not all the news that fits

Aiming high. . . but with less arc

2012-01-21T18:18:00.001-05:00

As a culture, we have a keen focus on celebrity and fame.

Whether it’s a royal wedding, or a Hollywood event, all of us, and I do mean all of us, find a way to pay some sort of attention to the shenanigans that pass as reality for the quotient that comprises the beautiful 1%.

Digging a bit deeper, we hype athletics, and confer hope and glory on the shoulders of children, anticipating not as much great things from them, but great trinkets.

Just look at how we discuss the latest HS basketball phenom from the streets, the newest tennis phenom from a fancy academy, or even the biggest kid with the broadest smile behind his football helmet and pads (Parade Magazine, anyone?).

These kids are featured on the front pages, get face time with their role models at dinners and events in resort locations, and of course are flooded with clothes and gear and travel, more than they could ever use before it goes out of fashion.

Even ESPNU, the proto-college network sportscast, now regularly covers HS contests, presenting games at tournaments created exclusively to mirror the world these youngsters aspire to reach once they pass out of high school.

To some extent, this practice has gone on for years. Major League Baseball celebrates the youth of stars from years past, with the name Joe Nuxhall remaining an answer to one trivia question. The National Hockey League for years relied upon a feeder system from the Canadian Junior leagues that literally required 14 year old boys to farm themselves out across that vast country, all for a chance at some seasonal glory.

And of course there’s gymnastics, which has taken the word youth and turned it into a distant term, with many of the girls who succeed on the world stage in this sport, particularly those from China, still years away from understanding the word puberty.

But this ramped up diatribe is less an effort to remind us that while we put great faith in false gods via our idolatry of youth sports, there remain other ways for gifted and talented children, and even the 99% who are not exceptional, to make their way in the world.

Those other ways involve the point of school……and that’s education.

Education is recognized world over as the great equalizer. It provides us all, as a society, with benefits far greater than what each individual gains from their classes. It’s more than knowledge simply being good, or with learning for learning’s sake. And even with bumps in the road, from the politics of secondary education here in the U.S. on to the cost of post-secondary education, we all come to benefit when someone goes off to college, and works to pursue their studies.

Education, mostly now meaning college, has come to mean opportunity. This language stands behind advertising campaigns, and is recognized by families, whether they’re first generation immigrants, or can document ancestors on the Mayflower.

I was reminded of this following word that a local high school senior has been offered a trip to Abu Dhabi to visit the campus maintained by NYU in that mideast emirate.

This student, an exceptionally gifted boy with an incredibly prodigious mind, as well as the spirit of a provocateur, flies well beneath the radar screens of those who keep tabs on high school stars. He doesn’t have a jump shot, or a 140 mph serve, 4.5 40 time, let alone a 40 inch vertical leap, or a rocket for an arm.

What this student has is a desire to succeed at a life defined by thinking and learning, by fun and play, and by engaging in challenging activities.

And fortunately for him, at least one institution has recognized this, and is reaching out to him as he begins his journey, one that will hopefully take him to actual palaces, and real courts, and center stages.

It is more than an irony that for all, athletic skills fade fare before the mind. It is unfortunate that for many, this is not seen as ironic, but as criticism. Let’s not criticize. Let’s embrace, and let’s inspire our kids towards the ideal of the student, and the student-athlete.

There’s probably not much room for national television cameras in this ideal, but we have to start somewhere. Perhaps a remarkable and whip smart 17 year old from Washington with a name much bigger than his frame will take advantage of his attributes, and lead a effort for rationality and the de-regimentation of youth sports.

Perhaps. But first the kid has to navigate those flights, and take those first steps. Outside of the glare of local, regional, or national cameras. Well, maybe just self posted junk on youtube, for now.

I know, I know

2012-01-18T23:18:00.002-05:00

Sure, you've all been waiting, breathlessly in some cases, for a new post. This could count. It's new. It's a post. You're reading it. But it's lacking, isn't it. It's truncated. It's direct. You're not sure if it's written for you, to you, or what. There will have to be some sorting out then to determine if this counts. So stay tuned. Or tune in. Whichever works for you. (to be continued)

ABC News 'Made in America' series

2011-12-05T20:48:00.002-05:00

There are a lot of things you can call the feature news components on ABC World News Tonight with Diane Sawyer.

http://abcnews.go.com/WN/MadeInAmerica/

News you can use
Service journalism
Shooting fish in a barrel

The lede is not one of them. Though that does not stop the team at the network’s 2^nd place evening newscast from positioning their manufactured news series as the top story of the evening, as they do from time to time with their segment, Made in America.

Starting with an obvious premise, that the American economy has evolved from a manufacturing economy, while failing to note where the American economy has moved to, this series scratches American’s nationalist itch. It finds college students with new dorm room stuff, none of which is made domestically. It notes families who own very little that’s made at home. It’s gotten people passing through New York’s Grand Central Station to strip down in order to find a US label on a pair of undies.

But it doesn’t take the time to do more for the audience at home than remind us of the changes to our economic structure, continues to cheapen what used to be a valuable amount of time in a newscast, and offers itself up for parody that could just about write itself for any of the late night cable comedy shows.

David Muir, now introduced as ‘anchor David Muir,’ smirks his way through these indulgent stories, repeating from piece to piece precisely what we’ve heard before. What’s new is that the bottom has gotten even lower in this charade.

Children have been pimped as stooges in this false drama. Just tonight, three pre-tweeners are found alongside a mother in a parking lot, asked whether they will find more American made products in the electronics store or the sporting goods store. "SPORTING GOOOOOODS" they shriek. But as the camera follows them inside, the reporting staying outside, and we again were left wondering. To paraphrase Clara Peller, 'Where's the news?'

A boss who has hired three people following a previous Made in America story is given time to laud his contribution to the economy. Three people? Who’s kidding who.

Most significantly, earlier in this exceedingly long piece, long by network standards, a brand new low was created by ABC. The network that learned over a generation ago that you do not fool mother nature with real news by recreating scenes, has managed to not let those same standards and rules apply in this era of digital cameras and i-reporters. Tonight, ABC added a graphic atop the screen at the beginning of their story, placing an image in a corner implying that the footage was created directly by an ‘MIA CAM.’ Hell, it even had the flashing red dot that we know tells us our personal camera is recording.

But this MIA or Made in America camera was nothing more than a false lens, a fictional appearance within a contrived story deep within what should be a more thoughtful newscast. It is the representation of what we’ve allowed news to be…..a device to hook and hold viewers, regardless of the methods, the manner, or the style.

Would it matter more if we knew if anchor David Muir’s suits were domestic or imported, or whether his shoes were Thom McCann’s? Would it help if we knew whether the glasses Diane Sawyer wears were made in America? How about the cars owned and driven by the senior production and editorial teams at ABC News? What about where they vacation, or what wines they drink, or food they consume? Domestic, or not made in America?

Reporting some time back provided journalists with a window onto what they were covering. But when you smash that window, and step over that space, the one that separated the reporting from the public, you do open yourself up to these questions.

And they need to continue to be asked, even if they’re coming one at a time.

Perhaps as valued and respected news watchers like Andrew Tyndall continue to document that these emperors really do have no clothes (domestic or imported), others who measure content and perform analysis will follow.

For now, we’ll try not to choke on Oscar Meyer or spit up our Coca Cola as we try to watch the evening news.

Hugo (a review)

2011-12-01T17:09:00.001-05:00

What a charming, delightful film.

Martin Scorcese once again proves that he doesn’t need blood and guts to tell a story.Hugo is just plain theater, with a fantastic backstory, a strong arc, an impressive finish, and all the essential ingredients for an instant classic: tragedy, drama, adventure, intrigue, and passion.

For cinephiles, there’s history as well, plenty of it. Presented in a very creative, pleasing, and modern way. Hugo makes use of a myriad of storytelling devices, foreshadowing, previewing, voice-over, dramatic shots, revealing camera angles, all with just the right touch of character.

While this is a period piece, intended to be Paris in the 30’s, there’s more than just an apparent timelessness to this. There’s an ease to it. A reminder, even though none among us was around at that time, that hustle and bustle is not a modern phenomenon, even if social attitudes and mores may have changed over the ensuing decades.And the message of the film, that we each have a purpose, a role, a story to tell, something to share, is not just universal. It’s elemental, as the basic root of storytelling.

For younger viewers, the pacing might be a bit slow, though the action and intrigue may well compensate for the pace. For teens, who the hell knows. There’s no vampire action, at least none I could discern, and the closest thing to visible romance was some handholding and a polite peck. Not even dancing, at least not among the younger set in the film. For adults, this film is a feast. One does have to share an interest in films, in drama, in storytelling, and in the possibility of people opening their hearts, and thus minds, to allow for there to be change.

As for the particulars, Ben Kingsley is fantastic. What would you expect. Sacha Baron Cohen is convincing as the ogre dressed in a rail security uniform. Cameos by Johnny Depp and Jude Law give this some major star flavor. Emily Mortimer’s understated flower girl provides the right touch. And teens Chloë Grace Moretz and Asa Butterfield make this film, with just the right level of innocence and curiosity to play out this thoughtful and very smart drama.

Finally, a 3D film that was truly worth it. Not over the top, not shot for effect, but simply something that just plain works. And delivers.

San Francisco's Contemporary Jewish Museum

2011-11-30T18:36:00.000-05:00

Noted architect Daniel Libeskind is still celebrated around the world for his angular take on both form and function.

Libeskind continues to receive commissions and builds buildings and creates space across the Americas, as well as in Europe and Asia.

I have had the opportunity to be in spaces he has designed in Berlin, Toronto, Denver, and now San Francisco.

And to a project, I have to say, the Boards and individuals who hire him must really like the language he speaks, for his work doesn’t match any aspiration for a successful space.

Just the other day I spent some time at the Contemporary Jewish Museum in San Francisco. A renovated space just off Market Street in the now trendy and popular Yerba Buena Gardens, this behometh of a building offers a jarring contrast upon approach, a witty appeal in the canyon of the main level, and then a series of perplexing statements in the main gallery entryway and public area.

The existing building obtained by the CJM was a 19th century power station for the city of San Francisco. Destroyed in the 1906 earthquake, it was rebuild on site in classical form under the design of noted architect Willis Polk. Unused and virtually abandoned for years, it was reclaimed for the CJM project, and Libeskind was hired in 1998 to create the new space.

What’s interesting here, among other things, is that this commission was Libeskind’s first in North America, before his additions to the Royal Art Museum in Toronto, the Denver Art Museum, and even his role in the 9/11 Towers at the World Trade Center.

Yet it was completed only in 2008, after each of the other museum additions, as well as the opening of his Jewish Museum Berlin, the signature piece in his portfolio.

In visiting several of Libeskind’s spaces, you immediately see the severity of his lines, the deliberateness of his angles, and the harshness of corners that seem to materialize out of nowhere. In plan, these exteriors must be tantalizing, for in execution, they are cold and off-putting, literally creating distance between people and the building itself.

The CJM space, while it doesn’t have as many dangerous corners and post-construction safety notices as in Libeskind’s other domestic works, still manages to confound with perhaps the most counter-intuitive central atrium of any museum intended to attract, hold, and move people.

The CJM has two levels. The main level has a large gift shop in one of Libeskind’s cubes, as well as some smaller gallery space buried in corners behind the primary stairwell, off and away from the ticket region. There’s also a very large but underutilized entryway, which recognizes the industrial history of this space, but when facing east seems little more than a post-modernist interpretation of the original building.

Ascending the main stairs, modern as well, stark in white, with handrails along one side which serve the dual purpose of keeping both children and adults away from the pointy corner walls, ascending the main stairs delivers you to a landing which provides at least three choices.

Choice #1, immediately to the right, offers an exceedingly large and bright gallery space, directly above the gift shop, and in the extension of Libeskind’s slashing cube. This space is deceptively large, incorporates creative use of perception and distance to present identical windows as different in size, and serves as a way station on a journey through the museum.

Choice #2 is further ahead on the landing, and offers a perch above the main floor, a view down and across the old industrial space, above fellow museumgoers who are still entering the building. Yet this space is contained by the corner in which it was placed, and requires entering and exiting in the same manner. It is also at this space that the two aspects of this building come together, the old and the new. At at this space is the visual confluence of the Jewish symbolism that Libeskind follows as the design theme, the linkage of the Hebrew words 'chai' and 'yud' to celebrate life, and this building. Or so he says.

Choice #3 presents a large freight elevator, stark in appearance, unusual in it’s placement, right past a turn towards the primary gallery space, and central to the grand area that should be where you are when you are standing at this point. Among the many design issues with the building, the placement of this important yet best hidden item is the most perplexing. There’s no getting around this. You have to step right around this service elevator to enter the primary gallery space. Why there’s no false wall to mask the elevator, let alone an elevator in another space, since it was added for this project, is quite perplexing.

Beyond these three choices, at least with regard to the problems with this building, is that this landing, this confluence, this core of the building, is actually a choke point, forcing people to step aside, step back, or in some way actively work to avoid moving into one another as they attempt to proceed. So coming up stairs, you may be forced to wait for other ahead to clear. Moving from any of the three choice points mentioned above, you might similarly have to dance around others, or just wait for them to move. And making matters even worse, there’s a series of sharp turns to enter the primary gallery space, boards to read just behind one of the sharp turns, and here’s the most confounding point of this all, jutting walls closing off this space, so that in addition to the turns, the confluence, and the volume, are angular white walls coming down at you, restricting your entry, as some sort of post-industrial sentry designed to thwart entry, as opposed to invite thought and wonder. It’s a bit much, and the breathlessness of the last sentence really is intended to convey as much. Really.

