nude highway driving

The last time we invaded Iraq, when a man named Bush was president and the economy was tanking despite multiple lowerings of lending rates, I was a junior at Syracuse University studying abroad in London (but I can’t remember her name - ba dump, shhh … I slay me). I was a magazine major with an internship at Arena; proudly stood next to Billy Bragg as he sang at a big-ass protest in Trafalgar Square, only to see him perform again in a small club with Robyn Hitchcock and R.E.M. under the band name Bingo Hand Job; and frightened my writing studio with an essay on why I love Toilet Duck. Pigface released their first album, Nirvana was an underground act, Jesus Jones was being played way too much, I was in love with Winona Ryder and I vowed to stay in Europe if the government decided to institute a draft.

And I swore I would never work for a newspaper.

Now we’re invading again, with a man named Bush as president and the economy tanking despite multiple lowerings of lending rates, and I’ve been editing at newspapers for 11 years (don’t ask why - I have no answer). I already am burned out on covering the war, probably because I’m burned out on the news in general, and am fighting inner demons to try to make my escape from this part of the business (or the entire business) and just write all the time. I still believe in Billy Bragg, Robyn Hitchcock still cracks me up, and I kinda dig R.E.M.’s recent anti-war song. Despite cleaning toilets very well with his militant germ-fighting skills, Toilet Duck no longer exists. I have no idea where the hell Jesus Jones is, Kurt Cobain’s been dead nine years and I just missed the latest Pigface tour. Winona’s still pretty, she just needs to eat a couple pieces of cake. I’m too old to get drafted.

And I swear I won’t work for any more newspapers.