by Brad

May 18, 2007

YOU STINK OF WHAMMY

We met down by the river on the final day in May
And when I leaned down to kiss her she did not turn away
I drew out all my money and together we did vow
To leave that very evening and get away somehow

The home computer developed a couple of glitches that prompted a visit to the computer repair shop, which in turn rendered me in exile from the cyber world. Save for a few glimpses at work, I was banished from the Internets. This chain of events also meant that I could not offer up my weekly dose of Exit 149 (A Quinn Martin Production). Many of you were thrilled, while one of you was dismayed (thanks for reading, Mom). However, the computer is now fixed and all is right with the world--or rather, as right as the world is ever going to get.

I was disappointed Mr. Surf Report didn't announce I was "on assignment" last week to indicate I wouldn't be filing a report. It's what the local news affiliates do around here when an anchor or top reporter goes missing for a few days. "On assignment" conjures up visions--on the local level--of Sweeps Month stunts to boost the ratings. You know, extra sensationalized stories delivered under the guise of news. Tonight on Action News, we go undercover to see which massage parlors deliver a happy ending, or Tonight on Action News, part one of Kent Brockman's up close and personal interview with a cross-dressing crackhead on the street.

Back in the day, when I was younger and actually had dreams, there was a local anchor who was a struggling alcoholic and the words "on assignment" meant one thing: this anchor was drying out and laying low. This anchor was a popular person and one of the bigger local celebrities. I think I even shook his hand once at a football game. However, he could not control his love for the drink and it would land him into trouble. It was never a big deal, like it's treated now. I can't recall anyone ever starting up a campaign to get him off the air. No, it was part of his nature and most people pitied him for his inability to stay sober.

That didn't stop them from making fun of him. No, he was one of those automatic jokes when you saw a stop sign that had been knocked over ("Chuck was here" would usually be the knee-jerk response). If you saw a trash can by the curb filled with beer bottle and/or liquor bottles, the appropriate thing to say was Chuck must have been "on assignment" last night.

But people loved him, or at least, they loved getting their local stories from him and he delivered them until the day he retired. Chuck stayed on the air until he threw back one too many. Then he would disappear for a week or two. Maybe he would be gin-soaked and get too touchy-feely with the cashier at the grocery store, or he would be all bourboned-up and drive his car into the neighbor's yard and pass out on the lawn. Whatever the reason, if Chuck went "on assignment," you knew he had pushed the boozing envelope too far.

I laughed along with everyone else until his son started hanging out with us on occasion when we were in high school. He was a pretty cool guy. He did most things high schoolers did and he could even get away with a few things since he was Chuck's son. However, he would never talk about his father and if the subject ever came up, he was quick to get it on to something else. It was obvious, even to me and my friends, that he was hurt by the way Chuck behaved. There might have been more to it, but our intelligence only went so far.

We decided to put a moratorium on the Chuck jokes, for his son's sake. We agreed to laugh at other drunks and alcoholics, but Chuck was off-limits. I thought this was pretty mature thinking for us, considering we were at that shallow and moronic age of 17. I figured we would all be tapped to serve as experts on all types of advisory panels after our historic decision, but it never came to be.

So, even though Mr. Surf Report never declared me "on assignment," you can rest easy knowing I wasn't off somewhere getting a serious drink on. There wasn't an extended Lost Weekend either, with fuzzy memories of cheerleader car washes gone wild, or bingo games thrown into disarray. No, there was only the boring old computer out-of-service excuse. A common malady of the 21st Century.

All is good now in this house that we call home somewhere off Exit 149. I'm back online, mingling in the cyber world (in a clean way) and my mother can rest easy in knowing that I'm using my English degree once again, albeit in a limited capacity.


Write Brad at exit149@gmail.com

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