Let the restoration begin
As August pulls into the pits and September takes the track, I'm hopping in for a ride to recovery.
It's been a long year. The upheaval that began roughly this time last year is still heaving, to some extent. The adjustment to the move back to the Edge has been longer than expected. It hasn't helped that the work has been constant, the rewards minimal, and the time for rest and relaxation almost non-existent.
That all changes soon. I work tomorrow and Tuesday. Then, a three-week voyage back to sanity.
Week 1: I hop a plane Wednesay for a trip to the nation's capital for a work-related seminar. It'll be my first trip to Washington. I'm pretty fired up about that. I don't know how much work-related seminaring I'm actually going to do, but I will get in plenty of sightseeing and reflection.
At the top of the list of the many sites I want to visit one that will make me very, very sad: The Vietnam Veterans Memorial. I'm not sure why the draw for that is so powerful for me, but it is. The Vietnam War was the definition of my parents' generation, and it defines the way many people of my generation view our government, for better or worse. It's the same pull that drew me to the Oklahoma City National Memorial in 2000. I don't know why I feel I need to pay my respects. But I do.
Week 2: I return Sunday to the Edge for a week basically to myself and my family. So much around me is in disarray: My computer desk, my CD collection, the interior of my car, my garage, my marriage, my brain, my psyche. I need to somehow relax, decompress and refocus -- and be productive -- during this time. But I'm going to do so in the lowest-pressure way possible.
Week 3: On Sept. 13, The Wife leaves for a trip to Ohio to hang out with champion dogs and the people who own them. This is a big deal and a crucial time for her and her Champion Wannabe golden retriever. Champion Wannabe won the first of the two major titles required for Champion Dog status on Sunday. The dog is on the brink of major national success, and if The Wife plays her political cards just right on this trip, good things will result. I don't pretend to know much about how the whole dog show thing works -- I'm not really a dog person, and my interest level in my wife's hobby is high only because of the amount of happiness it brings her -- but it's an important trip for her.
What it means for me is one full week of Me vs. The Mini-Humans. Vegas has the Mini-Humans as 28 1/2-point favorites right now, down from 30 a few days ago. I'm not sure what's causing the fluctuation in the betting line, but I'd take the Mini-Humans and the points.
This is an important stretch of time for me -- perhaps more important than any three-week stretch previously. I've been a very unpleasant person for a very long time. I'm not getting enough rest, I'm eating poorly, and I'm carrying every possible work stress with me everywhere I go. As soon as I get on that northbound plane, my list of excuses shrinks to zero. I need either to get my brain focused on what I'm doing now or get my brain focused on doing something else. I haven't had time to do this for a long time.
I'll have the time now. How well will I use it?
Sunday, August 31, 2003
Thursday, August 28, 2003
Work, and life, and stuff
If you work for a newspaper that hits driveways every morning of the year, you're going to work nights and weekends. That's a given. You're also going to find yourself adjusting your life pretty dramatically on the whims of breaking news. Say you had plans for Tuesday evening, Sept. 11, 2001. Sorry; canceled. You're at work. Horrendously hung over on a Saturday morning? Pray God it's not the Saturday morning the space shuttle falls out of the sky. A fire breaks out in a warehouse downtown at 6 p.m., just as you're about to head home for dinner? Put it in the fridge, honey; I'm grabbing a notebook/camera/mouse instead.
Then there are the nights that don't involve breaking news. I can look around my newsroom at any given time and see some mid-level editor heading for his or her 11th or 12th hour -- even on normal days. On my staff, overtime is routine; somebody's working it pretty much every week. Some weeks, I have people working double shifts just to get the paper out.
And most of these people are working all of these wacky hours and subordinating their personal lives to the greater mission of daily journalism for less than $50,000 a year -- despite the fact that many have advanced degrees, despite the fact that they've worked here for five, 10, 15 years, despite the fact that the company that owns the newspaper is profitable in bad years and wildly profitable in good ones. They aren't busting their asses for doctor money or lawyer money or even car-salesman money. They aren't busting their asses because they might someday be editor of the newspaper if they do so. They bust their asses because they care, and because they love their jobs, and because they believe passionately in the greater mission of daily journalism.
As for me, I'm one of those mid-level managers. On a routine day, I put in 10 hours. If something happens, figure on 11 or 12, maybe 13. For the extended coverage we did on the shuttle report for Wednesday's paper, I was in at 10:30 a.m. and done at midnight -- and then sat at my desk decompressing for an hour before leaving at 1 a.m.
I'm lucky enough have a wife who loves me and supports the fact that I'm living a dream through my job. She's a full-time parent, which means, during the week, she's a full-time parent. I'm out the door not long after our oldest goes to school at 8:15 a.m., and I'm not home before the kids are in bed. On many days, I'm not awake at 8:15 a.m., which means that it's not uncommon during the school year for me to go the entire work week without seeing my oldest kid awake.