This space, which all must traverse in order to enter the main gallery, is a travesty, and a sorry excuse for a grand promenade for what should be a remarkable building.

How someone can take an open space virtually the size of a football field, and manage to contain a central area for movement down to the size of an airport restroom, defies logic.

That, after all, is the brilliance of Daniel Libeskind. Reducer of architecture, confounder of design.

ESPN hot seat over Syracuse tape

2011-11-29T15:08:00.000-05:00

Deadspin attempts to waggle its' finger at the Bristol Behometh and the Bernie Fine/Syracuse story. But there are so many more lingering questions. http://deadspin.com/5863164/eight-years-later-espn-reports-what-it-knows-about-the-claims-against-bernie-fine

Here are ten+ that come to mind for anyone who cares about journalism or reporting:

Were any calls placed to Syracuse area law enforcement to determine whether any of these allegations had risen to the level of an investigation, or arrest?

Why not hire an audio analyst to check the voices on tape to confirm identity?

Why not examine the tape to determine whether it has been edited, and if so, where?

Why hold onto the audio for the past 8+ years if this is not a story?

How often did these allegations come up in meetings over the past 8+ years?

Who was this story first brought to at ESPN? A producer? A reporter? Anyone in their enterprise unit? An investigative person?

Did anyone at ESPN in the past 8+ years reach out to anyone at Syracuse University to seek comment? Was there any communication of any kind about these allegations?

If, as ESPN college basketball reporter Andy Katz noted on air this week, it is exceedingly unusual for a college team to travel ‘ball boys’ to out of town games and tournaments, why did this not come up in anyone’s reporting on Syracuse men’s basketball?

Were there any concerns that the relationship between ESPN and the NCAA might be compromised if even preliminary calls were made about this story to Syracuse University or any of its’ representatives or associates?

Why wait until these allegations have the cover of the Sandusky/Paterno/Penn State story before reporting on the tape?

And, as a bonus, what did ESPN’s legal department have to say about these allegations, this tape, and its significance, when it was advised of the tape’s existence in 2002?

Musings on San Francisco Bay Area

2011-11-28T14:18:00.001-05:00

Weather changes from neighborhood to neighborhood. The locals know this. The tourists read of it in advance. Yet it’s still refreshing.

Yerba Buena Park provides a respite for urbanites. There are museums, fancy shops, hotels, and pricy restaurants. And there are also public spaces, attractive park areas, each of which acknowledge the city, incorporate urban life, and welcome all who come and visit, not only the moneyed class.

San Francisco street life defines eclectic. From Tranny couples, to punk kids, to toking teens, on to trendy/attempting middle age women, over to Brit-styled men who ogle men, the streetscape along Market provides a range of views and styles and appearances. Some of them even memorable. Others decent.

The homeless situation in the city is serious. These guys are light years beyond an ‘Occupy’ movement. Wherever they are, they’re occupying their space, 24/7. It’s hard living on the street, and faces, stares, attitudes, and distance from the surroundings further defines as much.

There’s a shitload of Asian restaurants in the Bay Area. Who knew? Well, we all know, but still, there are dozens of Noodle Shops, several places with the name ‘Bamboo,’ and enough Dim Sum places to be sick of interior food carts. This city is a foodie destination. And you don’t have to go far to adventure, or drop big money for good stuff. Then again, not every hole in the wall offers paradise. Food, that is.

While there are iconic tourist locations, from Ghirardelli Square to the Golden Gate Bridge to Alcatraz Island, and of course Coit Tower and Lombard Street, the Cable Cars and the stores and shops around Union Square, even the remnants of the Haight, there is so much more just steps from touristville, and in many ways, under the noses of everyone. Take in the Hunter-Dulin building at 111 Sutter Street. A French imperial inspired skyscraper (well, 25 stories capped with spires and a mansard rood) in the heart of the financial district, it has the main entrance on Sutter, but around the corner, the entrance to the Wells Fargo branch on the corner of Montgomery and Post provides another way into this building, and a reminder of the grandeur and wealth that old banks once had. But the key to this building is the address, and the history that was made by Philip Marlowe when he had the office of detective Sam Spade up on the sixth floor.

Just around the block, near the corner of Bush and Market, is the Skinny Building. Just 20 feet wide, this narrow mini-rise goes up six stories at 130 Bush Street, and provides some whimsical context to the serious nature of the financial services buildings all around. It’s reportedly called the Skinny Building not only for it’s narrow width, but because its’ original tenants were garment workers who made ties and other ‘skinny’ fabrics. Go figure.

Visiting in the late fall provides a respite from the weather in other cities, particularly of those back east. But even without the opportunity to catch a Giants game at AT&T, or to stroll about on a mild evening, there’s still the splendor that is Golden Gate Park, and perhaps the greatest treat the city provides visitors, the truly inspiring and remarkably sedate Japanese Tea Garden. Ensconced within this urban oasis, the Tea Garden truly takes visitors away from the relative bustle, and even from the strollers and joggers in the Park, and offers a tranquil setting which seems to provide greater distance from the buildings and people and even sounds that lap up to the manicured flora than one could imagine.

I have long been telling whoever asks that Americans should find a way in their life to live in two cities for at least a year or two. New York is naturally one of these cities. And San Francisco, and the entire Bay Area, is the other. While it’s not possible to do more than scratch the surface on a short visit, sustained trips over many years continue to provide insight into this fantastic, vibrant, and energetic city, this place that provides a range of sites, tastes, and even settings, for virtually every type of person. I would expand that to say that the Bay Area could work for anyone, from any country, any culture, any background, and with any language skill. There’s much to appreciate, and even more to take in. I am already looking forward to my next visit.

evolution

2011-09-16T15:14:00.004-04:00

I heard a new phrase the other day. It still both haunts and suggests. So here's a short story.

A friend and fellow journalism educator and I were talking about the state of the news business, what students are interested in learning, and what universities are willing to teach. It was a rather open ended conversation, and had it been held in a bar, with drinks, in the evening, it probably would have made more sense than the dayside, office space conversation that it was.

But when we spoke about writing styles, and styling writing for a particular medium, my friend passed on something he had picked up from one of his former students, now working on a hybrid news app, or something of the sort, to one of the newer players to the media sandbox.

It's no longer just writing to catch someone's eye, which we do try in television, or to hold someone's interest with compelling sound, which can work in both radio and television, nor is it just strong characters, which works primarily in print, but across each traditional media landscape.

What this recent graduate, the former student, is impressing upon people, and his company is seeing through research, is that the next generation journalist is going to have to write for the swipe.

So it's one, two, three swipes you're out. It's not a matter of losing the reader after the jump, or getting the viewer to stick with the news after the first commercial, or the radio listener to not change the station while stuck in traffic.

Now, it's all immediate, it's all rapid, and it's all there, in no more than three brief lines. Headlines, perhaps. Teases, maybe. News and information, hopefully, but just not sure.

And that's why this revelation, this description for a practice we know has been widely embraced, is both haunting and suggestive. It will continue to scare most of the old guard, and suggest opportunity for the creative members of the news regiments to come.

And it's already here. Just look down on your device for affirmation. Now swipe for the next article.

King Memorial inspires posting a progressive Jefferson quote

2011-08-27T16:53:00.003-04:00

"I am certainly not an advocate for for frequent and untried changes in laws and constitutions. I think moderate imperfections had better be borne with; because, when once known, we accommodate ourselves to them, and find practical means of correcting their ill effects. But I know also, that laws and institutions must go hand in hand with the progress of the human mind. As that becomes more developed, more enlightened, as new discoveries are made, new truths disclosed, and manners and opinions change with the change of circumstances, institutions must advance also, and keep pace with the times. We might as well require a man to wear still the coat which fitted him when a boy, as civilized society to remain ever under the regimen of their barbarous ancestors."
from an 1816 letter, and memorialized, in abbreviated form, on the Jefferson Memorial
good words to live by, even if from a southern states rightist who lauded the farm and the prairie and derided the city and urban life

No time to be a luddite

2011-08-22T21:55:00.002-04:00

Hey, fellow journalists.

Wanna be afraid. Very afraid? More afraid than being called into the office, feeling you're about to miss air, inadvertently deleting your work product?

Check out this story on web analytics, http://www.poynter.org/latest-news/top-stories/143389/new-generation-of-web-analytics-applies-big-data-to-newsroom-decisions-visual-revenue-jumptime/, and the totally straight faced comment by the dude who says 'and since we know how well the future is going to play out.....'

Yes, it's a brave new world indeed. Confidence in predictions. That'll get you far.

Anyone interested in racoon stew? Now that's something I can predict for the future with confidence.

Sarah's Key

2011-08-04T22:49:00.001-04:00

In the years since ‘Mississippi Burning’ was released, historical fiction has rightfully received a great deal of criticism. The liberties that Hollywood has taken with history on screen are legion, creating whole cloth out of the tattered fabric of seminal events. While a subject of great concern, let's leave this for another discussion at another time.

Other than the well awarded German drama ‘The Lives of Others,’ it’s hard to come by a film that respectfully incorporates history on a grand scale into the arc of the story.

Yet Sarah’s Key manages to be respectful, dramatic, and even realistic, without slinking back to maudlin or even seeming overwrought. It's tough, but not brittle.

Working through the present, in the form of a bold American magazine writer working for a small French publication, Kristin Scott Thomas takes the role created by novelist Tatiana de Rosnay, and provides meaning and purpose to her work as a journalist, while delving into the difficult questions that challenge, provoke, and often divide.

Scott Thomas wants extra space in her magazine to cover the story of the 60th anniversary of the little told Vichy French government’s round up of Parisian Jews at the Vel d’Hiv velodrome in July 1943. Over the course of her research, told through the film’s second story, and shot beautifully on different stock, she documents the repeated horrors inflicted on the Jews taken in, locked up, and then sent off to Nazi death camps.

But within the grand story, she becomes transfixed by one particular drama, involving a 10 year old girl, and her 4 year old brother, two victims of the Holocaust who manage to not appear on either death documents, or transfer documents, or anything else Scott Thomas unearths.

And within that research, and that back and forth of the story from at first 1943, to the present, we are provided a range of human emotions and characters, and a story that traverses time, continents, and even families.

Sarah’s Key will appeal particularly to those who feel compelled to bear witness on these kind of works. It goes much further, though, as a story of love and faith, of the human desire to learn the truth about history and family, and as a film that wisely avoids cliché even when that opportunity abounds.

This is one of those rare films in which the total of the film is far great than the sum of the individual performances, as impressive as they are, particularly that of young Sarah.

Though fiction, Sarah’s Key speaks to universal questions, acknowledges pain, suffering, and loss, and manages to take events from long ago in a world far away and make them engaging, and interesting, for our exceedingly modern world.

Cowboys and Aliens

2011-08-04T18:26:00.001-04:00

This is just one of those times where the drapes just don’t match the carpet, where the steak ain’t anywhere near as good as the sizzle, and where all the hype in the world just won’t budge this turkey forward.

There’s a reason I’m mixing metaphors, and Cowboys and Aliens is certainly high among them.

There is a lot of promise in a premise as positive as we have with Cowboys and Aliens. It’s a smart concept, as far as out-there film ideas go, but it seems like they included everything and the proverbial kitchen sink in order to make this work. From your two respected hunk-o-rama’s (Daniel Craig and Harrison Ford), to your royal babe in waiting ( Olivia Wilde), to a decent supporting cast, all set in the picturesque desert of northern New Mexico, there literally isn’t a thing this film doesn’t have.

Except for a story that defies disbelief, and sustains attention.

This film starts off simple enough, and within moments, we’re somewhat glued to our seats, after Craig dispatches a team of ruffians who awake him from his alien induced siesta.

But soon after, the comic nature of the alien attacks far exceed the intended level of humor. Craig and Ford, as the wealthy cattle baron who runs things in town, play everything straight. And when they saddle up and ride out to take on the evil aliens, you’re rooting for the good guys, but you’re not quite sure why.

This film includes virtually every western caricature known to man (and woman), up to including a kid and a dog in a posse. While Ford’s character does make light of this, it’s about the only intended laugh in this film. All else comes at the expense of the film, and that’s no way to make and present a summer blockbuster.

Sure, the good guys win in the end, though not without sacrifice. It’s a bit gorier than most of this genre, but after Alien and all that’s followed in this genre, little should surprise or disgust. There are subtle attempts to present rural western life as a bit more integrated than what is shown in a standard western, but it’s also 2011, and even modest efforts at historical accuracy are to be expected, even with a plot as outlandish as an alien invasion for precious items found (apparently) only on earth.

You’ve got to really hold a torch (or equivalent) for Ford and Craig to be willing to spend two hours, and 12 bucks, sitting through this unintended parody.

Even with Spielberg and Howard and Grazer listed as producers, and two separate credits for writing and story, this film falls under it’s own weight.

The correct number is 50

2011-07-12T15:31:00.001-04:00

There are many things that can be said about beauty pageants. I would wager that most of them are correct, from the crazed excess of some pageant moms, to the nervous tension on the stage, to desperate acts of sabotage.

