The Pilot and Virginia: both irresistible

Hello. I’m new around here.

Before I begin slinging opinions in this space on a regular basis, I thought I ought to introduce myself and extend a proper invitation for you to join me in the slingfest in the weeks and months and — who knows? — years ahead.

First, a little on where I came from. For the past nine years, I’ve been opining for a living at the Herald-Tribune in Sarasota, Fla. Truth be told, I left there somewhat reluctantly, because I’d grown rather fond of Florida’s barefoot, school’s-out atmosphere. Oh, and its weirdness. I really liked that.

The Sunshine State, as you might imagine, offers something akin to a Full Employment Act for Editorial Writers. There’s rarely a shortage of material.

The 2000 recount. Palmetto bugs the size of Buicks. An ever-loopy legislature that makes the Virginia General Assembly look almost Solomonic in comparison. Some days, a fellow like me just couldn’t deplore, condemn and ridicule quickly enough to keep up.

One of my first editorials in Florida, I’m proud to say, was about a state legislative candidate who claimed her opponent was an imposter. Not just a run-of-the-mill political phony, mind you, but a genuine imposter. Her real opponent, she said, was actually dead and had been replaced with a look-alike whose real name was Danny Divito. (No, not Danny DeVito. Different actor entirely.) I ask you: Who could possibly resist such a place?

But as much my wife, Julie, and I enjoyed our lives down south, we decided the timing was right for us to head back “up north” to Virginia, the state we’d called home since childhood.

Our 9 -year-old daughter, Phoebe, consented to our plans to leave her beloved Florida after extensive negotiations that involved Daddio promising frequent trips to the beach, Grandma and Poppy’s house in southwestern Virginia, and all snow cone stands and amusement parks within a 100-mile radius — plus an unspecified number of demands-to-be-named-later. (I have to check the contract, but I fear I may have also promised her a pony from Chincoteague.)

Now, a little about how I got here. I accepted a job as an editorial writer and columnist at The Virginian-Pilot waaay back in November, on the very day — as luck would have it — that Landmark’s board of directors consented to the Batten family’s decision to explore selling the paper. (As far as I know, no one in those negotiations was promised a pony.)

I wasn’t aware of this decision at the time I accepted the job offer, of course.

Like most folks, I found out about the prospective sale in January, on the very day — as luck would have it — that I’d informed my editorial page colleagues in Florida that I intended to shuffle off to my native state of Virginia in April for a new job.

The announcement of the sale placed me in a bit of a quandary. I was forced to ponder the classic question posed by The Clash: “Should I stay or should I go now?”

After thinking it over a few days, my wife and I decided to proceed with our plans, sale or no sale. I called my new boss here at The Pilot with the intention of telling him I’d re-accept the job. But — as luck would have it — he wasn’t in, so I left a message asking him to call me back.

Seconds later, I sat down at my computer and read the news that televangelist Pat Robertson was expressing an interest in purchasing The Pilot.

At this point, I was presented with yet another chance to back out, yet another chance to call the whole thing off and stay put in Florida.

This time, however, there was really no need to mull it over.

I laughed.

I ask you: Who could possibly resist such a place?

Daryl Lease is an editorial writer for The Virginian-Pilot. Reach him at daryl.lease@pilotonline.com or (757) 446-2441.