[an error occurred while processing this directive]
Archives
| Arts & Entertainment
| Audio/Video
| Business
| Classifieds
| Columns
| Food
| Forums
| Health & Fitness
| News
| Obits
| Opinions
| People
| Politics
| Science/Technology
| Search
| Sports
| Subscribe
| Travel
| Weather
Brooks Peterson
Monday, April 16, 2001
Ever wonder how newsies live? Read on
Every now and then, someone expresses an interest in how we newscreatures live. What's it like being part of the vital pulsating heart of the great metropolitan daily? How do you cope with the incessant pressure that comes with shoveling fresh grist into the gaping maw of The Paper? Does every newshawk have a flask of rye stashed in his/her bottom desk drawer?
(Nix on the rye. These days, most journalists drink designer water. Aaargghh.)
Well, kids, as it happens, there is a highly specialized little culture at work here - and, I'm sure, at every other daily.
Mulch of a mulchness
Here at the Caller-Times, there is a rich mulch of folkways and usages. Among them:
Toro, Toro, Toro - also known as The Parking Lot Game. For reasons no one has ever been able to fathom, some of those who toil here are occasionally seized by an irresistible impulse to barrel right through the card-activated gate that admits the favored few into our parking preserve.
This haste no doubt reflects a altogether praiseworthy desire to hustle into the building and chain oneself to one's oar, but it does exact its cost.
I've never studied the matter systematically, but I'd say that at least once or twice a month, we lose one of the wooden barrier arms. (A certain publisher no longer resident here was an offender, I am told. Of course, when he did it, someone reverently retrieved the shattered shaft, framed it and presented it to him.)
Lost one just this week, come to think of it. Wasn't a clean kill, though: It left a pathetic little stub sticking out of the mechanism. Not a pretty sight at all. Called to mind a bullfight in which an inept matador just can't make a clean kill. Depressing.
Shady Business - We're not there yet, but every Corpus Christi summer touches off a heated (as it were) scramble for parking slots in the shade.
Those who arrive here at the crack of dawn have the game won automatically, needless to say. The rest of us must rely on guile, luck and ruthlessness: He/she who hesitates when a space comes open has only himself/herself to blame when the prize is snatched away by some little econobox zipping into the space. So far, this has not led to anything more consequential than the occasional impolite gesture.
Deposits from above
But there's more to it than getting a shady space. You need the right shade. The rookie may naively assume that shade is shade. Ha. As I can attest from bitter experience, some of the greenery affording desperately needed shade also attracts birds - birds, moreover, that love nothing better to unload on your vehicle (particularly if it's brand-new or re-painted).
These deposits are not just disgusting; they have a staying power that borders on the unbelievable. You think NASA might be able to use this for re-entry insulation?
Rites of passage - This building has several entrances, all activated by a coded entry card. Getting in, obviously, is a snap. Doing it stylishly is another matter.
The name of the game is to get into the building without being forced to hold the door open for the colleague who's five or six paces behind you. So: You feign obliviousness, opening the door a crack and sliding in even as the poor slob behind you struggles with his/her laptop, attache case, bag of doughnuts and umbrella. Tough? Welcome to the jungle.
Missing Celina - This is something virtually all the veterans here do: think back to the golden days when a remarkable lady by that name propelled the Caller-Times coffee shop to greatness. A warm, welcoming ambience, great food . . . You'll have to excuse me. I'm getting a little misty. She and her endlessly accommodating associates are among the happiest of my C-T memories.
These days, I comfort myself with the thought that, whatever befalls, we'll always have that inimitable western omelette.
Brooks Peterson can be reached by phone at 886-3772, or by e-mail at petersonb@caller.com
| Talk about this column
| Other Columns | Home |
[an error occurred while processing this directive]
© 2001 Corpus Christi Caller Times, a
Scripps Howard newspaper.
All rights reserved.
|
 |
 |
[an error occurred while processing this directive]
[an error occurred while processing this directive]
[an error occurred while processing this directive]
|
