A pen. A piece of paper. The English language
Those are my tools. I build sentences. I assemble paragraphs. I tighten a phrase, I paint a picture with words. That's what I do.

It's been a long time since I've written for an audience. I took the easiest route to a paycheck that I could take with my toolbox, taking a sportswriting job with a newspaper. Writing for a newspaper is hardly art. The job of writing, for most newspaper reporters, is incredibly secondary to the job of gathering information and doing research. Some reporters have serious writing skill, but that number is dwindling. A very few newspaper writers can write off the top of their heads, but you can just about count them on the fingers of one hand. Go ask 100 random people to name any newspaper writer. You'll get two who will say, "Dave Barry," five who will mention some local columnist and 60 who'll say, "Ann Landers." The rest will ask, "What's a newspaper?"

Some of the greatest -- Steinbeck, Hemingway, Thompson -- wrote for newspapers. They had the good sense to get out.

I gave up reporting -- actually, it's fair to say I received a little nudge to do so -- because I didn't enjoy reporting. I don't really like to challenge people that much, at least not to their faces. I prefer to issue a challenge from the safety of my office chair, and see what the response is. That, of course, makes me a wuss. But that's who I am.

It turned out that I had enough skill in the non-writing part of newspaper production to keep a job, and to occasionally get better jobs. I began to think newspapers were my passion. I've always been drawn to news, from my earliest memories. I call it curious. You might call it nosy.

I quit writing, except for the occasional memo. I looked back at my clips every once in a while, flipping through the tattered pages and saying, "that sucked ... that sucked ... that sucked ... that one wasn't bad ... that sucked."

The money kept coming, better jobs kept coming, and I was pretty sure I'd found my niche in the world. I was a "newspaper designer," whatever that meant. I learned complex computer graphics programs. I attended design seminars. I began to worry more about how a headline looked than what it said. I was told this was very important to our readers, to look good. Lucky for me; I turned out to be good at making a newspaper look good.

I still had my toolbox. It was gathering dust in my mental garage. When I finally acquired a computer, I got the toolbox down. I replaced the pen and paper with a keyboard and monitor. I built a few sentences, assembled them into a few paragraphs. The resulting structure fell apart under its own weight. My skills were rusty in the way a screen door on an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of Oklahoma is rusty. I thanked God that my family's next meal didn't depend on my being able to assemble a paragraph.

Then, I started this. What you're reading here isn't writing, really. It's basically just me talking with my hands, rhythmically hitting a beat somewhere between "QWERTY" and "NM,./" Because I lead a pretty routine life, I don't have a lot of stories to tell. That's OK; that's the sign of a good, comfortable, productive life.

Someday, maybe, I'll write as an artist again. I'm keeping my eye out -- and, more importantly, my heart open -- for a story to tell.

Stuff scattered in the back seat

These are officially the last words I'll write about the baseball strike.

What exactly is our beef with Iraq? What have they done since 1991 to piss me off? Somebody please help me with this.

Re my mid-career crisis: Next time somebody asks me, "What do you want to do?", I'm going to jack-slap them. I don't think I even know how to jack-slap somebody, or what that even means. But I'll give it my best shot. That said: Thanks for asking, anyway. It makes me feel better to know somebody cares.

Happy birthday to the site that was the inspiration for all this. (You decide whether that's a good thing.) Confidential to Otis: You're finding your voice, man. Be ready to let it take you somewhere, when the time is right. Thanks for sending me back out in search of mine. And, just, thanks.

My writing was just interrupted by hearing the first notes of one of my favorite songs of all time: "My Hometown," by Charlie Robison. The notes were coming from the speakers of my television, of all things. Just saw the video to that song for the first time. Now that's what Texas looks like. Anybody who thinks Texas is wretched excess or big hair or dusty desolation or anything they saw on "Dallas," well, yeah, it's all that too. But the ancestral home is a big enough place to have stuff that sucks that much and still be wonderful.

Speaking of "that's what Texas looks like": We're still waiting on the Major Lifestyle Change alluded to earlier in this space. Part of the Major Lifestyle Change involves an attempt to sell our house in the driest real estate market in North Texas since the early '90s.

Said market is likely going to get more parched: another Large Telecom Company for whom so many of my neighbors work just announced 7,000 more layoffs. The severance packages from this company's March layoffs begin running out in September. I suspect "For Sale" signs are going to be going up like those ugly mushrooms that sprout in the backyard after it rains.

"There is never a shortage of bullshit"
Thus declared The Wife a couple of days ago. She noted that while we suffer deficits of many necessary things, there seems to be a perpetual bullshit surplus.

