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Paul Struck was always on my case to write a column. Randomly, he’d call out suggestions, shouting them down the hallway or over the top of my cubicle wall on his way out the door. “How about ‘Erin’ on the side of caution?” was one. “Absolutely not,” I replied. “Rydgren rambles,” got the response of “I know I do, but no.” Then he tried to make a play on my hometown, “What’s Brewing with Erin,” where I asked him if he was trying to get me run out of town. There are dozens of others, none of which especially come to mind to share with you, but know that they were always turned down, scoffed at, or given a deadpan expression, maybe an eye roll or two. For a boss, he was pretty understanding when I told him flat out that I highly doubted anyone cared about my opinions and that I was perfectly content writing the news, not being the news.
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