And now, a word from Steve Miller
If I buy a certain combination of tickets for my next business trip, I could very well find myself in airports in ... Phoenix, Ariz., Tacoma, Philadelphia, Atlanta and LA.
There. Now the song's stuck in your head, too. Keep on a-rockin' me, baby.
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Worth a look
Because he said it better than I would have, I'll send you over here this evening. Share his relief, remind yourself you've been there (and you have; and I sure as hell have) and remember to please be careful, for yourself and for those around you.
And, another quick trip elsewhere: Run over here and drop Mrs. Otis a line telling her how beautiful she looks. New life is the coolest thing ever, and it's always worth celebrating.
Because he said it better than I would have, I'll send you over here this evening. Share his relief, remind yourself you've been there (and you have; and I sure as hell have) and remember to please be careful, for yourself and for those around you.
And, another quick trip elsewhere: Run over here and drop Mrs. Otis a line telling her how beautiful she looks. New life is the coolest thing ever, and it's always worth celebrating.
Man, it sure is dark at this hour
For no good reason, I'm starting my day at 4:48 a.m. I have no earthly idea why, and I doubt I'll receive any benefit by doing so. But my body has told me in no uncertain terms, "Hey, it's time to get up." So, I'm up.
Back to the office today after essentially two full weeks on the road. I vaguely remember how to get there (point car westbound on the interstate and wake up in an hour and a half, is how I recall it).
From the Things that Don't Really Matter file:
One of the, um, great things about working for a company that's based in Europe is that when I wake up in the wee hours, I already have lots of e-mail. The latest involves some sort of controversy in which I find myself squarely in the middle. This is a lot of fun for me, as the new guy. New people generally just do what they're asked to do. As somebody who's been the new person -- and who's had to work with lots of new people -- I think it generally helps when, if the new person is asked to do something, the existing people know from where the order came. Nothing worse around the office than a lone-wolf new person. Apparently I've been asked to do something which has strongly offended at least one Existing Person, an Existing Person who happens to be in a time zone six hours ahead of mine. But in my string of correspondence regarding the situation, I have been careful to document exactly what I have been asked to do and why I've been asked to do it -- not in an effort to duck responsibility, but in an effort to let people six time zones away know what I'm doing.
Apparently that wasn't good enough. So, I have no idea what I'm going to walk into at the western terminus of my Temporary Long Commute in a few hours. This is the life I've chosen.
Things that do matter:
The Boy turns 5 today. We took advantage of my day off yesterday to celebrate. One of our stops was a go-kart track, which has some vehicles specially built for kids his age. To say he took to it quickly would be the understatement of this or any century. The kid is a natural behind the wheel, which, frankly, doesn't bode well for his parents' future sanity. It took him about two laps to figure out he could keep Dad from passing him by simply driving in front of him. He almost pinched me into the wall, Earnhardt-style, four times. After the fun, of course, comes the presents. He received a pirate ship, a pirate castle, a book about pirates ... you get the picture. The Boy likes his pirate stuff.
It's fun to celebrate The Boy, because he's a lot of fun, and because he was in many ways a triumph. Astute mathematicians will note there are a lot of numbers between the ages of our first and second children. We didn't really intend for it to happen that way, but nature deals the cards, and she dealt us a few really bad hands between 1997 and 1999. You never really forget an experience like that. But days like yesterday remind you why you put yourself through it.
For no good reason, I'm starting my day at 4:48 a.m. I have no earthly idea why, and I doubt I'll receive any benefit by doing so. But my body has told me in no uncertain terms, "Hey, it's time to get up." So, I'm up.
Back to the office today after essentially two full weeks on the road. I vaguely remember how to get there (point car westbound on the interstate and wake up in an hour and a half, is how I recall it).
From the Things that Don't Really Matter file:
Apparently that wasn't good enough. So, I have no idea what I'm going to walk into at the western terminus of my Temporary Long Commute in a few hours. This is the life I've chosen.
Things that do matter:
It's fun to celebrate The Boy, because he's a lot of fun, and because he was in many ways a triumph. Astute mathematicians will note there are a lot of numbers between the ages of our first and second children. We didn't really intend for it to happen that way, but nature deals the cards, and she dealt us a few really bad hands between 1997 and 1999. You never really forget an experience like that. But days like yesterday remind you why you put yourself through it.
Sunday, March 28, 2004
The mystery of me
It has been noted that I've been away for a while. That's because, well, I've been away for a while. I've been to the Lehigh Valley, I've been to a nondescript small town in South Carolina, I've been to the middle of Connecticut and I've had my breath stolen by the beauty of the Pacific Northwest. I've been to towns that barely exist, and to towns that probably shouldn't exist. It's been a wild ride, and if I tried to tell you I've enjoyed every minute of it, I'd be lying through my teeth.
But I've enjoyed a lot of it, and I'm certainly learning a lot about the country into which I've been born. It's fascinating to travel the United States during an election year, certainly. I'm still trying to figure out the differences between each different part of the nation I've seen. So far, all I can see is what's the same. You can pick up CNN and Rush Limbaugh no matter where you are. I wake up with Soledad O'Brien in the red states and in the blue states. People in Connecticut are just as likely as people in Washington state to think Bill Clinton was a sex fiend and nothing else. George W. Bush will probably win South Carolina, and Pennsylvania, and Florida, and every other state I've visited, and most of the states I haven't. I'm not sure what to think about that, other than that being president of the United States shouldn't be as easy as George W. Bush makes it look.