This is reality. Some people deal with it by meditating, or smoking weed, or lighting incense, or getting an occasional massage and spa treatment.

The Wife, right-leaning person that she is, has declared war.

"I am declaring war," she said, "on bullshit."

Now there's a war I can get behind.

This is a noble cause. Instead of obsessing and bitching and moaning and freaking out over things over which we have no control, now would be a good time to simply choose to not worry about them. Many things are just not going to get any better. That's OK, 'cause they're really pretty good. Let's say I take that excess energy freed up by ceasing to acknowledge bullshit and devote it to things that really matter, and who knows? Maybe I'll take less aspirin.

I know I won't be able to dodge the opponent every day, but it'll at least know I'm there.

The War on Bullshit is on. All are invited to join the effort.

Amen
Could not have said it better myself.

World's Shortest Album Review

Dixie Chicks
Home
Open Wide Records/Monument Records, $17.99
Rating (1 lowest, 10 highest): 2,137
Wow.

Why my wife is cool, Part XLVIII
I know that part of the purpose of attending a wedding is to celebrate the happy newly crowned bride and groom. When I go to a wedding, however, as I did this weekend, I am always reminded to celebrate how lucky I am to be married to my wife.

One of the cute reception gimmicks was a dance for all the married people. During the song, the DJ kicked off people at intervals based on how long they've been married. "If you've been married for ... one day, sit down." That takes care of the bride and groom, of course. (And a round of applause follows, naturally.) Then, "one year." Then, "five years." Then, "10 years." And, wow, we're still out there.

It'll be 12 years in October. It hasn't always been fun and games. We were very, very young when we got married. I was 22, she was 19. We've learned how to be married mostly by being married.

We're two incredibly different indviduals who happen to function incredibly well as a unit. When you talk to her, you're talking to me. When you talk to me, you're talking to her. We have a well-defined parenting philosophy -- defined largely by her, in her role as Best Parent Anywhere. We play to each other's strengths and try to shore up each other's weaknesses. It's worked very well so far.

I'm damn proud that she represents me. I hope I represent her half as well.

Off to Anytown
We'll try again tomorrow for a good day (see below), having kind of swung and missed at today's attempt. We'll be seeking that good day through the windshield of a Dodge Caravan, headed north through Oklahoma to Anytown, USA. (The best part of the day, of course, will be when we see that sign that says, "Leaving Oklahoma.") A long weekend in the Ozarks will be highlighted by Dr. Cousin's impending nuptials. I plan to tip a brown bottle or two. Hope you get a chance to tip a brown bottle (or your personal favorite equivalent) wherever you are. We'll resume normal programming Sunday night.

Simplicity
I was going to work up something really deep, and thoughtful, and introspective, and stuff. I decided against it. All I have is this:

Today'd be a good day for a good day. I sincerely hope you're having one.

I found the music
At one time in my life -- a time that was much too short -- music was a passion for me. Then, it kind of became a hobby when I discovered my true passion: Getting a weekly paycheck.

My wife has a friend who is a musician. Not a hack like me, but a real musician who has produced and released a real CD. (Locally, of course; she's not on anybody's top 40 yet.) Her voice is reminiscent of Nanci Griffith, with a little bit of Alison Krauss and Stevie Nicks thrown in. She writes most of her own songs, a great range of country and folk stuff.

She came over and played some music with me a few nights ago, and left behind a wonderful gift: A C.F. Martin, the industry standard of acoustic guitars. This six-string is a model D-18, made in 1971. Her house is teeming with musical instruments, and she was going to sell it to make room. At the last second, she thought better of it. It's now on long-term loan to me (so she could gain that closet space) while she decides what do with it.

I can tell you that when she is ready to sell it, she has a buyer. Thanks to this instrument, I have re-discovered my passion for playing guitar.

I hadn't played an acoustic with any regularity for probably 15 years, preferring instead to piss off my neighbors (or, at least, my pets) with the 15-watt roar of my Fender Telecaster. But I learned on an acoustic, and really, the style of music I play now is better suited for an acoustic. This guitar is well-worn, but it sounds like a dream. It actually makes me sound like I know how to play a little bit.

I don't plan to give up the weekly paycheck anytime soon, or, really, ever. I'm still a hack. But now I'm a hack with a really nice guitar.

And now for something utterly irrelevant
I once had a really disgusting habit: I was a user of smokeless tobacco. I didn't do it for very long -- a couple of years, maybe -- and it wasn't the least bit difficult to quit. I have no good explanation for why I started. It's a Midwestern thing, I guess.

