Mr. Literate from Moderate Distances

You've met them. You've been bothered by them. You've probably snickered at them and/ or told them to stop.

Hell, you might even be one of them.

You know, those people who insist on reading every sign (aloud) as you drive or walk down the street.

"Xin Huan Chinese."

"A Starbucks."

"Hey, there's another Starbucks."

"Hm. Railroad Tavern and Restaurant."

Here's the thing, Mr. Literate from Modest Distances: I can read. And, by gosh, I know how to do it silently.

The worst, however, is Mr. Literate's louder, more obnoxious cousin, Mr. Clever from Moderate Distances (the whole family really gets under my skin.) Mr. Clever not only reads each and every sign, no matter how normal ("Laundry!"), but he tries to insert some clever reference or joke into it. ("We should totally go overflow some washers, etc, etc.")

Just, stop it. Stop it right now. If you can't think of a way to continue the conversation, don't rely on random street signs for inspiration, because it doesn't work. And we hate it. We hate it a lot.

Appreciate a pause once in a while. People might invite you out again.

Fresh Squeezed

For tonight's post, let me add a bit of pretension. An introduction in the form of an excerpt from a poem. That I wrote. About a girl. That I was pseudo-dating. Anyway. Here goes.

Someone, maybe my grandmother, once told me
When life hands you lemons
You smile, kindly, and make lemonade
I think that's bullshit
I think if life hands you lemons
You storm up to the counter and demand apples or oranges
Unless you really like lemons

I was thinking of this poem -- not because of the girl -- but because I've been trying, futilely, to decide what spending a summer in Erie meant to me in the grander scheme/ big picture/ "What did it all mean"/ crying in the rain and yelling at the heavens sort of way.

Part of the summer's identity crisis emerged my last day of work at ETN. All of the interns wrote these end-of-summer notes to the newsroom about how much they learned: writing leads (I'm so much better now), interviewing sources (I really asked the tough questions) and how they didn't know what "real journalism" was until they came to Erie, Pennsylvania.

Right.

I wanted to write everyone and thank them for teaching me to chew food before swallowing and showing me, time and again, how to tie my shoes. But, of course, I didn't. I just wrote something to the extent of "Thanks, etc." Honestly. It was that boring.

I tried to think of something clever/ witty/ memorable to say that would perfectly sum up my 10 weeks at the paper. Until a reporter asked me why I decided to leave after three weeks. Oh, and he had his hand in the box of doughnuts I bought. Any sentimental attachment quickly went blue in the face and died. Because I strangled it.

So, beyond, the cheerful and rather nebulous line on my resume full of assertive verbs and journalist lingo, what did these 10 weeks mean? That's when I thought of the poem and lemonade and punching out a grocery clerk. Though not exactly in that order.

Was Erie a lemon? Did I make lemonade? Does this metaphor still hold up after all these years?

I'm not sure. Erie never inspired an epiphany or a self-discovery. It didn't do much, actually. It was a job and an apartment, a few close friends and some crazy memories of a 4-year-old who could dance with the best of 'em and some late, late nights.