I’ve been on the hunt for a new job. Sharon and I are planning on moving back east, mostly for the purpose of getting closer to family, but also to escape the dead-end job situation in which I have found myself these past eighteen months. My career has always been an ill defined sort of thing, mostly because there are lots of skills that I can do reasonably well, and I find myself interested in far too many activities. I’ve done just about everything you can do with media at one time or another, and that leaves the door wide open, or slammed shut, depending on how you look at it.
In my single-digit formative years, I had a friend named Kevin. He was a fun kid, if you define “fun” as walking the line between play and juvenile prosecution, or possibly as exploring the outer limits of childhood guilt. Either way, we spent our summer days trying to reenact Evel Kneivel’s most disastrous jumps, like the time he convinced me to ride my little brother’s bike off the tree house in our backyard. I nearly squashed it flat, and I spent weeks trying to convince my brother that his bike was much cooler as a chopper, never mind that he couldn’t actually pedal since the pedals hit the ground twice on every stroke. That was on a good day; our daredevil performances occurred in between acts of pure vandalism.