The long journey ends
I spent the last two days on a less-than-pleasant road trip, for my aunt's funeral. The trip took me from the palatial Texas estate through Arkansas to southeast Missouri, where my mother lives. Then on Wednesday, we drove 150 miles west to south-central Missouri for the funeral. I went home from there, and got to see the other side of Arkansas and a familiar part of Oklahoma before mercifully laying down to rest in my own bed. Two days, 1,000 miles, and Aunt Dolly is laid to rest.
The service was in a little church in Theodosia, Mo., population 192, halfway between Springfield and nowhere. It was a nice service, and brief. I helped Aunt Dolly's sons-in-law carry the casket to the grave site. In the tradition of tiny churches in tiny towns, the cemetery is right next to the church. My grandparents, my mother's mother and stepfather, lived in this area. It's about as boondocks as you can get. Many of my deepest-seated memories are in the hills of extreme southern Ozark County, Mo. It was the first time I had been there since the summer of 1989, before I was married, before my grandparents died. Some of it looked very different. Some of it will never change.
Aunt Dolly's daughters were there. One lives in Germany, the other in Japan. I've seen neither for more than a decade. They both seem to be doing reasonably well, all things considered.
On some positive notes, I did get to spend some time with my mother, which doesn't happen very often. She lives on the other side of the state from the rest of my relatives, and it's not an easy trip from side to side. Only two east-west interstate highways cross Missouri, and neither goes there. I was seeing her new place for the first time. It's a very pleasant corner of the world. I'll be there again soon, I hope, with the rest of my group, under better circumstances.
A final note: As I was driving home across Arkansas, the sun set. A bright, bright moon rose in the sky, so bright I could have used it to read, bright enough to reduce the strain on my eyes as I navigated the two-lane road through the Ozarks. Do I believe in such things? Was that my aunt guiding me home?
Sure. For one night, I'll believe.
Friday, March 29, 2002
Monday, March 25, 2002
Why we love Halle Berry
No, that's not why; well, OK, it is, a little bit. My wife said, "Wow, she's beautiful." I responded by pointing out that Halle Berry is the prototype for human aesthetic excellence.
Turns out she's pretty high on the scale of being human, too. What a sincerely touching and moving acceptance speech. There's no force more powerful in the world than genuine emotion.
And maybe next year it won't be a big deal when a person of color wins Best Actor or Actress. It's about time.
No, that's not why; well, OK, it is, a little bit. My wife said, "Wow, she's beautiful." I responded by pointing out that Halle Berry is the prototype for human aesthetic excellence.
Turns out she's pretty high on the scale of being human, too. What a sincerely touching and moving acceptance speech. There's no force more powerful in the world than genuine emotion.
And maybe next year it won't be a big deal when a person of color wins Best Actor or Actress. It's about time.
Aunt Dolly, 1949-2002
Received word Friday night that my Aunt Dolores died. She was my mother's only sibling, two years older. After years of being profoundly overweight and battling various health problems, she died of a heart attack at 52.
Aunt Dolly and I were not particularly close, but that was mostly a function of distance. During my childhood, her then-husband was in the Air Force, stationed in various places in California and Germany. She leaves behind two children, one about my age and one four years younger. She also leaves behind her current husband. Their first anniversary would have been April 1.
Aunt Dolly will be buried near her father and her mother, both of whom also died from heart attacks in their 50s. This leaves my mother as the only remaining member of her immediate family. I'm very sad for her.
As for all of you, if anybody reading this is not being diligent about taking care of himself or herself, I implore you to please start. I'm going to.
Received word Friday night that my Aunt Dolores died. She was my mother's only sibling, two years older. After years of being profoundly overweight and battling various health problems, she died of a heart attack at 52.
Aunt Dolly and I were not particularly close, but that was mostly a function of distance. During my childhood, her then-husband was in the Air Force, stationed in various places in California and Germany. She leaves behind two children, one about my age and one four years younger. She also leaves behind her current husband. Their first anniversary would have been April 1.
Aunt Dolly will be buried near her father and her mother, both of whom also died from heart attacks in their 50s. This leaves my mother as the only remaining member of her immediate family. I'm very sad for her.
As for all of you, if anybody reading this is not being diligent about taking care of himself or herself, I implore you to please start. I'm going to.
Thursday, March 21, 2002
1988-2002
I shed a tear for Brittanie Cecil and those she leaves behind. She would have been 14 yesterday.
I shed a tear for Brittanie Cecil and those she leaves behind. She would have been 14 yesterday.
Hed goes here
Today was a Monumentally Bad Day. No real need to go into the details, considering that it was all work-related and I'm home now and it's almost over, but it was a Monumentally Bad Day. Oddly, I knew from the moment I woke up that it would be, although I had no concrete evidence to support that. And despite my best efforts to avoid it, the prophecy fulfilled itself.
Of course, it could be worse: I could be back in Florida, where tonight they're attempting to put out the Medium-Sized Newspaper for which I formerly worked without a computer system. Whole thing went on the blink. They're trying now to publish using bailing wire and a few old Macs. Was certainly a reminder that it can always be worse. (Back when I was designing pages on deadline, bystanders would know that I was in danger of missing said deadline if I uttered, "Now would be a good time for an extended system crash." I didn't mean it. Most of the time.)
