by Shelt Garner
@sheltgarner
There are a few professions that if you involved with them ONCE in your life, that is how you’ll be referred to for the rest of your life. Stripper is one of them. If you strip for a little while in your life, then you’re a stripper for the rest of your life, no matter what else you might do.
Journalist is the same way, in large part because it gives OTHER journalists a hook to frame whatever it is your in the news for. As such, when Tyrant Trump snatches me off the street in early 2025 because of all the times I called him a “fucking cocksucker” on this blog, then the local Sinclair owned station will call me a “failed journalist” who got what was coming to him.
The great irony is, of course, that if I ever need to pivot back into actual professional journalism again, I would probably do a really good job. I only bring this up because I’m nervous about my future and I’m thinking about looking into freelancing again.
There is the problem, of course, of all the bizzaro posts I’ve made to social media over the years. No editor worth his or her snuff would poke me with a 10 foot poll because they would think I’m clearly bonkers. (And, sadly, maybe I am.)
Anyway, the biggest reason why I “failed” a journalist the first go round was, well, me. I’m 100% extroverted and all good journalists TEND to be introverts. I love to talk and socialize — I’m anything BUT one of those deranged guys that everyone says “was quiet and kept to himself.” I’m NOT quiet and I DON’T keep to myself.
In fact, if I somehow managed to sell this novel and it become any sort of success, I would probably make a name for myself for being quite the character. I would do rather well on the late night TV talk show circuit. But, who am I fooling –I’m old as dirt. And it would be extremely surreal if somehow my life righted itself after a lifetime of being a drunk weirdo.
But stranger things, and all that.
