to march on the Capitol to defend that truth.
Which reminds me of a line by the late comic Mitch Hedberg: "I'm against picketing, but I don't know how to show it." Check him out, he's hilarious. And check out some Costaki Economopoulos while you're at it, that guy's good too.
Sorry, I will tangentify on occasion.
So, my point was that if we could try and stretch toward courteous behavior with one another, we could meet in the middle every once in a while and progress forward. Conservatives have to accept that our earth cannot eternally take wholesale pillaging, and liberals have to accept that people are going to get rich and try to stay rich. It's really about the pollution that is left behind as this great machine runs. We live in a world with almost 7 billion other people. If we can't elect leaders that can communicate, then we are going to end up in one big overcrowded mess.
Those who drive the machine have to be able to see through the smog to know where we are going. Pay attention and maybe they will let us sit on their lap and steer every now and then.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Scavenged by the Buzzard God
We were standin' on a mountaintop
Where the cactus flowers grow
I was wishin' that the world would stop
When you said we'd better go
-Robert Earl Keen
I finally realized that the reason I started writing again was so that I could tell some funny stories. That's what I like to read at least, so let's skip the pleasantries and get down to brass tacks.
Mike, Kurt, Texas Bill and I were gorging on a Tuesday night pre-Thanksgiving feast in an Austin apartment built to shelter people that were younger than we were in 1995. It had been agreed upon on the night before the previous Super Bowl that we would all quit our jobs and move to Austin, and now we were celebrating the bounty of fading youth.
Filled and fattened, we turned to see Bill stride into the post-turkey and Natty Light haze to announce that we were all getting in the car and driving to Big Bend National Park to hike 27 miles through the backcountry. Now, this trip had been planned for the approaching long holiday weekend, so don't count that as crazy, but departure was technically scheduled for the following morning.
Nonetheless, the Fandango set off into the darkness. The car was running on not only gas refined from the fields of Arabia, but also that created by the sweet potatoes and green bean casserole. The air rushing in from the repeatedly opened windows offered a taste of West Texas Desert Dust.
Eight hours later we were fully stocked by the general store in Marathon, the last town for ninety miles in the wilderness north of the remote Big Bend of the Rio Grande.
We pulled in and hit the trail that morning, the back way. Anyone bothering to consult a park map can see that the loop is designed to go up into the mountains gradually, but our way was five straight miles of vertical switchbacks. I'm sure the peanut gallery will have something to say about this, but I think a rest stop every five minutes isn't too excessive when there's fifty pounds strapped to the back of the average fast-food eating American that I know myself to be.
At any rate, we spent the days gawking across the Santa Elena Canyon and the evenings under shooting stars so big we could hear them breaking up in the atmosphere. We dodged enormous piles of Black Bear muffins and jumped at every crunch of leaves, and finally finished the trail after four days. We set up camp in the desert before taking Robert Earl Keen's 'rowboat across the Rio Grande' to Boquillas, Mejico. We ate outside and bellied up to a bar that had horses lashed to a hitching post outside. As the sun was swallowed into the Mexican peaks in the distance, we smuggled aboard the leaky rowboat our contraband, 750 milliliters of undeclared Cuervo Gold.
As a point of order, I should say that at this juncture, the story takes on a color no more racy than your average George Jones drinking song, but definitely saltier than your average Boquillas margarita. Maybe put the kids to bed before you go on.
Descent into madness
As the stars started popping out and the crescent moon slipped toward those gluttonous mountains, the flu bug that had been nagging at the once-zealous Texas Bill dragged him gently into that goodnight. With all due sympathy to his weak system, this created an even bigger problem for the rest of us in that the campfire spot he had vacated instigated a new rationing system from Señor José. What was going to be divided by cuatro was absorbed with a number of canned peach chasers by the tres remaining caballeros.
The walk from the campsite to the Hot Springs on the shores of the Rio was confused enough itself, but after sinking into the magic waters, everything simply took on a new hue. There were escape swims across the border, and laughs that rang into the night; and all the while the figurative worm at the bottom of the bottle (Tom Robbins' buzzard god) was chewing his way into our hearts as our personal defenses crumbled like the walls of this ancient magic spring that had so seductively absorbed us.
