So you want to be a columnist...

I've just left my job at the Gabber, and am now about a week away from flat broke. Because my people back at the paper still love me, they have offered me this column. Not because, I suspect, they believe that I will greatly increase readership with my musings, but because they fear for my impending lack of beer money. So here goes my first shot...


Greetings from the College Kid

As many of you may know, I recently decided to leave my position at the paper in order to concentrate on my education. It wasn’t an easy decision to make, and I can tell you that two weeks into my semester at the University of South Florida, I am already missing my Gabber family.
However, I have been putting off my bachelor’s degree long enough. We don’t get any other shot at life, and when I left the University of Florida at the wizened age of twenty, I thought I would have no regrets. Turns out I was wrong.
But fear not, Gabber readers. While embarking on this new adventure – a goal I am finally realizing – I will be keeping in touch. In this column I will not only endeavor to keep you abreast of my life as a second-chance college kid, but also of the myriad of diversions that my new, flexible schedule now affords.
These first few weeks as a full-time student have been overwhelming. Many of you who have made the similar decision to go back to school will know what I mean. The truth is, you can’t go back.
As I said, when I left school ten years ago, I thought I didn’t need college. After all, I was the same age as my peers who were doing just fine at their restaurant and retail jobs. But now my friends have master’s degrees and doctorates, and I am in classes with significantly younger folks.
That’s okay, I tell myself. I am significantly wiser than many of them. My priorities are more grounded. This should be a piece of cake!
However, half-way into Dante’s Inferno and the five different versions of Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, I began to doubt myself.
Now, there’s nothing wrong with doubt. Doubt keeps you humble. But it also opens the door for a number of diversions. And by diversions I mean, of course, distractions. Chief among those distractions for me these past few weeks has been the Tavern at Bayboro on the USF St. Pete campus.
People, my college campus has a bar! Not fifty yards from my beginning Spanish classroom, there are students, professors and all manner of academics sipping Newcastle Ales, discussing philosophy, reading poetry and grooving to the occasional live bands! I am in heaven.
Not so good for Dante, but perfect for the aged college student who has long been old enough to sip an adult beverage.
Now, this little Tavern (formerly known as Tavern on the Green until the original – you know, the one in Central Park – got wind of it) is not just for college folks. But it is one of the best kept secrets in St. Petersburg. Combine that with some tasty sandwich selections and the adjoining Bayboro Books, it beats Dante’s Paradiso any day.
I have friends at the US Geological Survey (USGS) just two blocks away who consider this spot their second office. Of course, that’s government work for you. But after plugging away at the office or, in my case Chaucer, it’s incredible to look out at the water, sipping a fine imported brew and drinking in Florida’s “winter” sunshine.
Of course, there are a lot of places to do that in our fair metro area, but few of them are ten feet from my poetry class.
Now, don’t you worry. I’m still getting in plenty of studying. But going to school at this small, beautiful campus has some amazing perks. And, I imagine I’ll probably have a lot more fun in downtown St. Petersburg that I ever did in Gainesville.
I intend to make the most of it and, just in case you are not discovering your second childhood as I am, I will tell you all about it.
I’m sure the Gabber office will get along just fine without me. The Gabber is an unsinkable ship, as the boss likes to say. But if you get the urge, you can always stop over for a visit. I’ll be down at the Tavern, and who knows where else…
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 2/15/07

Resurrecting The Dying Game

I used to play this game with my mother: Which would you rather…? It basically consisted of me thinking up the most morbid, horrible ways you could die and asking her which she would prefer. I remember playing this game on car rides, always just me and her. Funny that I only played this game with her, because she never answered me, really. “Mom, which would you rather do: be burned at the stake or be disemboweled?” To which she would usually respond, “Aargh! Shelly! Neither!” Which, of course, I found tremendously unsatisfying and would proceed with something even more gruesome. I vaguely recall her thinking hot pokers in the eyes would be better than something…
I can see why my mom didn’t want to play that game, now. As a child, you feel so far away from death, it’s as if you’re talking about a fairy tale. I surely would not be burned at the stake or have hot pokers drilled into my eye sockets. I’m sure my mom didn’t think she would either. But, the older you get the more real death becomes. And talking about it - writing about it, even – is tempting it. Those superstitions – as old as human experience – come creeping in.
Throwing caution to the wind, I’ll say that obviously the very best way to go is quietly in your sleep after a long, eventful and remorseless life. Blissfull. Perhaps after a nice bottle of wine and an orgasm. We can’t all go that way, you know.
Second best would be quickly. At any point. Just as long as it was very, very quickly. Like a piano falling on you while you’re walking through a nice urban market. Or, getting hit by a car you never saw coming, thinking about an erotic moment you had with your lover. Or maybe a plane crash with somebody beautiful and famous, lighting up a cigarette and toasting your demise with a free mimosa.
There are good ways to go, I suppose.
But, surely, there are many more infinitely sucky ways to die. Those would probably be different for all of us, but long, painful illness and disembowelment come to mind. Death is death, and the moment it comes can’t be too long, I suppose. So, I think the absolute worst way to go would involve something grotesquely embarrassing. It’s a good thing that Elvis had a brilliant career to be remembered for, because dying on the john, trying to take a crap ranks right up there with the suckiest of all time.
Anyway, I digress. The Dying Game is fun and simple. Don't worry about tempting fate. Just be creative and go with it. Here, I'll help you. Which would you rather: be flayed alive or drown in your own puke? Have fun!