Thursday, January 19, 2006

Three people asked me this week why an aging giant like me who spends a few days a week working at a newspaper, tries to get some kind of education in a couple classes a week and soon must find permanent employment would ever still want to work at the sorority. They always forget who they're talking to. The first question is always, "is it the girls?" Come on now. Dozens of 20 year olds with BMW's and Mercedes and ski challets and altered body parts? Sure in 5 years I'll be thinking back to these days but right now you couldn't throw a rock without hitting one in the head.

It's not the girls, it's not the food, it's not the friends, it's not the cash and it's not ego boost. Until you spend a night with me listening to that Hobart hum while it cleans the dishes inside and inhaling pine sol while mopping floors until they shine, you wouldn't understand. There's a certain peace somewhere in between girlie squeals and pillow fights. It's a little space where busy hands help me hide from all the voices rattling around inside my head.

Great thinkers have always needed a great distraction. Be it Walden Pond or Central Park or the streets of London or the great Indian ocean or the kitchen of the sorority with the sound of the dishwasher humming in the background and my shoes squeaking on the speckled tiled floor.

I'm not saying, I'm just saying.

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