Giggling at 42 with Rob Halford and Britney Spears

At 42 years old, I found myself staring at a Britney Spears' team was thrown off by Good Morning American asking a non-scripted question story at 1:11 a.m. on a Wednesday/Thursday night.

What was this question that threw everyone into a sudden tizzy?

"Who was your first kiss?"

Fuck. I don't remember the girl's name. I remember where it was. Exactly. I can take you to the spot in Charlottesville, Virginia. On the corner between two fraternity houses. That's where my first kiss happened.

She was from Richmond. Went to Midlothian High School.

And my roommate Hoon-Na walked in on us when she and I were completely naked in my shitty dorm room bed.

I started laughing almost immediately.

She left.

And she left behind a necklace.

It was cheap. Some kind of black opal on it. I kept it for decades. Threw it away one day in 2008 when I was depressed and feeling bad about myself. A girl -- shock -- had just destroyed my life, or so I thought at the time. One of the reasons, she said at the time, was because I held on the my past.

I have a friend who has pictures of all his exes on his wall in his "man room." He is married. And he sees nothing wrong with that.

When I saw this, and heard (well, read on facebook email) what my ex had to say, I threw away a lot of shit one night.

It felt great that night.

But I do miss my old notebooks,

My friend was right about that one. I'd regret doing it.

I do.

But, I'm much different now. I have a hard time getting motivated to write about things. About life. About the life I wanted to live. About the life I thought I did live. About her. Not the one I was talking about, but the other one.

Which brings me back to my first kiss. I remember it. I was drunk. A couple of college friends, you know, the guys you see when you're drunk and no other time, they were there.

It was cool. It was sweet.

And I don't remember her name. Honestly, don't know if I ever really knew it.

Why I’m thinking about this after looking at a story on Britney Spears, I don’t know.

I have a job. It pays the bills somewhat.

My health the last year has been steadily downhill until the last couple of weeks.

Life threw a lot of curveballs in late ‘ll and all of ’12 and into early ’13.

Now, me and my lover, we’re happy. We don’t see each other enough. She works mornings, I work nights. I rarely get two days off in a row, she works three days a week.

But soon, we’re going to change for the better. I’ve stopped drinking almost completely. I had four beers out with her friends the other night and I was drunk.

I like that.

No more coming home from work, alone, sitting on a couch downloading movies or watching British ESPN on the internet while drinking 12 beers every night and eating a bad of Doritoes.

Nope.

Replaced it with walking the dog every day, looking at the sun and trying to complete the elusive 1987 Fleer autographed set. Nearing card No. 400 out of 653. Not too shabby. Found out today that Wade Boggs and Terry Steinbach sign if you give them a little fee for their charity. Gonna do that pronto.

Brought the doggie around some kids the other day. Testing the waters, as they say. You find out that’s happening right after you get a dog from the pound – part pit bull – and you have to worry.

Not that I think he’s got that in him. But, you gotta find out. So why not use other people’s kids as test subjects. He passed with flying colors.

Irony of all this happening right at this moment makes me giggle a bit.

I wonder if Rob Halford giggles when the need strikes? I’d like to think so. He and Glen Tipton are sitting around in their old flat back in the 1970s giggling while writing songs. That’s a nice image, really.

Then I start to think about how much different things would have been in the 90s and 00s if it had been 10 years later. Cell phones and constant updates and all. Skype to stay close.

The mind, it wonders and wanders too much at times.

Then I look at the empty bag of Cheese Balls from Utz! Sitting on the coffee table, right next to the “Films of Burt Reynolds” book that I put there when I moved in and my angst leaves.

It’s nice to find happiness, even when you find it late.

The struggles have been monumental, but I think it’ll all be worth it.

Home

For some reason the “Race for your life, Charlie Brown …” song entered my  mind just as I entered the office. It stayed there, echoing over and over as he spoke to me.

I knew my resume wasn’t up to snuff. I was qualified for the job I was interviewing for, but I hadn’t show it at all. But for some reason, Mr. Steven Jacobs IV decided to call me when he got my credentials in an e-mail one day.

“Mr. Jones,” he said over the phone three days earlier. “I’d like to bring you in for an interview.”

I, of course, immediately said “Certainly, Mr. Jacobs.” And we arranged a time for me to be in Raleigh for it. I was beginning to become familiar with the city, after living in the state for over a decade now, that city had always eluded me as a place I was comfortable. Now, having made the weekend trek there every other weekend for over a year, it was becoming quite easy to navigate.

