In an almost full replication of my college days, I spent a lot of time up late this week, and a lot of time both at work and at the newspaper. When I was on the college newspaper, the Hofstra Chronicle, I spent at least one night a week up all night working on editing, layout, etc. One semester I practically led a Draculine existence, as I had a lot of afternoon and night classes. College gave me bad habits for life. :-))
I thrive on procrastination and pressure, it seems. "I do my best work then." Perhaps that's just bull, but it seems to be the case for me.
When we did the Chronicle's 50th anniversary issue, we reprinted the first editorial. She detailed things along a time line. 9:30--Write editorial. 9:31--Pencil breaks.
Things are a bit different now. Netscape crawls at snail pace, the Mac crashes, Quark chews up text whenever there's a special character. In my case, it seems every article I edited a few days earlier must have been affected by a virus, as whole paragraphs disappeared and turned into slavic Hacek marks.
I have a news story in the paper this time; my coverage of that accountability panel at the NYU School of Law.
I must say this about working into the wee hours with other people: You either bond or die. Luckily, I bond. You see people at their best and worst. You see them punchy. You see them angry. You see them at wit's end. You see them getting their third winds. It reminds me of my old paper, and that movie It Happens Every Thursday. A small group of people not just working but performing a labor of love. It's frightening that I get so much more out of unpaid publishing than I do out of my paid job, but at least I have that sort of edification.
Of course, in college, no one handed me proofs saying, "Here you go, nelly." And no one else said, "He called you Nelly? He only does that with people he likes.
Finally, it's good to be called Nelly.
Meanwhile, at work, there was a bit of a tussle. It seems a contractor working on one floor did not use union workers, and workers on another floor did, and a picket line formed. UPS wouldn't cross the picket line, so everyone in the building using UPS had to bring things down to the truck themselves. On the third day, a giant (15-foot) inflatable rat appeared outside the building's main entrance, and the picketers were blowing whistles. The building then wanted us to sign in and out, which I refused to do since on the weekends they let just about anyone in.
Then, as if by magic, the whole thing ended. I guess the thorn in the union's side was extracted.
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