Time to rip another page off the calendar. I have a very busy August ahead of me, for several reasons.
Wednesday, July 31, 2002
The End of July
Time to rip another page off the calendar. I have a very busy August ahead of me, for several reasons.
Dr. Cousin is getting married at the end of the month, which means a trip back to Anytown. I'm sufficiently recovered from my last trip to be excited about going back again. Dr. Cousin is preceded in marriage by his brother, the Cousin Who's On TV; his wedding in June 2000 was probably the most fun event I've attended in the last five years. I doubt this event will be quite as raucous, but I will be hanging out with some of the world's best people. Am looking forward to that.
This has nothing to do with impending August, but I'll share it anyway: The Freelance Gig has been named one of The Week's Best Web Sites by a TV station in Anytown. The cynic in me knows that the Mother-In-Law, who is the eye and the heart behind the photos on the site, has a connection of some sort at this particular station, so it's not like they just stumbled across the site and said, "Hey, that's cool." The giddy first-time web designer in me says, "Hey, if it looked like shit, they wouldn't have posted it." I'll allow Giddy a victory over Cynical this time. That doesn't happen often.
And, last but not least: Many, many elements, most of them financial, still have to fall into place, but we are almost ready to announce a major lifestyle change. If this happens, the Three-Year Itch gets scratched, and it doesn't even involve me quitting my job. I'll share more details as the elements fall into place. Gives you something to look forward to in August.
Time to rip another page off the calendar. I have a very busy August ahead of me, for several reasons.
Saturday, July 27, 2002
The brutally sad existence of journalists
I stumbled across a web site devoted to giving journalists the chance to enlighten people about their places of employment. Ostensibly, this site would be a key stop for a job-seeker to find out what it's really like when they walk into the office wearing something other than job-interview clothes. In reality, it's a site where people can post often whiny and sometimes vicious diatribes about their co-workers. It's a follow-up to a site that was wildly popular in about 1998, but shut down abruptly after one particular thread got incredibly personal and, as I recall, named names.
The general content of a posting to one of these sites goes something like this:
"God, the place I work is (a hellhole/like a concentration camp/the worst ever). The pay is (lousy/barely enough to feed me/I'm paying them to let me work there.) My boss is (an imbecile/mentally ill/not smart enough to compose a coherent sentence.) I have no idea how he/she got promoted, unless (he kissed his boss's ass/there was a corporate conspiracy/he had naked pictures of the publisher.) The only people who get promoted are (complete idiots/ass-kissers/no-talent hacks) while a future Pulitzer winner such as myself has to (toil in obscurity/write 8-inch stories/write corrections when I make mistakes). The corporation that owns my paper has no respect for journalism and only cares about profits, which is why they (canceled the Christmas party/only gave me a 2 percent raise/fired me last week.) They never let us (write long stories/surf the Web for porn at work/fudge our expense reports). I hate it and I'm (leaving at the first opportunity/working on my resume instead of writing a story this very minute/going to come to work with an AR-15.)"
I can understand the tendency of a reporter or a copy editor, particularly, to feel the need to vent. And God knows I'm entertained by reading it. Occasionally, however, I'll note the unmistakable stench of a thin-skinned manager attempting to post a response. That's stupid, and naive. If your employee really cared about what you thought, he or she would have brought the problem to you in the first place and wouldn't have felt the need to broadcast it to the world. A reporter who feels the need to bitch about work on the web is annoying (albeit, again, entertaining.) An editor who feels the need to respond on such a board ... well, your reporter is probably right about you being a pathetic idiot.
(And no, to the best of my knowledge, I haven't been the subject of a rant. Yet.)
It's no secret that I've been less than satisfied with my job every once in a while. But sheesh, I've never had so much time on my hands that I could come up with enough vitriol -- nor have I ever had enough of an ego to believe the entire world would give a shit about my plight.
In defense of journalists: A satisfied journalist is a bad journalist. Good reporters question everything. Some of the best, alas, can't turn off that tendency when they log off for the day and go home. The very best, however, channel that energy into finding more stories and more questions to ask. They don't waste keystrokes on rant boards.
I stumbled across a web site devoted to giving journalists the chance to enlighten people about their places of employment. Ostensibly, this site would be a key stop for a job-seeker to find out what it's really like when they walk into the office wearing something other than job-interview clothes. In reality, it's a site where people can post often whiny and sometimes vicious diatribes about their co-workers. It's a follow-up to a site that was wildly popular in about 1998, but shut down abruptly after one particular thread got incredibly personal and, as I recall, named names.
The general content of a posting to one of these sites goes something like this:
"God, the place I work is (a hellhole/like a concentration camp/the worst ever). The pay is (lousy/barely enough to feed me/I'm paying them to let me work there.) My boss is (an imbecile/mentally ill/not smart enough to compose a coherent sentence.) I have no idea how he/she got promoted, unless (he kissed his boss's ass/there was a corporate conspiracy/he had naked pictures of the publisher.) The only people who get promoted are (complete idiots/ass-kissers/no-talent hacks) while a future Pulitzer winner such as myself has to (toil in obscurity/write 8-inch stories/write corrections when I make mistakes). The corporation that owns my paper has no respect for journalism and only cares about profits, which is why they (canceled the Christmas party/only gave me a 2 percent raise/fired me last week.) They never let us (write long stories/surf the Web for porn at work/fudge our expense reports). I hate it and I'm (leaving at the first opportunity/working on my resume instead of writing a story this very minute/going to come to work with an AR-15.)"
I can understand the tendency of a reporter or a copy editor, particularly, to feel the need to vent. And God knows I'm entertained by reading it. Occasionally, however, I'll note the unmistakable stench of a thin-skinned manager attempting to post a response. That's stupid, and naive. If your employee really cared about what you thought, he or she would have brought the problem to you in the first place and wouldn't have felt the need to broadcast it to the world. A reporter who feels the need to bitch about work on the web is annoying (albeit, again, entertaining.) An editor who feels the need to respond on such a board ... well, your reporter is probably right about you being a pathetic idiot.
(And no, to the best of my knowledge, I haven't been the subject of a rant. Yet.)
It's no secret that I've been less than satisfied with my job every once in a while. But sheesh, I've never had so much time on my hands that I could come up with enough vitriol -- nor have I ever had enough of an ego to believe the entire world would give a shit about my plight.