And cutting to the chase, yes, there’s still the swimsuit parade, that legacy of the old Atlantic City crowd that founded the Miss American pageant 90 years ago. It’s been recast as lifestyle and fitness, but we know better. It’s still all cheesecake, glam thighs and perky breasts, topped off with a glowing smile.

In a bit of way out of the ordinary booking, in June I was one of five judges in the 2011 Miss North Dakota pageant. I was initially dubious about virtually every aspect of this process, including my participation. But the more I learned, the more I heard, and eventually, the more I witnessed during a very long weekend judging, has turned me from a shrill opponent to someone who would now just as soon say ‘ehhh’ to them.

The official title of the North Dakota pageant is the North Dakota Scholarship Organization. That is of course a misnomer, an attempt to apply political correctness to an ongoing activity that at root remains a beauty contest. (Yes, there is money behind these chiffon gowns, and cheap tiaras. Upwards of $10k for the winner, which can go a long way for a state college student from rural North Dakota, and small batches in hundreds for the also-rans, money that probably gets you back the investment in shoes, gowns, dresses, and travel costs. )

But that’s not the real story. That is what goes on off-stage, behind the scenes, in the judges’ room, at the private homes where the pageant privileged are oiled and fed, and in the off hours during pageant week. That’s where guards come down, ties are loosened, heels kicked off, and the wine and beer flow.

And that is the story of a small American town, with traditional values, caught up in the glamour and potential of being part of something larger, something popular, something distinctly sexier than the everyday happenings in the dusty and distant northwestern corner of an oft forgotten plains state.

To set a picture about the scale out there, think of the characters who live to perform dinner theater, and you immediately have an image of the cast. . In fact, the locals running the pageant in North Dakota for the past 25 years were not at all typical, unless you count a series of couples cut right from a regional performance of ‘La Cage’ and the supportive straight men who assisted their not so prim wives with, literally, the heavy lifting involved in staging this production.

And those were the folks I met on the first night, at our first stop, in town. Over the ensuing days, we saw that all the stops were pulled out for visiting royalty. Well, for us, which in this case were five judges, along with a dozen ‘formers’ as the former Miss North Dakota’s were called. We judges cut an interesting picture, with three folks with North Dakota connections, a schoolteacher, an accomplished dancer, and a former winner herself, now a home school mom to her four boys, along with the state director for the New Mexico pageant, and myself, a former network television news producer.

We were often brought together at local gatherings with the members of the board of the pageant, and the dozen ‘formers’ or former Miss North Dakota’s, ranging from the most recent winners, up to several forty-somethings, each now moms struggling with the same issues mere mortals face in middle age; family, work, spouses, weight.

There was plenty of talk, mostly small talk, as this is a small state, if you measure by population. And in this world, everyone seems to know one another. And not just one another, but who else competed way back when, and her talent performance in an earlier year. It’s like baseball fans at old timers’ day, and they even made the formers gown up for the evenings, which was a far better thing than seeing Yogi Berri in pinstripes.

So the scene each evening included the five judges, a bevy of current and former beauties, the grand dames of town who helped administer the program, and the combination of codgers and queens who took a high school stage and turned it into the closest thing folks in Williston, North Dakota, would take for a fashion runway.

And what could have easily been the setting for a bad setup joke (a NY Jew, a member of the Christian Coalition, and former winner looking like a ‘Pricilla, Queen of the Desert’ fan walk in to a room) turned into a rolling series of conversations on rural life, the oil boom, real estate, prior year contestants, current year expectations, along with a smattering of politics, and plenty of discussion about food and recipes.

This was all something that I signed up for solely to be able to say I had made it to all 50 states before my 50th birthday. Until the pageant, North Dakota had bewitched me. I had been near while driving cross country in college, but the entire width of South Dakota on US90 was as close as I came. Slowly, each of the final states peeled away. A visit to the University of Hawaii. A lecture in Anchorage, Alaska. Those two are often the tough ones. Hell, I’d been to Maine a half dozen times, and even Idaho on more than one occasion. But still North Dakota held out.

Yes, North Dakota ended up being the last one. And to cap it with a bit of time on the ground, and a volunteer project, well, that at least helps cement the memory.

But there was more, in the surprise of the social diversity found in this otherwise monochromatic flatland, in the pleasure of seeing real smiles and true happiness in the eventual winner, and also in seeing people, strangers initially, come together, and reach a consensus on which young woman with the tight abs and the scrubbed teeth will get to try this all over again, this winter, on a much bigger, much less forgiving stage, representing the state of North Dakota before the nation in the fabled Miss America pageant.

I wonder how the folks in Las Vegas will treat a new girl from the heartland? Now that’s a story! If only I could get a judging gig for the big pageant. Damn, I’ve already been to Vegas. But it’s always worth going back. Who knows, maybe this time I’ll get lucky.

What’s in a number?

2011-06-14T23:29:00.002-04:00

50 means different things to people.

To the AARP, it means numbers, people, and cash.

To hockey fans, it’s mystical. Counted in goals, it’s a symbol of scoring prowess, a marker of exceptional ability.

In baseball, a slugger with a 50 home run season (until Brady Anderson, among others) was considered a real star, with Hall of Fame potential.

Paul Simon rhymed to it in his catchy song ’50 ways to leave your lover,’ not that this is recommended, unless you want to set yourself free.

For many, it’s equated to gold. The golden anniversary, for instance.

To me, 50 has been rather simple. There are 50 states here in America. And with 50 states, there are 50 Capitols. And 50 state capital cities.

As someone with a lust for wandering, an interest in the role government plays in our society, as well as the architecture of democracy, 50 is a trifecta. While I haven’t hit that one, I have managed to get to all 50 states. It has taken time, though it has hardly been an adventurous accomplishment. No tales from the road of great danger or intrigue. Very little zen, and not much motorcycle maintenance. But over time, it’s provided a window onto who we are as Americans, as a country, as a culture, and as a community.

Even with our hundreds of cable channels, and thousands of blogs, and tens of thousands of web sites, and millions of possible friends on social networking sites, it comes down to what we find when we’re in places as seemingly large and cold as New York City, as down home as central Alabama, as tranquil as the painted desert in Arizona, as unusual as Anchorage, Alaska, or as neighborly as Williston, North Dakota.

It’s about people and places, and what they do where they live, and where they play.

It’s how they interact with visitors, with strangers, and with those working through.

And it’s a journey, and a series of lessons, that are very much still in progress.

There are 12 state Capitols to go, though oddly enough, just 10 capital cities.

Hopefully, they will become more than just numbers.

Though it would provide a greater sense of accomplishment to have the entire trifecta met in the next year or so, closing out a real 50x50 campaign.

leaving North Dakota

2011-06-12T15:36:00.001-04:00

This is an unusual state, this North Dakota. I have become so accustomed to hearing people speak in the passive voice, that it has even begun to infect my writing. Oh, yeah. You betcha. It sure golly does.

The upper mid-west is certainly a friendly place, or at least appears to be. People go out of their way to not only be polite, but to help. Not sure if the whole country was once this way, or just the prairie, or whether it’s the euphoria coming out of the oil and land rush that’s going on in the western part of the state, but it is one of many interesting things I picked up during my four days in the rural and rustic Williston.

For starters, Williston is so distant from civilization that one young woman participating in the statewide beauty pageant noted, more than once, that she really likes her hometown, and is excited that it now has a Mexican restaurant. Now has, as in prior to 2011, it did not. Even if we grant that this international cuisine hit these parts in 2010, that’s, well, about a generation or two past the rest of the country.

Sticking with food, there was lots of it, provided by gracious hosts in very nice homes. But last night, at what passes for an after party, the host provided two impressive dips, both homemade. The red salsa was quite good, with flavor and a light heat. That was good at the end of a long day. But what was funny was that the second dip, hummus, was something Ted (the host) said he had first come across earlier in the month during a trip to New England.

Sure, there’s some concern about middle eastern things across the United States, but to think that a cultured middle-aged man had not heard of, let alone sampled hummus until this year, well, that does astound.

Another oddity, that I can’t explain, is that higher octane fuel is less expensive than lower octane. 91 octane with ethanol is a nickel less than standard 89 fuel. Hope the next driver of that rental Chevy HHR appreciates the quality juice I left for them.

Then there’s the beauty pageant itself. It seems to take over this small town, bringing out people from across the landscape, bringing out clothes on the non-competitors that makes you wonder, and yet seems to be a significant source of local pride.

As for the pride, it’s for good reason, as this event is very well run, very well thought of, and really works well in this small corner of the state.

There’s something quintessentially American about a beauty pageant in a small town, complete with tears of joy, quivering jaws gripped tight by those who didn’t win, group hugs for all, barefoot babes dancing across the stage, and the incredible lightness that comes with being free of the responsibilities of serving others for a spell, as those recent and long ago Miss North Dakotas seem to now have.

Glad I had the opportunity to take in more than just an afternoon during this visit to my 50th state. Lots of thoughts and ideas on future trips and such, and perhaps even one to the eastern edge of this state. But with many things these days, it depends on variables beyond one’s control. Ya know that, don’tcha.

Going Native?

2011-06-10T09:16:00.000-04:00

Well, this thing seems to be working out.

Six months ago, I accepted an offer to be a judge in the 2011 Miss North Dakota pageant.

I was not sure what I was in for, and had no idea what to expect. I had never before been a pageant judge, nor had I even watched an entire pageant on TV. My views were colored by a series of films I have seen over the years, from the now classic ‘Smile’ from the mid-70’s, up through the indy success ‘Little Miss Sunshine.’

And there is a strong truth to those films, and their message of excess and ego and drive.

But, and it surprises me to say this, but there is another aspect to these events as well, and that is what these programs do for the communities in which they exist, and for the young girls in those communities who seem to enjoy having their shared moment in the lights alongside the ‘big girls.’

Last night I sat right before the stage in Williston High School and watched a two and one half hour program. It was uneven, and a bit ragged at times, but there was a consistent image that was evident from the stage. And what we all saw was a show for the families and friends who dotted the audience, and a wide smile from all who padded across the stage.

This was fun, and it was evident to all. But for the 22 little girls who made periodic appearances alongside their big sisters for the evening, this would have been just another local American spectacle.

These little girls literally were looking up to their older and more scantily clad sisters. And they were looking to them for everything from visual cues, to reminders to say hi or blow a kiss to their moms.

This folksiness came across as quite real, quite earnest, and quite unlike anything I have seen in quite some time. These young girls were able to make some costume changes, perform some very basic moves, and were allowed to appear and act as kids, which they are, not as small adults, which can often be the case in other communities.

Not sure if this small oil boom town will leave a temporary or a lasting impression, but at least for one night, there was great fun in the auditorium. Let’s see if the kids can keep it up, and if the program can avoid clichés.

Five Days. 120 hours.

2011-06-07T17:59:00.001-04:00

Five Days. 120 hours.

Over the course of a lifetime, it’s an insignificant amount of time.

Not a full week, though a bit over the 72 hour marker that guides many of us.

Five days. 120 hours. That’s a lot of time to fill, and hardly enough to learn about a new location, to understand people, culture, and the way they live.

In less than 12 hours, I’ll be heading off to distant North Dakota to close out a chapter. The moment I touch the ground in Bismarck, I will have officially set foot in all 50 U.S. states. For me, for what it’s worth, this is an achievement. And it will be accomplished under a self-proclaimed deadline that involved getting there before my 50th birthday. So I will now have 15 months to figure out some new endeavor to reach by then.

Five days on the ground just to see North Dakota? Well, there’s much more to it.

For the past few final states on my list, I’ve been able to spend some quality time, taking in sites, and speaking before audiences of students and media professionals. I enjoyed these visits to Hawaii and Alaska, two of the harder to reach states. The time spent getting to these destinations was well worth it, all things considered.

And until recently, the missing piece on that 50 state puzzle was bewitching. After all, what is there to do in North Dakota that can serve as a lure? Any major league baseball, or great theater, or upcoming music festival? Well, none that I know of. And while I do like winter sports, the prospect of Fargo in January is not a pleasant one.

But with the significant assistance of a good friend, and lifelong North Dakotan, I have been invited to be a judge in this year’s Miss North Dakota pageant. Thanks to 1997 winner Roxana Saberi, I will be spending the next five days, and 120 hours, in the teeming metropolis of Williston, (pop. 12,303) located on a speck of oil soaked land in the far northwestern corner of the state nicknamed the Peace Garden State.

It remains to be seen if this will be an adventure, or just a departure from the norm, from reality, and perhaps even from my senses.

Five days judging a beauty contest? (note to self: beware biting the hand that feeds you, even if you do it often. these people don't know you, yet. [note to note to self: chill]) That sounds like a penalty, not an opportunity. Hell, I haven’t even reached the age of weird ogling. I'm not yet 50. Not yet eligible for an AARP card, and an official discount. Though the contestants are certainly young enough to be my daughters. All of them. But since I’ve never stepped foot in North Dakota, nor probably even flown over this forsaken stretch of our vast continent, I can safely judge each contestant free from any concerns about nepotism, familiarity, or just plain ickiness.

Now I have to return to reviewing each contestant’s application materials, and to preparing questions for the off-stage and important interview round. And I wonder, should I ask them if they have followed Anthony Weiner on Twitter, and if not, why not? Perhaps that’s too leading. I’ll find a way to get to current events, and world history. I just hope none of the contestants are named Monica.