I don't work all those hours because it makes the paper better. I work all those hours because my boss expects me to; because his boss expects him to; because her boss expects her to, all the way up the line. And they all do it, too. Overworking yourself is almost a fucking badge of honor.
That's wrong. And stupid. And really not an investment in anything, because my raise is already budgeted and it's going to be the same whether I bust my ass or not. And really, it results in diminishing returns, because the more you do it, the more you're expected to do it.
Yet I do it, and I work with at least 100 people who do it, too. I ask people on my staff to do it. Some of them say no. I think that's to their credit. I don't get angry about it; I respect it.
The downside is that, if somebody on my staff takes that step to protect his personal life, the work is still there and must be picked up by somebody. That somebody often is me. It's a tough balancing act. I do it voluntarily, so I can't whine about it. But the cycle continues.
Some co-workers get sanctimonious about their roles as parents. I disagree with that attitude. I understand that for people without children, a bowling league or a pottery class or a yoga session or whatever is just as important. The bottom line is the same: A journalist who doesn't have a life outside of work is a damn bad journalist. You can't expect to tell people about the world when all you see of it comes to you through a computer screen or the CNN on the TV over your left shoulder.
I left this place four years ago to work for the nation's eighth-largest newspaper -- a paper that was staffed-up enough so that I worked in a department where night workers had four-day workweeks, where overtime wasn't necessary just to put the paper out, where if an editor had to leave for a family commitment before a story was ready, another editor was available to step in. For the most part, it was good to its people, but it lacked the frenetic energy to which I had become accustomed and which, for some reason, makes this career both worse and better than every other career.
I left that environment and came back to this place, because it's a better place to live.
I can't complain, because I have everything I ever wanted. I'm paid well, I work with people who care, and I live with the best four people on the planet. And I can't complain, because I chose this career, I chose to work at this level and I chose to have management responsiblities.
Absent my petition to extend the day to 32 hours from 24 being accepted, I must choose to be better organized and more energetic.
If you work for a newspaper that hits driveways every morning of the year, you're going to work nights and weekends. That's a given. You're also going to find yourself adjusting your life pretty dramatically on the whims of breaking news. Say you had plans for Tuesday evening, Sept. 11, 2001. Sorry; canceled. You're at work. Horrendously hung over on a Saturday morning? Pray God it's not the Saturday morning the space shuttle falls out of the sky. A fire breaks out in a warehouse downtown at 6 p.m., just as you're about to head home for dinner? Put it in the fridge, honey; I'm grabbing a notebook/camera/mouse instead.
Then there are the nights that don't involve breaking news. I can look around my newsroom at any given time and see some mid-level editor heading for his or her 11th or 12th hour -- even on normal days. On my staff, overtime is routine; somebody's working it pretty much every week. Some weeks, I have people working double shifts just to get the paper out.
And most of these people are working all of these wacky hours and subordinating their personal lives to the greater mission of daily journalism for less than $50,000 a year -- despite the fact that many have advanced degrees, despite the fact that they've worked here for five, 10, 15 years, despite the fact that the company that owns the newspaper is profitable in bad years and wildly profitable in good ones. They aren't busting their asses for doctor money or lawyer money or even car-salesman money. They aren't busting their asses because they might someday be editor of the newspaper if they do so. They bust their asses because they care, and because they love their jobs, and because they believe passionately in the greater mission of daily journalism.
As for me, I'm one of those mid-level managers. On a routine day, I put in 10 hours. If something happens, figure on 11 or 12, maybe 13. For the extended coverage we did on the shuttle report for Wednesday's paper, I was in at 10:30 a.m. and done at midnight -- and then sat at my desk decompressing for an hour before leaving at 1 a.m.
I'm lucky enough have a wife who loves me and supports the fact that I'm living a dream through my job. She's a full-time parent, which means, during the week, she's a full-time parent. I'm out the door not long after our oldest goes to school at 8:15 a.m., and I'm not home before the kids are in bed. On many days, I'm not awake at 8:15 a.m., which means that it's not uncommon during the school year for me to go the entire work week without seeing my oldest kid awake.
I don't work all those hours because it makes the paper better. I work all those hours because my boss expects me to; because his boss expects him to; because her boss expects her to, all the way up the line. And they all do it, too. Overworking yourself is almost a fucking badge of honor.
That's wrong. And stupid. And really not an investment in anything, because my raise is already budgeted and it's going to be the same whether I bust my ass or not. And really, it results in diminishing returns, because the more you do it, the more you're expected to do it.
Yet I do it, and I work with at least 100 people who do it, too. I ask people on my staff to do it. Some of them say no. I think that's to their credit. I don't get angry about it; I respect it.