In defense of journalists: A satisfied journalist is a bad journalist. Good reporters question everything. Some of the best, alas, can't turn off that tendency when they log off for the day and go home. The very best, however, channel that energy into finding more stories and more questions to ask. They don't waste keystrokes on rant boards.
Friday, July 26, 2002
Holy freaking shit, it's hot
It's not just hot; it's get-under-your-skin-and-fry-your-internal-organs hot.
It's not news, of course, that it gets really hot in Texas. But the heat in the Very Large Metropolitan Area is a different kind of heat. It sears you on its way down from the sky; then it bounces off the concrete and strafes your face. A little relief breeze may blow, but it's blocked by a building. The sun shines off the back window of the car in front of you, stealing your vision as you move 7 mph down the freeway. Every vent on your dashboard is trained on your face as you lay off Norm A/C and replace him with the supposedly more powerful Max A/C. The temperature gauge on your dashboard creeps to just left of the "H;" you hope to God you can shake the traffic and get the car up to speed in time to blow some relief in through the grille before everything under your hood vanishes in a cloud of steam. It's too hot to drink beer at the ballgame; the Beer Man is abandoned in favor of the Bottled Water Man. You set the thermostat at 75 degrees so the air conditioner can run all day just to keep the house at 79. If the air conditioner breaks down, you'll pay the man anything to fix it. You'll give him your house, your car, $1,340 and buy him dinner for a year if he'll just fix it now. If the air conditioner breaks down on Sunday, be prepared to throw in your spouse and one of your kids.
We learned about summer in Texas quickly. Our first full summer here was the summer of 2000; it was the hottest summer in 20 years. It didn't rain for almost 90 days. The Sunday before Labor Day, the temperature tied the all-time record high of 111. The Wife was eight months pregnant at the time. I can imagine nothing less pleasant.
Air quality in the Very Large Metropolitan Area is bad. "Ozone alerts" are issued; if a "Level Orange" or "Level Red" alert is issued, we're asked to leave our cars at home and ride public transportation or carpool. Yeah, right. Ozone alerts are largely ignored. We'd much rather look through our tinted glass during the traffic jam and wonder if the sky is always that funny brown color.
In keeping with the Texan tendency to do everything to excess, we don't just air-condition our public buildings. We turn them into walk-in refrigerators. You come in from outside, where it's 101, and you're immediately blasted with a 51-degree dose of Freon. It's a wonder thunderstorms don't form at the entrance to the mall.
I'd continue, but my brain is melted. Must find another bottle of water.
It's not just hot; it's get-under-your-skin-and-fry-your-internal-organs hot.
It's not news, of course, that it gets really hot in Texas. But the heat in the Very Large Metropolitan Area is a different kind of heat. It sears you on its way down from the sky; then it bounces off the concrete and strafes your face. A little relief breeze may blow, but it's blocked by a building. The sun shines off the back window of the car in front of you, stealing your vision as you move 7 mph down the freeway. Every vent on your dashboard is trained on your face as you lay off Norm A/C and replace him with the supposedly more powerful Max A/C. The temperature gauge on your dashboard creeps to just left of the "H;" you hope to God you can shake the traffic and get the car up to speed in time to blow some relief in through the grille before everything under your hood vanishes in a cloud of steam. It's too hot to drink beer at the ballgame; the Beer Man is abandoned in favor of the Bottled Water Man. You set the thermostat at 75 degrees so the air conditioner can run all day just to keep the house at 79. If the air conditioner breaks down, you'll pay the man anything to fix it. You'll give him your house, your car, $1,340 and buy him dinner for a year if he'll just fix it now. If the air conditioner breaks down on Sunday, be prepared to throw in your spouse and one of your kids.
We learned about summer in Texas quickly. Our first full summer here was the summer of 2000; it was the hottest summer in 20 years. It didn't rain for almost 90 days. The Sunday before Labor Day, the temperature tied the all-time record high of 111. The Wife was eight months pregnant at the time. I can imagine nothing less pleasant.
Air quality in the Very Large Metropolitan Area is bad. "Ozone alerts" are issued; if a "Level Orange" or "Level Red" alert is issued, we're asked to leave our cars at home and ride public transportation or carpool. Yeah, right. Ozone alerts are largely ignored. We'd much rather look through our tinted glass during the traffic jam and wonder if the sky is always that funny brown color.
In keeping with the Texan tendency to do everything to excess, we don't just air-condition our public buildings. We turn them into walk-in refrigerators. You come in from outside, where it's 101, and you're immediately blasted with a 51-degree dose of Freon. It's a wonder thunderstorms don't form at the entrance to the mall.
I'd continue, but my brain is melted. Must find another bottle of water.
Wednesday, July 24, 2002
Sunday, July 21, 2002
Terminal insomnia
The little numbers down in the lower right-hand corner of my screen mock me. "1:07 AM." One-oh-seven AM. At least one child will be awake in less than six hours, which means I will be awake again in less than six hours. But, instead of sleeping, I sit here. I am in total darkness, except for this screen and the myriad LEDs shining from my computer and its various peripherals.
I'm not even sure what's keeping me awake, save the two post-4 p.m. Dr Peppers. I'm even less sure where this little trip is going to take us. But at least in here, I'm not keeping The Wife awake with my uncertainty. One of us will be reasonably well-rested in less than six hours.
In years past, I would have gotten in the car (at the time, actually, it was a truck), turned on the high-beams and snapped in a cassette tape. I would have had no particular place to go. I would have started by cruising the streets of Anytown past the houses of people I knew, seeing if by chance a party had run late or some such. Failing that, I would have headed past a city limit sign and burned off some fuel and some time. Maybe my fishing pole would have been in the back of the truck; maybe I would have gone to a moonlit lake near town and tried to catch some fish. Maybe I would have had a spiral notebook in the floor or behind the seat of the truck; maybe I would have sat at that moonlit lake, doing what I'm doing now. Maybe I would have just kept driving, winding up in Oklahoma or Arkansas or Kansas. (Don't worry; I lived in the southwestern corner of Missouri. None of those places was that far away.) I would have made it home around sunrise, just in time to fall asleep for five or six hours, getting some rest in time to be at work at 4 p.m.
