minalisms

Their dreams, my nightmares — no more.”

I climbed 175 stairs at work today; I also descended 150. Yesterday I took on 75 each way. The days prior I averaged 100 in either direction.

Each step isn’t tall, but I still cope with fatigue and achy glutes right after climbing so many in a row.

Feel the burrrrn!” my inner voice commands. “Swing those arms! Lift those legs! Go faster!”

I walk past at least three sets of elevators every day and opt for this harassment — I mean, exercise. I’ve been committed to the routine since I started my new job three weeks ago. Yet I have no less meat on my bones to show for the exertion.

Dear President Bush,

St. Louisans are sad today. Even I, an opportunistic West Coast transplant, feel stung by the news that Belgian brewer InBev will buy St. Louis’ 130-year-old golden child, Anheuser-Busch.

It’s business, not personal.”

Isn’t that how the slogan goes? But guess what, Mr. President? It’s personal for all Americans, not just us here in St. Louis, when hallmarks of this country — your country, “the land of opportunity” — are sold to foreign businesses and investors for cheap.

And because you will fail to see your connection to this, let me reveal it for you: Your war claims lives overseas and lifestyles at home.

You and your cronies, self-proclaimed pro-lifers, started a mission to kill people — Iraqis, Americans, Britons, Italians, Ukranians, Poles, Spaniards, Australians, Danes and more. Your funneling of absurd amounts of money into this five-year debacle has also put a high onus on Americans away from the battlefield: We can’t afford to drive our cars; we can’t afford keep our homes; we can’t even hold on to our jobs. And U.S. debt — a result of your war — has reached an astronomical level. Is that safe for our national security?

Now the world is laughing at us, Mr. President, laughing and taking much like Carlos Brito, InBev’s CEO, just did. And I don’t blame the guy; it’s hard to pass up a bargain. If the U.S. dollar wasn’t so weak — again because of your war — then maybe Anheuser-Busch could’ve remained American.

So much for defending  your country.

minal.

I participated in the political process yesterday. It was the first time I did so, and it was rather satisfying. 

One stipulation of being a journalist is that an individual must stay away from engaging in activities that would reveal any bias. Sure, it’s a sensible stipulation. But considering that journalists are among the most opinionated individuals on Earth, some begrudgingly follow this principle.

So, even though the decision to leave newspapers was a difficult one, I felt lucky yesterday to do things that were forbidden in my old job. Such as volunteering with Barack Obama’s campaign to get people to register to vote.

I got two people registered, which felt like sweet victory, but I was outside for two hours in what was the hottest, muggiest day in St. Louis thus far.

Democracy is hard. 

A mundane day at work yesterday was salvaged by a lunchtime conversation related to NPR.

My co-worker mentioned that she heard of the book “Not Quite What I was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs from Writers Famous and Obscure” on public radio. This style of storytelling — consisting of just six words — is a variation of Flash Fiction.

For example, Ernest Hemingway once wrote this tale: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” (I could cry over its poignancy.)

So naturally, upon hearing of the method, the four employees sitting at the round table silently began to concoct their own story. I haven’t finished mine yet; it’s a memoir.

But here are a few of my favorites from others:

He read his obituary with confusion.

Three to Iraq. One came back.

Longed for him. Got him. Shit.”

What’s your story?