And then the peace was broken.
A busload of interlopers descended upon the waters. By the hundreds of thousands they invaded, Southern Baptist by the looks of their hair and conservative swimwear--not a bikini among them. The tiny pool was suddenly filled with Holy Spirits--a swirling cocktail of Hay-Seuss and José. That's one they don't serve after Saturday midnight at my local watering hole, I can promise you that.
Now, it would be funny enough, except I forgot to mention that we left every square centimeter of our clothing on the riverbank. For us this meant sweatshirt, sweatpants, sandals...and boxers. Our pile was up there somewhere, somewhere on the far side of the Blessed Flock.
There were no options. They weren't leaving and we were already parboiled. Overcooked, in more ways than one, we could no longer maintain our stabs at polite conversation. Our stumbled mumbles of apology were followed by our surprising revelation that the Pagan Desert Underwear Fairy must have dived in and absconded with our lingerie, but we was gonna have to go anyhow. And off we glided like the sculpted Greek nudes of old, Kurt leading the way with a splash. He went straight to the pile of clothes, put on more than he brought and, as we would determine later, packed everything up in the nearest backpack and took off into the desert night. I soon followed, in even less admirable fashion, to the pile. My boxers were still there at least, and my sandals, but there were no sweats to be found. Mike and I wove back toward the campsite amidst final farewells to the faithful, and I landed promptly in some sort of coyote waller of a mudpit. After struggling for what seemed like ages while Mike looked for Kurt, I gave myself up for dead and drifted off to what I was sure was going to be the miserable afterlife to which those folks back at the springs knew I was doomed. Fortunately for those of you who want to hear the ending, I woke seconds later to Mike dragging me to my clay-encrusted feet.
We made it back to the campsite ahead of Kurt and were able to watch him emerge from the darkness. Our campsite flashlight revealed his attire slowly. It was the funniest thing I ever saw.
Kurt was wedged into a purple, flowered windbreaker. Size Youth Petite. His arms were pinned further back by a backpack--a backpack he was convinced was his.
"Take off the backpack Kurt, it's not yours," Mike yelled.
"Iss too, iss my bagpack."
"Show us what's in it!" We couldn't wait.
Assuming a smug grin, Kurt slowly pulled out my sweatshirt, and then my sweatpants, and then a pair of little girl's jeans with flowers on them. In fact, they looked strangely similar to the ones on the windbreaker. The image burned into a flash in front of my eyes just as someone turned out the lights. When my eyes reopened, I was halfway down in my sleeping bag with the sun seeping in through a tiny hole at the other end.
I woke up dirtier than I have ever been as an adult. I was picking clay from my calves as Kurt emerged from the tent in a far worse condition. It was a long ride home to Austin that Sunday. You don't have to know much about Karma to know that Kurt spent the better part of the morning reliving the wrath of José from the inside out. It was probably almost enough to pay back the 10 year-old that had to ride the bus back to her campsite in her wet bathing suit with no windbreaker to keep her warm. God bless her and let's hope her faith helped her process the horrifying sight she had endured the night before.
Like you said, I better go. Adios Amigos.
Where the cactus flowers grow
I was wishin' that the world would stop
When you said we'd better go
-Robert Earl Keen
I finally realized that the reason I started writing again was so that I could tell some funny stories. That's what I like to read at least, so let's skip the pleasantries and get down to brass tacks.
Mike, Kurt, Texas Bill and I were gorging on a Tuesday night pre-Thanksgiving feast in an Austin apartment built to shelter people that were younger than we were in 1995. It had been agreed upon on the night before the previous Super Bowl that we would all quit our jobs and move to Austin, and now we were celebrating the bounty of fading youth.
Filled and fattened, we turned to see Bill stride into the post-turkey and Natty Light haze to announce that we were all getting in the car and driving to Big Bend National Park to hike 27 miles through the backcountry. Now, this trip had been planned for the approaching long holiday weekend, so don't count that as crazy, but departure was technically scheduled for the following morning.
Nonetheless, the Fandango set off into the darkness. The car was running on not only gas refined from the fields of Arabia, but also that created by the sweet potatoes and green bean casserole. The air rushing in from the repeatedly opened windows offered a taste of West Texas Desert Dust.