Five days. 120 hours. I don’t think they are going to want to have me around any longer than that. I will know soon enough.

NASCAR, appearances, and names

2011-05-22T21:46:00.001-04:00

A day at a NASCAR race can sure get your motor running.

Nothing like that mixture of high octane fuel, the swagger Americans bring to these events, as well as barbeque, sweat, oddly created trucks/viewing stands, and an assortment of tattoos, implants, and just plain odd smells to test the amperage.

The NASCAR All-Star race has fast become a new tradition in the household. That is if back to back attendance makes a tradition. And since it doesn’t involve dancing, hell, it’s a tradition.

This year was little different than last. A little hotter on the track and the infield, perhaps, and literally couldn’t find the cool firefighters I had hung with last year, but all else was the same. After all, NASCAR doesn’t go radical. It goes big. Real big.

Throngs of people.
Check.
An overindulgence of North Carolina State Troopers.
Check.
Amazing access within America’s most popular sport.
Check.
More African Americans than Confederate flags.
Check. (can’t say this last year, and not sure what any of it means)
Fuel and barbeque induced nausea.
Check (again, not sure what any of it means)

Next year I think I’ll start asking people about their tats, at least the visible ones, and see what I learn. Should make for some interesting conversation. After all, I’ve got credentials, so I might as well put them to good use.

The funniest part about the whole weekend occurred to me during the 400 mile drive home. 400 miles is more than the All-Star race itself, though it takes infinitely longer to get from Charlotte to DC on 85 and 95 than it does to traverse the Charlotte Motor Speedway 100 times. And 400 miles provides a lot of time for thought, even reflection at times.

But what stood out was a humorous note.

Jammed up against traffic at times, it became obvious that the bulk of American cars and trucks have western inspired names. There’s a long history to this, from the Catalina to the Montana.

Today, though these names are destinations, and inspire us, while choked up in congestion, to think of the places we could be in our Denali, or our Sierra, our Sedona, or our Sequoia. The Tahoe, the Santa Fe, even the austere Malibu conjure up fresh air and relaxing times. Or you could get there in your Escape, your Charger, or in an Explorer. For the galactically inclined, there’s the Odyssey, for the traditionalist, the Armada, and of course the godfather of them all, the pony car, the Mustang.

Now, the funny part comes here. (insert joke here for readership) All of us slogging north on 95 today passed through industrial cities, and parts of the country that time may have passed. North of my journey is Camden. West is Erie. Further north is Bridgeport. You don’t see any of these names, any of the names for 19th century American cities stuck on the side as badges on America’s dream machines. Dead east coast cities don’t inspire hope. And I don’t think anyone at Chevy would want to be offering the Passaic for 2012, or the Acura Anacostia as part of the fall lineup.

So while we are all into cars for looks, for performance, and for feel, we are also into them for names.

And I was reminded of that as well on the ride today, passing a Subaru Outback hooked up with a trailer pulling a mint condition Ford Probe. Ford caught some flak, rightfully so, for this poorly named car, the anticipated replacement to the then underwhelming mid-80’s Mustang. But female buyers had issues with a car called a Probe. Imagine that.

And all of this provided a chuckle, as an Outback owner claiming a Probe as a prize might truly be seen as ironic.

Then again, I still might be running on fumes ingested on pit row.

What's up with Europe?

2011-05-14T05:13:00.002-04:00

Leaving an America still drunk on the news of the death of Osama bin Laden, traveling to a Europe withering on fumes from the emptying tank of economic union, yet giddy over this weekend’s Eurovision song contest, you just have to wonder, and ask, what the hell is going on here?

I’ve had the distinct benefit of a short time in Paris, and a short visit in Berlin. Two impressive old world European capitals, complete with charm, dignity, and abundant history.

Yet Paris was riddled by a rail strike that took this first world city to the depths of third world conditions, while Berlin, in classic German form, has taken prevailing security concerns to a level not seen since the days immediately following the attacks of September 11.

In conversation in Germany, the morality of the military action against bin Laden is raised, and raised in a way that suggests this discussion has been going on for the better part of the last two weeks, in public, in the media, and in many communities. It was with a straight face that I had to inform a friend that the killing has not so much as raised a hackle in the United States. While not all danced and paraded before cameras like the students in front of the White House, and the New Yorkers who rallied at Ground Zero, the death of bin Laden has not been a moment of contemplative reflection for Americans.

My friend, a fellow journalist familiar with America, and our practices and standards, understood, and politely moved the conversation on to another topic. So much for that one.

Back in Paris, a city ridden with tourists, tsochkes and tarts, an odd civility seemed to hold forth. The well worn stories of rude service and incivility did not come to bear, though replaced less with charm, than with a politeness, and a willingness to assist, upon request. Even with a significant language difference, strangers on trains offered guidance, and suggestions, even though their information was neither clear, nor always correct. Yet this metropolis seems to move forward even as Parisians live with these incessant strikes, and these unerring attacks on modern, urban life. How anyone in Paris accepts this nonsense is beyond me. Americans just wouldn’t stand for it, though we stand for a lot. But periodic shutdowns, slowdowns, and regressive practices seeking benefits that can’t sustain the country, let alone the economy, just don’t seem to make sense in this 21st century.

All of this being said, there is an efficiency to European urban life, to simpler living, to fewer amenities, to smaller apartments, to smaller meals, to smaller cars, even to smaller overhead storage on flights (damn Lufthansa for not allowing my carry on to be carried on). Yes, you may be more likely to be run over by a bicyclist in Berlin than an auto, though in Paris it’s conceivable you may be run into the Seine by a frenzied visitor straining for that ‘original’ shot of Notre Dame.

Back at home pedestrians have rights, though American drivers are reluctant to recognize this fact. And you’re not going to see someone texting while driving here, though the selfish American with a nose in a smartphone is replaced in Germany by a loutish teenager with his nose in a quart bottle of lager. Each presents an issue, though in the end, while the differences are significant, and the attitudes vary, seeing them, recognizing them, and beginning to understand them all help us learn more about the world around us, and more about the world in which we live.

But don't worry, we can still agree that any couple seen wearing matching sweatsuits should be returned immediately to their country of origin. So there's still a dismissive view towards Russia and many parts of eastern Europe!

Tonight, while Europeans will sit before their small tv screens in rapt attention, I will be skipping the Eurovision song contest. An American has to have some standards, after all. Perhaps I’ll work on creating a puppet show documenting how President Obama took down bin Laden. That might do the trick, and bridge the divide. Puppets. There’s the ticket. Wonder if anyone has Euros for admission?

Quidditch

2011-04-25T18:17:00.003-04:00

What's wrong with a fictional sport, you ask?

Well, quite a bit, when you consider the strangle hold someone else's creative mind has placed over the minds and creative spirit of our future movers and shakers.

Last week I was able to visit a half dozen college campuses along the fabled northeast corridor. In the majority, reference was made to either Harry Potter, Quidditch, or even quidditch tournaments, of all things. The only school that didn't mention this fictional endeavor was a real-world Ivy League institution that is riding the crest of the popularity wave, and doesn't seem to need to support of muggles or wizards to ensure further popularity.

For colleges that wish to promote their uniqueness, and how they allow individual students to blossom into free thinkers, with independently created majors, and universal access to world class faculty, you would think they would have something more in common than a game which involves young adults parading about green space with a broom out their ass. Or is it out there arse, if you want to say it in the traditional English.

Just about everywhere on tour, students, and in some cases admissions department staff, referenced the proximity of their school to the holy grail of media popularity: the Harry Potter legacy.

A student guide at NYU noted that Emma Watson had transferred from Brown. At Tufts, the only reference to 'that university in Cambridge' was to note Tufts' recent defeat of Harvard in some sort of quidditch match. At Wesleyan there were repeated references to quidditch, but, then again, the enthusiastic tour guide just wouldn't stop raving about Middletown, Connecticut, so try and figure that one out. Even at Boston University, admissions staff proudly mentioned BU's contribution to this bizarre world of pop entertainment and dubious athletics.

Columbia, and Columbia alone, deviated from what fast become the norm, and neglected to enter the arms war, or is it brooms battle, over quidditch. But they're in NYC, enjoyed an obscene number of applicants for this fall's entering class, and are riding a wave of popularity not seen since the period when activist Mark Rudd took over the campus in '68 and rocker Jim Carroll dropped out in the mid 70's.

Early childhood behavior experts emphasize the importance of play, and creative activities for children. But that's for early childhood. And while there's an irony in seeing quidditch taking off on all these fancy northeast campuses, it would be even better to see a campus go quidditch free, taking a stand in support of real independent thinking, while helping these coddled kids recognize they are actually adults, after all.

And that's the way it is, as another cranky old man says.

The College Tour

2011-04-19T23:30:00.003-04:00

It’s one of those rites of passage, like learning to drive, experiencing your first kiss, or even swimming in the ocean.
The junior year college tour.
If you’re part of the vast American middle class, you’ve probably been part of this in one form or another. Whether as the primary college student, or as a younger sibling, or perhaps just as the parent or tag along relatives, you’ve ended up traipsing across a bevy of college campuses, wondering what this place will have to inspire and impress the lump ‘o 17 year old you dragged with you for the afternoon.
The thing is, this is actually quite an important time, and more than a mere rite of spring. It’s an opportunity for young people to help to begin to define themselves, their interests, their desires, and their sense of being as individuals in this world.
But first they have to be awake, get the coffee or cola out of their teeth, decide upon the proper/perfect/appropriate/acceptable outfit du jour, and make it to the damn campus on time. Well, the latter part is usually the responsibility of the parental unit, though that can be compromised by any one of several actions taken by the lump ‘o 17 year old.
After a few days of concentrated college touring, which has included seeing the same faces on different campuses on succeeding days, dozens of questions from parents and prospective students alike that were already answered on the website’s main page, and an assortment of comic light moments, I have the following observations:

Colleges are different. But know what the college represents itself to be, so that you can see how close it gets in the overview presentation.
Student guides provide a great perspective on the overall population, even if they’re a turbocharged version of the average student at the school.
People are clueless. HS students don’t appear to know what they want from a college at this point, and their parents appear to know even less.
Colleges at this point just want you to apply. It pads their application numbers, makes them appear more selective, and more than pays for the recent graduates added to the admissions office staff.
If a school will not accept AP or IB scores other than for placement, then you’re in a serious academic institution. If the school will give you credit for AP scores, then you’re not at a very demanding place.
Multi-tasking has taken over. Today’s undergraduates all seem to be double-majoring, or triple-minoring. No one has a singular focus any longer.
There are woefully few people of color on campus visits.
If your tour guide insists on walking backwards throughout the tour, don’t even bother to give that school any further consideration.
If the walkways on the main campus are asphalt, and not concrete, cement, or brick, don’t bother with this school. (for the cognizati, yes, Harvard Yard is asphalt, but it’s rimmed in brick. On the other hand, it’s Harvard, so that’s your problem)
Everything is up in the air when it comes to admission. The buzzword now is passion, but how many 17 year olds are passionate, about anything, let alone able to define or articulate their passion in a convincing and impressive essay. But learning about schools from the time their sneakers are on the ground this spring can go a long way to reducing surprises post-admission, or even unnecessary applications this coming fall.

Undoubtedly, there will be more to come. This process is just building at this point, and for this excursion, we just covered the I-95 corridor. I have heard there are colleges across the entire United States. So this could grow.
Stay tuned.

Nose Pressed Against the Media Window

2011-04-06T13:56:00.001-04:00

Every once in a while I have the opportunity to get up close with some of the pressing issues facing our media landscape. At least from my perspective.

Just last week I may have been among the handful of people who spent time at both FOX News and at National Public Radio.

This was not a test, nor did I lose a bet. Each visit was for a meeting, and each visit provided perspective on why each institution, regardless of claims to the contrary, just doesn’t represent the universe of Americans who are cast across this vast country.

Over at FOX, there’s an apparent order, and hierarchy. It’s defined by the relatively larger spaces that each producer enjoys. Not cubicles, or banks of open space, mind you, but relatively comfy workstations with around 100 square feet of space, more than on average in other newsrooms. That’s one thing. Another is personal appearance. Journalists these days, at least those among us who toil behind the camera, have become every more comfortable in our clothes in this century. That’s not the impression at FOX. There, virtually everyone, both men and women, seem to be dressing from a workplace standard that hasn’t been updated since the election of George H.W. Bush. Men in ties, mostly, and women in sharp outfits. It’s a serious workplace, with everyone looking relatively crisp, and quite professional.

And then there’s the overall appearance. The FOX News Washington bureau looks like a workplace from before the election of a Bush as President. It’s a white place. There were so many white men milling about, and passing through corridors, that you would think you fell into a casting call for ‘Mad Men.’ Neat, clean looks, cropped hair, and scrubbed pink and alabaster faces seemed to fill in most every desk and workstation and control room seat. Yes, that’s often the look in many downtown Washington offices, even in 2011, but not to this extent. Not at all.

Time at NPR provided a visible contrast. Diversity rules the roost. A progressive hipness infuses every space in the building, from the leftover books bin, which had more books on sports than on policy, to the entry space, which provides a passel of images of NPR correspondents from across the nation and the world. It’s Portlandia, but on the edge of what used to be DC’s Chinatown.

