A lot has happened in my life since I wrote about riding bikes with Lance Armstrong slightly more than a year ago, which incidentally is the last time I felt the need to write anything on this here blog. In the past year, I hurt my knee doing sweet jump rope stunts; saw Lady Gaga in concert and consequently got vertigo from our seats, which were basically at altitude;
had an uneventful thirtysomething birthday got a trophy for my birthday; pet my dog; probed important City Council issues here and here; got a masters degree in hand-wringing and considered becoming a Vegas showgirl during an inaugural trip to Sin City.
But perhaps the most significant thing that happened to me in the last 365 days is that I became unemployed. By my own design. I made myself jobless. Yes, I am one of the three people of suspect intellect who left their jobs in this stagflation recession depression with no other job in the horizon. My departure was mostly a result of this and this, but there were other factors as well, such as the fact that I felt that I needed more time to sit on my couch in an oversized sweatsuit I stole from a wrestler when I was in college. Seriously, working a 50-hour a week job just did not give me enough lounging time. So I ditched that old ball and chain in favor of freedom. Oh, and uncertainty and instability. My faves!
During my two years and four months at Vermont’s alt weekly paper, I did a lot of stuff. Like I perfected the office chair spin and raised pencil tapping to a high art. I answered my phone and replied to some emails. But not all of them. In fact, not most of them. And when I wasn’t doing that stuff, I was writing. A lot. I filled 75 reporters notebooks and penned 218 stories. Some were pieces to be proud of, like these guys. Others were total clangers like this beauty. Or this one. God, I hated that one. Well, you can’t have a winner every time.