April 16, 2004
#70 :: Pulls
Too meek for bones through my septum, too square for even tattoos at that point, I was a square, square newspaperman, covering murder trials, city council meetings, disasters and defense contractor fraud for the L.A. Times. Magpie hunter-gatherer at the core, though. My inner automobile was probably a clapped-out maroon Checker cab cruising SoHo on plush air shocks, five dozen little charms, figurines and baubles dangling all jerky-sparkly from the headliner, the shift lever, air conditioning controls and mirrors. Straight-backed courtroom benches and drab city rooms forced my gray Volvo exterior, so I could merely dream a mobile cocoon of avocado naugahyde and faux cheetah, woofers bumping techno and deep dub. These little bits were all that showed, beads from an import shop wired to the zippers controlling the crisp black leather Filofax that controlled my conscientious, deadline-tight career. Today's research/multimedia environment has me balanced more easily somewhere between the two, wearing an earring, living out of an abused cellphone/pda full of phone numbers, lists and e-books, and ghost-piloting a mental TR6.