I happened to notice the other day, standing in line at Walgreen's, the going rate for a can of Skoal: $5.19. Back in the mid-'80s, it was 89 cents if you bought it at the big grocery store, $1.29 if you bought it at Git-N-Go. Now, it's $5.19 to put a pinch between your cheek and gum. If you're paying $5.19 a can to dissolve your jaw, you have my sympathy.

Visual assault
The redesign progresses. I'm not sure where I'm taking it. And I'm only working on it about 10 minutes at a time. If I was a real Web geek (which I'm not), I'd be really disturbed by the messy code. If I was a real designer, I'd be concerned about how hard these shades of gray are on my viewers' eyes. (And confidential to utexas.edu: How incredibly bad does this look in Netscape 4 on a Mac?) But this is what I do instead of writing, when my brain turns to mush.

I'll settle on something soon. Then we'll be back to generating verbal dreck.

Pardon our dust
The redesign is in progress. You're getting a look at the prototypes. Hopefully the end result won't suck quite this much.

Aug. 30, 2002: The day major league baseball died
Say you're fed up with baseball? Say you're sick of the greed and the absurdity of guys who make millions staging a "labor dispute?"

Prove it. Stop going to baseball games. Only when these guys play in some empty stadiums will they notice. Only when teams actually fold will they realize what the score is. And I don't mean the silly "contraction" scheme hatched by the owners, in which Minnesota owner Carl Pohlad was going to be paid $150 million to go out of business. I mean teams actually folding, ceasing to exist because they can no longer afford to do so, filing Chapter 11, that sort of thing. When the starting rotation for the Tampa Bay Devil Rays has to march down to the Pinellas County unemployment office to pick up their checks, then we'll believe the owners are losing money.

American baseball fans could take a lesson from north of the border. Residents of Montreal have proven how to show disdain for baseball. Expos home games draw fewer fans than the average ballet recital in Suburbia. Expos' games aren't even on English-speaking radio; nobody'll pay the rights fees.

That's how you give baseball the finger.

I love baseball. I admit some complicity. I have gone to baseball games since 1994. (But again, in my defense, I remind you that I did not actually pay to do so.)

And I'm not taking sides. Both sides are wrong. The players are greedy, which is simply the American way. The owners are greedy liars, which, now that you mention it, also is apparently the American way. Doesn't matter. They're both wrong.

Maybe they'll figure out a way around a strike. But if they don't, baseball fan, don't tell me about how you're not going to go back unless you really mean it.

Newspapers are dead (continued)
After years of exerting much blood, sweat, tears and mental energy defending the existence of the daily newspaper, I find myself drifting to the other side. Suddenly, I can imagine a world without daily newspapers. More ominously, I can imagine my world without a daily newspaper.

Here's how it worked on Wednesday:

I woke up (got out of bed/ran a comb/across my head, etc.) and started the first of the day's Dozen Cups o' Coffee. I wandered over to the computer and punched up msnbc.com, scanned the headlines. Punched up the Very Large Metropolitan Newspaper's web site, read the headlines, noted that the rain I was hearing was expected to continue all day. Popped the Palm into the HotSync cradle, downloaded some stuff to read later. Only then did I venture outside to get the newspaper ...

... and it was soaked through. Unreadable. Just like it always is when it rains.

I wasn't even particularly upset. At that point, I had no time nor inclination to actually read the newspaper. I did call Circulation and ask to have a dry paper delivered, just to have on the record that my paper was wet again. A dry one was delievered relatively quickly, and it sat on my coffee table all day.

I subscribe to the daily newspaper because I work there. And no, I don't get a significant discount. If I did, I wouldn't count as Paid Circulation, which is how we determine where to set ad rates, which is how I get paid. Essentially, it's an investment in myself. For 16 years, I subscribed to the daily newspaper because I love newspapers, because I believes they're necessary to the fabric of a free society, because there'd always be something worth reading.

I still think the newspaper is the medium with the most authority, but now that I actually know that dedicated journalists work in television, I'm willing to cede more credit to TV.

Do I think newspapers will be around in 30 years? Probably; they're instant money machines for their publishers. Will I still be defending them and producing them with every ounce of my energy?

That, I'm not so sure about.

Crystal ball
Kid out in suburban San Diego gets 50 years to life for offing a couple of classmates in a shooting rampage last year. He'll be eligible for parole in 2052. This leads me, as a student of human behavior, to ask: Why?

