Brady C. Mallory

Many of us who find it hard to spare one moment to even breathe are often displeased to hear the ever-familiar sound of the weathered Salvation Army bell. The week before Thanksgiving we see a stranger adorned with a thick parka and gloves piously waiting for a handful of coins and a gesture of goodwill.

The thing I miss most about Canada is the option to purchase wine in a pop can. One might easily mistake me for a native of our northern neighbor, but I simply acknowledge the technological beauty of an adult libation in a portable, easy-to-hide cylinder of aluminum.

Growing up, I never admired the same figures other little boys declared as their heroes. Baseball players, football stars and Superman did not impress me as much as the one who embodied what I thought of as heroism. As a 22-year-old man, my hero is still very much my mother.

As I waved goodbye to the news station where I spent a summer of indentured servitude, also known as an internship, a foreshadowing sentence loudly reverberated inside my head: “Ever since this job has pretty much sucked my soul out of my v*****, I just don’t care anymore.” In retrospect, that piece of guidance is one of two fond memories I have of the station’s anchor, Diane.

As a writer, I try to think of a beginning, develop a story and find an organic ending. I have been thinking about a way to end this sometimes controversial column that has been an intricate part of my senior year at SDSU. Lately, my mind has been wandering back to my days in high school when my life was homecoming games, cruising the one-ways, trips to Perkins after choir concerts, running the school newspaper and eating with friends at Steve’s Pizza.