To say I am a night person would be a dramatic understatement. I lived an unnatural existence for a very long time. In college, I dated a girl who went to another school, three hours away from Anytown. My weekends were often spent as follows: Go to work at 4 p.m. on Friday, cover a ballgame, write my story, and leave for Columbia around 1 a.m. She'd meet me outside her dorm at 4. If we didn't get hassled by an RA (and we never did; I'm pretty sure the RA was a myth), we'd go back in and fall back asleep until about 11 a.m. Get lunch, talk, do whatever. I'd leave at 4 p.m. or so and be back at work at 7 p.m. Saturday night, and work until 1 a.m. or so, when I'd meet my friends out somewhere. That would keep me up until 5 or 6.
Then I got married to a night person. I worked nights, she worked nights, and it was not uncommon for us to wake up just in time to get to work at 4 p.m. You can imagine what an adjustment it was for us when we had a kid. Babies are not night people nor day people. They sleep when they want, and most usually, they don't sleep when you really wish they would.
I had a day job for 11 months in 1993 and hated it. I've had this most recent day job for a year and a half, and my body clock still hasn't really adjusted. I sleep now because my body forces me to. I am a person who needs nine or 10 hours of sleep a night. I get five or six most nights. I'm on my way to getting less than that tonight.
There are those numbers again. "1:24 AM." Mocking me. Wonder if the numbers can tell me which kid is going to wake up in less than six hours?
The little numbers down in the lower right-hand corner of my screen mock me. "1:07 AM." One-oh-seven AM. At least one child will be awake in less than six hours, which means I will be awake again in less than six hours. But, instead of sleeping, I sit here. I am in total darkness, except for this screen and the myriad LEDs shining from my computer and its various peripherals.
I'm not even sure what's keeping me awake, save the two post-4 p.m. Dr Peppers. I'm even less sure where this little trip is going to take us. But at least in here, I'm not keeping The Wife awake with my uncertainty. One of us will be reasonably well-rested in less than six hours.
In years past, I would have gotten in the car (at the time, actually, it was a truck), turned on the high-beams and snapped in a cassette tape. I would have had no particular place to go. I would have started by cruising the streets of Anytown past the houses of people I knew, seeing if by chance a party had run late or some such. Failing that, I would have headed past a city limit sign and burned off some fuel and some time. Maybe my fishing pole would have been in the back of the truck; maybe I would have gone to a moonlit lake near town and tried to catch some fish. Maybe I would have had a spiral notebook in the floor or behind the seat of the truck; maybe I would have sat at that moonlit lake, doing what I'm doing now. Maybe I would have just kept driving, winding up in Oklahoma or Arkansas or Kansas. (Don't worry; I lived in the southwestern corner of Missouri. None of those places was that far away.) I would have made it home around sunrise, just in time to fall asleep for five or six hours, getting some rest in time to be at work at 4 p.m.
To say I am a night person would be a dramatic understatement. I lived an unnatural existence for a very long time. In college, I dated a girl who went to another school, three hours away from Anytown. My weekends were often spent as follows: Go to work at 4 p.m. on Friday, cover a ballgame, write my story, and leave for Columbia around 1 a.m. She'd meet me outside her dorm at 4. If we didn't get hassled by an RA (and we never did; I'm pretty sure the RA was a myth), we'd go back in and fall back asleep until about 11 a.m. Get lunch, talk, do whatever. I'd leave at 4 p.m. or so and be back at work at 7 p.m. Saturday night, and work until 1 a.m. or so, when I'd meet my friends out somewhere. That would keep me up until 5 or 6.
Then I got married to a night person. I worked nights, she worked nights, and it was not uncommon for us to wake up just in time to get to work at 4 p.m. You can imagine what an adjustment it was for us when we had a kid. Babies are not night people nor day people. They sleep when they want, and most usually, they don't sleep when you really wish they would.
I had a day job for 11 months in 1993 and hated it. I've had this most recent day job for a year and a half, and my body clock still hasn't really adjusted. I sleep now because my body forces me to. I am a person who needs nine or 10 hours of sleep a night. I get five or six most nights. I'm on my way to getting less than that tonight.
There are those numbers again. "1:24 AM." Mocking me. Wonder if the numbers can tell me which kid is going to wake up in less than six hours?
Sunday, July 14, 2002
Saturday, July 13, 2002
Things that don't matter
I once heard of a reporter who was sent to the local house of ill repute to get the, um, inside story about what was really going on in there. The employees were suspicious and refused him service. And, yes, he became known as "The Guy Who Couldn't Get Laid in a Whorehouse With Someone Else's Money."
Great domain name: mamasaidgetajob.com. Mama perhaps should have added, "But not in the telecom industry."
Baseball. Go on strike. I don't give a flying fuck. I was worried for a bit that I had been an enabler for major-league baseball, having attended several games since the Strike to End All Strikes in '94, then I realized that I had not paid for admission to any of those games. The last game for which I purchased a ticket with my own money: Dodgers at Reds, Aug. 11, 1994. The last game before the Big Strike. A guy named Flea and I bought $3.50 tickets for the "Top Six" -- the upper reaches of Riverfront Stadium -- and made our way down, eventually winding up behind home plate. We heckled Brett Butler mercilessly. I'm not sure why. Baseball has received my interest as a sports fan since then, but not a penny of my money. I feel a little bit better.
I'm ditching the public-transportation experiment. Turns out I really don't have time to save the planet. On a bad day, my Very Long Commute runs 50 minutes, maybe an hour. Taking the train, I guarantee myself a trip of an hour and 20 minutes, and that's if my arrival at the train station coincides with that of the train. The next expansion brings the northern terminus of the line to within 12 miles of my house, instead of 18. Maybe I'll try again then.
Monday, July 08, 2002
Yeah, all right, I'll help save the planet
Thanks to me, there's one fewer hydrocarbon-belching vehicle on the streets of the Big City. I like to drive. I don't really like being around strangers much. But I'm going completely against my character. I'm experimenting with public transportation.
The Big City's light-rail system has expanded; its northern terminus is now 17 miles from my house. This means I drive 17 miles to a train station, park my car in Space No. 1,099 in an 1,100-space lot, walk 18 miles from my car to the train platform, and ride a sleek light-rail train the remaining 18 miles to work. It saves me no time; it's not really a lot more comfortable; I do get some reading done, but not much. What's in it for me, exactly? Well, I'm putting 34 miles a day on my car rather than 70, saving a little bit of gas and a little bit of wear and tear. And at some point soon, a large construction project on my route to work is going to get really ugly, so I'll be avoiding that.
