...and knowing when to make the call
the bastard has been chatting with his coworkers
not his immediate coworkers
his immediate coworkers.
i talk to them all the time.
i talk with pcat and the singing editor about heroes.
hell i talk to left hand rob all the time. in fact he helped me check myself and diffuse shit but, i'll talk about that some other time.
but i've been talking to another art director in the building. we'll call him "stuff". because the first stories i've heard about him was from ms. cin. she told second hand tales of his former life at another magazine that i won't go into. they're someone else's stories, not mine.
anyway, stuff and i started talking one day when his newborn kept him up all night with a stuffed up nose and gas. and i told him i sympathized, thinking about the night that the boy was up past 2 with a stuffed up nose and the ony thing that put him back to sleep was coast to coast with art bell. stuff confided later that he initially thought to stay away from the bald guys of the outdoors. we all looked dangerous. and i am. anyway, stuff and i talked art. we talked the business. it was good. i came away with some ideas that will continue to make selling bullets seven times a year look good. more contemporary but, it was nice to talk to another parent as i never really do anymore. it seems the only parents in the building are on the bastard's old stomping ground on the 10th floor and they just make me want to smash.
anyway flash forward to tonight. stuff was working on some stuff with an editor near the coffee room and afterwards he says whatup. i ask him how his weekend was as he and his eldest were going to see the tree at rockefeller. he said it was great and how he lives for that stuff. stuff cares about having a family. like a man who got himself a second chance at life, he says he doesn't care how long he has to plug away at mystery science magazine. he does it all for the kids. and the bastard does too. only the boy is 2500 miles away. i tell him that it sounded great and how i was a little bummed that the boy won't be coming in this year and he asked how old the boy was so, i took out the picture i keep in me wallet. and he praises his mohawk and looks me in the eye and says , "you love em don'tcha?"
then he slaps me on the arm and heads on his way. towards the business of making science magazines for our new ant overlords.
so i called the boy. it was good to hear his voice. god dammit, i'm so tired.