The downside is that, if somebody on my staff takes that step to protect his personal life, the work is still there and must be picked up by somebody. That somebody often is me. It's a tough balancing act. I do it voluntarily, so I can't whine about it. But the cycle continues.
Some co-workers get sanctimonious about their roles as parents. I disagree with that attitude. I understand that for people without children, a bowling league or a pottery class or a yoga session or whatever is just as important. The bottom line is the same: A journalist who doesn't have a life outside of work is a damn bad journalist. You can't expect to tell people about the world when all you see of it comes to you through a computer screen or the CNN on the TV over your left shoulder.
I left this place four years ago to work for the nation's eighth-largest newspaper -- a paper that was staffed-up enough so that I worked in a department where night workers had four-day workweeks, where overtime wasn't necessary just to put the paper out, where if an editor had to leave for a family commitment before a story was ready, another editor was available to step in. For the most part, it was good to its people, but it lacked the frenetic energy to which I had become accustomed and which, for some reason, makes this career both worse and better than every other career.
I left that environment and came back to this place, because it's a better place to live.
I can't complain, because I have everything I ever wanted. I'm paid well, I work with people who care, and I live with the best four people on the planet. And I can't complain, because I chose this career, I chose to work at this level and I chose to have management responsiblities.
Absent my petition to extend the day to 32 hours from 24 being accepted, I must choose to be better organized and more energetic.
Wednesday, August 27, 2003
Spaced out
The long journalistic odyssey that began on Feb. 1 with the crash of the space shuttle Columbia ended today. The Columbia Accident Investigation board released its 248-page report, blaming NASA's "culture" for its cavalier attitude toward crew safety for Columbia's doom. The report noted that NASA is underfunded and deadline-driven, and managers don't listen to underlings. In short, it runs just like every other governmental agency.
How about privatizing the entire program? When Boeing or Lockheed designs and builds a passenger jet, engineers oversee engineers, redundant systems back up redundant systems and voila! you have the safest mode of transportation ever invented. With NASA, you have Congressmen overseeing engineers, and corners get cut in order to shave costs and make deadlines.
Let rocket scientists build space shuttles. I'd rather see us spend our money to fix the "culture" in underfunded, deadline-driven and top-down state child-welfare agencies first, then worry about NASA.
The long journalistic odyssey that began on Feb. 1 with the crash of the space shuttle Columbia ended today. The Columbia Accident Investigation board released its 248-page report, blaming NASA's "culture" for its cavalier attitude toward crew safety for Columbia's doom. The report noted that NASA is underfunded and deadline-driven, and managers don't listen to underlings. In short, it runs just like every other governmental agency.
How about privatizing the entire program? When Boeing or Lockheed designs and builds a passenger jet, engineers oversee engineers, redundant systems back up redundant systems and voila! you have the safest mode of transportation ever invented. With NASA, you have Congressmen overseeing engineers, and corners get cut in order to shave costs and make deadlines.
Let rocket scientists build space shuttles. I'd rather see us spend our money to fix the "culture" in underfunded, deadline-driven and top-down state child-welfare agencies first, then worry about NASA.
Tuesday, August 26, 2003
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
Recycling
One of the things I really enjoy about this forum is the ability to look back and see what the hell I was thinking during a particular time period. I culled this from this week last year. I think it's a good dog-days-of-summer thought, and because it is after all my forum, I think I'll share it again.
Simplicity (from Aug. 22, 2002)
I was going to work up something really deep, and thoughtful, and introspective, and stuff. I decided against it. All I have is this:
Today'd be a good day for a good day. I sincerely hope you're having one.
One of the things I really enjoy about this forum is the ability to look back and see what the hell I was thinking during a particular time period. I culled this from this week last year. I think it's a good dog-days-of-summer thought, and because it is after all my forum, I think I'll share it again.
Simplicity (from Aug. 22, 2002)
I was going to work up something really deep, and thoughtful, and introspective, and stuff. I decided against it. All I have is this:
Today'd be a good day for a good day. I sincerely hope you're having one.
Tuesday, August 19, 2003
There is no news
I work with some of the very best journalists in the world. My boss's boss's boss is a man who was a high-ranking editor at the nation's third-largest local daily newspaper. Many of my co-workers have excellent news judgment, honed by years in the business and by having been trained at the best journalism schools that money can buy.
But these days, when it comes to news judgment, I trust my wife: a 32-year-old suburban white homemaker whose education is in "hospitality and restaurant management" and whose only qualification to determine what's news is by determining what actually matters in the grand scheme.
Allow her to take apart some front-page stories from the last few days:
Item: At least 17 dead in bombing of U.N. headquarters in Baghdad. The Wife: "It's Baghdad. Things blow up there every day."