Texans like their cars. The longhorn Caddy has been replaced by the big-ass Suburban, but the point is still the same. Texans like to drive, they prefer to drive alone, and the fewer miles to the gallon they get, the better. For many years, Texas' economy was based on people like themselves consuming as much oil as humanly possible. It's almost a Texan's duty to drive the biggest, longest, gas-suckingest vehicle he or she can find.
My figuring is that by riding the train, I can stretch the nation's petroleum reserves by about 10 minutes, and I'm contributing ever-so-slightly less to the area's pollution problem. By myself, that's not much. My Oldsmobile Alero is relatively new and clean-burning, and if I drive it nicely, I can get 30 miles per gallon on the freeway. But at least I feel like I'm doing something.
Thanks to me, there's one fewer hydrocarbon-belching vehicle on the streets of the Big City. I like to drive. I don't really like being around strangers much. But I'm going completely against my character. I'm experimenting with public transportation.
The Big City's light-rail system has expanded; its northern terminus is now 17 miles from my house. This means I drive 17 miles to a train station, park my car in Space No. 1,099 in an 1,100-space lot, walk 18 miles from my car to the train platform, and ride a sleek light-rail train the remaining 18 miles to work. It saves me no time; it's not really a lot more comfortable; I do get some reading done, but not much. What's in it for me, exactly? Well, I'm putting 34 miles a day on my car rather than 70, saving a little bit of gas and a little bit of wear and tear. And at some point soon, a large construction project on my route to work is going to get really ugly, so I'll be avoiding that.
Texans like their cars. The longhorn Caddy has been replaced by the big-ass Suburban, but the point is still the same. Texans like to drive, they prefer to drive alone, and the fewer miles to the gallon they get, the better. For many years, Texas' economy was based on people like themselves consuming as much oil as humanly possible. It's almost a Texan's duty to drive the biggest, longest, gas-suckingest vehicle he or she can find.
My figuring is that by riding the train, I can stretch the nation's petroleum reserves by about 10 minutes, and I'm contributing ever-so-slightly less to the area's pollution problem. By myself, that's not much. My Oldsmobile Alero is relatively new and clean-burning, and if I drive it nicely, I can get 30 miles per gallon on the freeway. But at least I feel like I'm doing something.
Saturday, July 06, 2002
You say it's your birthday ...
For most people, the Fourth of July means unbearable heat, overcooked burgers and dogs, and fireworks either launched illicitly within the city limits or seen from a distance at a municipal show. In my house, it means all that, and birthdays. The Old Daughter on the Fourth, mine on the day after. She's 8. I'm a whole lot older.
My perspective on age is skewed in part by the fact that I watched sports for a living for such a long time. I became conditioned to believing that 34 is old, very old. Professional athletes who are 34 are In the Twilight of Their Careers, to use one particular overused lyrical sportswriter phrase. My perspective on age is also skewed in part by the fact that when my mom was 34, I was in college. So I'm not really sure what to think. Some days, I feel very, very old. Some days, not so much.
For many years, I was the youngest in any group of people. Friends, co-workers, whatever; I was always the youngest. Now, I work with people who were born in the mid-'70s. I will likely have a supervisor who is younger than me some day soon. I wonder how I'll handle that; I always wondered how the people I supervised in past jobs handled it. I don't even know why it matters to me.
I'm 34 tomorrow. I'm only 34. I can still say that. But for some reason, I can't shake this feeling that I'm running out of time.
For most people, the Fourth of July means unbearable heat, overcooked burgers and dogs, and fireworks either launched illicitly within the city limits or seen from a distance at a municipal show. In my house, it means all that, and birthdays. The Old Daughter on the Fourth, mine on the day after. She's 8. I'm a whole lot older.
My perspective on age is skewed in part by the fact that I watched sports for a living for such a long time. I became conditioned to believing that 34 is old, very old. Professional athletes who are 34 are In the Twilight of Their Careers, to use one particular overused lyrical sportswriter phrase. My perspective on age is also skewed in part by the fact that when my mom was 34, I was in college. So I'm not really sure what to think. Some days, I feel very, very old. Some days, not so much.
For many years, I was the youngest in any group of people. Friends, co-workers, whatever; I was always the youngest. Now, I work with people who were born in the mid-'70s. I will likely have a supervisor who is younger than me some day soon. I wonder how I'll handle that; I always wondered how the people I supervised in past jobs handled it. I don't even know why it matters to me.
I'm 34 tomorrow. I'm only 34. I can still say that. But for some reason, I can't shake this feeling that I'm running out of time.
Monday, July 01, 2002
On special assignment
I'm off to help determine the Future of Journalism. You'll find me on another floor from my normal desk, hidden from the daily grind, tucked away with a select group trying to figure out how to make newspapers relevant to an entire generation that no longer has any use for them.
Of course, this select group consists of no writers, photographers or artists. Just designers, with the occasional Upper Manager popping his head in to check our progress. It's all up to us, apparently. I've been in these groups before. The usual assignment: Take the same old crap we've always been producing and make it look better. I like that strategy. Progress by Deception. They always say, "Oh, yeah, we'll write more interesting stories and take better pictures, too, at some point, maybe. Until then, could you make what we're doing now look better? You know, to appeal to the Young People." I'm glad this strategy exists; it helps me keep a job and it gets me out of the daily grind every couple of years.
But the progress we've made so far isn't exactly measurable. It gets frustrating to propose changes year after year to an industry that is fundamentally opposed to change. The last three newspapers for which I've worked have recently won Pulitzer Prizes; by recently I mean in the last 10 years. I'm pretty sure it's the worst thing that can happen to most newspapers. "Change what? Why do we need to change? For God's sake, we just won a f---ing Pulitzer in '93!" Oh, OK. I'll be sure to tell that to the people in the 'burbs in Ohio or Missouri or Texas who are having The New York Times thrown at their doorstep instead of the hometown rag.