In 2002, this kid will be 66. He will probably not be a danger to society at that point. He will have spent his entire adult life and the last few of his formative years in an institution, having been told when to eat, when to sleep, when to pee, when to think and when to shut up. His influences and mentors will be have been the dregs of society. He will probably get a decent education, courtesy of the taxpayers of the state of California, but that will have been 40-some years before he is released. In 2052, this guy will be a hollow-eyed, wrinkled, grizzled old man with little idea of how to live on his own.

Why bother releasing him at that point? Who's going to feed him, clothe him, take care of his medical needs? Will his prison wages be subject to Social Security tax, earning him a little nest egg for those golden years?

It's interesting to be part of a society in which everyone must be satisfied. People on the right want this kid and his ilk to face the firing squad. People on the left believe in "rehabilitation" and believe every soul can be saved and every wayward life can be kicked back on the right track with the proper treatment. The truth falls somewhere in the middle and must be gleaned on a case-by-case basis, but there's little room for case-by-case in our world.

This leads me to a story I'd like to pursue: Are there any high-profile criminals from the past -- say, 35 years ago or more -- who are up for release soon? Is parole even granted to these individuals? If it isn't, why bother making them eligible? If it is, what's done to make sure they integrate into a society that isn't exactly welcoming them with open arms?

Warning! Alert! Danger! etc.
On today's Very Long Commute, the highway construction sign greeted me with the following ominous message:

CHILD
ABDUCTION
ALERT

then:

1990s
TURQUOISE SEDAN
CALL 911

For some reason, this really really really sent a chill up my spine. This sign is usually reserved for messages like RIGHT LANE CLOSED or ACCIDENT AHEAD or MIGHT AS WELL TURN AND GO BACK HOME, OTHERWISE YOU'LL SIT HERE ON THE FREEWAY ALL DAY.

The abducted child in question is a 4-week-old girl from Abilene, about 100 miles due west of the Very Large Metropolitan Area. News reports relate that the child was snatched from her car seat while her mother went 10 feet away from her open car to return a shopping cart. The mother was dragged by the abductor's car about 30 feet through the Wal-Mart parking lot.

One month old. The child is hungry. The child needs her diaper changed. The child is in the hands of some mad-person who could be anywhere by now. And all of Texas has been asked to look for her and the mid-'90s Buick Skylark or Pontiac Grand Am or Oldsmobile Achieva in which this baby might be riding.

I'm as weary of alerts as the next person. Pollution Alerts, Terrorism Alerts, Severe Thunderstorm Watches ... my brain is becoming numb to all of it. But suddenly, because the flashing highway sign told me to do so, I'm keeping my eye out for a mid-'90s GM sedan.

INSTANT UPDATE: Co-worker two cubes away just said they think they've found her in Quanah, Texas. We'll return shortly.

We've fixed the code ...
... but we're not any more inspired to actually pen thoughts than we were three days ago. Going through a kind of mental lull. I expect that'll be fixed shortly, too.

Well, crap
Shows what happens when you don't post for a couple of days; your code spontaneously goes bad for no good reason. Can't figure that one out. I'll fix it. Tomorrow.

Random stray thought
Man, I'm glad I didn't have access to the Internet when I was 19.

I will NOT be critical of the design of other sites. I will NOT ...
... well, OK, I will. Just this once.

Few things annoy me more than reading some I-Know-More-HTML-Than-Thou blasting away at somebody's non-validated code or buggy JavaScript. Most of us are designing and maintaining these things just for fun, after all. And, while I have a pretty fair grasp of the basics of publication design, my knowledge of Web coding goes about an inch and a half past the basics.

I spend a fair amount of time reading Web material simply for entertainment. Some of the designs I've seen have been really creative and technically impressive. I stand in awe of how much spare time you seem to have.

But if you want me to read what you've written, Design Rule No. 1 is pretty simple: Be easy to read. Amazing how often this rule gets violated, and in such simple ways.

In my daily search for something to read during lunch, I came across a few semi-sort-of-interesting web logs. I beg, I plead, I whimper: If you want what you write to be read, please don't write i t   i n  a   f o n t  w h i c h  m a k e s  t h e  l e t t e r s  l o o k  l i k e  t h i s.

I now step down from the high horse. Back to the regularly scheduled drivel.

I thought they were the same city
Real correction from a real Large Metropolitan Newspaper:

In Thursday's Sports section, it was reported incorrectly that the National Baseball Congress tournament will be played in Omaha, Neb. It will be played in Wichita, Kan.