Item: At least 18 dead in bombing of bus in Jerusalem. The Wife: "Suicide bombings happen every day over there. What's different about this one?" Well, it imperils the Roadmap to Peace. "Yeah, like that was going to work. Everybody thinks they have the idea for peace in the Middle East, and they're all wrong."
Item: Every state's child-welfare system is in serious disarray. The Wife: "Now, there's a good idea. 'Hey, State, your child-welfare system is in disarray. So we're going to fine you and cut your federal funding, meaning you'll be able to pay even fewer overworked caseworkers $26,000 a year to hold these kids' lives in your hands.' That's like the bank charging an overdraft fee -- taking more of what they already know you don't have. That oughta fix things."
(Quick confession: The last one was mostly mine. But it's pretty much what she would have said had I asked her about it before she went to sleep to nurse this pesky cold she has. When she wakes up, I'm sure she'll react that way.)
Every day, I present her with an item we think is news, The Wife dismisses said item with a really solid "So what?" and a really lucid 30-second statement confirming that it doesn't really matter.
I'm pretty sure she's right and the rest of us are wrong. If I owned a news outlet, she'd be my first choice for editor.
I work with some of the very best journalists in the world. My boss's boss's boss is a man who was a high-ranking editor at the nation's third-largest local daily newspaper. Many of my co-workers have excellent news judgment, honed by years in the business and by having been trained at the best journalism schools that money can buy.
But these days, when it comes to news judgment, I trust my wife: a 32-year-old suburban white homemaker whose education is in "hospitality and restaurant management" and whose only qualification to determine what's news is by determining what actually matters in the grand scheme.
Allow her to take apart some front-page stories from the last few days:
Item: At least 17 dead in bombing of U.N. headquarters in Baghdad. The Wife: "It's Baghdad. Things blow up there every day."
Item: At least 18 dead in bombing of bus in Jerusalem. The Wife: "Suicide bombings happen every day over there. What's different about this one?" Well, it imperils the Roadmap to Peace. "Yeah, like that was going to work. Everybody thinks they have the idea for peace in the Middle East, and they're all wrong."
Item: Every state's child-welfare system is in serious disarray. The Wife: "Now, there's a good idea. 'Hey, State, your child-welfare system is in disarray. So we're going to fine you and cut your federal funding, meaning you'll be able to pay even fewer overworked caseworkers $26,000 a year to hold these kids' lives in your hands.' That's like the bank charging an overdraft fee -- taking more of what they already know you don't have. That oughta fix things."
(Quick confession: The last one was mostly mine. But it's pretty much what she would have said had I asked her about it before she went to sleep to nurse this pesky cold she has. When she wakes up, I'm sure she'll react that way.)
Every day, I present her with an item we think is news, The Wife dismisses said item with a really solid "So what?" and a really lucid 30-second statement confirming that it doesn't really matter.
I'm pretty sure she's right and the rest of us are wrong. If I owned a news outlet, she'd be my first choice for editor.
Getting scarier every day
While buildings are blowing up on the other side of the world, and Israeli children continue to die while we continue to tell the Israelis to "show restraint," our attorney general spews forth this -- an impassioned defense of the Patriot Act.
Folks, the only link that matters on this page is the one at the bottom: Text of the Patriot Act. You read it for yourself and decide for yourself. Do not under any circumstance let John Ashcroft decide for you.
While buildings are blowing up on the other side of the world, and Israeli children continue to die while we continue to tell the Israelis to "show restraint," our attorney general spews forth this -- an impassioned defense of the Patriot Act.
Folks, the only link that matters on this page is the one at the bottom: Text of the Patriot Act. You read it for yourself and decide for yourself. Do not under any circumstance let John Ashcroft decide for you.
"Now," the man challenged, "write what you know"
I know that I have a cousin who sees with his own eyes the worst of what the world has to offer -- dead bodies, grieving parents, drunk South Carolina rednecks and lying, thieving bastard politicians -- and not only manages to maintain his sanity, but tells the world about what he sees in a very articulate manner. Me, I sit behind a desk, push paper, make the occasional decision and do schedules -- and I'm on the edge of my sanity, while still somehow calling myself a journalist.
I know that I need to get Time on my side, despite the fact that Time and I have been at cross purposes for most of my life. I've treated time like a mortal enemy -- killing it, fearing its effects and disrespecting its value.
I know that few things are as bad as they seem.
I know that the ocean has many therapeutic effects.
I know it's late and that I'm still awake for no good reason. It sucks, having a run-on mind.
I know that if you read at an average speed, you've just given me 28 seconds of your life that you'll never get back. It might not seem like it sometimes, but I appreciate that more than words can express.
