an interesting night
Eerie weather is one of my greatest pet peeves. Friday night's was especially creepy. The walk to my car is short, but I experienced enough changes in the weather to make it a memorable two minutes. I could barely open the door to leave the place the damn wind was so strong, but somehow it was dead silent. There was no familiar "wooshing" noise as my face is bombarded with psychotically fast air molecules, a feeling and sound I grew to hate from my uphill bike rides from dorm to campus Freshman year. It was just...creepy. Not only that, but there was plenty of lightning out but no thunder as accompaniment. In other areas of the country that's not uncommon, but in NE it's completely unheard of. Here, we're all heavy sleepers. We have to be.
Dad and I had been planning all week to watch the USC/Nebraska game at the Whiskey Roadhouse, a bar inside the Horseshoe Casino where I used to work. I was excited about parking valet and getting reacquainted with some people with whom I've lost touch, but dad had other plans. Feeling better safe than sorry, he parked in the garage because of the impending warnings of 3-inch hail and assorted bits of nasty weather. Too bad...I was going to tip them ten bucks. On the upside, the car smelled like ass at the time so I should probably be glad I was saved the embarrassment. Dad worried about this last week but I assured him the car is fucking pristine compared to some of the atrociously dirty and rank rides people expect us to park.
We settled in and watched the rest of the other games over longnecks and chili fries. The USC game was pretty exciting by the end of the first half, at which point I wandered off to break the seal and chat with some valets. I spied around the valet window and lanes, hoping to find some familiar faces, but was bummed to find a couple of new kids and a few with whom I didn't really feel like talking. Five valets working on a Saturday night (give or take a couple in the break room)? What the hell is that? Not to mention one of the newbies was SLOW in returning one of the cars.
When I returned dad told me he wasn't feeling well and wanted to take off. I didn't argue with him. The Nebraska game was interrupted on the radio by the Emergency Broadcast System which indicates the weather is really fucking severe -- very little is going to come between Husker fans and their football. This attitude is kind of sickening but endearing at the same time. We decided to take Dodge street all the way home (i.e. avoid the interstate because there might not be a place to take cover), and concluded from the broadcasts the storm is going to pass by the time we reach West Omaha.
Motorists were going pretty crazy, speeding thru red lights and changing lanes very erratically. Can't say I blame them. This was actually scarier than the storm. Just as we're leaving downtown, dad suddenly realized my step-mom stupidly sets her clock 15 minutes ahead (because it supposedly keeps her from being late) so we would actually be driving right into the damn thing. He turns around and we take shelter in the World-Herald (where he works). And at this point I enter a parallel universe by way of what could have been.
I always thought dad's office was extremely ugly, which as shallow as it sounds, matters to me greatly when it comes to a job. He has to sign me up for my own door card which is handed to me through fingerprint-adorned bulletproof glass so we could enter the office through this huge metal revolving door. This is always the image of the place I get when I think about the World-Herald and it's half the place I never attempted to get a job there upon receiving my Journalism degree. I snarked to dad at how secure the joint was, and he said I'd be surprised at how many shotgun-toting lunatics come after journalists, hoping to make some news of their own. Very interesting.
We jog up a flight of steps (Up? During a tornado? My thoughts exactly) and enter a large, open newsroom. I'd never seen this part of the building before -- very modern-looking and comfortable. I wondered what were the chances I could have ended up here as I watched people my age rushing around, retrieving printouts and noodling with Photoshop on lovely G5s. Dad suggested heading toward the sports section of the room because they're a lot more fun. Lawl. But they weren't that fun; to their credit most were working on deadlines. We watched the TV there, alternately being worried about the tornado and just how badly Nebraska can get beaten.
I still wouldn't ever want to become a reporter but this experience made it slightly more enticing. For one, I would feel more professional. I'm getting a graduate's salary but I don't feel like a Young Professional in the customer service industry. Oh well. Climb the ladder, Monty. We finally took off and I marvelled at the size of the new Dodge expressway because I rarely ever come that way. I'm not very comfortable with change, it seems.
