Sportswriter, Roswell Daily Record

You forgot Martinsville, Va. It's another certainty in life.

 

Bump to the ippity-up:
http://www.journalismjobs.com/Job_Listing.cfm?JobID=325856

The Jason Voorhees of job postings rises again....

 

Almost Gordie Howe-like or Julio Franco-like in its durability. I can't believe no one wants to smell fish farts in Dexter. Songbird, it's time for your encore performance. The Bulldog Bowl is calling you.

 

Four words, friends: Don't. Fucking. Do. It.

If I hadn't left when I did I'd be in prison or dead. Prison because I killed someone or dead because I killed myself.

Edit: A quick story for emphasis. I arrived in Roswell early one Saturday evening, a half hour or so before sunset. Coming from the north, I was no farther into town than the Taco Bell, which is a mere quarter mile into town, before I wanted to turn around and make that 1,800-mile drive back to the Northeast. I didn't and I regret it. I've regretted it every day since then, for a multitude of reasons.

 

I guarantee it was a Poof, not a Nerf. Nerf's are too small for adult hands.

 

From the looks of things, it appears that someone else has broken or at least matched my record for shortest-ever tenure at the RDR.

I wonder if that drop-dead gorgeous gal at the museum still works there. Sigh. I was too old for her, anyway, though. I hate being too old for the 20-something gals.

 

This sounds like my tenure a hour-45 north in Clovis. Three days in and I realized I made a horrible vocational error.

Five months and umpteen lies from my weasely ME (the former SE) in and I was near suicidal.

Six months in -- or after the shit-for-brains, should-have-been-sweeping-floors-for-a-living publisher wanted to fire me for running the West Regional (3 1/2 hours away at the Pit) as centerpiece instead of Davis Love III shooting 62 at the Players on the other end of the country -- I was near homicidal.

Fortunately for my sanity, at the 11-month mark, I was paroled back to SoCal.

Eastern New Mexico sucks. Period. End. Of. Discussion.

 

Between the relentless sucking of Eastern NM and Oklahoma, Texas will never float into the Gulf of Mexico. Actually, the Oklahoma panhandle by itself sucks enough to keep Texas stationary. But that's another discussion.

The only positive cultural contribution of Eastern NM that comes to mind: Buddy Holly recording his hits in Clovis. That's about it. I've been across that mo-fo from Carlsbad to Clayton. Don't miss it.

 

I should have gotten out more, I never met/saw her. Of course, I never had a day off, so when was I supposed to.

 

Just over a year ago, I was 12 hours away from taking this gig. If not for the graphics lady at my then-current paper (and Xan's helpful advice), I probably would've taken the plunge.

There aren't too many decisions I've made where I can look back and say, "Damn, that was smart," but not going to Roswell was definitely one of them.

 

Ah. The hottest girl I ever saw there was a customer at Subway. She appeared to be about 23 (the age I was then) and was dressed as if she had just gotten off work and not school. I saw her just the once. A week before I left.

 

This is one of the funniest things I've ever read on this site and had me cackling out loud at work just now. Just thought it should be quoted on the second page so others can read it as well.