The strategy behind putting designers at the helm of new product development is actually sound. Unlike writers, photographers and artists, we really have no turf to defend. We take what's given to us and arrange it in the way we think will get a reader's attention. However, our responsibility pretty much ends with the "getting readers' attention" part. Our work is for naught if the story or the photo or graphic doesn't hold the reader's attention -- or, maybe, cause said reader to part with his or her 50 cents.
Most of the people I know read newspapers. Of course, most of the people I know work for some media outlet. They kind of have to read newspapers. Most of the people I know who aren't paid to read newspapers don't. The range of people I know corresponds roughly with the 25-34 demographic, a group which I am perilously close to leaving behind. Our bean-counters need to show advertisers our product appeals to the 25-34 demographic, because people in that age group 1/spend money and 2/are less likely to die within the next 10 years. Our core readership, alas, falls into an age group more closely resembling 55-and-older, and they are less inclined to do (1) and a lot closer to (2).
So, the challenge goes something like this: Figure out how to make newspapers relevant to an entire generation that has no use for them, without alienating all the older people who actually do read newspapers religiously because, well, that's what they've always done with their mornings. And do it by July 24.
All cynicism aside, there are some good ideas on our table. We'll see if we can put any of them into action before I'm ready to give up on the whole thing.
(Editor's note: Your opinion really does matter on this one. Do you read a newspaper with any regularity? Why the hell not? I promise not to hold it against you if you don't. I am genuinely curious. Help save my job and tell me what we need to do better.)
I'm off to help determine the Future of Journalism. You'll find me on another floor from my normal desk, hidden from the daily grind, tucked away with a select group trying to figure out how to make newspapers relevant to an entire generation that no longer has any use for them.
Of course, this select group consists of no writers, photographers or artists. Just designers, with the occasional Upper Manager popping his head in to check our progress. It's all up to us, apparently. I've been in these groups before. The usual assignment: Take the same old crap we've always been producing and make it look better. I like that strategy. Progress by Deception. They always say, "Oh, yeah, we'll write more interesting stories and take better pictures, too, at some point, maybe. Until then, could you make what we're doing now look better? You know, to appeal to the Young People." I'm glad this strategy exists; it helps me keep a job and it gets me out of the daily grind every couple of years.
But the progress we've made so far isn't exactly measurable. It gets frustrating to propose changes year after year to an industry that is fundamentally opposed to change. The last three newspapers for which I've worked have recently won Pulitzer Prizes; by recently I mean in the last 10 years. I'm pretty sure it's the worst thing that can happen to most newspapers. "Change what? Why do we need to change? For God's sake, we just won a f---ing Pulitzer in '93!" Oh, OK. I'll be sure to tell that to the people in the 'burbs in Ohio or Missouri or Texas who are having The New York Times thrown at their doorstep instead of the hometown rag.
The strategy behind putting designers at the helm of new product development is actually sound. Unlike writers, photographers and artists, we really have no turf to defend. We take what's given to us and arrange it in the way we think will get a reader's attention. However, our responsibility pretty much ends with the "getting readers' attention" part. Our work is for naught if the story or the photo or graphic doesn't hold the reader's attention -- or, maybe, cause said reader to part with his or her 50 cents.
Most of the people I know read newspapers. Of course, most of the people I know work for some media outlet. They kind of have to read newspapers. Most of the people I know who aren't paid to read newspapers don't. The range of people I know corresponds roughly with the 25-34 demographic, a group which I am perilously close to leaving behind. Our bean-counters need to show advertisers our product appeals to the 25-34 demographic, because people in that age group 1/spend money and 2/are less likely to die within the next 10 years. Our core readership, alas, falls into an age group more closely resembling 55-and-older, and they are less inclined to do (1) and a lot closer to (2).
So, the challenge goes something like this: Figure out how to make newspapers relevant to an entire generation that has no use for them, without alienating all the older people who actually do read newspapers religiously because, well, that's what they've always done with their mornings. And do it by July 24.
All cynicism aside, there are some good ideas on our table. We'll see if we can put any of them into action before I'm ready to give up on the whole thing.
(Editor's note: Your opinion really does matter on this one. Do you read a newspaper with any regularity? Why the hell not? I promise not to hold it against you if you don't. I am genuinely curious. Help save my job and tell me what we need to do better.)
Sunday, June 30, 2002
My stock-market loss: $0
That, of course, is because I don't have anything in the stock market. You can't lose if you don't play.
Learned recently that according to the latest numbers, the unemployment rate in my semi-affluent suburb is 10.9 percent. That's probably low; many of my neighbors recently laid off from nearby high-tech and telecom firms received decent severance packages and haven't yet filed for unemployment. And it's going to rise, courtesy of the latest corporate explosion at WorldCom.
On either side of my house live men who work for a large telecommunications firm. Well, one of them worked there. He was laid off in March after 13 years. He got six months severance and free use of an outplacement service. Job offers he has received so far: 0. The guy on the other side still works for the company, but he knows his days are numbered. He's doing every conceivable home-improvement project and taking his family on vacation now, while the money's still coming in.
I have few personal worries about the economic downturn. I work in a dying industry, but it's stable, and it's not going away anytime soon. I'm reasonably valuable to my company; not so much in my current position, perhaps, but I have skills the company can use.
I do have serious concerns about the general state of the economy, and wonder how my generation will handle its version of the Great Depression.
I am not prepared to not have a job. I have no savings to speak of, not much in the way of formal education, and few skills outside those required for my current job. Except for the formal education part, I'm pretty similar to most people I know in my age group.
I don't have a lot of experience with "economic downturn," at least not from an adult perspective. I was a child during the recession years of the '70s and early '80s. I never had to consider an 18% home loan. The worst I've had to deal with, so far, is joining all my co-workers in not getting a raise for 2001, but even that was OK; thanks to a promotion, I got two raises in 2000.
But that doesn't make me immune from general worry. What I know of the 1930s is what I've read and what I've heard of my grandparents. What I've read and heard is that it was an awful, awful time in our history. It was every man for himself, and it took the deaths of 50,000 or so people in a Big War to pull us out of it. The people who had, in many cases, took an active role to make sure the people who didn't have didn't get any of theirs. Business resisted regulation on the grounds that such regulation was anti-capitalist. "Red." It's a wonder Communism didn't take a foothold in the United States by 1939, and World War II was probably the only thing that kept it from happening.
