B.S. 1
I used to own a beaver skull with a fully functioning mandible. For a year or so it sat on our shelf in the apartment we paid $575 a month to rent for 12 years a couple miles north of downtown Columbus. I don’t remember who gave me the beaver skull. I do remember the night that my friend Canaan and I were hanging out and drumming up names for a newspaper we wished existed, something that comprised first person accounts of everything from early morning flea market visits and White Castle breakfasts to day-long drives and late night live music in rotgut bars. We never got around to starting an actual newspaper, but Beaver Skull always stuck in my head as a working name for a repository of personal reports from the field, wherever the fields may be. With Canaan’s blessing, welcome to my own personal Beaver Skull, where I’ll gnaw on what I’ve seen of late and spit out a report that I’d allow to carry my byline — or at least chunks of text that I wouldn’t be embarrassed to send to friends.