Howard Johnson and the Bright New Banner

You'll recall our disastrous attempt at a staff retreat in July, when I rented that janky submarine, and we all got COVID on the first day. Well, we finally organized a do-over, safe on land, in the ballroom of the local Howard Johnson.

(If you Google "Howard Johnson" to see if Howard Johnson is still in business, you'll find Google's top suggestion: "Was Howard Johnson president?" And Google's AI minion swoops in to say, yes, Howard Johnson was indeed the president. He served in that capacity at MIT from 1966 to 1971. Could that be true? I was skeptical that Howard Johnson the hotelier had any grander aim than a passable Boston cream pie. And I was right. Google is thinking of Howard Wesley Johnson, not Howard Deering Johnson. Howard Deering Johnson only finished elementary school, as you will have guessed if you've stayed at a Howard Johnson.

I stayed at a Howard Johnson only once, when my college choir went to Kansas City for the Big Dance—the American Choral Directors Association's national convention. To behold the Kansas City Howard Johnson was to understand the esteem in which our choir was held by the ACDA. We were the only choir quartered there. The other rooms were mostly reserved for another convention whose name I never caught, but the plenitude of beards, high heels, and leather was largely self-explanatory. If anyone from that choir should read this, can you confirm that we really saw a guy in assless chaps in the elevator? Or was that a rumor that became a memory?

I certainly remember thinking that the rooms might not have been cleaned as vigorously one could hope, a suspicion amplified when someone found a dirty negligee in their closet. One of the senior boys tried it on. I saw the photographs.

To round up my digression, Howard Johnson still exists, but it's called Howard Johnson by Wyndham now. Update your rolodex accordingly.)

Point being, the Ostrich staff enjoyed a productive retreat. We got to hear Arnie Tackleman do his Al Pacino impression, as well as his Sean Connery. (I couldn't tell the difference.) The genie gave a fascinating powerpoint on the history of the advice column. Evelyn got to read a few of her poems, and I finally got to ask a question that's been on my mind for a while now, which was:

Would the Ostrich still be the Ostrich if it didn't come out each week?

I'd been afraid to ask this question, since I didn't want the writers to feel undervalued, but I was glad I went ahead. Arnie pointed out that he doesn't actually work here. Vera Maraschino reminded me that she only writes the food column because I tricked her into it. The genie said, cryptically, that he "might be uncommonly busy for a spell." And then Clayton Brusk did something I never expected—he handed in his sabre. Turns out Bertie Bird offered him the top desk at the Wednesday C-O, and he was waiting for the right moment to tell me.

Our weatherman was the only one who seemed underwhelmed about a more relaxed schedule. (He has a name but I'm contractually forbidden to print it.) His body language told me he was disappointed, and then his wife called me the next day.

"Tom," she said, "he's a weatherman. It's what he is. He needs this." So I talked things over with him, and I think we've found a course that pleases all the writers.

Starting tomorrow, our paid Weekly Forecast will become a free service, delivered to all subscribers each Monday. The front page will keep its Sunday schedule through the rest of October, which will see The Daily Ostrich through to one full year under my aluminum fist. (Two years of tycoonitude!) After that, the Weekly Forecast will continue once a week, while the front page eases off the gas. We'll publish full articles once a month under a new banner—the Occasional Ostrich. For most readers, this means you'll hear from the Ostrich more often than you do now, if in fewer words.

Retiring the Daily in The Daily Ostrich will mark the end of an era, but that was a pretense already. The Ostrich isn't going anywhere. She'll keep ringing your doorbell, same as always, quarrelsome as ever.