Editor dream real nightmare

Scenes from the Tivoli II. (Or a bad Airplane! rip-off.)

It was a columnistâs fantasy.

There I was sitting in my usual barstool in the Boiler Room when a frantic messenger boy came charging in through the front door.

ãMr. Henry, Mr. Henry!ä he yelled. ãThey need you at the newspaper!ä

ãWhat is it?ä I exclaimed.

ãItâs a collection of articles, photographs and advertisements printed on processed trees, but that is not important now,ä he said. ãThey need you upstairs.ä

So upstairs I went, wondering what in the hell would be so important that they needed me to come to the paper right away.

Usually, I am just in the way.

Entering the front door of Student Publications, I realized instantly that something was wrong.

The place was deserted. The only person in the office was Yellow J. Muckraker, a member of the Student Publications Advisory board.

ãWhatâs going on?ä I inquired.

ãThe whole staff has come down with food poisoning from chicken served at the staff meeting,ä he said. ãSince you are the only staff member that isnât invited to the meetings, you are all that is left.ä

This must be some practical joke, I thought.

ãSurely you canât be serious,ä I cried.

ãI am dead serious, and donât call me Shirley,ä he replied.

ãWell, what do you want me to do?ä I asked.

ãFor the next issue, you are the new editor-in-chief,ä he winced.

Lord, almighty! My time had finally come.

Ideas started running wild through my head.

No more cushion pieces on student government.

Lots of trashy stories ripping the scandal-prone organization CoPIRG.

A center section all about how buses and the people who ride them are dangerous to society.

And last but not least, no letters to the editor!

But soon I was brought down to Earth.

ãTravis, to be editor we need you to be fair, unbiased and accurate,ä Muckraker said.

 ãHmmmmm,ä I cringed.

ãOr at least sober,ä he said.

ãWhat were my first choices?ä I asked.

Muckraker introduced me to the makeshift newspaper staff that was thrown together in light of this tragedy.
The two bums who stand at Speer and Auraria Parkway with the ãWill Work for Foodä signs were my reporters and an Auraria parking attendant was my copy editor.

All three took substantial pay-cuts to come work at the paper.
After a three-hour staff meeting at the Boiler Room, it seemed obvious that we were in no position to put out the quality paper that the three students who read The Metropolitan expect.

ãAltogether, this is turning out to be a total disaster,ä I exclaimed.

ãThis is turning out to be a total disaster,ä my drunk newspaper staff repeated, all together.

The last thing I remember is publishing a newspaper featuring a headline story about Metro President Sheila Kaplan using student fees for a hair transplant.

Hey, if you canât find good news, make it up.

Thatâs when I was woke from my dream.

ãHenry! Henry!ä a voice summoned me from my slumber.

I rose my tired, slobbering head from the desk I had crashed on.

ãIs your column going to be ready or what?ä the voice said. ãSurely, you havenât been sleeping this whole time.ä

Thank God. It was Michael BeDan, the real editor.

ãOh my column will be ready all right,ä I said. ãAnd donât call me Shirley.ä