Today is "French Day" at work.
None of us have any idea what this means, and therein, lies the beauty.

We think it may be just an excuse for assistant news editor Tom Guenther to bring in his Brigette Bardot records, but c'est la vie....

I told you early in this blog I would someday explain what "Days" are in The Reporter newsroom, oops, I mean "Information Center." Silly me.

It's a way for those who work the Saturday shift to exercise the collective conscious, somewhat like the Borg, because, alas, we have no access to a "Holodeck," in which we could act out our fantasies, meek ones, of course, like making a living beading hair on a pink-sand beach island, wrapped in a tie-dyed sarong while sipping drinks made of mangos and papayas.

In that life we have perfect toes because we would never have to wear wool socks to bed to keep warm.

It started one day when Gary, the page editor mentioned it was the anniversary of the Concert For Bangladesh.

Gary: "I have the album!"

Tom: "So do I!"

Sharon (near hysteria) "Me too!"

As if, somehow, that were miraculous. (I told you we need real lives).

I won't bore you with details of how we brought our records and forced everyone else to bring in something from the sixties and how editor Mike Mentzer brought "The Letterman" and we tittered, "he is such an innocent!"

Since then this obscure theme day has been relegated to select Saturdays, the pathetic-ness of it being it is no more than a display table set up amidst the mad pounding of key boards, the scanner sounding and pages being sent to the press by deadline.

Some highlights: "Jimmy Hendrix Are You Experienced Day;" "Beatles/Apple Day," which required everyone bring something made of apples; "If There's a Rock 'n Roll Heaven You Know They've Got a Hell of a Band/Thanksgiving Day;" and "Gloria Day," any Gloria.


It's always a free day. Participation and/or an explanation is not required. Since no one is told what to do or bring it's a delightful surprise to see a rare collector Beatles album turn up or a fringed leather jacket, circa 1973.

Or hear sports editor John Casper's horror story of the night he was having dinner with his parents and the debauchle that occurred over reciting the wrong Jimmy Hendrix words, a phrase, in fact, many of us have gotten wrong, John, believe me. Don't be so hard on yourself.

But just for the record it is "'scuze me, while I kiss the sky," not " this guy."

If you viewed the ragged lot of us, personalities that would probably never meet or share a passing glance in real life, it's a very "groovy" happening.

After all, who knew Brigette Bardot could sing?

Take it from me, she can't. It was laughable, at best, although the guys called it "soothing." ;-D