mayhem

Now as these pre-winter days may blend together, my mind refuses to keep up with with the madness at headquarters. Erin, the reporter of the north has vanished to Mexico to wed a cook. And Kristin, dearing reporter in the west has fled to follow her, bask in liquor and soak up the sun. The clan that has traipsed south has left my closest columnist and I in the dust of the barren Dallas newscape. Flooding with too much to do, we feel the office is drowning and the only way to keep up is to boil wine with fruit at night and slurp it during the day. Some wine and chocolate may momentarily calm our nerves, but these wretched women leaving us behind have our cages rattles and ready to seige our editor.

Some will call to provide us with hesistant information pertaining to the story line - but its due soon, and now the editors are up our asses. They call back - information has changed and sources have fallen through, but despite these frustrating, unreliable manics, I manage to get numerous story lines through the mojo wire.

Headquarters is up our ass, and without the tyrannized red head manning the fort, defending our expense reports,and proving our work worthy, we're screaming up and down the halls, paperwork is flying, and the mojo wire just went of the hook.

They've called in reinforcements - from the west. Amy is at the other end of the mojo wire, processing the ongoing stream of useless, erratic information. The intern is scared as I bark at her to get this marvelous machine working."What have you done?" demanding at her to fix it- and quickly - our notes may only be good for a few hours, before the wine starts to take hold, who knows what information will be true.

My columnist and I sit at the typewriter, hours of work, predetermined. The young intern finally puts the wire back together, presses the button, and sooner or later, the editor is on the other end of the wire, transmitting our notoriously vital stories.

Still drowning in these futile sources & phone calls, there seems to be more reinforcements on the other end, but my beloved columnist and I must find more to expense this ravaging week. But the wine hasn't been enough for Brittney. She just quit.

for old times sake...

Nearly three weeks later I sit down to write something. My editor will not be pleased. But for his sake, knowing that many of you in my defense will berate him, he will remain anonymous. The month of September has been quite uneven. I am unsure even of where to progress as I write. I may resort to the company calendar which has utterly swallowed my existence for the past three weeks. Although I can only contribute my own personal travels to my current financial demise.

Barbados has quickly crept up on the financials, for it was not my trip to the state of New York which I thought might be a bit catastrophic, but regardless, now I just sit here next to the man in armor - literally- exhausted at the fact the internet won't come about. Although now that I am thoroughly examining the subject, I am not sure who's at fault here - as I will lay the blame on anyone but myself - perhaps thee editor.

The weekends of September have blended together, as the weather remains stagnant here in Dallas, aside from a few spotted tornadoes. The weekend of which we render to those who labored is by far one of the more favored weekends of 2010. It's funny how some think of New Yorkers here in the south - some call me a yankee (never really cared which way for the term); some of course always presume New York means Manhattan (not much different than those Long Island-bred); and some great ones just don't give a shit (usually those not born 'n' raised in Texas - if only I could write with an accent).

But now what these Texans don't know is that my New York is made up of content, rolling greenery. Rich lustrous lakes. Blue jays out my bedroom window in the apple tree, baby fawns crossing your path in the crook. Things the Texans could never dream of seeing in this barren concrete jungle.

The six days spent there were among those closest to my heart. Although the hotel my house seemed to be, I spent every night next to my sister in our great grandmother, Sarah Rebecca's, antique cherry oak bed -I can only imagine how much more beautiful it would be if the Pipe & I hadn't spend years jumping around and doing other dirty things on.

Numerous adventures in a plethora of different motorized machines - old American muscle, tractors, Packards, dirt bikes & Jeeps. Sunday cruises in the Mustang with my father - everytime I get behind the wheel he'll remind me of the light gas petal and thigh-tightening brakes. Beers, barbeque & salt potatoes poolside with my stepmother. Gasoline filled beer cans thrown in to the bonfires with old friends. Bars downtown Syracuse with my gorgeous sister, her closest treasure, and an old best friend - reminiscing of high school jackasses & jersey shore style tans.

Unlike the treacherous conditions that the winters of upstate New York will bring you, it was the breeze of leaves, cool summer nights and flawless pre-autumn days that made me miss home so much. The joys of this trip were brought to me upon the vows of my closest uncle. An honest man close to me in age, who will forever stand second in line to my sister and I as father.

But too much deliberation will put me in the place of the devil. An ongoing battle I can't seem to harbor..