I miss my family when I'm on the road. I miss them a lot, and it makes me question why the hell I made this particular career choice. But I enjoy the work I do when I'm on the road, and it beats the crap out of sitting behind the same desk and dealing with the same people day after day after day. I enjoy the work I do when I'm on the road much more than I enjoy the work I do when I commute an hour and a half to the home office. But I'm not sure it's worth the price I'm paying in time lost with my wife and children. This is the battle that wages inside my head, minute after minute of every day.
I wonder what I'm going to be doing with my life this time next year. George W. Bush knows what he's going to be doing this time next year; he's going to be president, whether anybody wants him to be or not, and he'll likely be contemplating yet another invasion of Iraq because the last one felt so damn good. Osama bin Laden will still be incognito somewhere near Peshawar or Poughkeepsie, there might or might not have been another terrorist attack somewhere (and how quickly we've forgotten about Madrid! Always take the under on Americans' attention span) and I'll still be wondering why the hell I'm doing whatever I'm doing with my life, no matter what it is. (By way of weak explanation, and as perhaps a crucial setup, I refer you back to this, which I batted out long, long before I had any idea I'd be doing what I'm doing now.)
The company for which I work sells software to newspapers, mostly small newspapers. I've seen newsrooms far smaller than any I've ever seen before. I feel like a major-league player who rose fast through the ranks and retired too young, now checking out locker rooms in Class A for the first time and wondering why the hell anybody would be there voluntarily. These newsrooms, like most Class A teams, are populated by two kinds of people: the ones who are trying to get the hell out and the ones who never will. The upside: They're also largely populated by people who believe deeply in what they're doing. The managing editor of the small paper in South Carolina genuinely loves being the managing editor of a small paper in his Palmetto hometown. I think that's every bit as cool as working for the eighth-largest newspaper in the country, as I did. I probably never enjoyed that job as much as he enjoys his.
I'm learning a lot on this journey. I'm learning a lot about my country. I'm learning a lot about my capacity to endure. And I'm learning a lot about myself. Somewhere in there, I need to install some software. I'll get to that. Right now, the other stuff might very well be more important.
It has been noted that I've been away for a while. That's because, well, I've been away for a while. I've been to the Lehigh Valley, I've been to a nondescript small town in South Carolina, I've been to the middle of Connecticut and I've had my breath stolen by the beauty of the Pacific Northwest. I've been to towns that barely exist, and to towns that probably shouldn't exist. It's been a wild ride, and if I tried to tell you I've enjoyed every minute of it, I'd be lying through my teeth.
But I've enjoyed a lot of it, and I'm certainly learning a lot about the country into which I've been born. It's fascinating to travel the United States during an election year, certainly. I'm still trying to figure out the differences between each different part of the nation I've seen. So far, all I can see is what's the same. You can pick up CNN and Rush Limbaugh no matter where you are. I wake up with Soledad O'Brien in the red states and in the blue states. People in Connecticut are just as likely as people in Washington state to think Bill Clinton was a sex fiend and nothing else. George W. Bush will probably win South Carolina, and Pennsylvania, and Florida, and every other state I've visited, and most of the states I haven't. I'm not sure what to think about that, other than that being president of the United States shouldn't be as easy as George W. Bush makes it look.
I miss my family when I'm on the road. I miss them a lot, and it makes me question why the hell I made this particular career choice. But I enjoy the work I do when I'm on the road, and it beats the crap out of sitting behind the same desk and dealing with the same people day after day after day. I enjoy the work I do when I'm on the road much more than I enjoy the work I do when I commute an hour and a half to the home office. But I'm not sure it's worth the price I'm paying in time lost with my wife and children. This is the battle that wages inside my head, minute after minute of every day.
I wonder what I'm going to be doing with my life this time next year. George W. Bush knows what he's going to be doing this time next year; he's going to be president, whether anybody wants him to be or not, and he'll likely be contemplating yet another invasion of Iraq because the last one felt so damn good. Osama bin Laden will still be incognito somewhere near Peshawar or Poughkeepsie, there might or might not have been another terrorist attack somewhere (and how quickly we've forgotten about Madrid! Always take the under on Americans' attention span) and I'll still be wondering why the hell I'm doing whatever I'm doing with my life, no matter what it is. (By way of weak explanation, and as perhaps a crucial setup, I refer you back to this, which I batted out long, long before I had any idea I'd be doing what I'm doing now.)
The company for which I work sells software to newspapers, mostly small newspapers. I've seen newsrooms far smaller than any I've ever seen before. I feel like a major-league player who rose fast through the ranks and retired too young, now checking out locker rooms in Class A for the first time and wondering why the hell anybody would be there voluntarily. These newsrooms, like most Class A teams, are populated by two kinds of people: the ones who are trying to get the hell out and the ones who never will. The upside: They're also largely populated by people who believe deeply in what they're doing. The managing editor of the small paper in South Carolina genuinely loves being the managing editor of a small paper in his Palmetto hometown. I think that's every bit as cool as working for the eighth-largest newspaper in the country, as I did. I probably never enjoyed that job as much as he enjoys his.
I'm learning a lot on this journey. I'm learning a lot about my country. I'm learning a lot about my capacity to endure. And I'm learning a lot about myself. Somewhere in there, I need to install some software. I'll get to that. Right now, the other stuff might very well be more important.
Friday, March 26, 2004
Another idea, stolen
Many thanks to RER and, by extension, Up for Anything. This requires I fill in some blanks:
I AM: Sitting in Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, waiting for a flight that leaves at 11:15 p.m. PST, alternately excited and frightened by the career choice I have made which has caused me to question my intelligence, caused me to wonder if I've led my family down the wrong path and is currently causing me to be sitting on my ass in Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.
