New Year’s Eve falls on Dec. 31 this year, which happens to be a Thursday, the day of my column — that piece of weekly writing which, I’m sure, is eagerly anticipated by all the hamsters in town.
Hey, that’s today.
My co-workers aren’t me (nor do they play me on TV), but they have played me in the Bulletin and I’m hoping they’ll do it again for today’s edition.
Hmm, no joy. I guess they’re finding it ain’t easy being me.
“Hey dad. There’s an article in the paper about you.”
My 8-year-old chald, Julia, announced her observation over a day-old Bulletin as me, Wife, our chi’ren and Ralph unloaded our gear following our trip through the snow from Wichita Falls to our vacation home in south Brownwood.
I like reading about myself in the paper, as I find myself rather fascinating. Typically, however, I just rate a brief, occasional mention, a couple of sentences hither and yon, from C.C. Fulton, Bulletin editor Gene Deason or Bulletin publisher Bob Brincefield. I’m not sure any of them find me fascinating, as they usually use me as an example of something not to do.
But there I was, the topic of an entire column last Thursday, Christmas Eve (which fell on Dec. 24 this year). The column, which I think was penned by C.C. Fulton, made ample use of what former Bulletin staffer Gene Bering used to refer to as my “spice rack” — all those peculiar, odd words, phrases, statements, observations, etc., which I am apt to utter at peculiar, odd times, that identify me as the cat juggler of Notre Dame.
But I must ask: who told these people that hah skewl and yoot aren’t real words?
The column made mention of my fans, but the truth is I don’t have that many left. Another Web site makes reference to another columnist — I’ll call her Johnson — who is alleged to have “many fans.” Don’t get used to it; fans are fickle, and they tend to migrate to whoever they think is the best cat juggler that day.
You just wait till you get some of the “fan” letters such as the ones I’ve received — they of the “Nash, you idiot!” genre. I pretend to laugh them off, but these hateful missives hurt me deeply. There’s this one hateful, hurtful guy out there named Walter you need to particularly watch out for.
I’ve moved somewhat beyond my fascination with Rickenbacker electric guitars now that I have an electric guitar of my own. Oh, did I say it’s mine? What I meant to say is, it belongs to my 12-year-old son, James. If you’re one of the hamsters who regularly read my column, you might recall that I mentioned earlier that we got the boy a white-bodied Squier Strat — a decent guitar for not a lot of money. I pretend to play it but I’m not very good.
Wife says I just play the same thing over and over.
Can the boy play it? Well, a little. He’s fallen off some since he took a break from his lessons with Lance Beaumont; he was getting half-decent on an acoustic guitar. He is about to resume the lessons, but this time he’ll be electrifying. Get it? Electric guitar … electrifying. Oh well.
The police are going to show up at hour house some night on a noise complaint if he doesn’t turn the thing down.
Steve Nash writes his column for the Brownwood Bulletin on Thursdays. He may be reached by e-mail at firstname.lastname@example.org.