Thursday, August 14, 2003
"Just write what you feel," the teacher said
There's a tropical wave coming to the Edge of America. I'm not sure what a "tropical wave" is, exactly, but the weather guys tell me I'm supposed to be really concerned about it. Best I can tell, the local news mouthpiece led the 11 tonight with: "It's going to rain." ...
Headache, fatigue, tickle in throat mean cold's coming on ... The Old Daughter is in her second week of fourth grade. She's having Boy Troubles. One is really nice, but "I think he's kind of boring." The other picks on her all the time. The Wife tried to explain that's how boys show affection. The Wife tried explaining a few other things. The Wife finally got to the bottom line: "Boys are dumb." ...
Write what I feel? OK. Tip to job-hunters: When applying for a job in a newspaper newsroom -- no matter for what position -- run spellcheck on your resume. Nobody with a college education should let "judgement" get into the hands of a potential hiring manager. ... Back in the day, I would have crumpled up said resume and thrown it into the trash. Dragging it from my desktop to the Trash icon isn't quite as satisfying. ...
I have actually started an exercise program of sorts. I'm now a participant in a regular lunch-hour pickup basketball game, which for about the last 15 years has been organized by the guy who sits next to me at work. We play on the roof of our office. A concrete roof in the middle of summer on the Edge of America is at least as damn hot as you think it is, and it might be a few degrees hotter. I'm getting in shape whether it kills me or not, and at this rate, it might very well. I'm a lot slower and a lot worse shooter than I used to be, and I never was that fast or that accurate. Thankfully, I'm at about the median age for this group. Guy Who Sits Next To Me at Work is 52, I think, and was recently treated for prostate cancer. He's up there twice a week, every week, except for the rare occasion when a work commitment gets in the way. I'm too much of a wuss for twice a week. ...
Reading work e-mail at home is a bad idea. Somebody needs to put a parental block on my work e-mail. ... I'm going to Washington for the first time soon. Am very much looking forward to it. I went to Philadelphia for this same event back in 1998, and was humbled by standing on ground where Ben Franklin and John Hancock and Thomas Jefferson and others who built the bedrock of this country stood. As flawed as our government can be, it's going to be a thrill to be in the same area code as the place where the decisions are made. ...
Write what you feel. Area codes: 202, 407, 606, 214 ... was bored in a meeting today and wrote down all the different addresses I've had, going back to when I was born (don't ask me how I know; I just do). I came up with 19 -- and remember, I lived in one house for 13 of my 35 years ...
Write what you feel. No larger point here, just writing what I feel.
There's a tropical wave coming to the Edge of America. I'm not sure what a "tropical wave" is, exactly, but the weather guys tell me I'm supposed to be really concerned about it. Best I can tell, the local news mouthpiece led the 11 tonight with: "It's going to rain." ...
Headache, fatigue, tickle in throat mean cold's coming on ... The Old Daughter is in her second week of fourth grade. She's having Boy Troubles. One is really nice, but "I think he's kind of boring." The other picks on her all the time. The Wife tried to explain that's how boys show affection. The Wife tried explaining a few other things. The Wife finally got to the bottom line: "Boys are dumb." ...
Write what I feel? OK. Tip to job-hunters: When applying for a job in a newspaper newsroom -- no matter for what position -- run spellcheck on your resume. Nobody with a college education should let "judgement" get into the hands of a potential hiring manager. ... Back in the day, I would have crumpled up said resume and thrown it into the trash. Dragging it from my desktop to the Trash icon isn't quite as satisfying. ...
I have actually started an exercise program of sorts. I'm now a participant in a regular lunch-hour pickup basketball game, which for about the last 15 years has been organized by the guy who sits next to me at work. We play on the roof of our office. A concrete roof in the middle of summer on the Edge of America is at least as damn hot as you think it is, and it might be a few degrees hotter. I'm getting in shape whether it kills me or not, and at this rate, it might very well. I'm a lot slower and a lot worse shooter than I used to be, and I never was that fast or that accurate. Thankfully, I'm at about the median age for this group. Guy Who Sits Next To Me at Work is 52, I think, and was recently treated for prostate cancer. He's up there twice a week, every week, except for the rare occasion when a work commitment gets in the way. I'm too much of a wuss for twice a week. ...
Reading work e-mail at home is a bad idea. Somebody needs to put a parental block on my work e-mail. ... I'm going to Washington for the first time soon. Am very much looking forward to it. I went to Philadelphia for this same event back in 1998, and was humbled by standing on ground where Ben Franklin and John Hancock and Thomas Jefferson and others who built the bedrock of this country stood. As flawed as our government can be, it's going to be a thrill to be in the same area code as the place where the decisions are made. ...
Write what you feel. Area codes: 202, 407, 606, 214 ... was bored in a meeting today and wrote down all the different addresses I've had, going back to when I was born (don't ask me how I know; I just do). I came up with 19 -- and remember, I lived in one house for 13 of my 35 years ...
