so you want to be an investigative reporter…

Finally, with a moment to look around, I found Chez Shepjournalism had entered crisis mode. My bed, on rollers, has somehow migrated to the middle of my room/office. Generally tidy, nigh every spot of it cluttered now. Six days ago’s Times, six months ago’s XXL, six years ago’s New Yorker, last month’s Elle GIRL. Pajamas, pumps, sneakers. I have taken leave only to read the paper and Your Blog. Nov. 22 came and went with nary a whistle. I have barely had time to mind my self-care. I have performed the routine: showering and exercising and changing my clothes, pounding lemon-cayenne tea, popping Advil, spooning a dollop of yogurt into a cup now and again and then trudging back to the desk.
I did make time for a maintenance-pluck of the brows, so there is that.
Those are the human things. Atop the desk, two machines. The computer. The elaborate and flawed recording device that allows me to hook up the walkman to the cell phone. In case someone phones who I have to record. It’s happened. Two days ago I got a call that could be considered “a break in the case”; loitering Union Square and dizzied by sleuth’s adrenalin, I practically stole the megaphone from that one protester dude who hangs out in Union Square, you knw the one with the cowboy hat and cape, just to broadcast the joy.
Jessica and I have labored on this story so intensely and for so long, she felt compelled to analogize our co-reportage to the sweat of a red hot chili pepper.
seeing this through to finish: not unlike anthony kiedis’ naked chest. hello, world. it’s me shep. back in the flesh. as Brendan would say, RIPPERSVILLE.
Thanks to Mo for loaning me her space bar, eight hours before a major deadline. Journalism journalism.