“So, then, Mr. Jones,” Jacobs said as Charlie Brown kept racing in my skull, “what exactly do you think about my company?”

It had been a long time since I interviewed somewhere and they asked me actual questions about the company itself. In newspaper interviews, it was always about getting a feel for a person. That’s why I never prepared for a newspaper interview. I had that shit down pat. I could talk the talk and look a hell of a lot more confident than I ever was sitting in whatever shitty chair I was in. And believe me, the chairs were always shitty. Except the time I interviewed at Media General. The first ones, yes, when I was in the newsroom. Those chairs sucked. But by the time I got to the head honcho’s office, he had chairs that cost more than my monthly salary at any job I’ve ever had. And you wonder why the company was/is in disarray.

I started pulling stuff from my couple of Google searches the night before. Being sure to drop plenty of strategic key words. Something a friend of mine said was useful on resumes. “It gets you past the robots,” he quipped.

I didn’t buy into that, so I would write elaborate cover letters. All of them telling a story, because that’s what I did. Told stories. Some of them true, very true. And some of them lies, utter lies.

“Employers don’t want stories,” a career counselor said to me. “They want you to prove you’re going to bring something to the company.”

When she said that, I zoned out. Probably missed a bunch of great things she had to say. But, that just irked me. And reminded me of one of my favorite books of all time – “The Confederacy of Dunces.” And from it, one line : “Employers sense in me a denial of their values.” And since I was a wear my emotions on my sleeves kind of person – except with relationships, especially early on – this was a problem.

“I see you really know my company,” Jacobs said.

“I try to be an informed person, especially when it comes to matters close to me,” I replied. “It’s part of the journalist in me.”

I felt a twinge of regret for saying that. I was harking back to the “good ol’ days”, something which did not serve me well. All employers look at my resume and see a career journalist. So why do they want to hire me to do the complete opposite?

After about an hour of talking, Jacobs gave me the tour. It took all of six minutes and thirty-eight seconds. I timed it with my cell phone. Why? Because it distracted me from that damn Charlie Brown song.

Then, all of the sudden, Jacobs pulled a fast one. At least that’s how it felt.

“Jones,” he said. “Wait here just a minute.” And he vanished. I was in the middle of some kind of stock room. Dark and full of boxes. Stacked to the ceiling filled.

About two minutes later, he called me.

“You answer a phone on an interview?” was the first words he said.

“Not usually, but my caller ID said it was you,” I retorted.

“Heh,” he said. “I like the way you think on your toes, Jones. Come back to my office, so we can talk real stuff.”

D’oh. I had not paid any attention to our stroll through his offices and had no idea where his office was. It took me five minutes to find another person, and immediately I asked where Jacobs’ office was.

“There’s no Jacobs here,” the young lady said.

I was startled, then I said: “sorry, Mr. Jacobs.”

“Ohhhhhhhhhh,” she said with a snort afterwards. “You must be the new guy, huh? He was just talking about you.”

This wasn’t cool. I had no idea if I was going to be offered a job, and if so, whether I’d take it. But before my pride or ego could get any bigger, she talked again.

“How long has it been since he left you?”

“Oh, about 10 minutes,” I replied.

“You failed the test,” she said.

“Huh?”

“You’re supposed to find him in five minutes or less. He read it in some book on management he read in college. Says anyone that can’t find him in five minutes can’t have a job in this company.”

“Really,” I said unbelieving.

“Yep.”

“How long did it take you?”

“Four minutes and 44 seconds,” I said.

“He times you?”

“With a stop watch.”

She pointed me in the right direction and I found him.

“Well, well, well,” Jacobs said. “You’re more tortoise than hare, I see.”

“I am bald.”

No laughs. Not a good sign. Even a bad joke should be laughed at under these circumstances. He looked me up and down, then stuck out his hand to shake mine.

“Good luck, Jones,” he said. “But you’ve got to be able to think on your feet to work for me. Even if you’re just picking up my laundry.”

I went back home and opening up a 16-ounce Lone Star can. I was saving them for a big shin-dig, but sometimes you just have to have a drink. That was one of them.

The next morning, I got up and went back to the newspaper. Even though it smells bad and everyone hates each other, it felt like home.