Eight hours later we were fully stocked by the general store in Marathon, the last town for ninety miles in the wilderness north of the remote Big Bend of the Rio Grande.
We pulled in and hit the trail that morning, the back way. Anyone bothering to consult a park map can see that the loop is designed to go up into the mountains gradually, but our way was five straight miles of vertical switchbacks. I'm sure the peanut gallery will have something to say about this, but I think a rest stop every five minutes isn't too excessive when there's fifty pounds strapped to the back of the average fast-food eating American that I know myself to be.
At any rate, we spent the days gawking across the Santa Elena Canyon and the evenings under shooting stars so big we could hear them breaking up in the atmosphere. We dodged enormous piles of Black Bear muffins and jumped at every crunch of leaves, and finally finished the trail after four days. We set up camp in the desert before taking Robert Earl Keen's 'rowboat across the Rio Grande' to Boquillas, Mejico. We ate outside and bellied up to a bar that had horses lashed to a hitching post outside. As the sun was swallowed into the Mexican peaks in the distance, we smuggled aboard the leaky rowboat our contraband, 750 milliliters of undeclared Cuervo Gold.
As a point of order, I should say that at this juncture, the story takes on a color no more racy than your average George Jones drinking song, but definitely saltier than your average Boquillas margarita. Maybe put the kids to bed before you go on.
Descent into madness
As the stars started popping out and the crescent moon slipped toward those gluttonous mountains, the flu bug that had been nagging at the once-zealous Texas Bill dragged him gently into that goodnight. With all due sympathy to his weak system, this created an even bigger problem for the rest of us in that the campfire spot he had vacated instigated a new rationing system from Señor José. What was going to be divided by cuatro was absorbed with a number of canned peach chasers by the tres remaining caballeros.
The walk from the campsite to the Hot Springs on the shores of the Rio was confused enough itself, but after sinking into the magic waters, everything simply took on a new hue. There were escape swims across the border, and laughs that rang into the night; and all the while the figurative worm at the bottom of the bottle (Tom Robbins' buzzard god) was chewing his way into our hearts as our personal defenses crumbled like the walls of this ancient magic spring that had so seductively absorbed us.
And then the peace was broken.
A busload of interlopers descended upon the waters. By the hundreds of thousands they invaded, Southern Baptist by the looks of their hair and conservative swimwear--not a bikini among them. The tiny pool was suddenly filled with Holy Spirits--a swirling cocktail of Hay-Seuss and José. That's one they don't serve after Saturday midnight at my local watering hole, I can promise you that.
Now, it would be funny enough, except I forgot to mention that we left every square centimeter of our clothing on the riverbank. For us this meant sweatshirt, sweatpants, sandals...and boxers. Our pile was up there somewhere, somewhere on the far side of the Blessed Flock.
There were no options. They weren't leaving and we were already parboiled. Overcooked, in more ways than one, we could no longer maintain our stabs at polite conversation. Our stumbled mumbles of apology were followed by our surprising revelation that the Pagan Desert Underwear Fairy must have dived in and absconded with our lingerie, but we was gonna have to go anyhow. And off we glided like the sculpted Greek nudes of old, Kurt leading the way with a splash. He went straight to the pile of clothes, put on more than he brought and, as we would determine later, packed everything up in the nearest backpack and took off into the desert night. I soon followed, in even less admirable fashion, to the pile. My boxers were still there at least, and my sandals, but there were no sweats to be found. Mike and I wove back toward the campsite amidst final farewells to the faithful, and I landed promptly in some sort of coyote waller of a mudpit. After struggling for what seemed like ages while Mike looked for Kurt, I gave myself up for dead and drifted off to what I was sure was going to be the miserable afterlife to which those folks back at the springs knew I was doomed. Fortunately for those of you who want to hear the ending, I woke seconds later to Mike dragging me to my clay-encrusted feet.
We made it back to the campsite ahead of Kurt and were able to watch him emerge from the darkness. Our campsite flashlight revealed his attire slowly. It was the funniest thing I ever saw.
Kurt was wedged into a purple, flowered windbreaker. Size Youth Petite. His arms were pinned further back by a backpack--a backpack he was convinced was his.
