Dreams can come true; they can happen to you

A while back, The Augusta Chronicle came up with a deal called "Make Your Dream Come True." I called and said it was my dream to replace Bill Kirby for a day. A nice lady named Erica Cline, Lifestyles editor at The Chronicle, called me and said, "Okey-dokey; come on down here, and we'll get 'r done."

When I arrived at The Chronicle building, Bill Kirby came down to the lobby to greet me. He then proceeded to confuse the heck out of me by taking me on a whirlwind tour. I don't remember much about what I saw, except the higher we went the better the wallpaper and carpets got. At one point we stuck our heads in a room where the actual printing of the paper is done. There was a lot of machinery, and all of it was making noise and spinning at high rpms. If you ever get a chance to visit that room, be sure you don't get your leg caught in anything. You wouldn't be seen again until somebody put 50 cents in a Chronicle box at the mall.

After the tour, Mr. Kirby took me to his own bailiwick at The Chronicle for a chat. He is the metro editor and presides over a bright-looking bunch of writers who were all banging away at computers. I suspect some of them might have been playing games or doing a little shopping on eBay because I was told it was a slow news day. Nonetheless, I was impressed by the fact everyone was busy and there wasn't any trash on the floor.

True to his reputation, Mr. Kirby opened a desk drawer and withdrew about 14 pounds of postcards. He explained that his formula for selecting which cards to mention is the uniqueness of the location from which the card is sent. So if you want to see your name in the paper, go to Timbuktu and send him a card. Or, if you don't like to travel, stand in the middle of Broad Street and take your clothes off. That will get your name in the paper a lot quicker.

It amazed me that The Chronicle can produce so many newspapers in so serene an atmosphere as I observed. No whooping or yelling or throwing stuff in the air; just a calm professionalism aimed toward giving Augusta a daily dose of news. I kept hoping a reporter would come charging in hollering "stop the presses." But none did. I thought about hollering it myself but had noticed on the way in that the guards pack what looked like real guns. I am some dumb, but not plumb dumb.

Anyway, that is why you are reading me today and not Mr. Kirby, who, by the way, is a nice man and a sharp dresser; even his socks matched, and the toes of his shiny black shoes were pointed to fit a keyhole. As a parting gesture, Mr. Kirby gave me a genuine official Chronicle coffee mug. It is sort of ugly ... but it doesn't leak.