Write what you feel. No larger point here, just writing what I feel.
Tuesday, August 12, 2003
Maybe this is democracy, after all
I'm pretty sure the gubernatorial recall in California is a farce. It smacks of an unhappy political party wanting to reverse the results of a legitimate election. (Where has that happened before? Oh, wait a minute ... ) I was all ready to jump on and join the rest of you in lamenting the ridiculousness of the entire thing.
And I still think it's ridiculous, but only becuase of the election-reversal thing. It's not because actors and wackos and a 100-year-old woman and a "self-described porn star" have filed papers to be on the ballot. Why shouldn't wackos have access to the American political process? Why shouldn't some girl with a cute smile and $3,500 to burn be treated a like a legitimate candidate for a governor of a big state? Hell, even Schwarzenegger has a degree in international economics (did you know that? I didn't either.)
This is the people speaking, and you know what? Thank God they are. It's refreshing to see the people attempt to wrest control from the politicians. Was Jesse Ventura good for Minnesota? No. But his presence was good to energize a stale political system, and that's really more important -- and necessary.
Somebody in California lost control of this situation somewhere. The only certainty is that the chaos that will surround this election is going to make Florida 2000 look like a minor historical blip. By the time they finish counting those votes in Sacramento, Gray Davis will have finished his term and none of this will matter.
But it sure will be fun to see Father Guido Sarducci run for governor. Maybe it will take a farce to force change in the system.
I'm pretty sure the gubernatorial recall in California is a farce. It smacks of an unhappy political party wanting to reverse the results of a legitimate election. (Where has that happened before? Oh, wait a minute ... ) I was all ready to jump on and join the rest of you in lamenting the ridiculousness of the entire thing.
And I still think it's ridiculous, but only becuase of the election-reversal thing. It's not because actors and wackos and a 100-year-old woman and a "self-described porn star" have filed papers to be on the ballot. Why shouldn't wackos have access to the American political process? Why shouldn't some girl with a cute smile and $3,500 to burn be treated a like a legitimate candidate for a governor of a big state? Hell, even Schwarzenegger has a degree in international economics (did you know that? I didn't either.)
This is the people speaking, and you know what? Thank God they are. It's refreshing to see the people attempt to wrest control from the politicians. Was Jesse Ventura good for Minnesota? No. But his presence was good to energize a stale political system, and that's really more important -- and necessary.
Somebody in California lost control of this situation somewhere. The only certainty is that the chaos that will surround this election is going to make Florida 2000 look like a minor historical blip. By the time they finish counting those votes in Sacramento, Gray Davis will have finished his term and none of this will matter.
But it sure will be fun to see Father Guido Sarducci run for governor. Maybe it will take a farce to force change in the system.
Fore!
Back in the days when I had a lot more time to kill and a lot more money to burn, I played the occasional round of golf. I was terrible, of course; it was rare that I completed a round without losing a ball, and even rarer that my score was not in triple digits.
But I kept coming back, because every damn time I played, I'd hit the one shot that made me say, "I can play this game." The one shot where everything came together and the ball flew straight and high and landed within a foot or two of where I intended. Out of 111 shots in a round, that one kept me coming back for more.
My job is kind of like that. On a lot of days lately, I've hated it more than I liked it. I'm a lot better at my job than I was at golf; I was a double-bogey golfer, but I'm a birdie visual journalist. It's very frustrating to a birdie golfer to shoot par. I've had a stretch where I felt like I've struggled to shoot par.
I've hit a couple of birdies lately. I'm starting to think I can do this again.
That's not to say I'm not going to want to throw my figurative clubs into a lake again. I'm sure that'll come soon. But it feels good to have my swing back.
Back in the days when I had a lot more time to kill and a lot more money to burn, I played the occasional round of golf. I was terrible, of course; it was rare that I completed a round without losing a ball, and even rarer that my score was not in triple digits.
But I kept coming back, because every damn time I played, I'd hit the one shot that made me say, "I can play this game." The one shot where everything came together and the ball flew straight and high and landed within a foot or two of where I intended. Out of 111 shots in a round, that one kept me coming back for more.
My job is kind of like that. On a lot of days lately, I've hated it more than I liked it. I'm a lot better at my job than I was at golf; I was a double-bogey golfer, but I'm a birdie visual journalist. It's very frustrating to a birdie golfer to shoot par. I've had a stretch where I felt like I've struggled to shoot par.
I've hit a couple of birdies lately. I'm starting to think I can do this again.
That's not to say I'm not going to want to throw my figurative clubs into a lake again. I'm sure that'll come soon. But it feels good to have my swing back.
Saturday, August 02, 2003
Thursday, July 31, 2003
Word of the day: Advancement
What does it mean to you? I have discovered that defining this word can help you define the rest of your life.