Hey, there was a piece of good news today, dog-related: The Champion Dog does not have the chronic injury that The Wife feared. Apparently, if the dog gets 30 days of "crate-rest" (translation: sits locked in a cage except to go outside to potty, on a leash), she'll emerge good as new.
And this little oddity that has nothing to do with anything: I have noticed that, every morning while making the Very Long Drive to work, I look down at the clock on my car's radio at exactly 9:11 a.m. Every day. Without meaning to, but without fail.
It's a weird time in my journey: very confusing, somewhat annoying, and on some days, just not very much fun. It'll all be better tomorrow. I'll keep that "extended system crash" crack to myself.
Today was a Monumentally Bad Day. No real need to go into the details, considering that it was all work-related and I'm home now and it's almost over, but it was a Monumentally Bad Day. Oddly, I knew from the moment I woke up that it would be, although I had no concrete evidence to support that. And despite my best efforts to avoid it, the prophecy fulfilled itself.
Of course, it could be worse: I could be back in Florida, where tonight they're attempting to put out the Medium-Sized Newspaper for which I formerly worked without a computer system. Whole thing went on the blink. They're trying now to publish using bailing wire and a few old Macs. Was certainly a reminder that it can always be worse. (Back when I was designing pages on deadline, bystanders would know that I was in danger of missing said deadline if I uttered, "Now would be a good time for an extended system crash." I didn't mean it. Most of the time.)
Hey, there was a piece of good news today, dog-related: The Champion Dog does not have the chronic injury that The Wife feared. Apparently, if the dog gets 30 days of "crate-rest" (translation: sits locked in a cage except to go outside to potty, on a leash), she'll emerge good as new.
And this little oddity that has nothing to do with anything: I have noticed that, every morning while making the Very Long Drive to work, I look down at the clock on my car's radio at exactly 9:11 a.m. Every day. Without meaning to, but without fail.
It's a weird time in my journey: very confusing, somewhat annoying, and on some days, just not very much fun. It'll all be better tomorrow. I'll keep that "extended system crash" crack to myself.
Sunday, March 17, 2002
The Book
I'm reading The Grapes of Wrath for about the 232nd time. It's a story with which I deeply identify; my grandparents were children of that era, only they couldn't even gather up the meager sum -- of money or want-to -- necessary to go West. Maybe my great-grandparents knew better; maybe they knew what the Joads found out when they got there, that the Bad would be there, too, in the promised land, just a different kind of Bad. So they stayed in Texas, for a while, with wet bedsheets covering the windows to keep out the dust, and when they finally went in search of A Better Life they wound up in Missouri. Go figure.
The above passage is incredibly striking to me. That, to me, is what a mother does. It's the way my grandmother raised her eight children; it's the way my mother did it, for as long as she could, and in her way, it's the way my wife is raising our family. It's a beautiful job, and incredibly important, and I suspect in our society it's always been underrated.
And then there's me. Perhaps, I figure, I could just type Steinbeck's words until my fingers were trained to assemble words in similar combinations. Think there's any chance of that?
"Her full face was not soft; it was controlled, kindly. Her hazel eyes seemd to have experienced all possible tragedy and to have mounted pain and suffering like steps into a high calm and a superhuman understanding. She seemed to know, to accept, to welcome her position, the citadel of the family, the strong place that could not be taken. And since old Tom and the children could not know hurt or fear unless she acknowledged hurt and fear, she had practiced denying them in herself. And since, when a joyful thing happened, they looked to see whether joy was on her, it was her habit to build up laughter out of inadequte materials. But better than joy was calm. Imperturbabilty could be depended upon. And from her great and humble position in the family she had taken dignity and a clean calm beauty. From her position as healer, her hands had grown sure and cool and quiet; from her position as arbiter she had become as remote and faultless in judgment as a goddess. She seemed to know that if she swayed the family shook, and if she ever really deeply wavered or despaired the family would fall, the family will to function would be gone."
John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath, 1939
I'm reading The Grapes of Wrath for about the 232nd time. It's a story with which I deeply identify; my grandparents were children of that era, only they couldn't even gather up the meager sum -- of money or want-to -- necessary to go West. Maybe my great-grandparents knew better; maybe they knew what the Joads found out when they got there, that the Bad would be there, too, in the promised land, just a different kind of Bad. So they stayed in Texas, for a while, with wet bedsheets covering the windows to keep out the dust, and when they finally went in search of A Better Life they wound up in Missouri. Go figure.
The above passage is incredibly striking to me. That, to me, is what a mother does. It's the way my grandmother raised her eight children; it's the way my mother did it, for as long as she could, and in her way, it's the way my wife is raising our family. It's a beautiful job, and incredibly important, and I suspect in our society it's always been underrated.
And then there's me. Perhaps, I figure, I could just type Steinbeck's words until my fingers were trained to assemble words in similar combinations. Think there's any chance of that?