The dress at NPR is significantly casual. Yes, it’s radio, after all, but some of the producers and editors must have meetings with sources outside of the newsroom every so often. And the workspace, well, there is need for more space, and more comfortable space, for all at NPR. Workstations are thrust one into the other, the carpets are a bit ratty in places, and there are reports of mice running across the floors.

But the most distinguishing characteristic, from a media perspective, was what was on the tv screens at NPR. Yes, there are television at NPR. While many who work for this public media provider may eschew televisions in their personal life, professionally they at least recognize the significance of images and visual reporting. And towards that end there are monitors near the news boards within each show’s primary news desk.

At the location I visited, all four televisions were tuned in to cable news channels. But here’s where NPR just doesn’t get it. You would think that with four channels, there might be CNN, MSNBC, FOX, and perhaps either C-SPAN or some other hard news channel. At this time, the four tv’s were tuned to CNN, MSNBC, a second set on CNN, and the fourth set, well, that was tuned in to al Jazeera English.

I almost swallowed my tongue laughing to myself when I came upon this, given what seemed to me to be obvious irony. But with reflection, it wasn’t ironic. It was just NPR.

Those same folks who show up at a knife fight with a tote bag (love that line) still sup at a different trough than their media brethren. And even as they present the widest array of news over four plus hours of programming each day on their morning and evening shows, they don’t seem to get that each of the three primary US cable companies are worth watching to see not only what’s being covered, but how that story is being covered.

Simply put, if you don’t have FOX on (or CNN, or MSNBC), you can’t know what it is they’re covering, and what they’re not. Virtually every other newsroom in Washington has all the primary channels up for view, and this is the first time I have come across one of them not only not on, but having an outlier channel on in its’ place.

Each newsroom seems to suffer from a criticism often leveled by outsiders, and that is their seeming inability to grow out of their comfort zones, FOX with the white majority, and NPR with its tone deafness to the wider audience of Americans.

Hell, maybe it’s just me, but these contrasts helped me through a long week, and a week that certainly had moments of amusement, and clarity. Now, who hid the remote. I need to see what’s on the tube this evening. Perhaps there’s a good cricket match on al Jazeera Ocho.

College Admissions Season

2011-03-23T15:01:00.000-04:00

I’ve recently finished three books on the college admissions process.

• Overachievers: The Secret Lives of Driven Kids by Alexandra Robbins

• Acceptance: A Legendary Guidance Counselor Helps Seven Kids Find the Right Colleges and Find Themselves by David Marcus

• The Gatekeepers: Inside the Admissions Process of a Premier College by Jacques Steinberg

Recommended by friend an all around college info know it all Susan Stewart, these three, along with the just released Crazy U: One Dad's Crash Course in Getting His Kid into College, by Andrew Ferguson, document the perplexing process of getting a high school student prepared, and then admitted, into the best college for that student.

Here are the ten takeaways I have from this intensive prep class.

For the student:

Take the most rigorous courses your school has to offer, and do exceedingly well in those courses.

Don’t just be active. Be active as a leader in your clubs, teams, and activities.

Don’t screw up.

Write well.

Be witty.

Follow instructions on the application and essays

Get great recommendations from your teachers

SATs and ACTs matter, but they are far from the only part of you that schools evaluate.

Know the schools to which you’re applying, and how they will impact you, and you will impact them.

Apply early, early action or early decision if you can.

Visit your final choices so that you literally get a feel for the place.

For the parent:

Be an alumnus of a fancy school

Come from a geographically underrepresented part of the country for your child’s first choice school.

Prepare to spend a boatload of money on the process of just getting in

Have a spouse who provides your child with diversity, or, better yet, be a person of color yourself

Stay on top of your child’s progress with their applications

Help your child focus on the primary elements involved in selecting schools

Be supportive

Be realistic. Not everyone gets in to Stanford. Even those with 2400 scores.

Don’t be shy about inquiring about financial aid. Just be sure to complete the forms.

Once your child is accepted, selects their school, and ultimately goes off to college, let them grow up and begin to enjoy learning to become the person they are to be.

Disastrous Coverage

2011-03-14T21:31:00.003-04:00

Covering a breaking news story that involves death and despair, following a natural disaster, is painfully difficult work.

But the reporter should never be the story.

The story should be the crisis. The impact on the effected community. The challenge the community faces in restoring itself, to regaining or even just attempting to reclaim what was lost.

In the now five year race by electronic journalists to out Anderson Cooper Anderson Cooper, Diane Sawyer seems to have outdone herself with her work on this evening's World News broadcast.

She was in the right place, on the ground reporting on this terrible situation in northern Japan. But her writing suggested the entire nation was deprived of essentials, the editing of her anchor piece melded days old footage with what a camera captured today, without a single reference to any sense of time, and she injected herself into virtually every frame of her piece, hardly a first for an anchor, but an unnecessary addition to each shot when the visuals for this story already speak with a clear and credible voice.

Let's see some questions of authorities with regard to this horrific impending nuclear power situation, let's document the work being done by relief workers from the range of nations that have responded to the crisis, let's let those involved in the story tell us what they're doing. Just because the language isn't English, and the patterns and practices are not western, does not mean there are simple and earnest stories that can be told, and told for the cameras, sans the anchor prattle.

Perhaps it's just the rush of adrenalin that comes with being on the scene of a situation like this. So let's see how Sawyer follows up during her time on the ground, and let's see if her focus and treatment do not devolve into worn words and hyperbole.

is the circle jerk our media future?

2011-02-28T21:06:00.002-05:00

It's got to be better than this.

Tell me it's better than this.

Confirm for me that Arianna Huffington really is nothing more than a name-dropping star-fucking money-hungry wannabe who may have succeeded at accomplishing her short term goals.

Here's from her lede on the Huffington Post today.

Arianna Huffington: Bill Maher Saves the Oscars... At Least for Me

For my money, this year's Academy Awards telecast was the funniest in ages. No, not because of the show itself -- Anne Hathaway and James Franco's "young and hip" shtick wore thin pretty quickly -- but because I watched the show sitting next to Bill Maher at the Vanity Fair dinner at the Sunset Tower Hotel. Bill kept up a running commentary that put the on-screen patter to shame. At one point we realized that we were both tweeting and retweeting what each of us was saying to the other. "This is excruciating for me, I can only imagine what it's like for you," I leaned over and said to him after a particularly lame joke. He then tweeted what I'd said... which I then retweeted. I'm not yet sure if this mode of communication is a good thing or a bad thing -- I'm just reporting.

I'm just reporting, she says. This is journalism? This is the future of news? This is going to save us, to propel us forward in the digital universe. Overhead conversations between people at a table.

Tell me we can do better than the well-coifed and over-sexed version of Beavis and ButtHead laughing at each other's jokes.

Confirm that there is real stuff out there on the web, and not just the content created by traditional media doing the hard work in dangerous places where journalists get hurt just plying their craft.

Let me know that quality still matters, that there's a difference between opinion and news, hearsay and insight.

Make us think, help us learn, allow us to be informed, and educate us with wit and charm. Don't just repeat regurgitation. Sloppy seconds have no place in news.

best film review I have read, ever

2011-02-27T19:06:00.003-05:00

A.O. Scott with the New York Times is one of those serious film critics. He looks the part, plays it well, and converses on film and media at a very high level.

Imagine my surprise to see the verve and energy in his review of the current Nicolas Cage car and girl epic, 'Drive Angry.'

Like many regular moviegoers, I have been berated by repeated showings of the trailer for this release. But even the amped up 2 minute trailer didn't do it for me, and I wasn't planning on catching this one.

But Scott's review is inspiring, and I suspect I'll make the time to check out the 3D version. After all, as he notes in his second sentence, and his closing paragraph, how often do you get this combination on screen.

Here's the review. See if it's not impressive.

On a Mission, but Not From God
By A. O. SCOTT
Published: February 25, 2011

There are those who insist that no great work of cinematic art will ever be presented in 3-D. The most persuasive among them — Roger Ebert, for example — offer learned arguments grounded in science and aesthetics. None of that really has anything to do with “Drive Angry,” which at least in its 3-D version makes a loud, incoherent but oddly compelling case for the enhancing effects of stereoscopic projection on certain treasured objects of the cinematic gaze, like classic Detroit muscle cars, women’s breasts and Nicolas Cage.

Last things first. Mr. Cage’s acting style — if that is still the right term — seems these days to require not an extra dimension, but rather an entire parallel universe. In this movie, he plays a grandfather from hell (I mean that literally, though to say more might count as a spoiler) with lank blond hair, a haunted demeanor and the poetical name of John Milton, a sop to the English literature grad students who are sure to flock to this movie.

The details of his character are both preposterous and beside the point, as “Drive Angry,” directed by Patrick Lussier (“My Bloody Valentine 3D,” “Dracula 2000”), from a script he wrote with Todd Farmer, lets Mr. Cage continue his exploration of the mysteries of the universe. His companion is Amber Heard, playing a hard-luck waitress who can both throw and take a mean punch and whose very short denim shorts compete for attention with the 1969 Dodge Charger she drives.

You can guess how she drives it, though there is plenty of anger to go around, and a lot of action, some of it pretty inspired. And also a gooey heap of plot, which is revealed efficiently and without too much concern for plausibility of any kind. Milton is on a mission to rescue a baby from a Satanic cult led by a neorockabilly messiah (Billy Burke) with long fingernails and what may be a prosthetic soul patch. Giving chase is a dapper fellow who identifies himself as “the Accountant” (William Fichtner) and who is invulnerable to everything except the magical antique gun that Milton keeps with his gear.

Apart from some half-cartoonish digital effects and the whole 3-D thing, “Drive Angry” could almost be mistaken for a raunchy, cheesy exploitation programmer of the same vintage as some of its cars. Or rather, a whole retrospective of disreputable ’70s B pictures, what with the cars, the supernatural mumbo-jumbo, the churning, anonymous heavy-metal guitars of Michael Wandmacher’s score and the nudity.

All of these elements combine in one extraordinary sequence, during which Milton manages to gun down about a dozen Lucifer-loving, farm-implement-wielding thugs, while smoking a cigar and taking slugs from a bottle of whiskey. And, through the whole bloody barrage, having sex. “That never happened to me before,” his partner says later, recalling the episode more graphically and succinctly than I can here. “Has it ever happened to you?”

http://movies.nytimes.com/2011/02/26/movies/26drive.html?ref=aoscott

I suspect the RNC will find a way to link this to Michelle Obama

2011-02-23T10:47:00.002-05:00

Unlikely story of the day:

From Memphis WMC-TV Action News 5: "A pizza delivery driver was called a hero Monday after she likely saved an elderly woman's life. ... [M]ost neighbors knew little about Memphis resident Jean Wilson, except that she's eaten pizza daily for the past three years. 'We make her pizza every day before she even calls, because we know she's going to call,' delivery driver Susan Guy said. Guy often delivers Wilson's regular order, one large pepperoni pizza, but recently workers at her restaurant noticed an unusual break in the pattern. ... Guy insisted to her boss that she be allowed to check on Wilson. ... Guy drove to Wilson's house and knocked on her door, but no one answered. Then, she banged on Wilson's windows, but there was still no response. ... Guy quickly called 911. When police arrived, they broke down the door to Wilson's home, and found her lying on a floor inside. They soon learned that Wilson had fallen on Saturday, and couldn't get over to a telephone to call for help. Investigators said it's possible that her pizza-only diet may have saved her life.... Wilson was in non-critical condition at St. Francis Hospital."

A pepperoni pizza daily for three years! Were the EMS folks able to carry this person into the hospital, or did they just roll her in.

With three years of pepperoni pizza, they could have just slid her in to the ER.

Wonder what this woman would eat as comfort food, if pizza is at the top of the nutritional pyramid.

four square

2011-02-22T17:21:00.002-05:00

I have to admit I find the whole 'document your presence' movement that comes with technology to be a bit amusing.

At the same time, if I utilized foursquare, or a similar app, and cared to share where I was there, it would be pretty interesting.

But since it's not, I'll stop, and return to research and planning for a trip to the spaces first documented by Lewis & Clark oh so many years ago.

frigidity

2011-02-18T07:48:00.002-05:00

Not so fun fact of the day.

North Dakotans just celebrated the 75th anniversary of the coldest day ever on record.

On February 15, 1936, Parshall recorded a temperature of -60F. A storm blew in from the north that Valentine's Day, setting records over a three day stretch that week.

June is reportedly a warm month in the state. Hoping so.

hunting and fishing

2011-02-17T16:16:00.002-05:00

According to the primary tourism page for North Dakota, these two are primary things to do for people either living in or visiting the state.

That poses a bit of a dilemma for those among us who don't take much to these kind of outdoor activities.

Still, there's plenty of time for research and planning in advance of what will likely be a interesting, if not wholly unique experience.

you betcha

2011-02-16T08:24:00.000-05:00

What is there to say about North Dakota?

Today, well, it's probably all just frozen tundra and hissing farm animals.

But tomorrow, and in the days and weeks to come, there will be plenty.

And there's a good reason for the focus. A damn good reason. But that will come in time, and with your patience, and indulgence, it will inform, and entertain, and amuse. And it will hopefully tweak.

So for now, sit back, grab a DVD version of Fargo, and enjoy.