"Take off the backpack Kurt, it's not yours," Mike yelled.
"Iss too, iss my bagpack."
"Show us what's in it!" We couldn't wait.
Assuming a smug grin, Kurt slowly pulled out my sweatshirt, and then my sweatpants, and then a pair of little girl's jeans with flowers on them. In fact, they looked strangely similar to the ones on the windbreaker. The image burned into a flash in front of my eyes just as someone turned out the lights. When my eyes reopened, I was halfway down in my sleeping bag with the sun seeping in through a tiny hole at the other end.
I woke up dirtier than I have ever been as an adult. I was picking clay from my calves as Kurt emerged from the tent in a far worse condition. It was a long ride home to Austin that Sunday. You don't have to know much about Karma to know that Kurt spent the better part of the morning reliving the wrath of José from the inside out. It was probably almost enough to pay back the 10 year-old that had to ride the bus back to her campsite in her wet bathing suit with no windbreaker to keep her warm. God bless her and let's hope her faith helped her process the horrifying sight she had endured the night before.
Like you said, I better go. Adios Amigos.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
A Scattering of D'advice
As most of y'all already know, one of my very oldest and closest friends is about to become a daddy for the first time. He's looking for a baby girl this fall, and the last time we were together he was asking me serious questions about what it's like. I don't think I gave a thoughtful enough answer, but I thought this might be a good place to explore it, and also to invite you other dads out there to throw in with some advice for our friend.
The obvious opener is that you have to fall in love with the young'un as quick as you can. Momma has already been tied, literally, to her for three-quarters of the year. This means you have to spend time with the little blob and talk to her and let her get to know you. You don't realize it, but she is sucking up everything like a Tarpon Springs sponge. Everything. They will not end up as distinct memories, so it's still ok to slip up and cuss now and then without her repeating it back to her therapist in 20 years, but it's the foundation of a person that she is building inside that sponge, so be smart about it.
For the first couple years, she is gonna want things. Milk, attention, sleep, basically your basics. The way she is going to ask for them is in the soul-piercing javelin of the cry. You have to respond to this, with words so she can associate what she wants to tell you later, and then go on about your important bidness. That's going to be your whole relationship for a while.
Then, as I am painfully reminded of this every day at the Montessori school where I work, You must develop an immunity to the power of your child's tears by the time they start talking. Whining and crying to get what they want has to be squelched, with a capital Q. Now it's Momma that's going to have the hardest time with this, so you have to keep an eye on her too. (I don't worry about ticking off my wife with this, because she knows it's true). If y'all are on the same page, and all kiddie whining and 'carrying on' is met not with acquiescence (with a lower case q), but rather with denial -- and carefully veiled rage -- it will all but disappear in a couple of days. It will certainly end a lot quicker when it does happen, and you don't always wind up buying the piece of crap that is only going to end up as closet liner within a week.
Now, my buddy's little girl is destined to have one of those Mommas that want to play dress up with the baby, and wants to pamper and pet and protect. These are all important things for Momma to do, but Daddy's job is a little different. Daddy has to be impenetrable in his kid's eyes. You never give your kids things to worry about. They don't need to see you scared, and it's fine if they want to think you could beat up the dad of that bully kid should the need arise. Dad's got to be strong and honest and provide a good example. And personally, I recommend being an ongoing source of trivia. Toss out some random but interesting facts at the dinner table once in a while. It ain't gonna hurt 'em.
Never hit the kid. When they're little take away things that are important to them. I'm talking mostly about privileges and treats, rather than food and shelter. When they get old enough, always go with the guilt trip and responsibility and that you 'feel like your trust was taken advantage of,' That's always a winner.
All in all, it's not as hard as changing the line on the weedeater, but it's harder than setting the clock on the DVD player. Plenty of good folks are brought up by bad dads, but why not give your own flesh and blood as many advantages as you can? That's what you signed up for.
Let me close with an embarrassing display of my knowledge of girly music. There's a John Mayer song that has always hit home with me, it came out the same year my daughter was born:
Fathers be good to your daughters,
Your daughters will love like you do,
Girls become lovers that turn into mothers,
So mothers be good to your daughters too.