I WANT: My children to never lose the ability to be shocked, my wife to be happy and content and fulfilled in the home she has built, and a black Corvette convertible.
I HAVE: A teddy bear that my wife gave to me 17 years ago, long before she was my wife. She gave it to me when I was a sportswriter spending a lot of time on the road (although back then, I was much more likely to be stuck in a cafe in Stockton, Mo., than in Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.) The bear fit very nicely between the front seats of my truck. It is a small, light brown bear, with a little medal dangling from its neck which reads, "Take Me Home."
I WISH: I wasn't sitting in a middle seat on this overnight flight from Seattle to the other Edge of America.
I HATE: That I have to question everything I do to the point of creating this mental inertia that turns all of my fears and neuroses into prophecies which very efficently fulfill themselves.
I FEAR: Having to do something I don't want to do.
I HEAR: People having a conversation in an Asian language ... a young child screaming ... the voices inside my head ... a girl talking on her cell phone to her friend back in Georgia about how much she drank over spring break ... the CNN Airport Network.
I WONDER: Why I can't just be happy in the moment.
I REGRET: Nothing, really, although one could certainly argue that I should. I've learned a hell of a lot from the myriad mistakes I have made. Occasionally, I even apply that knowledge.
I LOVE: My wife's awful morning breath, the Young Daughter's 100-decibel voice, the Old Daughter's never-ending inquisitiveness, the Boy's full-speed approach to being almost 5, the sight of the ocean, the sight of the mountains, my wife's never-ending support even when I've done nothing to deserve it.
I ALWAYS: Think I should have done more.
I AM NOT: Bound by tradition, dogma, doctrine or superstition.
I DANCE: With my daughters.
I SING: ... but really, I shouldn't.
I CRY: when I read sad news stories, when I hear beautiful songs, when somebody does something nice for me.
Many thanks to RER and, by extension, Up for Anything. This requires I fill in some blanks:
I AM: Sitting in Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, waiting for a flight that leaves at 11:15 p.m. PST, alternately excited and frightened by the career choice I have made which has caused me to question my intelligence, caused me to wonder if I've led my family down the wrong path and is currently causing me to be sitting on my ass in Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.
I WANT: My children to never lose the ability to be shocked, my wife to be happy and content and fulfilled in the home she has built, and a black Corvette convertible.
I HAVE: A teddy bear that my wife gave to me 17 years ago, long before she was my wife. She gave it to me when I was a sportswriter spending a lot of time on the road (although back then, I was much more likely to be stuck in a cafe in Stockton, Mo., than in Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.) The bear fit very nicely between the front seats of my truck. It is a small, light brown bear, with a little medal dangling from its neck which reads, "Take Me Home."
I WISH: I wasn't sitting in a middle seat on this overnight flight from Seattle to the other Edge of America.
I HATE: That I have to question everything I do to the point of creating this mental inertia that turns all of my fears and neuroses into prophecies which very efficently fulfill themselves.
I FEAR: Having to do something I don't want to do.
I HEAR: People having a conversation in an Asian language ... a young child screaming ... the voices inside my head ... a girl talking on her cell phone to her friend back in Georgia about how much she drank over spring break ... the CNN Airport Network.
I WONDER: Why I can't just be happy in the moment.
I REGRET: Nothing, really, although one could certainly argue that I should. I've learned a hell of a lot from the myriad mistakes I have made. Occasionally, I even apply that knowledge.
I LOVE: My wife's awful morning breath, the Young Daughter's 100-decibel voice, the Old Daughter's never-ending inquisitiveness, the Boy's full-speed approach to being almost 5, the sight of the ocean, the sight of the mountains, my wife's never-ending support even when I've done nothing to deserve it.
I ALWAYS: Think I should have done more.
I AM NOT: Bound by tradition, dogma, doctrine or superstition.
I DANCE: With my daughters.
I SING: ... but really, I shouldn't.
I CRY: when I read sad news stories, when I hear beautiful songs, when somebody does something nice for me.
Saturday, March 13, 2004
Thursday, March 11, 2004
Datelines
Today: Sumter, S.C.
Two days ago: Lehighton, Pa. (Stayed at a very cool Victorian hotel that I'd highly recommend if you ever find yourself in the foothills of the Poconos.)
Week after next: Bremerton, Wash.
I already have qualified for a free ticket on US Airways. I saw the Manhattan skyline from the window of the Newark airport. I've learned a lot about all kinds of stuff I didn't know.
And yeah, I'm kind of wondering how the hell I got here and whether I made the right decision. That little speck disappearing from sight below is my comfort zone. That's a good thing. I think.
Tomorrow night: Home. Looking forward to it, for so many reasons.
Today: Sumter, S.C.
Two days ago: Lehighton, Pa. (Stayed at a very cool Victorian hotel that I'd highly recommend if you ever find yourself in the foothills of the Poconos.)
Week after next: Bremerton, Wash.
I already have qualified for a free ticket on US Airways. I saw the Manhattan skyline from the window of the Newark airport. I've learned a lot about all kinds of stuff I didn't know.
And yeah, I'm kind of wondering how the hell I got here and whether I made the right decision. That little speck disappearing from sight below is my comfort zone. That's a good thing. I think.
Tomorrow night: Home. Looking forward to it, for so many reasons.
Saturday, February 21, 2004
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
Nothing could be finer ...
... than Duke getting its ass handed to it by, well, anybody, but especially by the very middle-of-the-pack Wake Forest. The best thing: It's rendering Dick Vitale speechless. Well, almost.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the sports world, the University of Colorado has scheduled a news conference -- for midnight EST. It's a bad, bad day in Boulder, which apparently is turning into a bad, bad night, and Gary Barnett is probably thinking that having a girl kicker was a really, really bad idea.
