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by Brent Kellogg
September 19, 2008
You may have noticed that this here Daze report
hasn't been so much about what's happening in Genoa
City today as it is what happened yesterday and
that's because with the recent death of my wife
there have been so many personal issues to deal with
I've been giving the Daze second priority. In a way,
that can be a good thing as it gives me more time to
ponder what has happened in the big city and try to
make better sense of it. But that can make the GCN
seem dated, and if it's one thing I can't tolerate
it's stuff that's outdated, like monthly magazines.
What I need is an Editor-In-Chief. A person who can
make major decisions and solve top stories dilemmas.
Had I known she was looking for something to do I
could have asked Nikki Chow. That's still her last
name, isn't it? She didn't have it legally changed,
or her marriage to David Chow annulled, did she?
She's calling herself "Mrs. Newman" again, but
wasn't that a spur of the moment thing? Is this
another of those things that can happen only in
Genoa City? Like when Victor Newman Junior changed
his name to Adam Wilson, back to Junior, and then
back to Wilson? No wonder the fool has been rejected
by every major business he sent a resume to. If he
used the name Wilson, those companies don't know
they're compelled to hire him. It is, of course, all
daddy Victor Newman's fault. All it took was one
phone call from Victor and Adam was put on the
nationwide black list.
Before it was Victor's fault, it was Nikki's fault.
There she was at the Jitter Joint this week telling
her goofy son she could use a job but didn't know
what she wanted to do when Adam jumped her. It was
Nikki who bad-mouthed and prevented him from getting
a job at Jabot Cosmetics. Is she really that
"petty"? You mean, he didn't know from his last
run-in with the old cow that she's petty? See? Adam
is a fool.
Maybe it's just me, but if I was Adam I'd be taking
self-defense lessons from Karen Taylor. I'd be in
the Athletic Supporter gym day and night until I was
so pumped that pipsqueaks like Nick Newman would
think twice before telling me to watch my mouth or
he'd break me in half. Aware there's a burly goon at
the Newman Ponderosa, I wouldn't go crawling back
there demanding to see daddy unless I could kick the
goon's ass half-way up to the paved over pond Cassie
Newman fell into and nearly died. Perhaps one of
these days too someone will give Nick a good
licking.
So while Nick is shooting the breeze with Nikki,
while he'd previously been with former wife Sharon
Abbott, current wife Phyllis Newman was running
their useless magazine pretty much alone. With
Sharon and her husband no longer running the
magazine there was a sudden shortage of personnel.
The magazine's one and only photographer was
unavailable for a last minute photo shoot and the
receptionist, one Amber Moore, hadn't shown up for
work in days. Phones ringing off the hook as always,
when Nick dragged his ass in there was a major
decision to be made. Who to put on the next issue's
cover? Nick's choice of an Italian male hunk, or
Phyllis' choice of a woman who - in a drug-induced
haze - had tried to run her boy toy down.
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Brent's
coffee courtesy of
Speeder &
Earls, Burlington, VT.
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