Brent's Polemics has been published

Actually, the editor of Brent's Polemics has been published. Same thing. My byline and mug display at the beginning of the following article, and I get free advertising, at the end, for my communications consultancy, STETrevisions:

Real Reality TV

Yes, I wrote the article at that link. Thank you. You will all be on the acknowledgements page of my forthcoming book.

Imagine Magazine, a publication that covers the New England media industry, has as its publisher a woman who descends from none other than General George Patton. The online layout seems unconventional. I was also in the hard copy version, an aesthetically pleasing tabloid newspaper format published every two months; my article was in the magazine's November 2004 edition.

Glossies now find themselves in my freelancing crosshairs. The safety is already disengaged. Watch out, Rolling Stone et al. That's right. Brent's Polemics is in your rearview mirror and approaching at a rapid rate of speed.

Back when life was like a drug

It happens every day yet, every time, catches me unaware. A song plays on the radio. A smell prompts a memory. An image captures my attention. Chills travel my body from head to toes and back as only chills do. A lump heralds from somewhere I know not and loiters in my throat. I cough. Tears well like coffee in a mug filled exactly to capacity, and my face frowns the kind of frown that isn't mad but sad. I want to cry. I try. I can't. And I realize: I miss her.

We adored each other. We wrote each other our own cards. We rarely bought them at the store. If we did, they were the blank kind. If they weren't, we embellished them. We loved giving them. We loved receiving them.

Both of us wanted healing. Both of us had been hurt in the way that only love hurts men and women. We exchanged sighs of relief on our first date. Brent was the one, she told herself. Heather was the one, I told myself. We both knew.

Back when life was like a drug, the world was like a movie. A soundtrack accompanied Heather and me as we played the role of lovers in a chick flick I was glad to be a part of. And today, as I listen to that soundtrack nestled in the CD player's carousel and smell her perfume still lingering on the cards now strewn across my floor, the tears well. My face frowns as I grow sad again. I try to cry. I can't. And I realize: She really left me.