Which leads me to another thought: Who is Lawrence Frank and why is everbody treating him like the second coming of Red Auerbach?
This afternoon's visual: I was riding in a rented Hyundai with a Danish co-worker who was singing along with a Jimmy Buffett tape down a back road, with a steep hill to our left and the Potomac River to our right. This road wound around and curved with the river, with scenery that qualifies to be described as pastoral.
Then we rounded a curve, and all of a sudden, there was the Washington Monument.
And now, it's time for sleep. I have systems to implement and planes to catch. Back to the Edge, tomorrow. I'll leave it to you to figure out how I got from Dick Vitale to the Washington Monument via Colorado.
... than Duke getting its ass handed to it by, well, anybody, but especially by the very middle-of-the-pack Wake Forest. The best thing: It's rendering Dick Vitale speechless. Well, almost.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the sports world, the University of Colorado has scheduled a news conference -- for midnight EST. It's a bad, bad day in Boulder, which apparently is turning into a bad, bad night, and Gary Barnett is probably thinking that having a girl kicker was a really, really bad idea.
Which leads me to another thought: Who is Lawrence Frank and why is everbody treating him like the second coming of Red Auerbach?
This afternoon's visual: I was riding in a rented Hyundai with a Danish co-worker who was singing along with a Jimmy Buffett tape down a back road, with a steep hill to our left and the Potomac River to our right. This road wound around and curved with the river, with scenery that qualifies to be described as pastoral.
Then we rounded a curve, and all of a sudden, there was the Washington Monument.
And now, it's time for sleep. I have systems to implement and planes to catch. Back to the Edge, tomorrow. I'll leave it to you to figure out how I got from Dick Vitale to the Washington Monument via Colorado.
Monday, February 16, 2004
Foreign territory
I work for a software company. That implies that I have some general knowledge of computers. I have just that -- general knowledge. Slightly more knowledge than the average end-user. I don't have the benefit of formal education or intense training; I basically learned what I learned by poking around until I found something that confused me, and then I clicked on "Help" and did whatever it said.
When you work for a software company, though, general knowledge is not enough. I know this. I don't think I really sold them on the idea that my knowledge of the inner workings of a computer goes beyond general. What I do as well as anybody and better than most is manipulate page-design programs. I can remember keyboard shortcuts and draw boxes and apply styles at high speed, and I can assemble said pages in such a way that they don't make the printer choke when I hit Apple-P. More importantly to this company, I can tell other people how to do that.
But: when it comes time to RAID the SCSI with a Gigabit switch, that's where I have to get off the train. I'm in the process of very quickly teaching myself how to do that, how to speak to the Oracle, how to talk in abbreviations and acronyms (JPEG your own TIFF, you EPS! Or I'll PDF your ATAPI.) Today I was in a project meeting, where the hard-core inner workings of hardware and networks were being discussed. I nodded along and said "yeah" at the appropriate points and kept up as best as I could, but I have to confess they lost me at "gigabit switch." I drew the diagram on my legal pad, though, so I have it to refer to when I look up what "RAID" stands for. (Quick explanation: RAID refers to a server drive setup; on the server that was the topic of today's session, the drives are RAID Level 1: the data is written to the server's hard drive and is simultaneously written to another hard drive. If the first hard drive goes kerblooey, the second hard drive can be plugged in to the first hard drive's slot with no loss of data. RAID stands for Redundant Array of Independent Disks. And yes, I wrote the explanation from memory, but I had to look up what the acronym stood for.)
I have some experience at this. When I built The Freelance Gig from scratch -- a gig which included some hard-core hardware setup -- I went in knowing basically nothing. I came out four months later with a Web site of which I'm really proud and some good experience breaking into a computer and installing cards and calibrating monitors and printers. Then, of course, I went right back to being a journalist, and promptly relegated a lot of what I learned to some long-term memory that so far has been difficult to access.
Bottom line is this: I have a lot to learn, and fast. This is what I signed up for, so I'm OK with that. I can toss around the acronyms with the best of them. At some point -- some point very soon -- I'm going to have to actually know what they mean.
I work for a software company. That implies that I have some general knowledge of computers. I have just that -- general knowledge. Slightly more knowledge than the average end-user. I don't have the benefit of formal education or intense training; I basically learned what I learned by poking around until I found something that confused me, and then I clicked on "Help" and did whatever it said.
When you work for a software company, though, general knowledge is not enough. I know this. I don't think I really sold them on the idea that my knowledge of the inner workings of a computer goes beyond general. What I do as well as anybody and better than most is manipulate page-design programs. I can remember keyboard shortcuts and draw boxes and apply styles at high speed, and I can assemble said pages in such a way that they don't make the printer choke when I hit Apple-P. More importantly to this company, I can tell other people how to do that.
But: when it comes time to RAID the SCSI with a Gigabit switch, that's where I have to get off the train. I'm in the process of very quickly teaching myself how to do that, how to speak to the Oracle, how to talk in abbreviations and acronyms (JPEG your own TIFF, you EPS! Or I'll PDF your ATAPI.) Today I was in a project meeting, where the hard-core inner workings of hardware and networks were being discussed. I nodded along and said "yeah" at the appropriate points and kept up as best as I could, but I have to confess they lost me at "gigabit switch." I drew the diagram on my legal pad, though, so I have it to refer to when I look up what "RAID" stands for. (Quick explanation: RAID refers to a server drive setup; on the server that was the topic of today's session, the drives are RAID Level 1: the data is written to the server's hard drive and is simultaneously written to another hard drive. If the first hard drive goes kerblooey, the second hard drive can be plugged in to the first hard drive's slot with no loss of data. RAID stands for Redundant Array of Independent Disks. And yes, I wrote the explanation from memory, but I had to look up what the acronym stood for.)
