After 20 years at The Trentonian, I’ve got two words for ya: Thank you

I’ve had my face in this newspaper for quite some time now, so it’s not altogether surprising when someone recognizes me. To be honest, I love it every time. Feeds the ol’ ego, you know? Anyway, a few weeks back I was stopped by a young woman at Wegmans. She had a child in the cart. By my eyes, she was probably somewhere between 25 and 30. I thought of her as a contemporary. Oops.

“I’ve been reading you since I was a kid!” she said, which immediately made me feel very, very, very old. “You’re so funny!”

Which, I suppose, I am. Funny, I mean. That, and old. Heck, I’m 47. Started here when I was 27 and would you look at that - my 20th anniversary at The Trentonian just passed last Friday.

Holy moly.

Twenty years.

That wasn’t supposed to happen.

I was living in New York City, eking out a living as a freelance writer. I had just published a guidebook to the New Jersey shore. On the surface I was doing OK. But I wasn’t, really. My professional life was stalling, my personal life was a bit out of control. Hanging with some dicey characters. I needed a change.

And it came in a phone call from the then-city editor, Paul Mickle, a Trentonian’s Trentonian if there ever was one. I had sent my resume months earlier because a college friend who was working there encouraged me to. I had forgotten about it. At the time of the call from Mickle, I was in Carolina Beach, North Carolina, drinking Coronas, reading David Lee Roth’s autobiography, and generally going through a quarter-life crisis. Mickle left me a message offering me the job. I took it without second thought. I hustled back to New York, packed my things, and set out for Trenton.

I barely made it through my first week.

I was assigned the Hamilton beat. I was sent out to find out if Mayor Jack Rafferty was planning on running again come November. I was given a few sources to talk to. What I got, direct from a top source, was this: “No, he’s not.”

We published it. The next day I was in the publisher’s office, getting dressed down. Apparently, calls came in demanding a retraction, saying the story was bunk, saying it was a lie. I had to defend myself. I wasn’t happy. (It should be noted here Rafferty did not seek another term. Vindicated!)

First few months were OK. Then I met a girl in a black skirt and pink top who was always smiling. I worked up the nerve to ask her out, and … well, and our 20th anniversary of that first date is coming up. Column for another day.

Within about 18 months, I had risen to Mickle’s position (he was promoted to top dog) and … I hated it. Hated being in charge of the reporters. Hated having to be the decision maker. I had to fire someone once. By the end of the firing I had rehired her. I was not cut out for management.

Eventually, I wormed my way out of it, went back to being a reporter. Another few years passed, and I was again at a professional crossroads. I wanted to (one guess) be a columnist. That was always the dream from even before I took the job. I wanted to tell stories and spout opinions and get paid for it. I wanted to be like Dave Barry, the famed Miami Herald newspaper columnist.

No editor had allowed me the chance. One of them, the late Tom Baldwin, pulled a Lloyd Bentsen on me and said, “I know Dave Barry, I worked with Dave Barry, and you are no Dave Barry.”

Eventually, though, an editor came through that gave me a shot. Dave Warner. Former Philly Daily News guy.

So I took the chance he gave me. And while I can’t remember what my first column was about, I do remember this: Then-state Sen. Peter Inverso and John, a Trentonian janitor, both saw fit to tell me how much they enjoyed it. I figured if both janitors and politicians got my schtick, I was probably on to something.

I was given a column a week in addition to my reporting duties.

Eventually, the reporting duties were taken away and three columns a week were expected of me. Soon, it grew to four. I didn’t complain. Didn’t ask for a raise. I was doing exactly what I wanted to be doing as a career. I couldn’t have been happier with how it turned out.

Today, things have changed. The newspaper business has changed. But I’m still here, and still doing what I love to do.

Mercer County has become my home. My heartbeat is tied to this place. I’m reasonably certain I know more about pork roll than anyone in America.

And so … thank you. Thank you to the woman at Wegmans. Thank you to the countless others who have taken the time to say hello. Thank you the thousands of emails and messages and phone calls I’ve gotten over the years. Thank you for letting me spout off.

Because that’s the truth of the matter— without you guys out there, I’m nothing over here.

Thanks for 20 years, and here’s hoping for 20 more.