Historians will tell you that the Great Depression was necessary to force American society to take the final steps from being largely agrarian to being largely industrial. I will tell you that I'm damn glad I wasn't alive then.
In 2002, corporate executives have little incentive to not lie, cheat, steal and get as much for themselves as possible. When their companies go down, they're still going to have theirs. They're unemployed with millions stashed away. They're not unemployed, trying to figure out how to live without a $54K a year salary and with a worthless 401(k). That's not to say I think we shouldn't get as much as we can for ourselves. I just wonder if our society has any checks in place to keep one from getting as much as he can at the incredible expense of others.
The others fought back in Russia in 1917 behind Vladimir Lenin. The others fought back in Detroit in the late '30s behind Walter Reuther. I wonder who's going to rally the people this time, and where that rally will lead us.
That, of course, is because I don't have anything in the stock market. You can't lose if you don't play.
Learned recently that according to the latest numbers, the unemployment rate in my semi-affluent suburb is 10.9 percent. That's probably low; many of my neighbors recently laid off from nearby high-tech and telecom firms received decent severance packages and haven't yet filed for unemployment. And it's going to rise, courtesy of the latest corporate explosion at WorldCom.
On either side of my house live men who work for a large telecommunications firm. Well, one of them worked there. He was laid off in March after 13 years. He got six months severance and free use of an outplacement service. Job offers he has received so far: 0. The guy on the other side still works for the company, but he knows his days are numbered. He's doing every conceivable home-improvement project and taking his family on vacation now, while the money's still coming in.
I have few personal worries about the economic downturn. I work in a dying industry, but it's stable, and it's not going away anytime soon. I'm reasonably valuable to my company; not so much in my current position, perhaps, but I have skills the company can use.
I do have serious concerns about the general state of the economy, and wonder how my generation will handle its version of the Great Depression.
I am not prepared to not have a job. I have no savings to speak of, not much in the way of formal education, and few skills outside those required for my current job. Except for the formal education part, I'm pretty similar to most people I know in my age group.
I don't have a lot of experience with "economic downturn," at least not from an adult perspective. I was a child during the recession years of the '70s and early '80s. I never had to consider an 18% home loan. The worst I've had to deal with, so far, is joining all my co-workers in not getting a raise for 2001, but even that was OK; thanks to a promotion, I got two raises in 2000.
But that doesn't make me immune from general worry. What I know of the 1930s is what I've read and what I've heard of my grandparents. What I've read and heard is that it was an awful, awful time in our history. It was every man for himself, and it took the deaths of 50,000 or so people in a Big War to pull us out of it. The people who had, in many cases, took an active role to make sure the people who didn't have didn't get any of theirs. Business resisted regulation on the grounds that such regulation was anti-capitalist. "Red." It's a wonder Communism didn't take a foothold in the United States by 1939, and World War II was probably the only thing that kept it from happening.
Historians will tell you that the Great Depression was necessary to force American society to take the final steps from being largely agrarian to being largely industrial. I will tell you that I'm damn glad I wasn't alive then.
In 2002, corporate executives have little incentive to not lie, cheat, steal and get as much for themselves as possible. When their companies go down, they're still going to have theirs. They're unemployed with millions stashed away. They're not unemployed, trying to figure out how to live without a $54K a year salary and with a worthless 401(k). That's not to say I think we shouldn't get as much as we can for ourselves. I just wonder if our society has any checks in place to keep one from getting as much as he can at the incredible expense of others.
The others fought back in Russia in 1917 behind Vladimir Lenin. The others fought back in Detroit in the late '30s behind Walter Reuther. I wonder who's going to rally the people this time, and where that rally will lead us.
Friday, June 28, 2002
Yeah, what he said
UPDATE: This now contains a broken link. The original has not yet been archived. Will fix as soon as I can.
This is basically what I was going to write about the Pledge of Allegiance thing. Instead of plagiarizing, I'll just link to it.
UPDATE: This now contains a broken link. The original has not yet been archived. Will fix as soon as I can.
This is basically what I was going to write about the Pledge of Allegiance thing. Instead of plagiarizing, I'll just link to it.
Tuesday, June 25, 2002
Monday, June 24, 2002
A day of, perhaps, relative calm
It's Monday, and I'm not at work. A day off, or as I prefer to think of it: I have put myself on paid administrative leave for a day. It's not like I'm going to accomplish great things at home; on the contrary, clearly I'm sitting here at this machine instead of doing something worthwhile. But that's OK; I just needed a day to Not Be There.
Many fine opportunities await for me today. I could clean out the garage. I could play with the children. I could go to the library and research some interesting subject. Probably what I'll do instead is wander aimlessly around the house, tidy up some stuff here and there, check the e-mail and the web every once in a while, and accomplish nothing.
I'm OK with that.
It's Monday, and I'm not at work. A day off, or as I prefer to think of it: I have put myself on paid administrative leave for a day. It's not like I'm going to accomplish great things at home; on the contrary, clearly I'm sitting here at this machine instead of doing something worthwhile. But that's OK; I just needed a day to Not Be There.
Many fine opportunities await for me today. I could clean out the garage. I could play with the children. I could go to the library and research some interesting subject. Probably what I'll do instead is wander aimlessly around the house, tidy up some stuff here and there, check the e-mail and the web every once in a while, and accomplish nothing.
I'm OK with that.
Saturday, June 22, 2002
Texas 12, South Carolina 6
I don't follow college baseball as closely as I probably should, but our reader from utexas.edu does. Said reader is having a national championship celebration tonight. All hail Huston Street and the Texas Longhorns, who overcame some adversity this season to haul some national title hardware back down to Austin.
I don't follow college baseball as closely as I probably should, but our reader from utexas.edu does. Said reader is having a national championship celebration tonight. All hail Huston Street and the Texas Longhorns, who overcame some adversity this season to haul some national title hardware back down to Austin.
Darryl Kile, 1968-2002
Wow. Because wild speculation is allowed in this forum, I'll speculate for a second: What if the death of the Cardinals' starting pitcher was related to steroids? A death of "natural causes" at 33 really raises some suspicion, at least from this corner. Mitigating that suspicion somewhat is the knowledge that Kile's father died of a heart attack at 44, very, very young. I have no evidence of that at all -- none -- but imagine the shockwave that's going to go through the baseball world if that turns out to be the case.