I have some experience at this. When I built The Freelance Gig from scratch -- a gig which included some hard-core hardware setup -- I went in knowing basically nothing. I came out four months later with a Web site of which I'm really proud and some good experience breaking into a computer and installing cards and calibrating monitors and printers. Then, of course, I went right back to being a journalist, and promptly relegated a lot of what I learned to some long-term memory that so far has been difficult to access.
Bottom line is this: I have a lot to learn, and fast. This is what I signed up for, so I'm OK with that. I can toss around the acronyms with the best of them. At some point -- some point very soon -- I'm going to have to actually know what they mean.
Sunday, February 15, 2004
Observations from the middle seat
Thoughts I’m thinking while I’m cruising from over the Eastern Seaboard at 37,000 feet, en route from MCO to DCA while hoping my suitcase doesn’t wind up at CLT:
--Here’s the thing about traveling: Everybody’s in front of you. No matter what time you get to the airport, no matter how quickly you get to the gate, no matter whether you were singled out for the security screening, it seems like the whole damn world is in front of me. The real challenge is trying to pleasant and civil to others – remember, the whole damn world is in front of them, too – while wanting to scream, “Would you puh-LEEZE GET THE F--- OUT OF MY WAY?”
--I guess you get used to the whole ear-popping thing after a while. Meanwhile, I was practically Marlee Matlin-level deaf for four of seven days last week. And there’s not enough gum in the world to make it stop happening for me. Any ideas on dealing with that would be more than welcome.
--I’m in seat 11E of a new Airbus A319 as I write this, in which the archaic “No Smoking” light has been changed to a very 21st-century “Please Turn Off Electronic Devices” light. I’m trying to imagine what it must have been like back in the day, when that old “No Smoking” light went off and half the cabin lit up. I can imagine few things more awful. Even more awful than that sinking feeling you get when you see “B” or “E” as the letter in your seat number.
--Laptop + iTunes = good trip.
Thoughts I’m thinking while I’m cruising from over the Eastern Seaboard at 37,000 feet, en route from MCO to DCA while hoping my suitcase doesn’t wind up at CLT:
--Here’s the thing about traveling: Everybody’s in front of you. No matter what time you get to the airport, no matter how quickly you get to the gate, no matter whether you were singled out for the security screening, it seems like the whole damn world is in front of me. The real challenge is trying to pleasant and civil to others – remember, the whole damn world is in front of them, too – while wanting to scream, “Would you puh-LEEZE GET THE F--- OUT OF MY WAY?”
--I guess you get used to the whole ear-popping thing after a while. Meanwhile, I was practically Marlee Matlin-level deaf for four of seven days last week. And there’s not enough gum in the world to make it stop happening for me. Any ideas on dealing with that would be more than welcome.
--I’m in seat 11E of a new Airbus A319 as I write this, in which the archaic “No Smoking” light has been changed to a very 21st-century “Please Turn Off Electronic Devices” light. I’m trying to imagine what it must have been like back in the day, when that old “No Smoking” light went off and half the cabin lit up. I can imagine few things more awful. Even more awful than that sinking feeling you get when you see “B” or “E” as the letter in your seat number.
--Laptop + iTunes = good trip.
Life on the road
Headed out today for Business Trip No. 3, back to the home office in the D.C. 'burbs. Dragging a nasty cold with me, an ailment which hopped on for the ride during the last trip to Maryland and hung on with me all the way to Oklahoma and back. Certainly not the ideal way to enjoy a life-changing event.
The demons in my nose have distracted me from the joy of getting out from behind a desk for the first time since I was a globe-trotting sportswriter (well, at least, a Rand McNally Road Atlas-trotting sportswriter). The scenes are very cool:
A D.C. Metro subway packed with Georgetown University students, all dressed up in their politico-wannabe attire, loudly debating the issues of the day but interspersing "dude," "like" and "whatever," as reminders of how old they actually were.
A quarter-inch-thick sheet of ice atop the snow in Maryland, something I hadn't seen for eight years (and would do just fine to not see for eight more.)
A young woman and her year-old son waiting for a plane to Fort Sill, Okla., to see off her husband, who was being deployed to Iraq. The mother and son started their journey at 4:30 EST that morning, driving three hours to the airport in Charleston, W.Va. They changed planes in Chicago. They changed planes in St. Louis. I met them when they were changing planes in Dallas, at about 5 p.m. CST, for the final leg of their journey. The kid was handling things pretty well; he was running around the waiting area with all the vigor and energy a kid that age should have. Mom was pretty worn out, but her spirits were high, too, considering she was getting ready to send her husband off to war. Look behind her eyes, though, and you could see the fear.
Coming back from Oklahoma via Dallas, I found myself crammed into a 737 full of the usual bunch of kids getting ready for a week on the Edge at one of the theme parks -- and NASCAR fans. Entire families headed for the Daytona 500, decked out in the gear of their favorite drivers (mostly Dale Earnhardt Jr.), talking about their ticket situations ("Don't have 'em yet, but I'm ready to pay") and their accommodations (one said, "We got a place down by Disney; I think that's pretty close," obviously not knowing Disney is about 70 miles from the track, and with this weekend's traffic, that's going to be a long damn 70 miles.) I was tempted to share my knowledge of a back way to Daytona Beach, but then, I decided, they get to go to the race and I don't. They can figure it out for themselves.
