“What’s your stripper dance?” was certainly not a question I expected when I stepped into the newsroom Friday, but then, in my world, circumstances change often.
So, with more than 30 years of journalism training behind me, I was able to promptly say, “Ummm, What?”
All around me the office came to a stop with expectant faces looking my way, a few offering suggestions on what would be the perfect song.
This is when I realized I’m one heck of a lot older than I generally feel each day. Like decades. Or maybe centuries.
I’m told, however, that these young’uns routinely come up with assorted odd questions to ask, answer and speculate on what your answers should be as well.
Thanks to this (let’s go with tradition rather than annoying practice), I’ve already earned a “rap name,” had numerous debates as to my horoscope, choice of footwear and clothing, where I was born and three dozen other oddities that always leave me wondering if everybody’s office is like ours.
Working on a distraction, I immediately asked whether a Friday deadline necessity had been taken care of by the crew. Luck wasn’t with me Friday and I received assurances that, yes, the one item had been done and five others I might have used as a distraction. So much for using the whole “I’m the boss” thing to distract them from this new fascination.
Never in my life had I considered even remotely the possibility that I would need music for a stripper dance any more than I would need the equipment for working as a coal miner, hockey player, or one of those people who change the light bulbs on communications towers somewhere up in the clouds.
About this time, I realized that the longer I stayed silent the more the newsroom folks would become enthralled by the subject.
Clicking your heels three times does not actually send you to Kansas, I learned five seconds later (I may actually be grateful there though. As tempting as Kansas sounded at the moment, I’ve been there. Lived in a house on top of a hill – until it snowed, that is. At that point, it sure looked like the prairie).
I may be getting off topic here, but efforts to pull the subject away certainly did not work Friday.
I’m sure there are songs about just vanishing in a poof of smoke, but, danged it, I couldn’t remember them right then. Or maybe they are rap songs and an honorary name just doesn’t give you access to the song list.
Another “hmm, well, um, gee” just earned more song suggestions.
I realized this was one of those take your medicine situations.
“I will survive,” I offered.
“The song or you will survive this conversation,” one of the gals asked.
“Yes,” was the only reply I could muster.
This earned a round of applause from the crew (why I have absolutely no idea), followed by a squeal of delight (not mine).
“We’re going to be in the paper! Look at her face,” one of the folks said pointing at yours truly. “She’s going to write about this. You can tell.”
She’s right I suppose.
Some tales you just have to put down in writing to believe.
For the record, I can live with a rap name, but DO NOT have a stripper song or dance or whatever nor have I ever felt the need to even consider the subject until Friday when my main concern was wondering how I got into the situation.
I do, however, have a rather unique office staff. They are truly originals and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Next time, I hope they pick a less “what the blank” question to ask.
In the meantime, what’s your song?
– Shannon Crabtree is editor & publisher of the El Campo Leader-News.