1) Rockit by Herbie Hancock. I was slightly creeped out by this video as a kid. I lie. I was TOTALLY creeped out by this video as a kid. Especially by the bird-bot.

2) And, here is the end: The theme song to MacGyver. I started this with the theme to Hill Street Blues so I had to finish with another theme song. I was torn between this and Knight Rider but everyone goes with Knight Rider.

Perhaps this will return in 2013 after that installment of fotos de marzo. Hopefully, next time, this is all contained in April.

Part 2.

Continued in the next post

MARVEL AT NOT ONLY A PAYPHONE BUT A GIANT CAR PHONE.

This entire exercise was interesting in that it reminded me of how much I actually remember from the first seven years of my life and how a good chunk of that is music. The most interesting thing is how some of these songs existed before I was born and still had enough staying power to still be on the air later in the ’80s. I’ve stopped listening to the radio so I don’t know is, e.g. songs and videos from the early 2000s still pop up. The reason this happened in the ’80s is probably because videos were new at the time and, with the volume of music video shows, you were going to run out of them at some point.

Additionally, I never considered the diversity of music that was played in my house growing up and I see how it shaped my choices in music today. That mishmash of things from ABBA to ZZ Top as a child is probably why a typical day of music includes Sting’s Desert Rose, an 8-bit cover of The Mars Volta, indie bands you never heard of before, electronica and then all 18:41 of Isaac Hayes’ cover of By the Time I Get to Phoenix (which, by the way, is the greatest thing in the world other than The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady by Charles Mingus).

As I said before, I’m going to lay off the themes for a bit, especially since this one got way off the rails. So much for it as being as easy as “Photos of March.”

After the next video, we’ll return to your regularly scheduled irrelevant tidbits about my life, already in progress.

That said, that day/week was such an aberration, I’ve wondered exactly what went wrong; I know it’s because I’m so isolated here. I firmly believe I lost control because I was that excited about being around people I’ve known at least a decade. I sped up there although I had hours to spare. I was going to take a nap in my hotel room but I couldn’t just sit there. Want to see me out of character? Deprive me of some of my favorite daily experiences for five months and then bring me back.

IF I HAD A SLURPEE’S WEIGHT IN GOLD, I WOULD PAY THAT FOR ONE RIGHT NOW AND I ONLY WANT ONE BECAUSE THE NEAREST 7-ELEVEN IS OVER 170 MILES AWAY.

I have to get out of here.

I mean, I love my job and my roommates are cool but it’s not the same. I have hundreds of people who love me very much and the only woman I’ll ever marry but all but two of them are at least one state away and I hate that. I’m not depressed. I’m just … bored.

On top of that, the end of a daily paper in New Orleans and the elimination of copy editors in Colorado is making me reassess the whole journalism thing. I know it will survive as an industry and this is the transitional period but this period is truly scary. I’ve seen the necessity for editors firsthand. I know that I don’t want to be a reporter anymore. I appreciate the beauty of page design and fonts and I know we can translate that onto websites but the current thing is to just plop text on the page with a slide show/video on top. My job in its current form is becoming obsolete. Once upon a time, it was separate from page design. Tomorrow, it will be folded into something else or, as in Colorado, considered superfluous (as they misspell a word in the headline describing it). Being at a daily used to be a badge of prestige. Being at a daily is now wondering when it ceases to come out seven days a week. Or worse.

There are other editor jobs in the world. In the far back corner of my mind, I pictured myself as an awesome old man looking over the printing press at the newspaper I owned lock, stock and barrel. Staring at my newsroom in Hopewell on those days where our thrice weekly scooped two larger daily newspapers and TV news may have been my John Paul Jones moments but the fact of the matter is that the Bonhomme Richard still slipped beneath the waves.

I don’t know what’s next beyond knowing that it probably won’t involve journalism. That is the biggest thing to accept. I’m the last of the dinosaurs; I have no stomach for running out to cover a story, taking photos and video and slamming it onto a website as soon as possible with no true checks and balances. Hopefully, I’m wrong and the necessity of having the process we have will survive in some form.

The other thing I do know is next involves the people I miss and me heading north. How far north, I don’t know yet. It’s going to be soon, though.

Very soon.

It has to be.

So, here is the second runner-up to the last post of music from the 1980s: Dancing with Myself.

This almost doesn’t count since this was first recorded in 1980 by Generation X, which involved Billy Idol. As there is no year 0 in our calendar, 1980 is the last year of the ’70s. This is the 1981 version so it counts.

Phil Collins for the win, especially around 3:20.

This has been in my head for over 24 hours now. At least it isn’t Wishing Well.

Anyway, since I’m still here, my mom and I did some more minor housework (as compared to yesterday where, if I actually had a major heart condition as initially feared last weekend, I would have keeled over). During the course of this, my grandfather came up and, eventually, his sisters — my great aunts — in Asbury Park, N.J.