And, oh yeah, my new job? Let's just say that I'm learning there's a whole lot I don't know. But that's part of the fun.
Headed out today for Business Trip No. 3, back to the home office in the D.C. 'burbs. Dragging a nasty cold with me, an ailment which hopped on for the ride during the last trip to Maryland and hung on with me all the way to Oklahoma and back. Certainly not the ideal way to enjoy a life-changing event.
The demons in my nose have distracted me from the joy of getting out from behind a desk for the first time since I was a globe-trotting sportswriter (well, at least, a Rand McNally Road Atlas-trotting sportswriter). The scenes are very cool:
And, oh yeah, my new job? Let's just say that I'm learning there's a whole lot I don't know. But that's part of the fun.
Sunday, February 08, 2004
Allow me to be the first to ask: "WTF?"
I'm somewhere in southwestern Oklahoma. The Grammys are on the TV screen in my hotel room. It's 10:23 p.m. CST, near the end of the show. There are women dancing around in what I guess are Indian costumes, and some guy is, um, singing, and there are people dressed up like Revolutionary War drummers and marching band guys.
Bottom line: I have no idea what I'm watching.
I'm somewhere in southwestern Oklahoma. The Grammys are on the TV screen in my hotel room. It's 10:23 p.m. CST, near the end of the show. There are women dancing around in what I guess are Indian costumes, and some guy is, um, singing, and there are people dressed up like Revolutionary War drummers and marching band guys.
Bottom line: I have no idea what I'm watching.
Clear as mud
Just wrapped up Business Trip No. 1, to the current company headquarters in the D.C. ‘burbs. Am in the airport waiting to embark on the next trip, to a little hamlet in southwest Oklahoma adjacent to a big army base. Still trying to figure out this business-travel thing; still overpacking, still at the airport way too early. I guess it takes some time to find the rhythm. All the waiting certainly gives me plenty of time to assess the situation.
My trip last week took me to a nearly empty office. A couple of customers were in for some training. The trainer and a couple of other employees were there. The company headquarters is preparing for a move to the Western Edge. Like any move, trepidation is coming along for the ride. Those who know they are going are anxious. Those who don’t know yet if they’re going are even more anxious. For a few, it’s an easy decision; they’ve lived in the D.C. ‘burbs all their lives, and all they know about the Edge is tourists and big flying cockroaches and alligators and retirees. They like their seasons; the fact that it can be 85 degrees any day of the year isn’t a big selling point to them. But facing the prospect of being home and unemployed has its faults, too. So they wait, with trepidation.
My trepidation, of course, goes the other way. I know where I’m going to be living. What I don’t know yet is what I’m going to be doing or how exactly I’m going to do it. I’m dealing in abstractions, figurative and literal: I have an e-mail address, but no password. I have a cell phone, but no number. I have a computer, but no software. I have a job, but no real knowledge of how I’m supposed to do it. I have a stack of airline tickets, but am not yet sure what to do once the plane lands.
It’ll all clarify at some point, I’m sure. In a few weeks, I’ll be accessing that e-mail and using that cell phone and blasting away on that computer and finding more normal stuff about which to be worried. Right now, I’ll lug all my stuff to the next place and wait.
Just wrapped up Business Trip No. 1, to the current company headquarters in the D.C. ‘burbs. Am in the airport waiting to embark on the next trip, to a little hamlet in southwest Oklahoma adjacent to a big army base. Still trying to figure out this business-travel thing; still overpacking, still at the airport way too early. I guess it takes some time to find the rhythm. All the waiting certainly gives me plenty of time to assess the situation.
My trip last week took me to a nearly empty office. A couple of customers were in for some training. The trainer and a couple of other employees were there. The company headquarters is preparing for a move to the Western Edge. Like any move, trepidation is coming along for the ride. Those who know they are going are anxious. Those who don’t know yet if they’re going are even more anxious. For a few, it’s an easy decision; they’ve lived in the D.C. ‘burbs all their lives, and all they know about the Edge is tourists and big flying cockroaches and alligators and retirees. They like their seasons; the fact that it can be 85 degrees any day of the year isn’t a big selling point to them. But facing the prospect of being home and unemployed has its faults, too. So they wait, with trepidation.
My trepidation, of course, goes the other way. I know where I’m going to be living. What I don’t know yet is what I’m going to be doing or how exactly I’m going to do it. I’m dealing in abstractions, figurative and literal: I have an e-mail address, but no password. I have a cell phone, but no number. I have a computer, but no software. I have a job, but no real knowledge of how I’m supposed to do it. I have a stack of airline tickets, but am not yet sure what to do once the plane lands.
It’ll all clarify at some point, I’m sure. In a few weeks, I’ll be accessing that e-mail and using that cell phone and blasting away on that computer and finding more normal stuff about which to be worried. Right now, I’ll lug all my stuff to the next place and wait.
Wednesday, February 04, 2004
Monday, February 02, 2004
Things I think when I first wake up
If you're talking about the Super Bowl, and you're talking about anything other than the fact that the Panthers simply ran out of time or that Tom Brady is Joe Montana reincarnated or that Adam Vinatieri is making Scott Norwood really think about what might have been, then you fell for it. You got punk'd by Janet Jackson (who has been irrelevant for almost 15 years) and MTV.
Speaking of ... I always thought the hype around the Super Bowl commercials was basically well-deserved, because for many years, those commercials were a showcase for American creativity. This year, it was more like a showcase for American coarseness. We're taking this "edgy" thing a little bit too far, folks. Flatulence was funny as hell in the third grade. Not so much anymore. Look at the "edge," y'all; it's behind you.
