This title shouldn’t be possible. I mean it; those letters shouldn’t spell out the words in that order.
Last week, I met a coworker for sushi. It had been a rough week at the paragraph factory, some sort of unrelenting, multi-headed hydra – and I really hate snakes.
Soon after we begin eating, my friend Ashley and her boyfriend arrive and take a table next to us. I say hi, accidentally talk too much about matters of media, then concentrate on avoiding leftovers. Meanwhile, in Florida, election databases are being populated at a rate that won’t allow me time for desert.
A group of young women on the other side of us finish their meal, but before leaving, start toward Ashley. I should mention that she’s a TV reporter/anchor. They meekly interrupt her, say something forgettable and fawning, and I expect them to leave.
Peoria-Bloomington is the 116th largest television market in the U.S., according to Wikipedia.
But they’re hungry. For a photo.
Ashley is mortified, or very close to it. But she’s also gracious.
Their camera doesn’t work the first time.
More fumbling with the dumb camera, her boyfriend sitting patiently like some sort of decorative centerpiece.
A bite of sushi remains between her chopsticks.
They will get that photo. One on each side of her, obsessed sentries.