I’ve talked about researching them but never followed through. I never got their names.

So far, I’ve discovered that they were born in 1887 and 1890 (Grandpa Elliott was born in 1893). One of my great aunts died in 1975. I need full Internet access, newspaper records and, once Bill gets home and has extended leave, we’re having a Bruce Springsteen-Elliott Family adventure.

The physically going there point will be about a year from now at the earliest. My goal is that, whenever it happens, I’ll be heading there from New York.

I haven’t seen Renée since March. I worked for over a week straight to have the weekend off to see her. I had been a little off ar work toward the end and I chalked it up to just wanting the week to hurry along. When Friday hit, I was antsy and a little absent-minded. It took me three attempts to get out the house and I left entirely too early.

As I neared Virginia, I stopped slowing down for the towns along the way. I just couldn’t wait although I was early. I got a ticket and figured I’d just eat it and move on.

I was there about when I was going to originally and figured it was too late to remake the plans I broke when I decided to get there later. I still needed to kill a lot of time so I called up someone who lived nearby.

I was fine till a drink was made. I figured it wouldn’t be strong as it was known that I had to drive in a few hours. It was too much. I realized I was screwed. I took the risk and immediately got pulled over.

I’m supposed to be the responsible one. I’m always the responsible one. Then I had not one but two tickets in less than 24 hours and the second one far worst than the first. And I stranded the love of my life. I freaked out. They stuck me in the drunk tank till morning.

I was still out of it. My wallet and my phone were in my car. I figured I’d walk till I sobered up and could figure out what to do. I was also severely dehydrated and fell in some mud after taking a path. The intent was to sit and sober up there but … no. Splat. Fail. It was so gross but I couldn’t get up for a bit. I may have passed out for a bit. I don’t know. THEN I discovered I was stuck in it. It was so disgusting.

It took me a good hour to get out of it. I lost my shoes in that muck. I felt like I was going to die. Seriously? I’m going to die of, what I  alcohol poisoning in a marsh? Screw that.

I staggered to a 7-11 and called 911. Something was seriously wrong and I wanted to know what.

Everything was out of whack. I got an EKG, a CT scan and a bunch of fluids. I realized that Renée was somewhere and panicked. I decided that I had to have gone crazy. It was the only explanation for everything. I asked to be analyzed.

After the hospital stabilized me, diagnosis: drunk fuck, they sent me over late Sunday afternoon. No therapist was on duty at the time so I got to get the mud off me, get my clothes clean and eat for the first time since Friday. Then I more or less passed out from exhaustion. The next day, the therapist said I had trouble adjusting, whatever that means (diagnosis: drunk fuck who’s an overreacting idiot) and made me stay overnight. I guess to make sure I’m not crazier than the crazy you know and love.

I was finally in a position where I could access a phone and discovered that the entire world was looking for me.

I also talked to Renée. Hearing her say she loves me after all of that bullshit was the greatest thing ever.

The stay was interesting. I was the only one there not on medications and without a horrific situation that led to there. It really put things in perspective. All that despair and then there is this bastard who came in covered in mud with a torn shirt after sobering up. I wondered how many lost party guys with no ID wind up there on Sundays as a lesson.

This morning, I was told to GTFO and here we are. Best case scenario, I get my license back with no huge restraints by Friday, I have a good bit of fines and a lesson learned the hard way. It just sucks that it robbed me of seeing Renée till, luckily, later this month. This distance between us must end soon.

I go back to work Sunday and, beyond throwing this out here because I’m keeping my word, I’m just going to move past this.

I have a lot of making up to do for my coworkers, my mom and, especially, my future wife. May this be the only time I feel that I let her down.

I thank you all for the concern. This was an amazing perfect storm of suck. It’s good to know how many people care about you but it’s a shitty way to find out.

I was once asked why I announce going MIA on Facebook and Twitter; this is why. If I say I’m out, I’m out. If I don’t, something went horribly wrong. Thank you for heeding that call.

I was too lazy to post the pdf as a photo/take a better picture.

My only instructions were to run that one mugshot big, get those two photos and other mugs in, get a timeline and info box in, post the two stories under one headline and blow the managing editor away. The thing I do like about the berliner size is that, some days, they dedicate almost the entire or the entire front to the story of the day. This was it. I saw some minor things I should have done better but I did this hard against deadline. About this time two years ago was the first time I designed a page. This paper’s editor was budding mancrush pleased. Despite the minor flaws, I’m pleased. This caught someone’s eye and they plunked down 50 cents. I don’t need to be the one writing the story as long as, at the literal end of the day, I make the ugly truth look good on paper. And that’s why, regardless of what has been thrown at me the past six years, I look forward to going to work every morning.