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NBC’s Richard Engel stomps around arid dessert climates squinting, searching, and asking the hard questions. Pretty-boy David Muir loves nothing more than an ABC live-feed of squatting in a disaster area; he often picks up objects and then puts them down with a disbelieving shrug. And CNN’s Anderson Coopper is always in some Banana Republic—not the gay strip club, the socio-economic regime, although…
But why, oh why, must they always wear cargo pants?
What are journalists carrying that necessitates not only a fisherman’s vest full of pockets, but additional cargo pants? This isn’t 1996 when these pockets could have been filled with old tissues, Chapstick, and Koosh balls. Heck, the pockets don’t even look full! After all, filled pockets make for an unflatteringly chubby reporter and Mr. Cooper is nothing if not svelte! So, what then, I ask?
I have no definite answer. Like so many others, I dream of getting into Anderson Cooper’s pants. I assume we’re all on the same page as to the reason why: discovering what is in the pockets.
But I sometimes wonder if the network provides the pants and vest. And when reporters are fired it’s like, “O’Malley! You’re off the Pakistan beat. Turn in your vest and cargo pants.” And then O’Malley, his eyes filled with a mix of shame and anger, removes his khaki cargo pants and olive-hued vest, as Diane Sawyer looks on shaking her head with dismay: O’Malley was four days away from retirement, and now he’s not wearing pants.
Fearing my self-proclaimed “Java slavery” (not to be confused with slaves in the Indonesian territory of Java), I decided to avoid coffee today and thereby prove I do not have an addiction. Because, really, who needs coffee?
Answer: I do. I NEED IT. I NEED IT NOW.
Today, I woke up at 7:30. Probably because my brain had slowed to a halt from the daily caffeine drought from 7pm to 7am. But, I foolishly misread this as my body’s vote of confidence: “You don’t need a stimulant to get things done!”
I showered; I went grocery shopping; I watched The View—with a significant amount of mug-envy. Everything was going well.
Now, the headache has begun.
“Withdraw” is such a dirty word. I prefer to conceive of my synapses firing as a game of Operation. Occasionally, my brain attempts to remove the funny bone (for example) and without caffeine isn’t as precise. And, lo, an electric axe slams through my head, throwing me into chills and mood swings.
“Is that you, coffee?” I ask with each hack. “Your Columbian drug roots are showing!”
I’ll keep you updated…
New Yorkers reach a point where they catch themselves saying things like “Oh my god! Is that a bedbug?! Oh, wait. No, it’s just mouse shit.” And couldn’t be happier about it! Ask anyone and you’ll hear their personal hatred-rankings for: bedbugs, mice, roaches, crime, slum lords, loud Latino music, and stairs. [Personally: 1, 5, 4, 2, 7, 3, 8]
Recently, while reliving myself at 3am—like a gentleman—in a daze of semi-consciousness, I was suddenly embroiled in a Darwinian cage match between a quasi-nude self and a small mouse. He darted out from a crevasse, then searched for an exit side-to-side along the bottom of the door like a floating Pac-Mac ghost. My reaction was completely rational—a full-body heave, windless scream of hot blue fear, and climbing the porcelain surroundings as if avoiding an acid tide. Our face-off carried on for several minutes [read: seconds] until the brave flightless pigeonette rushed toward the darkness behind me.
After regaining consciousness, I reflected upon the fact that my ancestors would have been overjoyed to see a mouse. We used to hunt these things; tt would be as if a strawberry Pop-Tart were attacking me, as if I had panicked over a Totino’s pizzaroll. The shame!
Although in both cases, I would prefer to eat it hot—not unlike a mouse.
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