It was twenty-five years ago and I can still picture it like it was yesterday. The summer of 1983. The jam of the summer was Def Leppard’s Pyromania. We blasted it through my friend Jack’s Alpine while we rode around in his Toyota Celica, imagining we were in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. We wore bandannas around our necks, checkerboard Vans on our feet (or, in my case, cheap, white, off-brand slip-ons on which I’d painstakingly drawn Union Jacks) and knockoff RayBans on our smarmy, seventeen-year-old mugs. We were young, dumb, and full of beans.

Of all of my friends, Jack was the oldest. He had a nice car and was able to buy us beer and liquor. Each weekend throughout the summer, we’d meet at Rider’s parents house on Friday night to plan the next two nights and days. The nights usually consisted of us drinking Goebel beer on Rider’s back patio until it got dark at which time we’d head to the Captain Kidd drive-in. Most of us weren’t old enough to get into bars, so we’d park toward the back, crank the car stereo, and drink. It never mattered what movie was playing because we never, ever watched it. It was all about getting hammered and yelling and screaming and chasing girls and playing grab-ass. Not much different than any other idiot American teenager, really.

Our Saturdays were spent sleeping in, lying around, recovering from hangovers, bumming around people’s pools or driving to Surf Cincinnati (a waterpark that predated another, far superior waterpark called The Beach.)

Saturday nights were dedicated to the drive-in or to parties people threw when their parents were out of town. Did anyone ever throw a party when their parents were out of town that went well? Something always got destroyed. Someone always puked on something. Things were always broken. There were always holes, stains and cigarette burns. Frankly, I never had the balls to throw a party at my house. First of all, my dad never went out of town. Secondly, if he had gone out of town, he would have psychically divined that teenagers were drinking in his house regardless of where he was at the time. He could have been in the middle of a lake and he would have stopped, squinted, and stared at the horizon, knowing full well someone was having sex in his bed or messing with his records. He was like the Dead Zone guy, only instead of knowing when and how people were going to die, he knew when and how he was going to kill me and why. I knew better than to tempt fate.

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Back in 1999, my pal Mark and his girlfriend had an idea: “Let’s run off to Vegas and get married!” Sounds like fun, right? A couple of kooky kids throwing convention out the window and jetting off to Vegas to tie the knot. Problem was, Mark and Mary Beth weren’t impetuous kids. Mark was a senior executive at a prosperous IT firm and Mary Beth was a med student finishing school. Running off to Vegas, getting married, then telling everyone after the fact was not in their respective makeups. Ten years prior? Maybe.

So, things started to get complicated. The Vegas wedding became a Vegas wedding with a few close friends. Mark asked me to be his best man, so I was on the hook. I’d never been to Las Vegas, nor had I been so honored to serve as a best man, so I was ready and willing. I was under no illusion that Las Vegas was anything like the idyllic Rat-Pack-at-The-Sands-era Vegas Vince Vaughn and Jon Favreau dreamed about in Swingers. In fact, the words “Vegas, baby!” never crossed my lips. I hadn’t been any farther west than Iowa, so I was excited to see a new part of the country.

The Vegas wedding with a few close friends quickly became a Vegas wedding with a few close friends and immediate family. Then, it became a Vegas wedding with friends and family. Then, it became a regular wedding–best man, maid-of-honor, groomsmen, bride’s maids, a priest, a church, a reception hall, a cake, a bartender, a DJ, the whole kit and kaboodle–only in Las Vegas. The “running off to Las Vegas” part was the only part that never changed.

At the time, I was making eight bucks an hour pulling data cable in Maryland. I was bringing home about $250.00 a week. My rent was $600.00 a month. Needless to say, I didn’t have a whole lot of extra mad money lying around. I didn’t have a whole lot of gum money lying around. Mark was nice enough to spring for a room for myself and my girlfriend, and I worked out a deal with my employer, who bought our airline tickets on the condition I pay them back through payroll deductions. After the gift and the tuxedo rental, we landed in Las Vegas with about two hundred dollars to blow. It’s a good thing I’d quit drinking the month before. Yeah, you read that right. I’d quit drinking the month before my best friend got married in Las Vegas, where I would be in the company of my old “runnin’ crew” from my twenties. In Las Vegas. Nice timing.

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What is your favorite word?

