Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Fuck you, Robert Frost
It was my last shift at the old paragraph factory.
My last deadline; last awkward exchange with some co-workers and my last chance to steal from the fridge.
I walked out of the factory just as I had every other night for the last year and a half. Only this time the darkness seemed to consume the stairs that descended into the parking lot.
The lights had not yet clicked on and with the darkness looming earlier and earlier, our cars were bathed in an eerie black that usually was reserved for forgotten parts of the city - not decadent office complexes.
There were only about a dozen stairs, but the invading darkness seemed to blot out the end obscuring the landing. But, really, i could not have imagined a more appropriate way to end my time here.
This new adventure was about descending those darkened stair cases and entering those yellow woods with ill wrought trails.
Fuck you, Frost, this is my adventure now.
As we took our first few steps today at the Weekly we were tepid around the old guards. They would never understand what we wanted to do. We spoke in hushed tones and averted our eyes when words like redesign...or overhaul...suddenly snaked into the conversation.
We knew what we wanted to do, but talking about it around the departing editor and designer was like riping out the kiddie crap in a 9-year-old's room telling him its time to grow up.
The publisher, though, encouraged it. He wanted it, he was excited about it. He has sat at the helm of this paper for a decade and he is ready to make this something more than a free neighborhood shopper.
Come Monday this conversation will become exponentially louder. We will stop at nothing to create something completely new and sell it to the masses.
The memos that chased me out of the factory (layoffs! buy outs! cutbacks!) are a thing of the past. This is a whole new conversation - hell, a whole new language - that now will follow us into the night. But it will make us stronger and appreciate what we do so much more.
I did the arenas and major stages. My venue lies with the slack elite that gather in the cramped quarters of the dive bars and underground stages.
That made no sense, but really this is not about making sense; this is about being weird and going pro.
Here's to the weeds, the brush, the overgrowth that we are preparing the enter into and those random adventures and beasts we will encounter.
Join me - someday. Consider this your invitation, your provocation, to find your own ill-wrought trails in those godforsaken yellow woods.