What a difference a week makes

2011-02-07T17:43:00.003-05:00

Last week at this time, I was freezing off assorted parts and pieces in the great white north, stewing over mistreatment by a less than stellar gate crew working at Reagan National Airport for Frontier Airlines.

This week, no travel, lots of family time while watching sporting events, both real, and over the teevee thingy we've got in the living room.

And it appears there is a world beyond this screen and keypad, and that some people actually read this stuff.

A very well networked Frontier staffer came across last week's diatribe, took the initiative to not only follow up, but offered to provide assistance, and if words will be matched by deeds, will provide closure for what a situation that should never have happened in the first place.

The lesson here is that social media can not only update us with information on long lost buds from high school, or provide endless hours of wasted time for those with time to waste. It can remedy.

So an early, and hopefully not premature, shout out to Marco Toscano, the senior manager for social media, for not only jumping in to this fray, but for confirming the words that I blogged, and letting me know that Frontier will be working to make this all good, as they say.

Be sure that I will follow up on this.

Until next time.

Why Frontier Airlines is incompetent

2011-01-31T12:58:00.003-05:00

Things always seem to start out so smoothly. Start out. But not when it comes to Frontier Airlines.

On Saturday, I was booked to fly from Washington’s Reagan National Airport on a mid-day flight to Milwaukee. I know. Wisconsin in the winter. Yeah, yeah, but I was scheduled for visits to several campuses, including some classroom lectures, along with catching up with some folks, and a quick jaunt over to the State Capitol for the 39th notch on my state capital building belt.

Note that I say I was booked.

My ticket on Frontier Airlines had been bought and paid for. The boarding pass for flight 321 had been printed out the day before the flight. I arrived at the airport around 45 minutes before the departure, and proceeded to the TSA screening area, and then the gate. Getting through the TSA security went quickly, as it should on a Saturday morning.

But to my surprise, once I sat down in the seats outside of the scheduled departure gate, and then connected with a gate agent, i was told the gate had closed 25 minutes prior to the departure time, and flight 321 to MKE had taxied away from the gate, and was in line for flying out of Washington.

This was news to me. An airplane leaving early. And not a full international flight leaving two or five minutes early, but an undoubtedly empty domestic carrier taking off a full 25 minutes prior to the scheduled departure.

Now, before you get all up in arms about this, understand that the gate agent said he had paged me. No, didn’t hear a thing in the terminal. No, didn’t hear my name on the overhead. No, I frankly don’t believe that he paged me. And further, he said he paged me once. Haven’t we all heard individuals paged more than once when planes are about to depart. Wouldn’t an air carrier want to insure that a passenger would be on board, particularly when that passenger was already booked and provided a boarding pass, complete with seat information?

Apparently not.

And how legitimate is the use of an overhead page for a passenger. What if that passenger had hearing issues. Or what if that passenger was engaged in conversation with a TSA official, or another representative of the airlines, or the airport authority, or anyone else for that matter, and was temporarily unable to hear a page.

To me, this defense doesn’t pass the sniff test.

Nor does the response of the gate agent to my dilemma, and my request, which was to get me to Milwaukee that afternoon.

His response. No. Not gonna happen. Not on Frontier Airlines. After all, I was told, it's your fault.

I was told there were no other Frontier flights to Milwaukee that afternoon. I was told, but only after I asked for options on Frontier through other cities, that there were no guarantees that I would make the 20 minute connection in Kansas City if I was put on that flight (d’uh), and most significantly, was told that I would not be allowed to be placed on a flight out that afternoon on any other carrier because it was my fault that I missed a flight that left the gate 25 minutes prior to scheduled departure.

That’s right, it’s my fault the airplane left early, without me. It’s my fault the plane left without me, even knowing that I was slated to sit along the window in 12A that afternoon. It’s my fault that I placed trust in a carrier I had previously not flown, and undoubtedly will not fly given the way this matter has been handled.

Well, we’ll see. It is possible that i am the only air passenger ever put in this position. I am the only one I know of, but I suspect Frontier has acted in this cavalier way with others. Perhaps even on this flight, on other Saturdays. Who knows. If it happened to me, it may as well have happened to others.

If you’ve got a similar story, let me know. I will gladly add this to the mix in what will likely be an interesting discussion with Frontier. I would like Frontier to reimburse me for the cost of my ticket. It would be even more responsible for them to reimburse me for the one way cost of the ticket I purchased on a competition carrier. Let's see if they step up, acknowledge the error in this unusual gate decision, and provide a satisfactory response.

Wish me luck.

2011 Oscar Picks

2011-01-11T16:29:00.001-05:00

Best Film:

127 Hours
Alice in Wonderland
The Black Swan
Fair Game
The Fighter
Inception
*The Social Network
Somewhere
True Grit
Winter’s Bone

Best Actor:
Jeff Bridges, True Grit
Leonardo DeCaprio, Inception
Robert Duvall, Get Low
*Colin Firth, The King’s Speech
James Franco, 127 Hours

Best Actress:
Annette Bening, The Kids are All Right
Jennifer Lawrence, Winter’s Bone
*Natalie Portman, The Black Swan
Hailee Steinfeld, True Grit
Naomi Watts, Fair Game

Best Supporting Actor:
*Christian Bale , The Fighter
Bill Murray, Get Low
Jeremy Renner, The Town
Mark Ruffalo, The Kids are All Right
Geoffrey Rush, The King’s Speech

Best Supporting Actress:
Amy Adams, The Fighter
Helena Bonham Carter, The King’s Speech
Mila Kunis, The Black Swan
*Melissa Leo, The Fighter
Julianne Moore, The Kids are All Right

Best Director:
Darren Aronofsky, The Black Swan
Danny Boyle, 127 Hours
Tim Burton, Alice in Wonderland
*Sofia Coppola, Somewhere
David O. Russell, The Fighter

*asterick indicates projected winner

No, it's not a Porsche. But it's close.

2011-01-07T17:09:00.003-05:00

It looks as though yet another opportunity presents itself.

This one is something I have been waiting on for a while.

And now that it's arrival is imminent, I am trying to see if it is in fact something I still want, something I need, something I will enjoy, something I will appreciate, and something I will utilize.

Still guessing?

No, not a beer fridge, though that would be nice.

A Porsche. Well, those don't just arrive on your doorstep, though I'm willing to be surprised.

A device for scanning information directly into the brain. Would take that one in a minute. Wouldn't we all!

Actually, talking about an iPhone, that last decade time saver, and time abuser. Reportedly coming soon to the cell provider with which I'm contracted until the ashes from my cremated remains are delivered to their headquarters as proof of the need to end service.

Have long desired a tool of this kind, and now that the reality approaches, have to think if it's really worth it. Does it help? Does it suck even more time? Is it fun, and does that make it worthwhile? Will it de-clutter, or will there be yet another item with charger and such sitting around? And if my car stereo can't accomodate an MP3 player, what's the point anyway?

Very much of two minds. Open to thoughts on this one. Oh, yeah, it ain't a bargain, either. But what is? What is.

Why we know more about our Chevy than our body

2011-01-05T10:31:00.001-05:00

For a long time I have made analogies between car repairs and doctor visits.

Yeah, at times a check up feels like an oil change. Sure, the magazines in the waiting rooms can be quite similar. And invariably there are crying babies nearby, and strange sounds coming from behind closed doors.

Oh, yes, and each costs a boatload of money. $95 an hour to provide incorrect information on my Toyota? You’re kidding. $300 for a diagnosis that my wizened grandmother virtually nailed at dinner the previous evening? Where did you get your medical degree?

But it’s only when you really get to spend time with doctors, and occasionally with car repair people, that you see a gap in this theory, and you learn that you get more information from the grease monkeys than you do from the white labcoats.

Car repair shops sign you in, ask what you would like them to examine, provide you with a disclaimer, and then indicate they will follow up prior to any treatment or repair work on your vehicle. More often than not they do find something, they do follow up with you, and they do manage to improve the quality of your car, at least at that moment in time. When it comes to retrieving your vehicle, you often receive an itemized listing for each repair, each investigated noise or creak, as well as how parts or liquids were disposed, if that was the case.

At the very least, you have in somewhat plain language a printout for what was done to your vehicle, how much it cost, and perhaps even what is recommended in a future visit.

If only a visit to the doctor were so simple, so clear, and so open.

Doctors seem to be a bit hesitant to share information other than very simple facts. They appear reluctant to theorize about the prospects of an illness, or a range of treatments, unless you ask a specific question indicating a base of knowledge in this area. They speak in a language that might as well be Middle English, rarely if ever offer to provide a document explaining their findings, the results of a test, or an outline for a treatment plan. They presume a patient - regardless of the medicine she might be on, the potency of an anesthetic from which they are awakening, or their level of knowledge about medicine - can understand the particulars of what is being said to them.

Difficult news seems to be something not readily shared, but caged, in medical terms that suggest an intellect on part of the physician that is not shared by the patient. Polysyllables with Latin roots often pepper these conversations. And regardless of the proximity of the physician to the patient, there are often miles between them, especially at a time when a patient is working to process this new, and often confusing data, which renders some either speechless or disinclined to even ask the necessary questions.

What might make a difference, and elevate doctors back up to the level of car mechanics. Here’s my list, for starters:

• A bit more clarity
• A bit less obtuseness
• Handout information, particularly when the physician has a hard copy of the procedure findings or post-op results
• A willingness to do the equivalent of office hours, either by phone or online, for all patients who might not otherwise be able to process what they are hearing in real time
• An agreement before the patient leaves that she understands what has been told to her, and has a plan for her health and wellness to follow

Hell, I’m not even going near the issue of insurance, and who carries what, and who changes policies and plans each January 1, and whether prices are known in advance by patients, and whether certain procedures (innoculations, blood tests, etc) need to be done at THAT visit, or whether they could be held off for another six months, or even a year.

Yes, the provision of medical care in America is quite complicated, and more expensive than need be. And it has become politically divisive. But with some relatively simple steps, a culture of physicians, providers, institutions, and individuals sharing medical information and optimally the ability of patients to directly access their own medical information, we might at least be in a position to know as much about ourselves and our health as we do the stations on the pre-set buttons on our car radio.

Immigration Issues: Germany faces the Mirror

2010-12-16T01:39:00.002-05:00

After almost three straight days of policy meetings and discussions from morning through evening on energy and climate change led by the American Council on Germany, it was a welcome respite this evening to chew over an old standard: racism.

Here in Germany, the Turkish immigrant minority is very much on the outside of mainstream German society. There are a host of reasons for this: cultural, historic, economic, social, educational, and financial. Oh, and there’s the language thing, which also doesn’t help as a bridge.

But just like in the good ‘ol US of A, (emphasis on old, as in the Fifties) and the way our forebears used to do things (don’t hate me for saying used to, and don’t hate me for not saying we still do) when it came to minority issues and the rights of minorities, German today is totally backward when it comes to this issue.

Our cozy group from across the country got to witness this up close during an enlightening and engaging dinner presentation by Parliamentarian Ozcan Mutlu, who represents a district within Berlin (Neukoln) for the Green Party.

Mutlu ran through the issues, personalized it in clear and unambiguous terms, repeatedly said he’s an optimist, and sees the glass as half full on these issues, but left the impression that there may not even be that much liquid to drink from the beer mug.

For starters, he has been told on more than one occasion by authorities that he is being profiled because they are searching for terrorists. His son, born in Germany, was told by a driver’s education instructor to go back home to Turkey. The instructor, a Berlin police officer, knew from class registration that the teenager was German born.

Mutlu bemoaned the dreadfully small number of stories on the Turkish community on German public television, noting that every train wreck gets full coverage. (sound familiar, tv pals?) He decried that there are very few elected officials of Turkish heritage, but said inroads have been made in that there are now 200 police officers with Turkish ancestry on the force in Berlin. But wait. There are a total of 18,000 cops in Berlin. 200 comprise a shade over 1%. In a country with a minority population in the high teens. Since when does1% count as a success story?

So when I say the good ‘ol US of A, the analogy fits. Back to the day of Beaver and Wally and Ike and all those good things we had going on during those happy days of the 50’s.

Perhaps what the Turkish community needs is a Rosa Parks, unwilling to go to the back of the bus, and willing to advance a cause on principle regardless of the cost.

Germany has that with its national soccer team. 11 of the 23 players are from immigrant families. Many of them are Turkish. Their top player, Mesut Özill, is of Turkish heritage, and he publicly decided to play for Germany in this past year’s World Cup, much to the delight of Germans, and Germans of Turkish origin. Still, his bio leads with this line: ‘A German-born son of a Turkish immigrant,’ which suggests there’s still a long way to go for even those who have risen to the top of their field.

So while there may be some small things over which there is commonality, and we all know that sports has proven over time to be a stepping stone for the disenfranchised, Mutlu does not want Özill, or other German footballers to get involved in politics. Even after being told the story of Jackie Robinson and how he helped move America forward, Mutlu does not think their attitudes would have any bearing on the public.

Well, that’s probably short sighted, but it does go to show you how dated attitudes are in Germany today, at least in some areas, and still how far communities living on the margin (there’s a 50% unemployment rate for the Turkish community in Berlin) have to go if they opt not to take advantage of what others might see as golden opportunities.

So I must defer to Mutlu on whether his glass is half full, and wish him luck on getting some real juice in that cup.

Cool day, bad architecture

2010-12-14T18:10:00.003-05:00

Sometimes, it all comes together.