Probably “thanks” since “thank you” is two words and the question asks for a single word. People–including myself–need to demonstrate their appreciation more.

What is your least favorite word?

At the moment, “maverick”. Runner-up: Nuculer.

What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?

Calm.

What turns you off creatively, spiritually or emotionally?

Chaos.

What sound or noise do you love?

The woods at night, alive with insects.

What sound or noise do you hate?

Total silence.

What is your favorite curse word?

At the moment, “cockface”.

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?

Sound designer.

What profession would you not like to do?

Anything in sales.

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?

Sorry about the penis, buddy.

I bought one of these last night.

Designed by John Hoefler of Hoefler & Frere-Jones, it combines my love of fonts and my support for Barack Obama.

To font and design nerds, this won’t be news, but Obama’s iconic “CHANGE” font is Hoefler’s “Gotham” font.

I’m looking forward to hanging the poster in my new office. It’ll look tough.

The first Monday after the power came back at work, my phone rang. I answered.

“John Pickard.” “Hi, John. This is Vic Blackstar from CNN.”, a familiar voice said on the other end. (His name isn’t Vic Blackstar, but I don’t want to blow the man’s cover for reasons which will be obvious.) “Oh. Uh–Hi, Vic.” I said, more than a little confused. It’s funny what your brain does when the person on the other end says they’re from CNN. Adrenaline shoots through your gut and your head feel like it’s packed with paper towels soaked with espresso. I assumed he wanted to talk about the magazine. The magazine is the only thing in my life worth noting, really. (And even that tidbit is notable to only three or four thousand egghead literati.) As the thrumming in my ears began to subside, Vic asked “This is the John Pickard that writes Round is Funny, right?” Turns out, Vic’s a fan of the blog. Who knew?

A couple of things about Vic: He’s not Anderson Cooper, Wolf Blitzer, Lou Dobbs, or that lovable crank, Jack Cafferty. Vic knows where the hidden spare key to the Situation Room is, though. He even fills in for Wolf when Wolf needs to spend time at his Arctic fortress of bearditude. I am not being coy or capricious about the man’s name. Frankly, given the amount of left-wing jaw-flapping I do on the blog, I wouldn’t want the poor guy to be publicly associated with it. The last thing I’d want is for some unhinged Freeper to discover Vic’s name and immediately assume Vic agrees with my politics. In fact, Vic never mentioned a thing about politics, nor any of my political posts in our conversation.

We had a very nice chat. He was extremely encouraging and left me with a profound sense of gratitude for his having taken the time out to call. I’ve got his numbers and plan to speak to him again. Next time, I’ll ask him if CNN needs any bloggers or if I can get press credentials for Obama’s victory speech in Chicago. (After all, I am going to be in Chicago on election night.) Maybe he can get James Earl Jones to record a jingle for the site: “This–is RIF. Also, I am your FAH-THAH!”

So, Vic, if you’re reading this, hook a brother up!

Here in Pigspittle, the nights are more crisp and the leaves have begun to change. (Read that last sentence with a Mainer accent.) Fall is upon us and, as always, I could not be happier to see the ass-end of Summer. Summer can go fuck itself. (Read that last sentence with a Mainer accent, too.)

Let’s see–what’s been happening since we last spoke?

The magazine for whom I toil moved to a newly renovated gothic Victorian house on campus. We moved on “Patriot Day” (a.k.a. September 11th), which is apropos because the move would have been more organized if we’d loaded up a 767 with our things and crashed it into the new building. It was an epic clusterfuck. I’d like to rant at length about the barely-literate movers who caused the cluster to be fucked but you know what? I can’t. I don’t want to be a mover. I’m pretty sure you, the reader, don’t want to be a mover. These poor humps have to show up at the crack of dawn and carry file cabinets and desks all day. I don’t even like to carry pictures of file cabinets and desks. So I cut the guys some slack. They weren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer, but what should we have realistically expected? What was supposed to be a four-hour move became a two-day move.

Shortly after we’d begun unpacking our boxes and begun settling in to our new digs, we got hit by Hurricane Ike.

In Ohio.

Let that settle in for a minute. We got hit by the remnants of Hurricane Ike in Pigspittle, Ohio. That’s like not being able to make it to the brake plant outside of Urbana due to falling ash and lava.

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