Hurried last chore, occasional brush with the sublime, the way you know me (truly!) - that's this column each Friday.
By sublime, I mean me slipping into a zone while writing, catching that precious drop of dopamine when the puzzle comes together on my end of the keyboard.
How it goes for you, I have no idea. People I meet are kind. Maybe the more critical emailers are more honest. I don't know, and actually it's not the point for me, although I guess it's supposed to be.
What we cover and write, that's ostensibly for you. And we hew to that ethic in the news pages. An editor's first and last words while working over a story are "What does this actually mean to readers, and why should they care?"
In the commentary pages, it's more about the author. This is the soapbox section.
I'm thinking about you as I write, at least when I start sketching a concept. But that can be a little intimidating - to presume I have something to offer you of any value whatsoever. So inevitably it becomes personal. That is to say, I've forgotten all about you. I'm just writing.
This must be some kind of obsessive-compulsive disorder. You wash your hands over and over again. I write this silly column. Go figure.
It's always been so for me since adolescence, something like the onset of schizophrenia in the teen and young adult years. I did this while a bartender in Waikiki, a wildland firefighter in Santa Barbara, a cub reporter in Quincy, Calif., in the sawmill Sierra well north of the tourist zone around Tahoe.
I think by writing. My brain, such as it is, resides in my fingers. I can't not write.
You have your thing that you can't not do, too, I know. We all do. For more of our population than just about anywhere, that would be skiing and snowboarding. Athletically, I'm afflicted as an old guy who can't jump and can't hit a jump shot and still can't seem to stay off the basketball court despite several knee surgeries.
This column is the last vestige of making a career out of what I can't not do. Other than the money part (why couldn't I not not start the first popular search engine?), finding a career passion is what I wish most for my children, along with finding the true loves of their lives at an early age and holding that forever.
Sadly, I've had to let go of the basketball dream. I couldn't help but notice finally that the NBA has no 50-year-old rookies.
Well, we've come to the end of this installment. Plop, there's that drop.
OK, back to the real job.
Editor and Publisher Don Rogers can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org or 970-748-2920.