Tonight, I design my last page as a professional journalist. I have two more days in the office after tonight, tidying up, cleaning off desks and hard drives, and tying up loose ends.
How is it that the smallest person in my house is by far the loudest? The Young Daughter, 3, has earned a new nickname: the Diva of Decibels. She loves the sound of her own voice, more than she loves life itself. Good for her. At least I always know where she is.
Beautiful blue sky and low 70s today on the Edge. A good day on which to begin the rest of my life.
Saturday, January 31, 2004
For no good reason
Here's where I've been. States in which I've been on the ground at some point in my life are in red. Wonder what I have against the Virginias?
create your own
Here's where I've been. States in which I've been on the ground at some point in my life are in red. Wonder what I have against the Virginias?
create your own
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
SPECIAL REPORT
Wonder what's behind this door?
On Feb. 4, 1986, I entered a newsroom for the first time as a professional journalist.
I was a “professional journalist” in my own mind, at least. In reality, I was a 17-year-old senior in high school, hired for a very clerical position in the sports department of the Anytown Daily Bugle. My stated duties were to answer phones in the sports department, transcribe scores, take information from callers and do whatever the full-timers wanted me to do.
But the management had heard me express interest in being a writer, so they decided to test me with an assignment during that first week. My first bylined story appeared on Sunday, Feb. 9, 1986. I became one of the full-timers a year and a half later. From there I moved on to experience every aspect of the newsgathering process, and used some very latent artistic skill to settle into a niche as a page designer who had a knack for making the computer do whatever I wanted it to do.
I’ve done a lot of different things as a “professional journalist.” I’ve worked at four different newspapers; from Anytown to Cincinnati to the Edge to the Very Large Metropolitan Area, back to the Edge. I’ve written stories, edited copy, designed pages, drawn graphics, managed projects, supervised people and even took photos for a story a couple of times. I’ve learned a lot, won a few minor awards and the respect of the people with whom I’ve worked. I’ve made a good deal of money, more than many people who do this job.
Best of all, I’ve done exactly what I wanted to do with my life. And, from Feb. 4, 1986, to where I sit right now, I always said that as soon as it felt like “work,” I’d quit and go do something else.
Easier said than done, of course. In 1988, when I was given a full-time job and could actually call myself a bona fide “professional journalist” without fear of contradiction, I celebrated by quitting college. I knew even then that decision would shackle me to the news business for the rest of my life. I was OK with that 15 years ago. I was OK with that five years ago.
But somewhere along the way, my job has started to feel more and more like work. Tough cookies for me; as a rapidly aging white male, my window of opportunity was about to close on my craned neck.
I didn’t plan it this way, but this is how it will happen:
On Feb. 4, 2004 – 18 years to the day after I dubbed myself a “professional journalist” – I will make good on that boast to “quit when it becomes ‘work.’ ” I’ll walk out of a newsroom as a journalist for the last time.
I’ve accepted a position with a software company that specializes in products for newspapers, magazines and web sites. I’ll be helping to design and implement “Content Management Systems,” basically big databases which hold all the electronic tools necessary to get the news from notebook to print to the web. I’ll be training people to make the computer do whatever they want it to do.
I’ve been making a lot of noise about leaving the newspaper business for the better part of the last two years (see here, and here and, well, here too). The time had long since passed for me to quit bitching and start looking. My first idea was to get serious about finishing my formal education, and that was my original plan for 2004. Then this opportunity came up – the software company was looking for people with newsroom experience to help implement its system in newsrooms. I can bring “newsroom experience” to the table, 18 years’ worth. The rest of it, I figure, I’ll learn as I go.
It’s the first real “job” I’ve ever had. I’ve signed a bunch of non-disclosure agreements and non-compete clauses and other business-y like stuff. I’ll be working with business people and sales people and technogeeks rather than creative people with a nose for the truth.
In past jobs, I’d have to travel for business once, maybe twice a year. In this job, I’ll be traveling to two, maybe three states in a given week. The posting said “50 percent travel;” the people with whom I interviewed say during busy times, it’ll be more like 70 percent. I’ll be a “business traveler.” Right now, I find that kind of cool. In three years, I’m sure I’ll be weary of it.
And yeah, we’ll have to move from the house that we really like in the city we really like. After school’s out in May, we’ll be seeking another house we really like, 90 miles to the west, on the Western Edge.
The money will be good, marginally better than I’m currently earning. The opportunities for advancement will largely be determined by me. Yeah, it’s a volatile industry, but this company seems to be particularly well-positioned to be a player as the new trends in publishing – particularly the electronic variety -- emerge. (Now, that sentence sounded like a Business Person, didn’t it? See how quickly I adapt.) Most of all, I’ll be living my life according to a reasonably set, planned schedule, and won’t be knocked off track by space shuttles falling out of the sky or terrorists blowing stuff up in Morocco or election cycles. I’ll have my holidays and most of my weekends. When I’m not on the road, I’ll be working 8:30-5:30 Monday through Friday, a work schedule that is the envy of all journalists. Even with all the travel, it can be argued I’ll get more time with my family than I get in my current job. Nothing is more important than that.
I’m not going to be terribly far from my basic skill set, and I’m not going to be far from the business in which I’ve spent my entire life. But in some ways, I’ll be a million miles away.
In other words, it’s everything for which I’ve been asking.
Onward, immediately, to the next thing. On Feb. 4, I’ll walk out of the newsroom as a journalist for the last time. I’ll board a plane that night and start our new life on Feb. 5. Not much time for reflection. Certainly no time for sadness or regret.
And, for the first time in a long time, I’m looking forward to the next 18 years of my career.
Wonder what's behind this door?