Saturday, March 16, 2002
Some more alone time
It's just me and the kids, again, as The Wife and the Champion Dog traipse across Texas to fulfill champion-dog dreams. In a disappointing development, the Champion Dog is injured; the best veterinary minds in Texas can't seem to agree on the source of the injury. The Wife's actual purpose for the trip is to evaluate a potential replacement for the Champion Dog. This is sad; dogs aren't exactly cars or computers, and despite the fact that this dog came with a warranty of sorts, replacing it isn't as easy as calling Customer Service and trading it in. The Wife has developed a fully justifiable attachment to the Champion Dog, and this recent development has been quite difficult for her.
Now that brings me back to me, and to some sort of explanation as to why I'm sitting in front of this machine at this hour instead of sleeping. I haven't figured that one out myself. It could be that I continue to pursue some of that long-lost creativity, trying to figure out any 19-year-old with Internet access can turn out something interesting and I continue to produce dreck. (What if I had been a 19-year-old with Internet access? No, let's not go there.)
I used to be quite creative. I was probably more creative back when I was a little more of an asshole, back when I didn't really care that much what others thought, when I didn't know well enough to be embarrassed at suggesting a bad idea. Now, not so much. I've partitioned my brain so many ways as to render it mostly unusable.
Anybody know where I can get software to defragment my brain?
It's just me and the kids, again, as The Wife and the Champion Dog traipse across Texas to fulfill champion-dog dreams. In a disappointing development, the Champion Dog is injured; the best veterinary minds in Texas can't seem to agree on the source of the injury. The Wife's actual purpose for the trip is to evaluate a potential replacement for the Champion Dog. This is sad; dogs aren't exactly cars or computers, and despite the fact that this dog came with a warranty of sorts, replacing it isn't as easy as calling Customer Service and trading it in. The Wife has developed a fully justifiable attachment to the Champion Dog, and this recent development has been quite difficult for her.
Now that brings me back to me, and to some sort of explanation as to why I'm sitting in front of this machine at this hour instead of sleeping. I haven't figured that one out myself. It could be that I continue to pursue some of that long-lost creativity, trying to figure out any 19-year-old with Internet access can turn out something interesting and I continue to produce dreck. (What if I had been a 19-year-old with Internet access? No, let's not go there.)
I used to be quite creative. I was probably more creative back when I was a little more of an asshole, back when I didn't really care that much what others thought, when I didn't know well enough to be embarrassed at suggesting a bad idea. Now, not so much. I've partitioned my brain so many ways as to render it mostly unusable.
Anybody know where I can get software to defragment my brain?
Wednesday, March 13, 2002
Back in the saddle
Well, I was, for one night, anyway. You'll note the very late hour this was posted. I made a guest appearance on the night desk of our Very Large Metropolitan Newspaper, in honor of a primary election. Turned out we would up with some other big breaking news -- that crazy woman down in Houston isn't crazy enough to not go to jail, at least not here in Texas. So, it was a busy news night, and I Was There.
We've complained in this space previously about being bored at work. I got to re-taste how the other half lives, and it was enough to make me appreciate my place in the world a little bit more. Perhaps I should stay until 2 a.m. once a month, just as a reminder that my place in the world doesn't exactly suck.
Back home after another three days in Anytown, working on the Freelance Gig. Was quite a bit busier this time and didn't avail myself of the more depressing sights of my hometown. That's probably a good thing.
I haven't been up this late in I don't know how long. I'm not going to be up this late much longer. And hopefully I won't have to do it again for a while.
Well, I was, for one night, anyway. You'll note the very late hour this was posted. I made a guest appearance on the night desk of our Very Large Metropolitan Newspaper, in honor of a primary election. Turned out we would up with some other big breaking news -- that crazy woman down in Houston isn't crazy enough to not go to jail, at least not here in Texas. So, it was a busy news night, and I Was There.
We've complained in this space previously about being bored at work. I got to re-taste how the other half lives, and it was enough to make me appreciate my place in the world a little bit more. Perhaps I should stay until 2 a.m. once a month, just as a reminder that my place in the world doesn't exactly suck.
Back home after another three days in Anytown, working on the Freelance Gig. Was quite a bit busier this time and didn't avail myself of the more depressing sights of my hometown. That's probably a good thing.
I haven't been up this late in I don't know how long. I'm not going to be up this late much longer. And hopefully I won't have to do it again for a while.
Saturday, March 09, 2002
Thursday, March 07, 2002
Stranger than fiction
This could be the worst story ever. I can't even come up with additional commentary.
This could be the worst story ever. I can't even come up with additional commentary.
Wednesday, March 06, 2002
The value of obscurity
Over on another blog, the subject of music came up. The question: If you like music that's not exactly popular, does that make you an elitist?
Ever since I got over my heavy-metal phase in the mid-1980s (I saw Bon Jovi three times, and all three times they were the opening act), I haven't exactly based my musical tastes on the Top 40 radio. Oddly, a few acts I followed closely before they were popular -- the Black Crowes and Pat Green come to mind -- ended up being "mainstream" acts.
So while I can't tell Alicia Keys from Britney Spears from Creed from Matchbox 20, I can tell you about Maria McKee and Allison Moorer and Terri Hendrix and Jack Ingram and Nickel Creek. Does that mean my musical tastes are more sophisticated than yours? Absolutely not. It just means that I have a pretty good tolerance for listening to stuff that might not be on the radio or on Everybody's CD player.