Update: Preliminary autopsy report reveals artery blockage. Sounds like a horribly unfortunate death.
Wow. Because wild speculation is allowed in this forum, I'll speculate for a second: What if the death of the Cardinals' starting pitcher was related to steroids? A death of "natural causes" at 33 really raises some suspicion, at least from this corner. Mitigating that suspicion somewhat is the knowledge that Kile's father died of a heart attack at 44, very, very young. I have no evidence of that at all -- none -- but imagine the shockwave that's going to go through the baseball world if that turns out to be the case.
Update: Preliminary autopsy report reveals artery blockage. Sounds like a horribly unfortunate death.
Thursday, June 20, 2002
The family circus
I realize I had promised stories from the family reunion, which was now two weekends ago. It's late, and the stories aren't really fresh, but I needed some time to think about it before attempting to share it with the class. It was a Friday and Saturday of mostly chaos and a constant effort to protect my children from themselves. It was two days trying to recognize people and figure out if I had ever met them before, and trying to mentally connect branches of the sprawling family tree.
But amid the chaos came a few snippets of things I'm still thinking about:
--My grandfather was a preacher at one time. His words commanded attention, as did the way he delivered those words. During the all-day picnic fest at the state park on Saturday, the large group gathered around at his request so he could deliver a few words. It was hard to hear what he was saying, and even harder to divine what the actual point was. I did learn that he had a sister who was married to "a no-good husband" and had "dopehead kids" and that she was institutionalized after she had her head blown off, or something. I learned that several of my grandfather's siblings died of lung cancer; he wrapped up that portion with, "If you smoke, quit." The group had gathered expecting a dramatic, touching moment to add to their memory banks. It dispersed quietly, somewhat disappointed.
--I was always my grandmother's favorite. I'm not shy about saying so, and truth be told, neither was she. It's the greatest honor I've received in my entire life. I have more respect for her than I have for any two other people in the entire world. She quit school at 11 to raise her brothers and sisters, but she's one of the smartest and wisest people I know. She brought up eight children in very demanding circumstances with no help to speak of. She lost her first child to disease at a very young age, and shortly after, she lost a brother to war. Yet she carried on, and she expected those around her to do the same. "The sun's going to come up tomorrow," she said, "whether you want it to or not." She's 80, and her hearing and her memory are ebbing. A couple of times over the weekend, she didn't remember who I was. I overheard her asking the person sitting next to her, "Who is that again?" If I spent some time to think about it -- and I'm trying like hell not to -- it would make me very, very sad.
--A staple of large gatherings in our family is music. Groups of men -- exclusively men -- get together and strum guitars and sing songs, mostly old gospel standards and John Denver tunes. I didn't bring my own guitar, but I managed to grab an abandoned one at one point. I joined one of the second cousins I didn't know. Turned out we had a common interest in the slightly raunchy music of Robert Earl Keen. We played a couple of songs, but they were songs that were definitely out of place with that group: "Sherry was a waitress at the only joint in town/She had a reputation as a girl who'd been around ... " probably wouldn't have gone over well with the "Amazing grace/how sweet the sound ... " crowd. We kept it quiet.
--I have many, many cousins, and even more second cousins, and third cousins. I don't know most of the second and third cousins -- they lived in Texas when I lived in Missouri. But many of them came to various family gatherings. I remember as a very little kid always being struck by the fact that so many cars at our family gatherings had Texas license plates. Scanning the parking lot near the state-park pavilion on Saturday, I was struck by the same fact -- and then I noted that my car was one of them.
Amid the chaos, though, I only picked up snippets. I never had the time to flesh out any of the stories that I heard parts of: a cousin who reportedly was a lesbian has reportedly switched back to the other team ... another cousin, 35, was lighting a cigarette while telling people about the "heart attack" he had allegedly suffered three weeks before. He's a little prone to tall tales, and I never got independent confirmation of the story ... another cousin was spoken of only in hushed tones; apparently she's now persona non grata ... apparently one of the second cousins from the Texas contingent had recently lost a daughter, 19 months old -- the same age as our youngest -- in a terrible home accident. Or maybe it was a day care accident. Either way, it was terrible. The reunion was her first trip away from home since the accident. ... no details, just snippets.
Despite the fact that I wasn't exactly looking forward to the trip, it turned out to be quite fun; not at all the lost weekend I was expecting. I was reminded that it's a large and diverse gene pool I come from. It's a bunch of mostly good people. It's also a few people with whom I wouldn't otherwise associate. Nothing wrong with that; that makes us like most families. I sometimes take solace in how average I am.
I realize I had promised stories from the family reunion, which was now two weekends ago. It's late, and the stories aren't really fresh, but I needed some time to think about it before attempting to share it with the class. It was a Friday and Saturday of mostly chaos and a constant effort to protect my children from themselves. It was two days trying to recognize people and figure out if I had ever met them before, and trying to mentally connect branches of the sprawling family tree.
But amid the chaos came a few snippets of things I'm still thinking about:
--My grandfather was a preacher at one time. His words commanded attention, as did the way he delivered those words. During the all-day picnic fest at the state park on Saturday, the large group gathered around at his request so he could deliver a few words. It was hard to hear what he was saying, and even harder to divine what the actual point was. I did learn that he had a sister who was married to "a no-good husband" and had "dopehead kids" and that she was institutionalized after she had her head blown off, or something. I learned that several of my grandfather's siblings died of lung cancer; he wrapped up that portion with, "If you smoke, quit." The group had gathered expecting a dramatic, touching moment to add to their memory banks. It dispersed quietly, somewhat disappointed.
--I was always my grandmother's favorite. I'm not shy about saying so, and truth be told, neither was she. It's the greatest honor I've received in my entire life. I have more respect for her than I have for any two other people in the entire world. She quit school at 11 to raise her brothers and sisters, but she's one of the smartest and wisest people I know. She brought up eight children in very demanding circumstances with no help to speak of. She lost her first child to disease at a very young age, and shortly after, she lost a brother to war. Yet she carried on, and she expected those around her to do the same. "The sun's going to come up tomorrow," she said, "whether you want it to or not." She's 80, and her hearing and her memory are ebbing. A couple of times over the weekend, she didn't remember who I was. I overheard her asking the person sitting next to her, "Who is that again?" If I spent some time to think about it -- and I'm trying like hell not to -- it would make me very, very sad.