The sky opens. The sea parts. Sometimes, even, the girl says yes.

It’s called the A-ha moment.

Today, I had that experience, on a cold and blustery day in a concrete slab of a building in the middle of nowhere in Berlin.

Amidst back to back meetings, and hearing how taking government money means you can define yourself as independent (because you don’t have to take private funds), I was taken to a modern building housing a major German think tank for an afternoon chat about politics and purpose.

Amidst a welcome treat of apfel strudel and black tea, I listened to wonks waxing about progressive German politics, and bad American politics. No surprise there.

The building in which I was in, well, that was something completely different.

The Heinrich-Böll-Stiftung is the foundation and think tank for the German Green party. The Greens are what you would expect, a left of center pro-environment movement. They’re a force in Germany, and hope to lead several German states following spring elections.

The building for the Böll-Stiftung is an exceptionally modernist structure that was completed in 2008 by the Swiss architecture firm eckert eckert architeckten/e2a. It incorporates a number of highly technological and equally impressive measures to bring the building’s carbon footprint damn near zero.

From the triple pane glass, complete with argon gas to reduce the effect of direct sunlight, to the extra thick concrete flooring, which features water cooled and heated piping within a five foot perimeter of each exterior wall, to the server room that heat the building, to the HVAC system that recycles itself, silently, in the basement, and the photovoltaic cells on the roof, this is one helluva unique building.

But.

Yeah, but.

But for all this coolness. But for all this hipness. But for all this design, and exterior style, and seeming functionality, this building is one ugly ass cold and soulless excuse for a modern office building.

It’s worth bearing with me on this one.

Sounds bounces around the omnipresent poured concrete. The carpet inlaid as runner throughout the office corridors has the consistency of 60 grade sandpaper, and the texture of cheap plastic Astroturf. Each office has inverted ribbon windows that can open, yet since the building is called a ‘lung’ you’re not allowed to puncture the lung by creating a hole in it’s cavity. So, no open windows. And no one is allowed to lay carpet or rugs on the floor, and all are asked to keep wall hanging to a minimum, in order to enhance air flow and circulation. So slab grey floors. Like in a warehouse. Just lovely and inviting.

So it’s like being Jonah for 8 hours a day, being inside a living organism, but not really being able to live.

This building may define architectural modernity and environmental sensitivity, but its severity is too great for all but a cubicle dwelling masochist to appreciate.

Prisoners might find this space familiar, with the concrete walls, floors, and ceiling, as well as the appearance of openness, which can be jarring, but by the time you finish the visit, realize is a false promise of design and environmentalism.

The German modernist Mies is attributed as saying ‘form follows function.’ I know, it wasn’t Mies, but Louis Sullivan, who actually said “form ever follows function.” But while this modernist piece has form, it surely drains clean every ounce of function. And it’s a shame. For the plan is welcome, and creative. But the execution, well, it’s just plain horrible. And that appears to be the building’s legacy. A shame indeed.

Energy, Climate, and Enviro Policy: Oh, Boy!

2010-12-13T18:41:00.001-05:00

Amazing what difference a day makes. Especially when it’s a day complete with presentations and programs. Let’s go to the numbers: seven policy experts, over two meals, and 14 hours. Long day, rich with information and calories. Oh, and two thirty minute train rides. Can’t forget mass transit.

The day began and ended with exceptionally intense policy discussions with two respected German trans-Atlanticists, SPD Bundestag member Uli Klose, and German Marshall Fund Fellow Constanze Steizenmueller.

And the middle dayparts were filled with substantive discussions on energy and climate policy at the German Foreign Office, as well as a visit to the famous Potsdam Institute for Climate Impact Research, one of the foremost centers for the study of global warming. If only policymakers and brilliant theoretical scientists were able to communicate directly with us, perhaps they would be better able to command the attention of those who don’t possess their primary interests, or their intellectual firepower.

But for the early morning and late evening speakers, Klose and Steizenmueller, they each expressed concern about the future. Klose about the long term, Steizenmueller the short term. Each had primary concerns: Russia for Klose, which he feels should recognize its’ role as part of Europe, not the globe; and China for Steizenmueller, which she feels can move things forward, but has to be more transparent, and more bold in it’s international affairs.

Klose feels Germany will continue to lend support to the U.S. in Afghanistan, even with a vote coming up in Parliament next month. And while he is concerned about the challenge to the Euro that exists with the European debt crisis, he feels that it won’t lead to street protests, or any virulent type of public opposition.

Steizenmueller, on the other hand, was nothing short of dark and depressing. On a cold winter’s night in Berlin, it was as though with her words she was trying to mirror the temperature we all felt on our walk to dinner through a deserted Brandenburg Gate, a temperature impacted by the sub-freezing chill.

Though she expressed a bit of optimism by noting that the self-regulating nature of the American system seems to adapt to change, she didn’t feel that Germany, or Europe, had that same flexibility. Some, perhaps, but not as much as their neighbor 4000 miles west. Her concerns for China, which were significant, and deep, were not as great as her sense that India has the leg up on the race to lead the 21st century, or that Turkey has made significant progress as a nation in this past decade, or that Russia poses a challenge, but not as a military power, but as a geo-political entity.

After closing out with a line about conflict trumping cooperation, noting that this seems to be the prevailing manner in Chinese leadership circles, she all but threw up her arms in dismay at the challenge that those who govern civil society have been compelled to address.

Oh, to think what joy tomorrow might bring. If there is a tomorrow, following tonight's Cassandra. Anon.

Energy Policy, German Style

2010-12-12T18:16:00.001-05:00

This is a different sort of week for me. I’m putting aside my journalism hat (sort of) and sitting on a week’s worth of programs on German policy and programs with regard to energy, climate, and the environment.

And as long as inspiration remains, and fatigue stays away, I’ll be blogging each day about the program. Straight line blogging, more of a report, than blogging with the verve and style to which I know you’ve grown accustomed.

But this ain’t boiled vegetables, as there will be some style and taste and even flava infused in each posting.

So here goes, folks.

I’m over in Berlin, taking part in programs and meetings put together by the NYC based American Council on Germany. Along with a dozen other Americans from the fields of energy, finance, law, government, and media, we have been invited to hear how Germany utilizes their limited energy resources to drive the world’s fourth largest economy.

This evening, at our introductory dinner, the featured speaker was the President of the Foundation for the German Green Party. Unlike the United States, where the two major political parties in no way have think tanks or foundations that hold forth on principled views and produce white papers, each of the five major German political parties each has their own Foundation.

Ralf Fücks (I know, I know) is the President of the Heinrich-Böll-Stiftung, which is directly aligned with the pro-environmental Green Party. Fücks regularly addresses audiences, both in Germany, and overseas, and is one of the faces for the German Greens.

He was quite conversant not only on German energy and environmental policy, but on what’s not only happening right now in the United States, but what he would hope could happen in the United States in order for us to embrace a more green lifestyle.

In short, Fücks acknowledged that conditions and politics are different enough in Germany that the success which has been enjoyed by the Greens as of late (20% favorability in national polls), green issues and policies becoming accepted by the mainstream, green politicians and programs having a ‘hip’ cache, are all part of what it means for the Greens to represent what he calls the new modernity.

Fücks reminded us that renewable energy is thriving in Germany, with 17% of German energy usage coming from solar, wind, or biomass. Compared to less than 1% of US energy coming from these sources, this is significant.

In order to enhance prospects in the US for growth in non-carbon energy, Fücks hoped that more than a short term stimulus plan (along the lines of the 2008 bill) could be enacted by Washington, leading to long term investment, the transfer of scientific findings, and real growth in this area.

And he didn’t rave on about nuclear, didn’t point fingers at America or Americans, never once mentioned the word ‘Hummer’ or insisted that we all bicycle to work in even snow and sleet.

In Germany, Fücks argued that resource efficiency “has enhanced Germany’s economic independence.” While he did not speak directly to Germany’s link to Russia over energy, he argued that efficiency and environmentalism has helped Germany wrest itself from the situation the US faces, with significant energy consumption and energy costs.

Fücks added that he would like to see environmental education enhanced in the United States. By that he suggests more alternative forms of transportation, better use of public transit, and also, on the corporate level, a switch from government subsidy to corporate investment in green solutions to energy usage.

Fücks acknowledged none of this would happen overnight, but he expressed guarded optimism that the Obama Administration could still produce the spark essential to moving this forward in the next year or so.

Day One: German Energy and Environment Study Tour

2010-12-12T16:44:00.001-05:00

It’s early Sunday morning, according to my body. It’s actually 1:45pm where I sit in Germany.

I have just arrived (though I still have to fly on to Berlin from my perch at the airport in Frankfurt) for a series of meetings and discussions on energy and the environment.

The good people with the American Council on Germany have invited me to be part of a group of 12 energy consultants, financial analysts, lawyers, and journalists who will be taking in the German perspective on energy, environmental and climate policy.

We’ll visit with senior staff at the Reichstag, meet with the American Ambassador, and hear from a number of experts (and wannabes, I’ll bet) over the course of the next few days.

My role, I presume, is to blog about this program, the experience, the insight, and the contrast with the United States on these issues.

I anticipate a very fulsome week of meetings and programs, some challenging, some quite likely to be dreadful, but hopefully overall engaging enough to be worth the time of a week in Berlin in the dead of winter.

More to follow. Stay tuned. And ask questions. Glad to be a conduit. Come one come all. Don’t be shy with those questions.

a day in the life, or time wasted in Frankfurt's airport

2010-12-12T15:41:00.002-05:00

Arriving in Frankfurt is never a pleasant experience.

And I was not surprised this morning.

Grey skies, cold weather, crisp attendants, mid-field arrival. All the best parts of international travel.

But this is just the start.

I manage to get a standing room position in the front of the shuttle bus to the terminal. After a serpentine route that I think detoured to Luxembourg, we de-bussed (?) and proceeded up a three story escalator. This was all new, as even though I have flown through Frankfurt about ten times, every experience is different.

This time, atop the escalator, we were presented with a number of slots for which to pass through customs. With nary a word, and very little wait, I was allowed in to Germany. Danke schoen.

But there the mystery began.

Arriving passengers were directed to examine the departure board, but my flight, two hours ahead, was not yet listed. Fortunately, my boarding pass did have a gate assignment, so I proceeded in the direction of the ‘A’ gates.

After a 5 minute walk through a non-descript part of the airport, one with the tarmac on one side, and a security entrance with magnetometers and bag check on the other side, I was directed to a very long line. This line, in fact, appeared to be headed towards the security gate. As there were literally no other options, I was compelled to stick in this line, which meandered out of the security space, and hosted travelers (judging by their passports) from literally all over the world. (note to world: you don’t look very good in the morning).

Along with the other confused and air-weary, we snaked through this line for thirty minutes, amusing ourselves with the antics of the Italian family who insisted on getting ahead of everyone, the Japanese group of 30, who managed to stay together and find the longest security line of the half dozen presented to us, and those fellow business travelers who maintained various degrees of attitude during this process.

As I had slept through virtually the entire trans-Atlantic flight, I had been able to pocket the delicious and nutritious snacks and beverages the friendly flight attendants on United had provided. Well, they beverages did not make it through the gate, though I was provided the opportunity to guzzle the contents of my water bottle (note to self: good idea not to fill water bottle with vodka!), and with a nod, was allowed to bring through the 4 ounce already packed yogurt that was United’s breakfast treat.

Bored? Well, the journey was by no mean over. After passing through this security and pedestrian phalanx, I went searching for my gate. Turns out I needed another terminal for the ‘A’ gates, as I was in ‘B’ terminal at that time. So like many other previous visits, I descended three flights of stairs, found myself under the tarmac on a horizontal escalator (can the Fraport people visit O’Hare to see how moving people can be less droll), and into the ‘A’ terminal.

Before finding the entryway to ‘A’ I saw a host of people having to goo through yet another screening in the ‘B’ terminal. Anticipating this ignominy, I have to admit a bit of relief in finding my arrival into ‘A’ terminal to be uneventful. Took an elevator up the three stories to my level, and once the doors opened, I was welcomed by the familiar sights and sounds and smells of a modern European airport.

And it is there, amidst the free newspapers (there’s a way to save the US newspaper industry, compel the airlines and airports to buy truckloads of dead trees for travelers) and morning coke lights and all too omnipresent German hot dogs and severe hairstyles, that I found some space near a window, sat down with the grey sky as my backlight, and reviewed the waste of the past 90 minutes of my life.

Should I send the Reichstag the bill?

What to do with 3+ hours at O’Hare, 12-3-10 version

2010-12-04T16:11:00.001-05:00

Well, it is definitely a familiar place. And certainly even more so this morning.

Following a dreadfully early flight out of the dust belt and cow country (all meant with the most sincerety and flattery), a similarly early arrival at O’Hare fails to produce the inspiration felt previously, on the outbound part of this journey.

Instead, there are just observations of my surroundings.