On Feb. 4, 1986, I entered a newsroom for the first time as a professional journalist.
I was a “professional journalist” in my own mind, at least. In reality, I was a 17-year-old senior in high school, hired for a very clerical position in the sports department of the Anytown Daily Bugle. My stated duties were to answer phones in the sports department, transcribe scores, take information from callers and do whatever the full-timers wanted me to do.
But the management had heard me express interest in being a writer, so they decided to test me with an assignment during that first week. My first bylined story appeared on Sunday, Feb. 9, 1986. I became one of the full-timers a year and a half later. From there I moved on to experience every aspect of the newsgathering process, and used some very latent artistic skill to settle into a niche as a page designer who had a knack for making the computer do whatever I wanted it to do.
I’ve done a lot of different things as a “professional journalist.” I’ve worked at four different newspapers; from Anytown to Cincinnati to the Edge to the Very Large Metropolitan Area, back to the Edge. I’ve written stories, edited copy, designed pages, drawn graphics, managed projects, supervised people and even took photos for a story a couple of times. I’ve learned a lot, won a few minor awards and the respect of the people with whom I’ve worked. I’ve made a good deal of money, more than many people who do this job.
Best of all, I’ve done exactly what I wanted to do with my life. And, from Feb. 4, 1986, to where I sit right now, I always said that as soon as it felt like “work,” I’d quit and go do something else.
Easier said than done, of course. In 1988, when I was given a full-time job and could actually call myself a bona fide “professional journalist” without fear of contradiction, I celebrated by quitting college. I knew even then that decision would shackle me to the news business for the rest of my life. I was OK with that 15 years ago. I was OK with that five years ago.
But somewhere along the way, my job has started to feel more and more like work. Tough cookies for me; as a rapidly aging white male, my window of opportunity was about to close on my craned neck.
I didn’t plan it this way, but this is how it will happen:
On Feb. 4, 2004 – 18 years to the day after I dubbed myself a “professional journalist” – I will make good on that boast to “quit when it becomes ‘work.’ ” I’ll walk out of a newsroom as a journalist for the last time.
I’ve accepted a position with a software company that specializes in products for newspapers, magazines and web sites. I’ll be helping to design and implement “Content Management Systems,” basically big databases which hold all the electronic tools necessary to get the news from notebook to print to the web. I’ll be training people to make the computer do whatever they want it to do.
I’ve been making a lot of noise about leaving the newspaper business for the better part of the last two years (see here, and here and, well, here too). The time had long since passed for me to quit bitching and start looking. My first idea was to get serious about finishing my formal education, and that was my original plan for 2004. Then this opportunity came up – the software company was looking for people with newsroom experience to help implement its system in newsrooms. I can bring “newsroom experience” to the table, 18 years’ worth. The rest of it, I figure, I’ll learn as I go.
It’s the first real “job” I’ve ever had. I’ve signed a bunch of non-disclosure agreements and non-compete clauses and other business-y like stuff. I’ll be working with business people and sales people and technogeeks rather than creative people with a nose for the truth.
In past jobs, I’d have to travel for business once, maybe twice a year. In this job, I’ll be traveling to two, maybe three states in a given week. The posting said “50 percent travel;” the people with whom I interviewed say during busy times, it’ll be more like 70 percent. I’ll be a “business traveler.” Right now, I find that kind of cool. In three years, I’m sure I’ll be weary of it.
And yeah, we’ll have to move from the house that we really like in the city we really like. After school’s out in May, we’ll be seeking another house we really like, 90 miles to the west, on the Western Edge.
The money will be good, marginally better than I’m currently earning. The opportunities for advancement will largely be determined by me. Yeah, it’s a volatile industry, but this company seems to be particularly well-positioned to be a player as the new trends in publishing – particularly the electronic variety -- emerge. (Now, that sentence sounded like a Business Person, didn’t it? See how quickly I adapt.) Most of all, I’ll be living my life according to a reasonably set, planned schedule, and won’t be knocked off track by space shuttles falling out of the sky or terrorists blowing stuff up in Morocco or election cycles. I’ll have my holidays and most of my weekends. When I’m not on the road, I’ll be working 8:30-5:30 Monday through Friday, a work schedule that is the envy of all journalists. Even with all the travel, it can be argued I’ll get more time with my family than I get in my current job. Nothing is more important than that.
I’m not going to be terribly far from my basic skill set, and I’m not going to be far from the business in which I’ve spent my entire life. But in some ways, I’ll be a million miles away.
In other words, it’s everything for which I’ve been asking.
Onward, immediately, to the next thing. On Feb. 4, I’ll walk out of the newsroom as a journalist for the last time. I’ll board a plane that night and start our new life on Feb. 5. Not much time for reflection. Certainly no time for sadness or regret.
And, for the first time in a long time, I’m looking forward to the next 18 years of my career.
Monday, January 26, 2004
Well, duh
In a big red bar across top of my favorite news site's home page:
"BREAKING NEWS: Parts of Patriot Act ruled unconstitutional"
Am searching for the most intellectual way to put this ... searching ... searching ... hey, there it is: "No shit, Sherlock."
It didn't take a constitutional scholar to figure that one out. Here's hoping they keep thinking straight and rule the rest of the damn thing unconstitutional.
In a big red bar across top of my favorite news site's home page:
"BREAKING NEWS: Parts of Patriot Act ruled unconstitutional"
Am searching for the most intellectual way to put this ... searching ... searching ... hey, there it is: "No shit, Sherlock."
It didn't take a constitutional scholar to figure that one out. Here's hoping they keep thinking straight and rule the rest of the damn thing unconstitutional.