--A staple of large gatherings in our family is music. Groups of men -- exclusively men -- get together and strum guitars and sing songs, mostly old gospel standards and John Denver tunes. I didn't bring my own guitar, but I managed to grab an abandoned one at one point. I joined one of the second cousins I didn't know. Turned out we had a common interest in the slightly raunchy music of Robert Earl Keen. We played a couple of songs, but they were songs that were definitely out of place with that group: "Sherry was a waitress at the only joint in town/She had a reputation as a girl who'd been around ... " probably wouldn't have gone over well with the "Amazing grace/how sweet the sound ... " crowd. We kept it quiet.
--I have many, many cousins, and even more second cousins, and third cousins. I don't know most of the second and third cousins -- they lived in Texas when I lived in Missouri. But many of them came to various family gatherings. I remember as a very little kid always being struck by the fact that so many cars at our family gatherings had Texas license plates. Scanning the parking lot near the state-park pavilion on Saturday, I was struck by the same fact -- and then I noted that my car was one of them.
Amid the chaos, though, I only picked up snippets. I never had the time to flesh out any of the stories that I heard parts of: a cousin who reportedly was a lesbian has reportedly switched back to the other team ... another cousin, 35, was lighting a cigarette while telling people about the "heart attack" he had allegedly suffered three weeks before. He's a little prone to tall tales, and I never got independent confirmation of the story ... another cousin was spoken of only in hushed tones; apparently she's now persona non grata ... apparently one of the second cousins from the Texas contingent had recently lost a daughter, 19 months old -- the same age as our youngest -- in a terrible home accident. Or maybe it was a day care accident. Either way, it was terrible. The reunion was her first trip away from home since the accident. ... no details, just snippets.
Despite the fact that I wasn't exactly looking forward to the trip, it turned out to be quite fun; not at all the lost weekend I was expecting. I was reminded that it's a large and diverse gene pool I come from. It's a bunch of mostly good people. It's also a few people with whom I wouldn't otherwise associate. Nothing wrong with that; that makes us like most families. I sometimes take solace in how average I am.
Wednesday, June 19, 2002
Jack Buck, 1924-2002
The voice that helped me go to sleep many, many summer nights during some tumultuous pre-teen and teenage years has been silenced. He was the broadcaster for the St. Louis Cardinals my entire life, and his voice is the source of some of my best childhood memories. Not just the highlights:
"Swing and a long one ... Go crazy, folks! Go crazy!" after Ozzie Smith's left-handed home run in the 1985 National League Championship Series, which vaulted the Cardinals into the World Series against Kansas City.
"I don't believe what I just saw!" after Kirk Gibson hit that homer in Game 1 of the 1988 World Series -- still the greatest thing I've ever seen in a baseball game.
Silence, then "Pardon me while I stand and applaud," when Mark McGwire hit his 61st homer in 1998.
... not just the highlights, but the routine, also. And the not-so-routine; I heard of the 1989 San Francisco earthquake from Jack Buck, who was broadcasting over a phone line when he should have been calling Game 1 of the World Series.
Buck and Mike Shannon were the Cardinals' broadcast team during the late '70s and early '80s, when I was just becoming a baseball fan. But from an even younger age, I was familiar with Buck's voice from many nights on my grandfather's front porch out in the middle of nowhere, where Cardinals baseball was his link with the rest of the world.
I would always try to keep myself awake long enough to hear Buck say, " ... and that's a winner!" to wrap up a Cardinals victory. Some nights I succeeded. Even after I left Missouri, I'd find myself trying to pull in KMOX in St. Louis to catch a little bit of the Cardinals' game -- not so much because I was a Cardinals fan; I never really was for any reason other than proximity -- but because the voice of Jack Buck over baseball was one of the greatest things I had ever heard.
His son Joe is behind the microphone at Cardinals' games now, and he's very good. He should be, because he learned from the very best.
The voice that helped me go to sleep many, many summer nights during some tumultuous pre-teen and teenage years has been silenced. He was the broadcaster for the St. Louis Cardinals my entire life, and his voice is the source of some of my best childhood memories. Not just the highlights:
"Swing and a long one ... Go crazy, folks! Go crazy!" after Ozzie Smith's left-handed home run in the 1985 National League Championship Series, which vaulted the Cardinals into the World Series against Kansas City.
"I don't believe what I just saw!" after Kirk Gibson hit that homer in Game 1 of the 1988 World Series -- still the greatest thing I've ever seen in a baseball game.
Silence, then "Pardon me while I stand and applaud," when Mark McGwire hit his 61st homer in 1998.
... not just the highlights, but the routine, also. And the not-so-routine; I heard of the 1989 San Francisco earthquake from Jack Buck, who was broadcasting over a phone line when he should have been calling Game 1 of the World Series.
Buck and Mike Shannon were the Cardinals' broadcast team during the late '70s and early '80s, when I was just becoming a baseball fan. But from an even younger age, I was familiar with Buck's voice from many nights on my grandfather's front porch out in the middle of nowhere, where Cardinals baseball was his link with the rest of the world.
I would always try to keep myself awake long enough to hear Buck say, " ... and that's a winner!" to wrap up a Cardinals victory. Some nights I succeeded. Even after I left Missouri, I'd find myself trying to pull in KMOX in St. Louis to catch a little bit of the Cardinals' game -- not so much because I was a Cardinals fan; I never really was for any reason other than proximity -- but because the voice of Jack Buck over baseball was one of the greatest things I had ever heard.
His son Joe is behind the microphone at Cardinals' games now, and he's very good. He should be, because he learned from the very best.
Thursday, June 13, 2002
One-liners
Some interesting, some not so interesting, all true:
I was on national television last night.
This week, journalism is fun again.
Guess I was right about the Lakers.
There's some real stuff to come. I was, after all, at a family reunion last weekend. Surely there's a story in that. But the last three days have been consumed by computer repair and by actually being busy at work. Too much going on in the head right now. I'll take some time to collate and staple it all.
Some interesting, some not so interesting, all true:
There's some real stuff to come. I was, after all, at a family reunion last weekend. Surely there's a story in that. But the last three days have been consumed by computer repair and by actually being busy at work. Too much going on in the head right now. I'll take some time to collate and staple it all.