This being the first official Pulse issue of the year, as well as my first issue as editor during the academic year, I figured I should take the opportunity to introduce myself to all you folks out in Readerland.
If it seems a little self-indulgent to spend a column talking about myself, that’s because it is. Oh well, let us move forward. I’m tired, I’ve ingested too much coffee, I have a head cold and no better column ideas are coming to mind, so I might as well look into the deep, terrifying void of my soul and come up with some pretentious self-congratulation to ease my chronic deadline stress.
I’ve been playing the old A&E game since my days in high school, when I somehow got it into my head that journalism was a viable career option. I came to college and slowly worked my way through the ranks of the Emerald with a combination of Machiavellian political maneuvering and criminal malfeasance. (Do you think last year’s editor, Aaron Shakra, simply graduated and moved on to greener pastures? The details of my daring kidnapping scheme will stay with me to the grave.
Which brings us to the present date and the big question: Why am I here? What could possibly make me qualified for the job I am currently filling? The best excuse (sorry, I mean “reason”) is that I have whittled away countless hours of my life enjoying, examining, discussing and thinking about the wide range of artistic artifacts of our culture. It’s obsessive and occasionally resembles the behavior of long-time heroin or nicotine addicts.
I no longer am capable of walking, driving or simply sitting at home without listening to music. Nary a Friday night goes by without three movie rentals and a pizza. I cannot walk into a used bookstore without causing my bank account to disappear into the ether. That I haven’t started mugging people in the street with a butterfly knife in order to afford Frank Zappa albums is a testament to the power of human self-control.
I know these are pathetic qualifications for a human being, but they’re great if you want to write about arts and entertainment. (Does self-deprecation alleviate pretentiousness? Does mentioning my own self-deprecation make it invalid? Did that last sentence just invalidate itself? Did that one? How many times can I repeat this before I invalidate my entire personality? Self-analysis is a bitch.) You have to be really obsessive about these kinds of things in order to be good at this job. If you’re not, you might as well give up now and join a public relations firm. At least you’ll get a decent paycheck.
Most of the journalists I have observed are the same way about their specialties. The hard-core newsfolk love nothing more than the adrenaline rush of breaking news. They actually get high on doing this job. Sports writers are like entertainment writers — obsessives without the natural ability to actually participate in the objects of their reportage. Not that a lack of ability is necessarily a bad thing. Somebody needs to write about this stuff in order to keep the public informed and the people being reported on aren’t necessarily the best for the job. Have you ever listened to an athlete at a press conference? Getting a coherent sentence out of him or her is like yanking teeth. This is why I respect sports writers; they must have the patience of Job to do what they do.
Have I digressed too much? Did I have a point to begin with? Well, if Jerry Seinfeld can make a show about nothing, then I think I can act the same way in my column. (Actually that show was about something: It was about a bunch of jaded, neurotic, NYC wise-asses with apartments as big as
their egos. Not that I’m a hater.) I promise that in future issues I’ll remain more concise. Or maybe
not. Depends on whether or not the coffee supply remains
stable. Send provisions if you get a chance.
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