Yeah, the lovers part creeps me out too, but just try not to think about that for at least a dozen or so years.
The obvious opener is that you have to fall in love with the young'un as quick as you can. Momma has already been tied, literally, to her for three-quarters of the year. This means you have to spend time with the little blob and talk to her and let her get to know you. You don't realize it, but she is sucking up everything like a Tarpon Springs sponge. Everything. They will not end up as distinct memories, so it's still ok to slip up and cuss now and then without her repeating it back to her therapist in 20 years, but it's the foundation of a person that she is building inside that sponge, so be smart about it.
For the first couple years, she is gonna want things. Milk, attention, sleep, basically your basics. The way she is going to ask for them is in the soul-piercing javelin of the cry. You have to respond to this, with words so she can associate what she wants to tell you later, and then go on about your important bidness. That's going to be your whole relationship for a while.
Then, as I am painfully reminded of this every day at the Montessori school where I work, You must develop an immunity to the power of your child's tears by the time they start talking. Whining and crying to get what they want has to be squelched, with a capital Q. Now it's Momma that's going to have the hardest time with this, so you have to keep an eye on her too. (I don't worry about ticking off my wife with this, because she knows it's true). If y'all are on the same page, and all kiddie whining and 'carrying on' is met not with acquiescence (with a lower case q), but rather with denial -- and carefully veiled rage -- it will all but disappear in a couple of days. It will certainly end a lot quicker when it does happen, and you don't always wind up buying the piece of crap that is only going to end up as closet liner within a week.
Now, my buddy's little girl is destined to have one of those Mommas that want to play dress up with the baby, and wants to pamper and pet and protect. These are all important things for Momma to do, but Daddy's job is a little different. Daddy has to be impenetrable in his kid's eyes. You never give your kids things to worry about. They don't need to see you scared, and it's fine if they want to think you could beat up the dad of that bully kid should the need arise. Dad's got to be strong and honest and provide a good example. And personally, I recommend being an ongoing source of trivia. Toss out some random but interesting facts at the dinner table once in a while. It ain't gonna hurt 'em.
Never hit the kid. When they're little take away things that are important to them. I'm talking mostly about privileges and treats, rather than food and shelter. When they get old enough, always go with the guilt trip and responsibility and that you 'feel like your trust was taken advantage of,' That's always a winner.
All in all, it's not as hard as changing the line on the weedeater, but it's harder than setting the clock on the DVD player. Plenty of good folks are brought up by bad dads, but why not give your own flesh and blood as many advantages as you can? That's what you signed up for.
Let me close with an embarrassing display of my knowledge of girly music. There's a John Mayer song that has always hit home with me, it came out the same year my daughter was born:
Fathers be good to your daughters,
Your daughters will love like you do,
Girls become lovers that turn into mothers,
So mothers be good to your daughters too.
Yeah, the lovers part creeps me out too, but just try not to think about that for at least a dozen or so years.
Monday, July 7, 2008
The Publisher Dies Hard
I hope those of you perusing this at work when you're supposed to be, well, working, don't begrudge me the fact that I am currently on summer vacation from school. There is no doubt that one of the best things about being in education is the leisurely pace of summer. The only thing I can compare it to is being unemployed. Which reminds me...
Before I get into the story of my final days as a newspaper publisher, I should point out that I have no idea what the laws are about libel in a forum like this. I haven't researched, or asked anyone for that matter, but I guess I'm going to assume that if I talk about someone or something, it had better be true. Now, I'm not going to use any real names of the figures involved in this story, but in a small community, it is hard to disguise all that well. So, I guess what I'm saying is that I ain't trying to hurt nobody's feelin's, but I need to get this off my chest.
I had started out in Avery County, North Carolina as an alien. I made it my home. I tried my best to fix what seemed like it was broken, and along the line I made a lot of people happy and I made a lot of people angry. I've mentioned some of this before, but when I started at that paper, I did what I was told by the editor to do. After I took control of the paper, people started coming to me with information, and I ended up realizing that I was doing the work of a bona fide political machine that had been running this place, well, forever. Through the editor with whom I worked and who I later supervised, I was helping that small group of people maintain control of the county. As days and weeks passed, I heard more and more about the things they had done, and it ended up being an ongoing conflict that I chronicled weekly in my column.