Advancement: Reaching the highest point possible in your office.
Advancement: Making as much money as possible.
Advancement: Being in charge of lots of people and being able to make them do what you want.
Advancement: Becoming comfortable with who you are and what you can do.
Too many of us put our "advancement" in the hands of somebody else. That's the way I've been doing it for the last 17 years. I've "advanced" a lot without actually moving forward. I ask somebody, "Am I good enough?" and hope they say yes. More often than not, they have. As a result, I make a lot of money for somebody of my limited education and skill, and I get to live where I want.
True advancement is when you're turning the wheels yourself. Yeah, that's not always the most financially rewarding way to advance. But in a world where everything really means nothing, the only true measure of success should be how happy you are with what you've accomplished.
I've become more convinced that being happy is not actually anybody's default mode. Being happy takes work and skill, just as much as anything else. It's OK if what made you happy five years ago doesn't make you happy now. It's OK to turn your back on things that used to make you happy to go find new things that make you happy.
I know a couple of you are contemplating radical changes to your lives. To y'all I say: Go.
More of us should. Maybe soon, more of us will.
What does it mean to you? I have discovered that defining this word can help you define the rest of your life.
Advancement: Reaching the highest point possible in your office.
Advancement: Making as much money as possible.
Advancement: Being in charge of lots of people and being able to make them do what you want.
Advancement: Becoming comfortable with who you are and what you can do.
Too many of us put our "advancement" in the hands of somebody else. That's the way I've been doing it for the last 17 years. I've "advanced" a lot without actually moving forward. I ask somebody, "Am I good enough?" and hope they say yes. More often than not, they have. As a result, I make a lot of money for somebody of my limited education and skill, and I get to live where I want.
True advancement is when you're turning the wheels yourself. Yeah, that's not always the most financially rewarding way to advance. But in a world where everything really means nothing, the only true measure of success should be how happy you are with what you've accomplished.
I've become more convinced that being happy is not actually anybody's default mode. Being happy takes work and skill, just as much as anything else. It's OK if what made you happy five years ago doesn't make you happy now. It's OK to turn your back on things that used to make you happy to go find new things that make you happy.
I know a couple of you are contemplating radical changes to your lives. To y'all I say: Go.
More of us should. Maybe soon, more of us will.
Wednesday, July 30, 2003
Random stray thought
I thought that by the time I was 35, I would be immune to a lot of the insecurities that plagued me when I was younger. I was wrong.
Monday, July 28, 2003
OK, I'll bite
In the absence of the ability to create anything for myself, I shamelessly rip this off and offer you a few more tidbits about me:
THREE THINGS THAT SCARE ME:
01 | Getting old
02 | Mortgage brokers
03 | The water
THREE PEOPLE WHO MAKE ME LAUGH:
01 | The Wife
02 | Otis
03 | My children (ok, that totals five. sue me.)
THREE THINGS I LOVE:
01 | The family
02 | The First Amendment
03 | Music
THREE THINGS I HATE:
01 | Slow traffic
02 | Office politics
03 | Talking on the phone
THREE THINGS I DON'T UNDERSTAND:
01 | People who lack work ethic
02 | Television
03 | My constant feeling of inferiority
THREE THINGS ON MY DESK:
01 | my Missouri motorcycle license plate
02 | a copy of The Cincinnati Enquirer from 1873
03 | a snow globe my son made in a craft class from a baby-food jar
THREE THINGS I'M DOING RIGHT NOW:
01 | Trying to induce sleep
02 | Putting off cleaning up the kitchen
03 | Fretting
THREE THINGS I WANT TO DO BEFORE I DIE:
01 | Drive a Corvette across the country
02 | Play guitar for an audience
03 | See my children grow up to do great things
THREE THINGS I CAN DO:
01 | Play guitar
02 | Drive fast
03 | Spell
THREE WAYS TO DESCRIBE MY PERSONALITY:
01 | Inquisitive
02 | Confident
03 | Confused
THREE THINGS I CAN'T DO:
01 | Draw
02 | Sing
03 | Sleep
THREE THINGS I THINK YOU SHOULD LISTEN TO:
01 | Your intuition
02 | Your children
03 | The sound of a spring-fed Florida river
THREE THINGS I DON'T THINK YOU SHOULD LISTEN TO:
01 | The media
02 | The government
03 | Misogynistic, hate-filled music from any genre
THREE THINGS YOU SAY THE MOST:
01 | (deep sigh)
02 | Come on, you piece of ...
