We are living in the kind of economic state that could allow a person to take giant leaps in status by simply showing up. And they’ll pay you just to be there!

Randy Whitehouse, my friend and confidant of a quarter-century, is gone.

Maybe the perfect reporter would be one who is never personally affected by anything that comes his way. Just writes up all the grim facts, collects his check and moves along in a cold and clinical way. 

There’s a certain kind of salt-of-the-earth charm about local scuttlebutt that is exclusive to the American small town. If that’s where I ended up for my remaining reporter days, I’d have no complaints. 

Before walking into a single church or making a simple phone call, I become filled with self-doubt, suddenly very vividly aware my own ignorance.

What’s worse is that now ordinary people like possibly you are talking about the coming storm, too, so I have to employ my black belt level talent for denial everywhere I go.