Exit the Champ

There's something about the South: so widespread, so agricultural, so unconnected, so unmetropilitanized - it seems within the countless bundles of trees, ditches and grassy depressions anything could be happening.

It's true. Anything IS happening.

Today Harry Logan celebrates his ambulation into the misty unknown. He's not dying. He's retiring. But to the reality of this newsroom, he IS dying. He'll no longer transport his matter instaneously behind the desk of his choosing. He'll no longer need his daily sustenance of Nabs (the presence of which I was only recently aware - apparentally they're a little north of the Pop Tarts in the vending machine...Scheißen!).

Harry will jaunt into that next level of reality - retirement.

It must be a weird time, bl'reader. I remember when I graduated into real life. It was strange. I am accustomed to it now, but for several months it was awkward (are all these bills for ME?).

I want to congratulate Harry on his accomplishment...retiring. It's not really an accomplishment is it? The accomplishment was all the years he put into the news industry. Retirement is just him saying, "That's it." Of course, the question is Will he REALLY retire?

I don't know. The heart of a hero never stops beating for the thrill that once brought him fame. Beowulf, years after his entanglement with Grendel, still couldn't resist tangling with a fire-breathing dragon.
Perhaps Harry still has his broad-sword sheathed, ready to move into battle.

Only the Fates know.

Irregardless, us peons in the newsroom know we are losing a leader, a winker and a quality newsman.

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