And it's not to say that I'm not wild about a few "mainstream" acts. For instance, I am a huge, huge, huge fan of the Dixie Chicks. I'd pay $20 to hear Natalie Maines sing in the shower. (I said, "Hear," you pig.) Their incredible talent overcomes their popularity. (Did that sentence make any sense?) I also dig Alan Jackson and Lynyrd Skynyrd (the pre-1977 version). My secret shame: I still listen to Boston, which went out of style in 1979.
A close friend has the most varied musical taste that any human could possibly have. At one point, he had albums by Hank Williams Jr., Quiet Riot and ... Tiffany. Remember her? I heard on the radio that she's in this month's Playboy. Memo to LeAnn Rimes: Don't let this happen to your career.
I don't get to go hear as much live music as I used to, which means I don't get exposed to as much good "obscure" stuff as I used to. Thankfully, I live in a big enough city in the right part of the country; I get a good alt-country station. My ultimate test of a radio station is this: If it plays as many songs I can't stand as it plays songs I really like, that's a good station. They're stretching the boundaries.
And when they play a song I don't like, I head right over to the classic rock station. Maybe they'll be playing a Boston song.
Over on another blog, the subject of music came up. The question: If you like music that's not exactly popular, does that make you an elitist?
Ever since I got over my heavy-metal phase in the mid-1980s (I saw Bon Jovi three times, and all three times they were the opening act), I haven't exactly based my musical tastes on the Top 40 radio. Oddly, a few acts I followed closely before they were popular -- the Black Crowes and Pat Green come to mind -- ended up being "mainstream" acts.
So while I can't tell Alicia Keys from Britney Spears from Creed from Matchbox 20, I can tell you about Maria McKee and Allison Moorer and Terri Hendrix and Jack Ingram and Nickel Creek. Does that mean my musical tastes are more sophisticated than yours? Absolutely not. It just means that I have a pretty good tolerance for listening to stuff that might not be on the radio or on Everybody's CD player.
And it's not to say that I'm not wild about a few "mainstream" acts. For instance, I am a huge, huge, huge fan of the Dixie Chicks. I'd pay $20 to hear Natalie Maines sing in the shower. (I said, "Hear," you pig.) Their incredible talent overcomes their popularity. (Did that sentence make any sense?) I also dig Alan Jackson and Lynyrd Skynyrd (the pre-1977 version). My secret shame: I still listen to Boston, which went out of style in 1979.
A close friend has the most varied musical taste that any human could possibly have. At one point, he had albums by Hank Williams Jr., Quiet Riot and ... Tiffany. Remember her? I heard on the radio that she's in this month's Playboy. Memo to LeAnn Rimes: Don't let this happen to your career.
I don't get to go hear as much live music as I used to, which means I don't get exposed to as much good "obscure" stuff as I used to. Thankfully, I live in a big enough city in the right part of the country; I get a good alt-country station. My ultimate test of a radio station is this: If it plays as many songs I can't stand as it plays songs I really like, that's a good station. They're stretching the boundaries.
And when they play a song I don't like, I head right over to the classic rock station. Maybe they'll be playing a Boston song.
Tuesday, March 05, 2002
Don't skip the "A" section
The United States media have done a poor job of covering international news in recent years. Britney Spears apparently doesn't go overseas very often. But I want to direct your attention to the story in the Middle East. It's getting uglier by the day, real people are dying really horrible deaths, and for those of you who ask, "What does it mean to me?", it can't mean good things for our national security. So, no matter what your political bent or your stand on the Israel-Palestine feud, take an extra minute to read those stories today or to visit your favorite news Web site. (Or mine, if you don't have a favorite.) Maybe take another minute and grieve for those people. They are just people, after all, underneath all the rhetoric and the rubble.
They're just people.
The United States media have done a poor job of covering international news in recent years. Britney Spears apparently doesn't go overseas very often. But I want to direct your attention to the story in the Middle East. It's getting uglier by the day, real people are dying really horrible deaths, and for those of you who ask, "What does it mean to me?", it can't mean good things for our national security. So, no matter what your political bent or your stand on the Israel-Palestine feud, take an extra minute to read those stories today or to visit your favorite news Web site. (Or mine, if you don't have a favorite.) Maybe take another minute and grieve for those people. They are just people, after all, underneath all the rhetoric and the rubble.
They're just people.
Sunday, March 03, 2002
Saturday, March 02, 2002
The end of the beginning
This story really has very little to do with anything, except that one of our recent new readers was a participant, so I'm reminded of it.
It was a warm Saturday night in October 1993. Me and some friends somewhere for drinks after the night's paper was rolling on the presses. Most were ready to turn in by 3 a.m., when my wife came home from her job, but Sarah wasn't. Neither was I. Seemed like a good night for an adventure, we decided. We went back to my house and knocked down a few more, waiting for The Wife to get home.
When The Wife arrived home from her 12-hour restaurant shift, we let her in on the plan. "We're going to Memphis," we said. "And you're driving."
Oh, she replied. Not really being up for an adventure, but also not one to pour cold water on others' desires -- especially considering the others were several cold ones ahead of her by this time -- she dutifully got in the car and pointed it in the direction I indicated.
