Slings and Arrows of Outrageous Fortune Keep Missing

Every day, the same old thing from my boss, Mr. Broken Record.

I bound into the office, munching on a cordial from a box of chocolates and humming a show tune, and right away he starts: “What are you outraged about today?” he says.

If I’ve told him once I’ve told him a hundred times: The only two things that outrage me are no hot water in the shower and poor television reception.

He doesn’t want to hear that, not Mr. Let’s-Get-Outraged-All-Over-Again-Today.

He’s hunkered over his desk and grimacing. Leo the Lion in maroon suspenders. His phone messages are piling up, and some of his breakfast is already on his tie. I know what I’m in for. He’s Gen. Patton, and his 3rd Army of Journalism isn’t taking any prisoners today.

“I’m not outraged about anything, chief,” I say. “It’s 72 degrees outside with no humidity. My car is running like a champ, and the world is a fine place. What’s there to get outraged about?”

“Isn’t anything making you mad?” he asks.

“Well, I turned on the car radio and a song I really liked was just ending, and I was upset I didn’t get to hear the whole thing. That hacked me off for a minute.”

That’s not what he means, and so we have the same discussion all over again. He tells me I can’t be a good columnist unless I’m outraged about things. Then he lapses into some story about an article he wrote once upon a time for a newspaper in a land far, far away, and how outraged he was and how much good came from the story and blah, blah, blah. I act like I’m paying attention, but my mind starts to wander. He says he wishes every day I came in, I’d make a list of five things that outraged me. I tell him that’s a darn good idea, all the while thinking to myself that if I did, three of them would involve him.

“I just don’t get outraged that often,” I say. He makes me feel guilty for saying it.

“How about the state budget?” he says.

“Too complicated,” I say.

“Public corruption?”

“Hey, it happens.”

“Illegal immigration?”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“Street crime?”

“I wish it would decline.”

“The homeless?”

“I feel sorry for them.”

Just in that short exchange, I demonstrated intellectual shallowness, indifference, hopelessness, regret and pity. All honest emotions; it’s not my fault that none of them are traits associated with successful newspaper columnists.

He tries everything to get me outraged. His favorite tactic is to launch into a spirited Knute Rockne-type speech about the tradition of journalists who “comfort the afflicted” and “afflict the comfortable.” He starts waving his arms and pointing his finger, and his face gets red and he mentions the First Amendment at least once and then he starts reading the roll call of some of the greats in our business. More often than not, he’ll still be talking when I slip out of his office without him noticing.

I then usually head off to the cafeteria, thinking about what he said but mainly hoping that there are still some doughnuts left.

Yet, I have to admit, he gets to me.

Maybe I should get outraged more often . Why am I such a cupcake ? In John Wayne territory, am I the Don Knotts of columnists?

I try to remember the last thing that truly outraged me. I can’t remember specifically, but I’m pretty sure it involved a group of friends and me being stuck with the tab.

I tell my boss he knew I was a pussycat when they gave me the stupid job.

He isn’t the only one who’s spotted my character flaw. Several months ago, I was chatting with a colleague about establishing a permanent name for the column.

I trotted out names like, “What I Think,” or “The View From Here.”

“How about, ‘Dammit!’ ” my colleague suggested.

“That doesn’t sound like me,” I said. The closest I could get to the spirit of that was, “Oh, Fudge!”

I keep telling my boss that I’m probably too old to suddenly get outraged about things. Don’t people get less outraged as they get older--sort of realizing that, sure, life has lots of inequities in it, but we’re all going to die, anyway, so what’s the point in getting all upset?

Needless to say, that kind of clearheaded logic doesn’t cut it with Old Ink and Guts.

So, I come in for the daily drubbing, and we talk about the next day’s column and he says, “Now, let’s go out there and get outraged!”

“G-r-r-r, chief,” I growl, padding out of his office on little kitty feet.

I glance back just in time to catch his look of disappointment, knowing that he wishes instead that a lion full of outrage had just left in search of prey.

Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Parsons by writing to him at The Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, Calif. 92626, or calling (714) 966-7821.