Murray the milktoast survivor
bought a cantina in the north
end of Key West and wound
up serving Greek omelets
It’s Sunday morning. Yesterday, I was at my sister’s house by 8am.
“What are you doing here?” she asked as I walked in her front door.
“I’m here to pick up your son. We’re going to breakfast.”
“No you’re not. He’s still sleeping.”
6pm Monday: Students in my Sports Broadcasting class arrive at the WJOB studios on the campus of the Purdue Northwest Commercialization Center.
One problem. Two of the students – Jen and Jay – can’t make it. That leaves Josh Salazar to do his sports talk show alone for an hour. I text the four students who are scheduled for 7pm – “Hey, Josh is on his own. If you can do it, come in a little early and sit with him.”
A lot can be explained by my early affinity for Kurt Vonnegut, the writer from Indianapolis.
The first thing that can be explained is my tendency to resort to eighth grade humor and to poke fun at things that a lot of people think are serious. Like nuclear war and herpes. Kurt Vonnegut taught me that. I read “God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater” a dozen times in high school. It wasn’t until recently that I learned that it wasn’t high literature at all.