The plan was this: Drive the five or so hours from Anytown through southern Missouri and eastern Arkansas to Memphis. The three of us would find a decent hotel room upon our expected 9 a.m. arrival, sleep for a few hours, then hit Beale Street about 4 p.m. and hear some music and see some sights.
So The Wife drove, despite her eye-crunching fatigue. I thought this a little unusual, because she usually was an incredibly high-energy sort, especially when an adventure was involved. But the restaurant job was a tiring one; I understood that.
Having basically sobered up by sunrise, I took the wheel from my wife shortly before we crossed the Mississippi. She went to the back seat and promptly went to sleep. Sarah and I began the business of finding a place to stay.
We had timed our arrival poorly. A large convention of some sort was in town that weekend. We weren't going to find a room downtown, or close to Beale Street, or, really, anywhere. We found ourselves at one point in front of Graceland. There is a Howard Johnson's across the street from Graceland. We asked ourselves, "It's a HoJo's. How bad can this be?"
We got our answer, shortly: Pretty bad. The pool was filled with green muck; a strange odor permeated the area around the room. We forked over Sarah's Visa; the nice old lady at the front desk with the unidentifiable accent said, "Thank you, Sy-rah." We found our way to our room. The key wouldn't work in the lock. The Wife was fatigued to the point of uncontrollable sobbing by now. She laid down on the concrete balcony outside the door and attempted to go back to sleep.
With some help from the nice maintenance man, we got the door opened and went into the room. It was pitch dark, but we didn't see much of a need to turn on the lights, because we were merely going to sleep. The general consensus was the less we saw, the better.
We woke up a few hours later. The Wife was basically rejuvenated, but still oddly subdued. We cleaned ourselves up a bit and proceeded to experience some Memphis blues. Ate a great meal on the banks of the Mississippi; went up and down Beale Street, taking in music and cold brews and just generally having a great time. We went up on the roof of the Peabody and looked out at the river and the city. We fed the ducks at the Peabody.
After we were pretty sure we were drunk enough not to care how bad the HoJo's was, we went back there and crashed. Woke up the next morning, made the obligatory trip to Graceland. Settled up with Howard, piled back into the car and went home. Talked on the way about the woman with the cool accent who called our friend "Sy-rah." The Wife was still really tired, despite having eaten some great food and enjoyed a good night's sleep.
The reason this wacky adventure stands out in my memory bank is because 1/it was a hell of a good time and 2/it was our last wacky adventure.
We found out the source of the out-of-character fatigue a week later: The Wife was pregnant with our first daughter.
A week after that, we found out that I had been hired in Cincinnati. Less than a month later, we left Anytown -- and all our great friends -- behind.
I've said before in this space that I wouldn't trade my current situation for any in the world, and that's still true. Part of the reason that's true is because of all the great experiences of the past that have made me who I am. I don't feel like I'm missing anything now because I didn't miss anything then.
This story really has very little to do with anything, except that one of our recent new readers was a participant, so I'm reminded of it.
It was a warm Saturday night in October 1993. Me and some friends somewhere for drinks after the night's paper was rolling on the presses. Most were ready to turn in by 3 a.m., when my wife came home from her job, but Sarah wasn't. Neither was I. Seemed like a good night for an adventure, we decided. We went back to my house and knocked down a few more, waiting for The Wife to get home.
When The Wife arrived home from her 12-hour restaurant shift, we let her in on the plan. "We're going to Memphis," we said. "And you're driving."
Oh, she replied. Not really being up for an adventure, but also not one to pour cold water on others' desires -- especially considering the others were several cold ones ahead of her by this time -- she dutifully got in the car and pointed it in the direction I indicated.
The plan was this: Drive the five or so hours from Anytown through southern Missouri and eastern Arkansas to Memphis. The three of us would find a decent hotel room upon our expected 9 a.m. arrival, sleep for a few hours, then hit Beale Street about 4 p.m. and hear some music and see some sights.
So The Wife drove, despite her eye-crunching fatigue. I thought this a little unusual, because she usually was an incredibly high-energy sort, especially when an adventure was involved. But the restaurant job was a tiring one; I understood that.
Having basically sobered up by sunrise, I took the wheel from my wife shortly before we crossed the Mississippi. She went to the back seat and promptly went to sleep. Sarah and I began the business of finding a place to stay.
We had timed our arrival poorly. A large convention of some sort was in town that weekend. We weren't going to find a room downtown, or close to Beale Street, or, really, anywhere. We found ourselves at one point in front of Graceland. There is a Howard Johnson's across the street from Graceland. We asked ourselves, "It's a HoJo's. How bad can this be?"
We got our answer, shortly: Pretty bad. The pool was filled with green muck; a strange odor permeated the area around the room. We forked over Sarah's Visa; the nice old lady at the front desk with the unidentifiable accent said, "Thank you, Sy-rah." We found our way to our room. The key wouldn't work in the lock. The Wife was fatigued to the point of uncontrollable sobbing by now. She laid down on the concrete balcony outside the door and attempted to go back to sleep.
With some help from the nice maintenance man, we got the door opened and went into the room. It was pitch dark, but we didn't see much of a need to turn on the lights, because we were merely going to sleep. The general consensus was the less we saw, the better.
