For the last six years, I’ve lived the life of a journalist, ever striving toward the ideal of the naked man on top of a mountain far above everything else, shouting only what he sees and adding no commentary.
Some may question adding the nudity qualification to the life of a journalist, but if there is one thing that I’ve learned over the past six years, it is that a journalist is as naked as they come. Wearing no clothes for fear of a brand name being construed as bias.Wearing no clothes to leave one’s proverbial junk floating in the breeze, open and exposed to anyone wanting to take a hack. A journalist finds himself ever cold because nobody ever offers him a blanket when he succeeds at his job. The only feedback the journalist gets comes in the form of a vicious machete swipe at his junk when he messes something up. This is the life I have chosen to lead the past six years.
Whoa, hold the fuckin’ phone! Have I gotten bitter or what? I haven’t always been this cynical, have I? It must have been the blood-sucking savages this year, shouting for my head on a pike for telling the truth. Ignorant bastards. Ah well, freedom of speech and all. But deep-seeded ranting comes from somewhere deeper than just letting the Mob get me down. I wonder where it came from …
Cue flashback.
I was a bright-eyed 16-year-old looking for an easy job. The Turlock Journal was hiring a sports writer. “”Me know sports. Me know writing,”” I thought. This job was made for me. Two years and 10,000 Little League games later (yes, that includes dealing with parents at 10,000 Little League games–don’t get me started), I was a full-fledged news writer for the paper lovingly nicknamed the Turlock Urinal.
Suddenly I had responsibility, which sucked. I tried to fake my way through most of it, but I unintentionally started to learn stuff, both about the profession and myself. Ain’t that a bitch?
In addition to covering sporting events, I also got to cover some mind-blowing shit that has stuck with me throughout my young life. I was at the scene of a fatal accident and watched a woman breathe her last breath. I interviewed a 6-year-old girl with cancer who gave me a hug when I left. She died shortly after. As I attempted to do an obituary, I unknowingly was the first person to tell a man that one of his best friends had died. I attended my first country concert as a reviewer for the paper — and yes, my tractor is sexy. I watched young kids rejoice as their prized pigs took home the proverbial bacon at the county fair.
It wasn’t just the events that gave me my learnin’. My mentors, Gene Lieb, Mike Gale and Don Eldridge, all taught me about what it was like to be a journalist and a man (no, not in that way, pervert). Geno taught me how to look at the whole story and relate it to the reader. Mikey taught me not to take shit from anyone, no matter how much bigger they are than you. Donny … well, he taught me that there are some sites on the Internet that I wish I could erase from memory. Coincidentally, he was recently pinched on charges of attempting to bed a 14-year-old honey from online. Go figure.
Fast-forward to freshman year at UCSD. The setting? None other than the illustrious Guardian office.
I walked into the office as the cockiest bastard you’d ever want to meet. To me, the Guardian would be lucky to have me on staff. I was such a prick.
Fortunately, the first person that I met on the paper was even more of a cocky prick, so when he introduced me to everyone else, I seemed normal by comparison. It was in that fate-filled moment that I encountered Jessica “”No, I’m not a femi-nazi and I’m definitely not high on crack”” Scheppmann. She hired me out of desperation, and I wanted to ravage her sexy body out of desperation. It was a match made in the Guardian, a phrase that would come up surprisingly often for me over the following four years.
To my great shock, the lesson in life didn’t end in the Urinal. The Guardian arguably had more of an impact on my life than Adolphus, Pete, Jack, Jose and Johnny (the lords of liquor for the un-initiated). It was during my four-year stint at the G that I found love, lost it, learned to loathe the ignorant, laughed my ass off and was told that rolling bread down a hallway while spraying shaving cream on the walls of the Aladdin hotel was unacceptable behavior, even in Las Vegas.
The actual work that I did at the G (the amount of which is currently up for debate) was surprisingly fulfilling. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t expect much when I applied. It was just something that I was good at and could get me some extra coin. Despite being the arrogant prick that he was, Marc was extraordinarily good at what he did. I’ve learned a lot from the head honchos since him as well.
Vincenzo eased my fears and showed me that you didn’t have to be a prick to be good at what you do. Ali No-No taught me not only that sometimes you have to detach yourself from work, but that you can’t truly judge who a person is until you talk to them outside of work. Jeff taught me that busting gear is a true art form. The four of you have had more of an impact on me than you know, both who I am as an editor and who I am as a person. Thanks.
One of the most surprising things that I learned during my sentence at the G was that work could be fun. Not only was the actual paper satisfying, but the social scene and tight-knit community of co-workers was truly an inspiration. I truly consider a lot of you to be family. Yes, I am getting sappy, but bear with me. Even when I was super-stressed and a giant asshole of a boss, y’all kept me grounded and lovin’ life and work. Thank you.
Fade back to present …
I guess, things haven’t been so bad over the years. On the whole, there have been way more good times than bad. Unfortunately, the bad ones just seem to stand out a little more.
Before I end this Homer-esque odyssey, there are some personal shout-outs that need to be made lest I be remiss in my duties.
First and foremost, to the man known simply as Bill. You’ve been a great friend and mentor. I must thank you for leading me through the most insane quarter of my entire life. To this day, I’m not sure how we (or our livers, for that matter) survived. You’ve also been there with me to see the sun rise in Vegas (you know it’s sad when people are calling you degenerates in Vegas). You’re living proof that a guy can work hard and play hard. You’ve also helped me through some rough times. Thanks for always being there.
To Sir Charles and Princess Lauren, y’all have been awesome this year. I can’t imagine getting through the year without you two. Charlie, you’ve been a great friend and co-worker over the years. You’ve been the voice of reason that has kept me alive and a free man on several occasions. I’ll try not to oppress you too much. Lauren, you’ve been the bright spot in many of my days. Thanks.
Evan, the paper is in your hands now. We’ve had some good times over the past couple of years. Don’t forget to pass those times on to the new kids. Don’t let them forget that some things are more important than work.
While work has been at the forefront of my life for the past, I couldn’t have gotten through the last four years without the love and support of my family.
Mom and Dad, you two have always been there when I needed you and even when I didn’t. I love you guys with all my heart, and thank you with all my heart and then some. Ashly, what’s crack-a-lackin’ g-funk? I love you, dawg. You’ve had my back from day one. I guess havin’ a sister ain’t so bad after all. I love you and am very proud of you.
So, that’s just about it. It’s time for me to grab a suit, tuck my proverbial junk into the relative safety of my boxers and bid this life of journalism adieu. It’s a lot harder than I thought it would be, but we’ll always have Vegas.
P.S. To everyone else that I’m too drunk to say: Thank you.
