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Brooks Peterson

Brooks Peterson's column is published Mondays. Brooks also sits on the Caller-Times editorial board and can be contacted at petersonb@caller.com

Monday, August 21, 2000

Editorialists no strangers to living large

Contrary to what you may have been led to believe, editorial writers are people, too. It's been a while since I last addressed this point, and what with most readers' resistance having been weakened by the ravages of August in South Texas, this seems an opportune moment to return to the issue.
   Here's the point: There is abroad in the land a pernicious notion to the effect that editorial writers are timid, reclusive creatures who cling to their anonymity with desperate tenacity, and who spend their careers working endless variations on such themes as "on the one hand . . .", "it remains to be seen," and, of course, "time will tell."
   Come to think of it, that's not too far from the mark . . .
   Never mind. What I'm here to tell you today is that at least some of us are making some serious efforts to break out of the confines of this cruel stereotype. And I'm here to tell you I'm one of 'em.
   Unconvinced? Spare me a minute of your time and I shall strike the scales from your eyes. (I promise it won't hurt.) Hey, I wrote the book on living large.
   For instance? For years, more out of necessity than inclination, I've been a practitioner of garage door roulette.
   You've probably never heard of it. Huh. That just shows you don't know what it means to live on the edge.
   Here's the thing: Somehow, our little family always seems to have fewer garage-door remotes than we do cars. And somehow or other I wind up with the vehicle without a remote.
   Coming home, that's no big problem. I just park in the driveway, go in through the side door, open up the garage and drive the car in - assuming the other members of our little family have left me a slot.
   Ah, but leaving: That's a whole 'nother ball game. As often as not, when I'm leaving I'm late - sometimes fashionably, sometimes egregiously. So: Out goes the car, after which driver (that would be me) sprints back, hits the wall switch to lower the door, and scuttles out just before the door squashes him like a bug. Life on the edge, man. What a rush.
   (A cautionary note: I do NOT recommend this kind of behavior to anyone - kids especially. Garage doors take no prisoners.)
   Oh, but there's more. To give you some feel for just what kind of desperate character I am, consider this:
   I have been known to stop for yellow lights. Even, if you can believe it, when I could make it through before the light changes to red.
   No big deal, you say? A few years ago - OK, a couple of decades ago - it wasn't a big deal. Drivers, however intent they were on getting to their destinations in a timely fashion, took note of the yellow and brought their vehicles to a halt. This was so unremarkable back then as to excite virtually no comment. So you stopped at a yellow light? Whaddaya want, a medal?
   Thing is, if you have the temerity actually to halt on a yellow, there's a very real possibility now that the bozo roaring up behind you at a cool 20 to 25 mph over the speed limit is going to plant a big metallic kiss all over the rear end of your vehicle. Indeed, if he's piloting one of your humongous SUVs or, worse still, one of the monster trucks that dot our highways and byways with increasing frequency, he's liable to turn your Honda Accord into a Honda Accordion.
   Still unconvinced? How about this for what the French call your basic piece of resistance: I have actually let some of my magazine subscriptions lapse. Sorry, Esquire, you've had your chance with me. How about this: I send you the money and you leave me alone?
   Or this: We've started to questions some of these outfits whose operatives always begin their phone spiels by thanking us for our generous pledges in the past -
   What generous pledges in the past? I never heard of you! Get outta my face. And my phone.
   I have turned into such a wild man, in fact, t hat a few weeks back I closed the door on a salesman. I'm not sure that was such a good idea, though: Rather than vacate the doorstep, he burst into show tunes.
   Your basic boring, sedentary, self-effacing editorial writer? I think not.
   Next in this series: Running With Scissors - The Final Frontier.

  (Brooks Peterson can be reached by phone at 886-3772, or by e-mail at petersonb@caller.com)



Brooks Peterson

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