We woke up a few hours later. The Wife was basically rejuvenated, but still oddly subdued. We cleaned ourselves up a bit and proceeded to experience some Memphis blues. Ate a great meal on the banks of the Mississippi; went up and down Beale Street, taking in music and cold brews and just generally having a great time. We went up on the roof of the Peabody and looked out at the river and the city. We fed the ducks at the Peabody.
After we were pretty sure we were drunk enough not to care how bad the HoJo's was, we went back there and crashed. Woke up the next morning, made the obligatory trip to Graceland. Settled up with Howard, piled back into the car and went home. Talked on the way about the woman with the cool accent who called our friend "Sy-rah." The Wife was still really tired, despite having eaten some great food and enjoyed a good night's sleep.
The reason this wacky adventure stands out in my memory bank is because 1/it was a hell of a good time and 2/it was our last wacky adventure.
We found out the source of the out-of-character fatigue a week later: The Wife was pregnant with our first daughter.
A week after that, we found out that I had been hired in Cincinnati. Less than a month later, we left Anytown -- and all our great friends -- behind.
I've said before in this space that I wouldn't trade my current situation for any in the world, and that's still true. Part of the reason that's true is because of all the great experiences of the past that have made me who I am. I don't feel like I'm missing anything now because I didn't miss anything then.
Friday, March 01, 2002
I'd demand my money back
It just occurred to me, reading over this stuff, that the last two posts were incredibly weak. Sorry; this one's not going to be any better, because I have about 44 seconds to finish it, and it's merely serving a technical purpose: To kick-start the March archives. More to come.
It just occurred to me, reading over this stuff, that the last two posts were incredibly weak. Sorry; this one's not going to be any better, because I have about 44 seconds to finish it, and it's merely serving a technical purpose: To kick-start the March archives. More to come.
Thursday, February 28, 2002
One-minute news break
Who is Alicia Keys and why was she on my television screen so much last night?
Says here in my Very Large Metropolitan Newspaper that the president is using the war as a political tool. Well, duh. Isn't that basic politics? Say what you will about the president, but he's not going to miss something as basic as that.
In case you haven't noticed, an NBA team in Texas is challenging for the league's best record -- and it's not the Spurs. It's the team that not so long ago was challenging to break the league record for fewest victories in a season.
In the space of 18 months, I've experienced a 113-degree day and an 11-degree night in the same city.
Now, back to live action
Now, back to live action
Tuesday, February 26, 2002
I'm nobody. Who are you?
I spent a good portion of yesterday in a quest to figure out who I am, courtesy of my place of employment. I was part of a group taking one of these personality tests. Kind of like Myers-Briggs, except this one puts everybody into one of four categories, and as such, has a tendency to make generalizations. I took the Myers-Briggs about four years ago, and apparently, I haven't changed much. I'm said to be "Inspirational," meaning that I'm a consensus-builder who wants to make sure everybody has fun, but I often lack basic organizational and planning skills. Which is basically true, sort of.
I find these fascinating, not because I lack self-awareness -- I don't -- but because it's interesting to see what other people think of themselves, and how surprised (or not) people are at their results or at your results. Our group didn't have very many surprises. It's a creative bunch that, given their druthers, would just as soon work by themselves but are forced into being a part of a group that really is too large for its own good.
At small newspapers, they complain about not having enough people. Ours has too many. Maybe we could use the personality test to cull the annoying people. Then work would be more fun, and I wouldn't have to worry about my organizational skills.
I spent a good portion of yesterday in a quest to figure out who I am, courtesy of my place of employment. I was part of a group taking one of these personality tests. Kind of like Myers-Briggs, except this one puts everybody into one of four categories, and as such, has a tendency to make generalizations. I took the Myers-Briggs about four years ago, and apparently, I haven't changed much. I'm said to be "Inspirational," meaning that I'm a consensus-builder who wants to make sure everybody has fun, but I often lack basic organizational and planning skills. Which is basically true, sort of.
I find these fascinating, not because I lack self-awareness -- I don't -- but because it's interesting to see what other people think of themselves, and how surprised (or not) people are at their results or at your results. Our group didn't have very many surprises. It's a creative bunch that, given their druthers, would just as soon work by themselves but are forced into being a part of a group that really is too large for its own good.
At small newspapers, they complain about not having enough people. Ours has too many. Maybe we could use the personality test to cull the annoying people. Then work would be more fun, and I wouldn't have to worry about my organizational skills.
Friday, February 22, 2002
A thought about journalism
Sitting behind a desk next to a window with a great view of the Dallas skyline, I feel a little silly identifying with a guy who was hacked and beaten to death in a dark alley in Pakistan.
I still remember when the girl who cut my hair in Orlando, making the obligatory haircut-girl small talk, asked me about my occupation. I gave my usual as-simple-as-possible explanation about how I worked at the newspaper, designing pages and editing stories. "Cool," she said. "Did you ever want to be, like, a journalist?"
Uh, hello, I am a f---ing journalist. That's what I wanted to say. But I knew she wouldn't understand.
