Reporters hold this truth to be self-evident: the phone is not good. When the phone rings in the music department, the other end is pretty much always going to be, "ME-ME-ME-ME-PAY ATTENTION TO MEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" with an LA phone number tagged on the end. So that's why I made a resolution for 2003: NEVER ANSWER THE PHONE. OR EVEN TOUCH IT. THE PHONE IS YOUR ENEMY. And tonight, near the end of 2003, we check our messages for the first time since December 2002 and see what we missed: Nothing.
"Yeah, I got an 81-year-old client who wants to know when his piece is going to run, and why his time was wasted. To put it lightly, I'm really pissed." Or: "Yeah, this is AAA Self-Storage, regarding your rent due on the 13th." Or: "Yeah, this is really a Christmas record for the hipster! Can we get coverage?" Or: "This is AAA Self-Storage—please give us a call regarding your account." Or: "Chris, this is your dad. Call me today and tell me when you're coming home for Thanksgiving, or if you're coming, because I have no idea what day you're arriving."
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Ah, memories. A whole year and I missed nothing. And I was wondering why the lock on the storage unit didn't work anymore. But we reporters have another truism—well, not so much a truism as a credo, but it still applies: Fuck it. Sorry, dad. See you next year?