Friday, February 28, 2020


I finally concluded that some degree of my reluctance to surrender important writing projects to a sleep-deprived brain, was edging into the overly-cautious realm. I won’t say paranoid. And so in my fair-to-middling condition I pushed forward and finished the rewrite of Mom’s Spring is Coming kids’ story and sent it off to her.

Relatively content with that endeavor I summoned the gumption to make my way to the Cat House (home of the Scooterville Tigers) where the Scooterville Stingers junior hockey club currently reigns, and caught a game.

But first I slipped in the home team door where I was met with a hallway full of stampeding husky young hockey players. Like some kind of fat Indiana Jones I scurried head-on and ducked into an alcove just in time to let the pack pass. They then about-faced and regarded the route back. I turned to the stragglers, now at the pole position. “Do you know where I can find Ken the Reporter or Chris the Marketing Dude?”

“Never heard of them.”

“Really? They’re part of your organization. Are there any execs here at all at this time?”

“Yeah. End of the hall on your left.”

“Oh. Okay. That’s a long way. If I head there now are you guys gonna trample me to death?”

“Yes,” he stated flatly.

I made the leap that he was prodigiously gifted in the art of irony and not a young psychopath and made the trek without tragedy. I finally tracked down their VP.

“Hi. I’m with the Tigers,” I said, “The guys who stink up your dressing room in your off season.” I offered a lightning-round summary of our shared concerns and opportunities as I saw them. “I’m hoping we can have a proper chat some time.” I then accepted an invitation to attend one of their exec meetings. Primarily I hope to land them as a partner in an ongoing trivia night fund-raising enterprise I’ve been putting together.

Okay. Were getting somewhere.

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