This went on through two of the most interesting years of my life, and just when the wife was set to pop with number two, out of nowhere swoops General Media Conglomerate Limited Corporation, Incorporated. The week they announced the purchase of my paper and all the other local papers, I gummed up the works. I threw a 'monkey in the wrench,' as Lt. John McClain would say.
The Republican primary was on the following Tuesday, and a woman came into my office. She said she had been involved in a relationship with the Machine's candidate for some office or another. I told her I would publish a letter to the editor if she would swear that it was all true. I published it, the candidate went crazy, the machine got on the horn with my new bosses. And my corporation-saturated bosses listened to it all. They talked to their lawyers. They huddled together and talked conservatively and quietly, and they decided that they had one inherited employee that wasn't quite ready to grace the cover of GMCLCI Quarterly. They didn't have a taste for the controversy that my adopted community craved. After they took my column away, they waited a few days to see if I'd quit, but that usually doesn't go over so well when the Missus is at eight and a half months. However, before I really got wound up to suck it up and stay, they trundled into my office in Newland and gave me the proverbial axe. There was some cozy severance, and a pretend promise of a job at one of their other papers, but I knew our brief but tangled tango had come to an end. So, I had six months of baby, writing, paperwork, and straight up Michael Keaton Mr. Mom moments, all on the government. There's really nothing like it. Except, as I mentioned, summer vacation.
One more thing, if it's bugging you who John McClain is, it's not a typo. The monkey in the wrench is the hero who foiled the Nakatomi building robbery in 'Die Hard.'
Before I get into the story of my final days as a newspaper publisher, I should point out that I have no idea what the laws are about libel in a forum like this. I haven't researched, or asked anyone for that matter, but I guess I'm going to assume that if I talk about someone or something, it had better be true. Now, I'm not going to use any real names of the figures involved in this story, but in a small community, it is hard to disguise all that well. So, I guess what I'm saying is that I ain't trying to hurt nobody's feelin's, but I need to get this off my chest.
I had started out in Avery County, North Carolina as an alien. I made it my home. I tried my best to fix what seemed like it was broken, and along the line I made a lot of people happy and I made a lot of people angry. I've mentioned some of this before, but when I started at that paper, I did what I was told by the editor to do. After I took control of the paper, people started coming to me with information, and I ended up realizing that I was doing the work of a bona fide political machine that had been running this place, well, forever. Through the editor with whom I worked and who I later supervised, I was helping that small group of people maintain control of the county. As days and weeks passed, I heard more and more about the things they had done, and it ended up being an ongoing conflict that I chronicled weekly in my column.
This went on through two of the most interesting years of my life, and just when the wife was set to pop with number two, out of nowhere swoops General Media Conglomerate Limited Corporation, Incorporated. The week they announced the purchase of my paper and all the other local papers, I gummed up the works. I threw a 'monkey in the wrench,' as Lt. John McClain would say.
The Republican primary was on the following Tuesday, and a woman came into my office. She said she had been involved in a relationship with the Machine's candidate for some office or another. I told her I would publish a letter to the editor if she would swear that it was all true. I published it, the candidate went crazy, the machine got on the horn with my new bosses. And my corporation-saturated bosses listened to it all. They talked to their lawyers. They huddled together and talked conservatively and quietly, and they decided that they had one inherited employee that wasn't quite ready to grace the cover of GMCLCI Quarterly. They didn't have a taste for the controversy that my adopted community craved. After they took my column away, they waited a few days to see if I'd quit, but that usually doesn't go over so well when the Missus is at eight and a half months. However, before I really got wound up to suck it up and stay, they trundled into my office in Newland and gave me the proverbial axe. There was some cozy severance, and a pretend promise of a job at one of their other papers, but I knew our brief but tangled tango had come to an end. So, I had six months of baby, writing, paperwork, and straight up Michael Keaton Mr. Mom moments, all on the government. There's really nothing like it. Except, as I mentioned, summer vacation.
One more thing, if it's bugging you who John McClain is, it's not a typo. The monkey in the wrench is the hero who foiled the Nakatomi building robbery in 'Die Hard.'
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