Journalism is a lot more involved than the simple pursuit of stories. Despite the fact that I am an editor, I still hold a pretty solid contempt for editors. I do, however, concede the need for editors. I guarantee you, gentle reader, wouldn't want to read our unedited dreck. (Kind of like the stuff you're reading right now, actually. See how bad that would be?)
You're going to hear a lot about Daniel Pearl, because he was a journalist, and so are all the people from whom you're going to hear about him. We journalists are probably a lot more interested in Daniel Pearl than you are. And that's OK, and fully justifiable. He's simply a victim of terrorism just like the people in the airplanes and in the World Trade Center and in the Pentagon on Sept. 11, just like the people who die every day in the Middle East. He's not more special -- nor less so -- because he was a journalist just trying to do his job.
But understand this, too: Despite the incredible flaws of today's media, we are the society that we are largely because of journalism. No other country in the history of the world has been allowed to hold its government more accountable to its people than has the United States. Yes, journalists have abused this privilege. But the next time you hear a story about government malfeasance, listen to it. Understand that the fact that you're getting to listen to it doesn't happen everywhere in the world. The ability for you in your easy chair to do something about it (get the f--- out there and VOTE, for Pete's sake!) is a precious right. The ability to know what's going on in other corners of the world is also precious, and not something shared by everybody else in the world.
You wouldn't be able to fix your government or send help to oppressed peoples around the world if you didn't know about it. That's why I and my co-workers are here.
I hope you appreciate it. And I hope you appreciate what Daniel Pearl and the hundreds of other journalists who have been killed in the line of duty were doing for you, too.
Sitting behind a desk next to a window with a great view of the Dallas skyline, I feel a little silly identifying with a guy who was hacked and beaten to death in a dark alley in Pakistan.
I still remember when the girl who cut my hair in Orlando, making the obligatory haircut-girl small talk, asked me about my occupation. I gave my usual as-simple-as-possible explanation about how I worked at the newspaper, designing pages and editing stories. "Cool," she said. "Did you ever want to be, like, a journalist?"
Uh, hello, I am a f---ing journalist. That's what I wanted to say. But I knew she wouldn't understand.
Journalism is a lot more involved than the simple pursuit of stories. Despite the fact that I am an editor, I still hold a pretty solid contempt for editors. I do, however, concede the need for editors. I guarantee you, gentle reader, wouldn't want to read our unedited dreck. (Kind of like the stuff you're reading right now, actually. See how bad that would be?)
You're going to hear a lot about Daniel Pearl, because he was a journalist, and so are all the people from whom you're going to hear about him. We journalists are probably a lot more interested in Daniel Pearl than you are. And that's OK, and fully justifiable. He's simply a victim of terrorism just like the people in the airplanes and in the World Trade Center and in the Pentagon on Sept. 11, just like the people who die every day in the Middle East. He's not more special -- nor less so -- because he was a journalist just trying to do his job.
But understand this, too: Despite the incredible flaws of today's media, we are the society that we are largely because of journalism. No other country in the history of the world has been allowed to hold its government more accountable to its people than has the United States. Yes, journalists have abused this privilege. But the next time you hear a story about government malfeasance, listen to it. Understand that the fact that you're getting to listen to it doesn't happen everywhere in the world. The ability for you in your easy chair to do something about it (get the f--- out there and VOTE, for Pete's sake!) is a precious right. The ability to know what's going on in other corners of the world is also precious, and not something shared by everybody else in the world.
You wouldn't be able to fix your government or send help to oppressed peoples around the world if you didn't know about it. That's why I and my co-workers are here.
I hope you appreciate it. And I hope you appreciate what Daniel Pearl and the hundreds of other journalists who have been killed in the line of duty were doing for you, too.
Tuesday, February 19, 2002
The ennui continues
I'm sorry to report that things aren't getting any better for me at the place of employment. Not that you care, and certainly not that you should. They pay me well, I get to spend some time on the best equipment in the business, and I work with a bunch of really good people (and, yeah, a few assholes, too. That's the nature of the news business, or any business, really.)
So what do I have to bitch about?
It's simple. I'm bored. Bored, bored, bored. And that's a dangerous thing for me.
In the past, when I've become bored with my job, I've become contentious and bitchy. I say stupid things that I later regret. I cut my work days to about six hours if I can get away with it. And then, we pack up and move, becuase I need a new challenge of some sort.
I'm not quite to the packing-up-and-leaving part yet. I'm not quite all the way through contentious and bitchy, and I've only said a precious few stupid things so far. I'm holding out hope that the Next Big Challenge is coming down the line, soon.
Right now, my Next Big Challenge is simply trying to justify going to work tomorrow. I suspect that's bad.
I'm sorry to report that things aren't getting any better for me at the place of employment. Not that you care, and certainly not that you should. They pay me well, I get to spend some time on the best equipment in the business, and I work with a bunch of really good people (and, yeah, a few assholes, too. That's the nature of the news business, or any business, really.)
So what do I have to bitch about?
It's simple. I'm bored. Bored, bored, bored. And that's a dangerous thing for me.
In the past, when I've become bored with my job, I've become contentious and bitchy. I say stupid things that I later regret. I cut my work days to about six hours if I can get away with it. And then, we pack up and move, becuase I need a new challenge of some sort.
