All hat, no cattle," a former colleague used to say dismissively of other reporters who liked to proclaim they were all that. In my mentor's mind, great journalists subscribed to the Nike School: just do it. Stop blowing smoke. Quit bragging. Bring back the story. Once you've done that, you've earned the right to brag.
As in journalism, so in life: I've earned the scars that crisscross my insides, so I feel I can throw my hands in the air and proclaim some victory over life. Sometimes the atoms even relax enough so I can breathe.
But here we are, on the cusp of December. The odd year is nearly over. Tonight, Moloney brought up the 27 Club (we were discussing the wagon and my odds of falling off that sucker) and I told her I'd wait until I'm 54 so I can go double the distance. She mentioned the odd years, which allowed me to retort: "I'll follow the rule. I turn 54 in 2015."
The cusp of December, and the holiday season swirls around my head, like my hair in a windstorm. Snow soon. I miss Los Angeles, where it never snows. But Dead Sara is right: it rains, it rains, it rains.
The key right now: keep my head dry and try to dodge the drops.