The rest of the night was uneventful but the simultaneous occurence of the tornado and the USC game, and our little detour at the Herald, made it a story worth telling. At least that's what I thought when I started writing this entry. I thought it sounded a lot funnier before I sat down and actually wrote it out.
Dad and I had been planning all week to watch the USC/Nebraska game at the Whiskey Roadhouse, a bar inside the Horseshoe Casino where I used to work. I was excited about parking valet and getting reacquainted with some people with whom I've lost touch, but dad had other plans. Feeling better safe than sorry, he parked in the garage because of the impending warnings of 3-inch hail and assorted bits of nasty weather. Too bad...I was going to tip them ten bucks. On the upside, the car smelled like ass at the time so I should probably be glad I was saved the embarrassment. Dad worried about this last week but I assured him the car is fucking pristine compared to some of the atrociously dirty and rank rides people expect us to park.
We settled in and watched the rest of the other games over longnecks and chili fries. The USC game was pretty exciting by the end of the first half, at which point I wandered off to break the seal and chat with some valets. I spied around the valet window and lanes, hoping to find some familiar faces, but was bummed to find a couple of new kids and a few with whom I didn't really feel like talking. Five valets working on a Saturday night (give or take a couple in the break room)? What the hell is that? Not to mention one of the newbies was SLOW in returning one of the cars.
When I returned dad told me he wasn't feeling well and wanted to take off. I didn't argue with him. The Nebraska game was interrupted on the radio by the Emergency Broadcast System which indicates the weather is really fucking severe -- very little is going to come between Husker fans and their football. This attitude is kind of sickening but endearing at the same time. We decided to take Dodge street all the way home (i.e. avoid the interstate because there might not be a place to take cover), and concluded from the broadcasts the storm is going to pass by the time we reach West Omaha.
Motorists were going pretty crazy, speeding thru red lights and changing lanes very erratically. Can't say I blame them. This was actually scarier than the storm. Just as we're leaving downtown, dad suddenly realized my step-mom stupidly sets her clock 15 minutes ahead (because it supposedly keeps her from being late) so we would actually be driving right into the damn thing. He turns around and we take shelter in the World-Herald (where he works). And at this point I enter a parallel universe by way of what could have been.
I always thought dad's office was extremely ugly, which as shallow as it sounds, matters to me greatly when it comes to a job. He has to sign me up for my own door card which is handed to me through fingerprint-adorned bulletproof glass so we could enter the office through this huge metal revolving door. This is always the image of the place I get when I think about the World-Herald and it's half the place I never attempted to get a job there upon receiving my Journalism degree. I snarked to dad at how secure the joint was, and he said I'd be surprised at how many shotgun-toting lunatics come after journalists, hoping to make some news of their own. Very interesting.
We jog up a flight of steps (Up? During a tornado? My thoughts exactly) and enter a large, open newsroom. I'd never seen this part of the building before -- very modern-looking and comfortable. I wondered what were the chances I could have ended up here as I watched people my age rushing around, retrieving printouts and noodling with Photoshop on lovely G5s. Dad suggested heading toward the sports section of the room because they're a lot more fun. Lawl. But they weren't that fun; to their credit most were working on deadlines. We watched the TV there, alternately being worried about the tornado and just how badly Nebraska can get beaten.
I still wouldn't ever want to become a reporter but this experience made it slightly more enticing. For one, I would feel more professional. I'm getting a graduate's salary but I don't feel like a Young Professional in the customer service industry. Oh well. Climb the ladder, Monty. We finally took off and I marvelled at the size of the new Dodge expressway because I rarely ever come that way. I'm not very comfortable with change, it seems.
The rest of the night was uneventful but the simultaneous occurence of the tornado and the USC game, and our little detour at the Herald, made it a story worth telling. At least that's what I thought when I started writing this entry. I thought it sounded a lot funnier before I sat down and actually wrote it out.