I'm not quite to the packing-up-and-leaving part yet. I'm not quite all the way through contentious and bitchy, and I've only said a precious few stupid things so far. I'm holding out hope that the Next Big Challenge is coming down the line, soon.
Right now, my Next Big Challenge is simply trying to justify going to work tomorrow. I suspect that's bad.
Sunday, February 17, 2002
We hate luxury SUVs, and here's why
I love my wife. Not just because she's tall, beautiful and the best mother on the planet, but because when she sees something she thinks is stupid, she by God stands up and says so.
I'm relating this story second-hand. I wasn't there. But it's a hell of a story, and it bears re-telling.
We have nothing against pickup trucks, or sport-utility vehicles in general. We understand that some people actually need a pickup truck or an SUV to haul stuff around or go camping or something. We have a minivan, ourselves, just because it makes more sense for us. But if you have actual need for an SUV or a truck, by all means buy one. What we're against in this space is "luxury" SUVs; vehicles that are big just for the sake of being big, vehicles that serve no purpose other than to suck down gas and take up space. Like you're going to take your Cadillac Escalade off-road. And here in Texas, bad weather isn't even really an excuse, considering we get about 5 inches of snow every two years.
Today, The Wife went to the local Large National Chain Hardware Store to pick up some flowers or something. She found herself caught in a slow-moving checkout line, so being the less-than-patient sort that she is, she went to investigate the source of the holdup.
The source of the holdup was a middle-aged man who was buying 70 bags of mulch. The Hardware Store guys started to load the mulch in his vehicle. Middle-Aged Suburban Man stopped them. "Don't put it in the car," he said. "Put it on top of the car."
The "car" in question was a larger-than-life Lincoln Navigator. As anybody with a brain knows, a Lincoln Navigator is just a really pretty rendition of a Ford F-150, slightly re-tuned to ride smoother. It's not a car; it's a truck. I don't care how much money you paid for it, underneath all the leather and stuff, it's a truck.
So, the Hardware Store Guys dutifully began the precarious task of loading 70 bags of much on top of a Lincoln Navigator. This, of course, was too much for The Wife. She looked at the guy and asked him, "Now, why are you putting the stuff on top of the truck when you could put it in the truck? Is that not why you bought a truck?"
"It's my wife's car," Suburban Man grumbled, none too pleased at The Wife's question.
The Wife was still beside herself when she called to relate the story to me. There's more: The Hardware Store Guys made the guy sign a release. I guess it said something along the lines of, "When all this shit falls off the top of your truck and spills all over the highway, we are not responsible for any damage to your $50,000 truck nor any other vehicle, and we are not giving you 70 more bags of mulch." Good for them.
The Wife, still shaking her pretty little head, loaded her flowers and mulch and stuff inside the minivan. Proudly, I might add. I think she spilled a little bit of dirt on purpose.
I love my wife. Not just because she's tall, beautiful and the best mother on the planet, but because when she sees something she thinks is stupid, she by God stands up and says so.
I'm relating this story second-hand. I wasn't there. But it's a hell of a story, and it bears re-telling.
We have nothing against pickup trucks, or sport-utility vehicles in general. We understand that some people actually need a pickup truck or an SUV to haul stuff around or go camping or something. We have a minivan, ourselves, just because it makes more sense for us. But if you have actual need for an SUV or a truck, by all means buy one. What we're against in this space is "luxury" SUVs; vehicles that are big just for the sake of being big, vehicles that serve no purpose other than to suck down gas and take up space. Like you're going to take your Cadillac Escalade off-road. And here in Texas, bad weather isn't even really an excuse, considering we get about 5 inches of snow every two years.
Today, The Wife went to the local Large National Chain Hardware Store to pick up some flowers or something. She found herself caught in a slow-moving checkout line, so being the less-than-patient sort that she is, she went to investigate the source of the holdup.
The source of the holdup was a middle-aged man who was buying 70 bags of mulch. The Hardware Store guys started to load the mulch in his vehicle. Middle-Aged Suburban Man stopped them. "Don't put it in the car," he said. "Put it on top of the car."
The "car" in question was a larger-than-life Lincoln Navigator. As anybody with a brain knows, a Lincoln Navigator is just a really pretty rendition of a Ford F-150, slightly re-tuned to ride smoother. It's not a car; it's a truck. I don't care how much money you paid for it, underneath all the leather and stuff, it's a truck.
So, the Hardware Store Guys dutifully began the precarious task of loading 70 bags of much on top of a Lincoln Navigator. This, of course, was too much for The Wife. She looked at the guy and asked him, "Now, why are you putting the stuff on top of the truck when you could put it in the truck? Is that not why you bought a truck?"
"It's my wife's car," Suburban Man grumbled, none too pleased at The Wife's question.
The Wife was still beside herself when she called to relate the story to me. There's more: The Hardware Store Guys made the guy sign a release. I guess it said something along the lines of, "When all this shit falls off the top of your truck and spills all over the highway, we are not responsible for any damage to your $50,000 truck nor any other vehicle, and we are not giving you 70 more bags of mulch." Good for them.
The Wife, still shaking her pretty little head, loaded her flowers and mulch and stuff inside the minivan. Proudly, I might add. I think she spilled a little bit of dirt on purpose.