Editors Note:

EDITOR'S NOTE: Fresh off a three year managerial stint, your friendly neighborhood lenslinger is back on the street and under heavy deadline. As the numbing effects of his self-imposed containment wear off, vexing reflections and pithy epistles are sure to follow...

Tuesday, September 15, 2015

Quantum Heap

Remember the early 90's television show where at the end of each episode that dude from McGyver would lock eyes with Harry Dean Stanton Dean Stockwell and instantly transport into another person's life? I didn't either - until a prolonged patch of personal turbulence left me vexed, hexed and more than a little perplexed. Nooo, I didn't leap from the body a brain surgeon to that of a ballerina before that last Pepto-Bismol ad, but I did manage to alter my corporeal form before the final credits began to roll. Credits: that's what we used to call the rolling scroll of names shown at the end of each and every broadcast. Even the local news did it - which is why I grew up marveling at the Teleprompter stylings of one Myron J. Botnik. Dude was on fleek! These days, Shakespeare himself could flex the text for your local news-readers and you'd never know (though they'd happily mine YOUR social data for winking selfies, buyer tie-ins and any possible Ashley Madison infractions).

But I digress.

Which beings me to the question WHY? Why do I feel compelled to encapsulate the verve of The Fourth Estate? I dunno ... it just feels good. If you're a person of the writing persuasion, you understand. Putting one's thoughts on paper or pixels or even peanut butter is wildly therapeutic (if by 'therapeutic' you men the sensation of pulling out one's favorite eyelashes while sitting in an empty room). I myself once harvested a bumper crop of warm and fuzzies by employing this exact method. But things were easier back then. More days than not, I'd trundle my highly-logo'd lens to the edge of intrigue and come away bristling with theses, reflections and the occasional Top Ten list. Nowadays, I spend my time making more lukewarm phone calls than white hot deadlines. I'd tell you all about it, but each time  I try I grow so bored, I click over to Facebook and scroll through cat videos, Trump eulogies and all those nice people wondering what kind of rutabaga I'd be...

American Purple Top, if you're curious.

Chances are if you're still reading this you ARE curious. That or really, really bored. Either way, I'm grateful. See, it's high time I get these soliloquies out of my frontal lobe and into the hearts and minds of the half dozen folk who used to regularly read my mind. Question is, can I? Sure, I can absolutely smoke a spreadsheet these days, but you're not gonna drop by to read three fresh paragraphs on how I nailed the margins on that last TPS Report. (Yeeaah...) I could try to sex it up, but would even the best lamentations of an office hack compare to that time a lion pissed in my face? I think not. But, hey, at least I'm thinkin' again! I've spent most of the past 24 months in a fugue like state and while that may make for great copy, it's never going to land a pencil sketch of my fuzzy mug on one of those Barns and Nobles tote bags. So, click back every once in awhile to see how I do on my latest pledge to achieve my density destiny. That, or check out the old Quantum Leap episode where dude pops the collar of his jean jacket and goes from being a crack-addled taxidermist to the Dalai freakin' Lama.

I'm sure it's on Netflix...