03 | Yes
THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE FOODS:
01 | Steak, medium
02 | Quaker Chewy Granola Bars
03 | Crab legs
THREE THINGS YOU'D LIKE TO LEARN:
01 | To fly an airplane
02 | XML
03 | How to find peace within myself
THREE BEVERAGES YOU DRINK REGULARLY:
01 | Dr Pepper
02 | Beer
03 | Coffee
THREE SHOWS YOU WATCHED WHEN YOU WERE A KID:
01 | The Lone Ranger
02 | The Brady Bunch
03 | CHiPs
In the absence of the ability to create anything for myself, I shamelessly rip this off and offer you a few more tidbits about me:
THREE THINGS THAT SCARE ME:
01 | Getting old
02 | Mortgage brokers
03 | The water
THREE PEOPLE WHO MAKE ME LAUGH:
01 | The Wife
02 | Otis
03 | My children (ok, that totals five. sue me.)
THREE THINGS I LOVE:
01 | The family
02 | The First Amendment
03 | Music
THREE THINGS I HATE:
01 | Slow traffic
02 | Office politics
03 | Talking on the phone
THREE THINGS I DON'T UNDERSTAND:
01 | People who lack work ethic
02 | Television
03 | My constant feeling of inferiority
THREE THINGS ON MY DESK:
01 | my Missouri motorcycle license plate
02 | a copy of The Cincinnati Enquirer from 1873
03 | a snow globe my son made in a craft class from a baby-food jar
THREE THINGS I'M DOING RIGHT NOW:
01 | Trying to induce sleep
02 | Putting off cleaning up the kitchen
03 | Fretting
THREE THINGS I WANT TO DO BEFORE I DIE:
01 | Drive a Corvette across the country
02 | Play guitar for an audience
03 | See my children grow up to do great things
THREE THINGS I CAN DO:
01 | Play guitar
02 | Drive fast
03 | Spell
THREE WAYS TO DESCRIBE MY PERSONALITY:
01 | Inquisitive
02 | Confident
03 | Confused
THREE THINGS I CAN'T DO:
01 | Draw
02 | Sing
03 | Sleep
THREE THINGS I THINK YOU SHOULD LISTEN TO:
01 | Your intuition
02 | Your children
03 | The sound of a spring-fed Florida river
THREE THINGS I DON'T THINK YOU SHOULD LISTEN TO:
01 | The media
02 | The government
03 | Misogynistic, hate-filled music from any genre
THREE THINGS YOU SAY THE MOST:
01 | (deep sigh)
02 | Come on, you piece of ...
03 | Yes
THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE FOODS:
01 | Steak, medium
02 | Quaker Chewy Granola Bars
03 | Crab legs
THREE THINGS YOU'D LIKE TO LEARN:
01 | To fly an airplane
02 | XML
03 | How to find peace within myself
THREE BEVERAGES YOU DRINK REGULARLY:
01 | Dr Pepper
02 | Beer
03 | Coffee
THREE SHOWS YOU WATCHED WHEN YOU WERE A KID:
01 | The Lone Ranger
02 | The Brady Bunch
03 | CHiPs
Saturday, July 26, 2003
Killing time 'til it's dead
I'm hopelessly, stupidly addicted to this. My low score is 29. See if you can beat it.
I'm hopelessly, stupidly addicted to this. My low score is 29. See if you can beat it.
Friday, July 25, 2003
What a weird way for the Department of Homeland Security to justify its existence
Please allow me to be the first of many to say: Huh?
Please allow me to be the first of many to say: Huh?
Thursday, July 24, 2003
Your fault. No, it was your fault
Says here that you can just about pick any random alphabet-soup government agency and slap them with the blame for the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks. The FBI wasn't talking to the CIA, which wasn't talking to the NSA, which wasn't talking to the FAA, which wasn't talking to the INS, which wasn't talking to the EPA, which really had no stake in the matter but hey, might as well blame them, too.
Bottom line is this: As of 6 a.m. EDT on Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001, not one of those 19 assholes had broken any of the laws of our land, save a few immigration violations and a few speeding tickets. As of whatever time American 11 took off from Boston Logan, none of those 19 assholes had broken any of the laws of our land.
Whoever the genius was that decided it should be OK and perfectly legal for someone to take a boxcutter on an airplane: It's your fault.
Says here that you can just about pick any random alphabet-soup government agency and slap them with the blame for the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks. The FBI wasn't talking to the CIA, which wasn't talking to the NSA, which wasn't talking to the FAA, which wasn't talking to the INS, which wasn't talking to the EPA, which really had no stake in the matter but hey, might as well blame them, too.
Bottom line is this: As of 6 a.m. EDT on Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001, not one of those 19 assholes had broken any of the laws of our land, save a few immigration violations and a few speeding tickets. As of whatever time American 11 took off from Boston Logan, none of those 19 assholes had broken any of the laws of our land.
Whoever the genius was that decided it should be OK and perfectly legal for someone to take a boxcutter on an airplane: It's your fault.