European travelers with two infants, and one grandmother.
Tattooed and muscled (tattoos painted, muscles sculpted) twenty-something guy with unusually appealing twenty-something girlfriend. It’s 20 degrees outside, but this couple is showing skin. Must be heading south, or southbound.
Young men sip beer (it’s 10am, dude!) at the bar, while middle age women savor rum and coke.
Pilot in civilian clothes working through a paperback.
Older teen from unknown country (Moroco, Italy, Bulgaria???) sleeping mouth agape against a backpack that seems to be carrying all his worldy possessions (this passes through security at TSA? A backpack the size of a water cooler?)
Beefy and gray 40-something men wearing sweats and signature sports apparel, high fiving and hugging a Chicago cop on the beat, as their similarly attired 14 year old sons, one with a Mohawk, effort to pull of the carelessness that would come natural if they were really cool, and not just the stereotypes of the dumb HS jock.
A 60 year old couple, each nattily dressed, clipped, packed for travel, silently reading their respective Kindles.
Young women of varying ages wearing black tights in lieu of other lower extremity toppings, apparently unaware of the public appearance of their own limited fitness.

All the while, maintenance men circle the gates, retrieving what little waste has been created pre-lunch hour, ignoring the absence of any recycling boxes, newspaper drops, or glass/plastic bins.

The airport version of CNN streams on one of the overhead monitors, reporting President Obama’s surprise trip to Afghanistan, alongside reports of a still faltering economy, and questions about what the Congress will do about extending Bush era tax deductions.

It’s all very familiar, and yet probably strange to those who don’t have to frequent the airport.

And it’s all a bore, as it’s dead time, time that could have been spent reading, or writing, or traveling, instead of blogging about people at O’Hare who also find themselves in a temporary holding pattern.

And this cycle will repeat itself, quite soon, I’m sure.

a day in the life, at O'Hare airport, 12/1/10

2010-12-04T15:42:00.000-05:00

Shit, I’m back in O’Hare.

OK, Apocalypse Now humor might not apply here. Better yet, it doesn’t apply now. Check with me if I’m stuck here another 24 hours from now. But don’t think that will happen. It’s a grey day, but not much precipitation, and flights are coming and going here. I should be en route to Oklahoma City on time.

There’s a familiarity with O’Hare. Anyone who travels shares that, I’m sure. For some it’s the lines, which swamp gates and arrival/departure boards every so often. For others it’s the food kiosks. Where else can you get coated nuts in an airport. What’s with Nuts on Clark anyway? For all of us, it’s the distance. Unless you are fortunate enough to have a connection in the terminal in which you arrive, you’re going to walk. Today, I walked from the end of the ‘B’ terminal, under the tarmac, and over and across to the regional terminal, to the far end of the ‘F’ terminal. This was an 18 minute walk, about a mile. That’s a lot of ground covered, and I didn’t stop at any point along the way.

For me, the familiarity with O’Hare comes from the architecture. Those repetitive yet simple and clean steel arches that support and lift the main terminals, at least the United terminals, are very soothing. They seem to smile down on you, guide you like a beacon towards your destination. They’re like stars in the night. Wherever you are in the terminal, when you look up, there they are. And they are as far as the eye can see, at least because this terminal seems terminal, and endless.

The straddle and cover food courts, restrooms, and a range of kiosks. So they top over crap, and junk, and spaces mostly passed right by. But they cover us, shielding us from the glare of the sun’s rays, or the bite from the winter’s wind, or the bluster of a snowy burst. And they’re just there. And they’ll be there when I come back through, reversing my course, in a scant 48 hours.

And they’ll provide the same reinforcement, and the same familiarity, and hopefully will provoke the same sensation.

We’ll see.

why do those fish keep swimming in the barrel?

2010-11-20T16:36:00.003-05:00

an open letter

Dear former Governor Palin:

It appears that you have managed to put together your second book in two years, all the while traversing the lower 48 on behalf of your grizzly cubs, decrying the free media while accepting paid media opportunities, and communicating directly with your fans and acolytes via digital media.

Now there's some leakage from this book, including the following line:

"Do you ever wonder where the producers of American Idol come up with the seemingly endless supply of people who can’t sing but are deluded enough to get up in front of a national television audience and screech out a song anyway?"

let's play a fun word game for a moment, and do the following with some words:

If you replace producers with parties, people with candidates, sing with lead, and song with speech in this line, would you be talking about yourself?

"Do you ever wonder where the parties come up with the seemingly endless supply of candidates who can’t lead but are deluded enough to get up in front of a national television audience and screech out a speech anyway?"

Sincerely,

Looking Back on Reunions

2010-11-19T16:05:00.001-05:00

Over the past 25 years, I’ve been to literally dozens of reunions. There have been work related reunions, High School reunions, College reunions. Hell, even funerals these days are reunions by another name.

But clearly, here in America, we place great weight on our high school and college reunions. Having recently attended one of each, and having attended widely divergent schools for high school and then college, I thought I would share some observations.

First off, nothing ever really changes.

Remember the beautiful but distant girl who would never talk to you, dated guys much cooler than you, and then disappeared. Well, she still won’t talk to you, and even with nametags, the silence suggests she doesn’t even remember you. That is if she even bothers to attend. (Girls, replace girl with guy. You get it.)

Remember the person who was a bore back then. Well, they’re even more boring now. Which means they try to take even more of your time. Which makes the, ‘excuse me, I see the canapés are being handed out on the other side of the room, I better go’ line that much harder to employ.

Secondly, not all of us look as lean and lithe as we did way back when. From high school, the cool guys really didn’t turn out all that well. They’ve gained the most weight, have the least interesting jobs, and don’t speak that highly of their exes. From college, the cool guys made the most money, date supermodels, don’t care any more about their exes, and travel regularly.

So Porsches trump Camaros, but I suppose we always knew that.

Third, nobody plays sports anymore, regardless of their level of activity in their youth. Sure, there are weekend duffers, and yoga devotees, but with one or two exceptions, mostly for solo sports like bicycling and running, physical competition has long since left the building.

And the most telling point, particularly with regard to nothing really changes, is that whatever you were back in high school, with rare exceptions, you still are today, 30 years later.

For example, those at the top of the graduating class still remember the order rank for themselves and their classmates, and click it off like they are running down the states that went from Democrat to Republican in the mid-term election. Hey, it’s been 30 years. You’ve graduated from a fucking Ivy League school, have 2.5 kids, a home in the Westchester suburbs, and still this shit matters to you. Gimme a break. Why do you need to reinforce this, particularly among the people who are already on this road with you. And why do you still have to turn down your nose at the others?

On the other hand, the folks who lived on the edge in the 70’s, smoking and drinking, and engaging in serial youthful indiscretions, seem to still revel in that, as though it’s not just a badge, but a lifestyle. Again, it’s been 30 years. What are you up to now?

A big difference is that high school kids are more inclined to talk about injuries, overcoming physical obstacles or limitations, than college friends, who would probably prefer to hire counsel to take care of that cancer scare, or the restrictions resulting from that accident.

But while nothing ever really changes, you do find out that high school was really just a phase for some people, and that for these folks, they were neither scarred, tarnished, nor handicapped by that time and place. And these folks, ironically people who have moved away from home, mostly great distances, and in each instance to communities significantly different than the close-in NYC burbs, seemed to have not only grown the most, but seem most comfortable and at ease. And they were the most revealing, and the most interesting to talk with, whether early in the evening, or later at night, when libations somehow still managed to flow.

Perhaps it’s what I get out of these events, but connecting with someone I either knew briefly, not that well, or in some cases, not at all, but with whom there was a shared experience (a bus ride to school for several years, a class, or just attendance at the same school for a year or so), makes the time and the effort involved in getting to these things quite worthwhile. And in that sense, whether it’s a meeting of former blue collar kids in an Italian restaurant on Central Avenue in Yonkers, or overachieving high flying Ivy Leaguers on the main green in Providence, that shared experience, whenever it was, provides us with the foundation for a conversation, and a reminder of who we are, and how we got there.

As for where we go from here, I am ever more convinced that relatively few of us have a clue, except for those who are living out their dreams, following the path they set upon a while back, and nailing it. But I do know that with a class of high school kids who are now everything from repairmen to milkmen to bra-fitters to court reporters and even anesthesiologists, we’ve got the bases covered. And the makings for another helluva party, if we ever find a way to get together again.

And I still think it would probably remain a good idea to keep my HS buds and my college pals apart. Was never certain if Porsches and Camaros mixed. Or how that would work. That would be a test of how the rubber meets the road!

What should journalists know?

2010-11-11T14:04:00.001-05:00

Looking for suggestions on points and ideas for a project I'm putting together on the important things that all journalists should know. It's intended for students, mostly undergraduate students, but could also be applied by grad students in J school. Any and all suggestions are welcome. If anecdotal, share the anecdote. Reinforcement helps.

Journalism redux: Things Seem to Happen in Threes

2010-11-09T15:20:00.002-05:00

Over the past few weeks, we have seen a number of examples of radio and television journalists who have stepped over the ethics line, and been slapped back into place by their bosses.

First, Juan Williams made offensive remarks on FOX News about his perspectives on traditional Muslims, and was summarily fired from his other job, at NPR, for those remarks.

Then, in a matter that received much less attention than the first, two Anchorage based television news producers with KTVA CBS 11 were fired from their jobs for making inflammatory statements about the campaign that Joe Miller was running for Alaska's Senate seat. Not only did the producers challenge the integrity of Millers' campaign supporters, but they allegedly joked about using their newsroom positions to denigrate Miller and his campaign in reporting.

And in the capstone to all this, MSNBC's top host, Keith Olbermann, was suspended indefinitely (ultimately for two shows) after it was revealed that he had made financial contributions to three Democratic candidates in the fall 2010 mid-term elections.

In each instance, these journalists engaged in inappropriate, unethical, or offensive behavior. Each deserved to be punished, and to be chastised for what they did.

But for NPR to fire Juan Williams for the statements he made on FOX, when asked his opinion, smacks of political correctness, and suggests that NPR not only overstepped, but was looking for a way to remove Williams from public radio. Fining him, or taking him off the air for a period of time, would have been an acceptable response. But firing, without pretense, and with little cause (remember, his 'action' occured on another network, in another medium), was not only excessive, but ham handed. (When was the last time you heard of a person fired over the phone, let alone a ten year employee) Perhaps NPR will learn how to discipline staff in a more responsible, open and transparent manner in the future.

As for KTVA and Millergate, in this instance, firing these two producers for their inappropriate comments was excessive. Clearly, these individuals stepped out of bounds with their comments, comments recorded on the cell phone of Miller's campaign press secretary. But to summarily fire producers for inane comments, or for mocking politicians, hell, where would we be? Who would we have to cover campaigns? How would we have those gridiron dinners, and such, here in DC each year, where pols are publicly mocked by the 4th estate? Mocking candidates, campaigns, and politicians may not be the world's oldest profession, but it's certainly up there. Crossing a line doesn't justify things, but summarily firing these folks was rash, particularly when suspensions and fines could have had the same effect. After all, Miller supporters, and right-wingers nationwide, still will not harbor any love for KTVA and its' news team, even after this firing. And ripping apart a newsroom to make a point doesn't suggest this is a team that will be moving forward as a unit to advance to the next stage after this incident.

As for Keith Olbermann, the light slap he received from MSNBC is way too minimal for an offense that is perhaps the most significant of the three referenced here. It was words that got Williams and the KTVA producers in hot water. Words. Important words, but not actions. Olbermann took action, and committed $7200 to Democratic candidates, in clear violation of NBC and MSNBC policy, regardless of what he says. Journalists of any character know that among the cardinal rules, primary among them is not to contribute to a candidate for office. How Olbermann missed that, after 25 years in the business, and how he manages to apologize to his audience, but not his MSNBC bosses, particularly after they let him off easy, iss churlish and insincere.

We may differ on the merits on each of these matters, or the justice in any one of them, but for journalists in electronic media, the lessons we must remember in this digital age is to be responsible, remember you're always on, and to focus your contributions or philanthropy to those organizations that are legitimate non-profit entities.

Capitalizing

2010-10-20T21:15:00.002-04:00

Been up to, well, eyeballs would work here, been up to my eyeballs with Germans for a while now, so my mind focuses those eyeballs by checking out maps. Not maps of Europe or Asia or Africa, but of the US, and those capital cities, and capital buildings, that have somehow managed to escape me.

Let's see, there's some nearby, like Lansing and Frankfurt, then those a bit further on, like Nashville and Little Rock. Then we start pushing distance and serious road tripping, with Springfield (that's the one in Illinois), Des Moines, Madison, Bismarck, Pierre, Lincoln, Topeka, Oklahoma City (though that itch should be scratched in December), Helena, Boise, and perhaps the toughest of the lot, Carson City.

15 Capitols remaining. 14 by year's end. Wonder how long this adventure is going to take. Working on a goal. Open to suggestions. And music for the road.

Frontier Days

2010-09-18T09:44:00.002-04:00

Alaskans pride themselves as living on the last frontier. They boast of being the westernmost state, being twice as big as Texas, as wide as the continental United States, and having almost half the land of the lower 48, combined.

Certainly the facts (square mileage, latitude and longitude) cannot be argued. But just about everything else can.

Alaska, and Alaskans, certainly are different. But so are New York and New Yorkers, Colorado and Coloradans, and California and Californians.

Each place, and the people who inhabit them, have certain intangible qualities that help to provide definition and framing. And our media and common lore often play off these qualities, accentuating those characteristics that are different (think about the brash New Yorker, or the new age Californian) , while not really helping to explain why those traits exist in the first place.

Alaskans seem to pride themselves on their individuality, and their distance from civilization. Their connection to the outdoors, to the basic aspects of human survival, and human instincts. How that translates to truck sales, I don’t know, but it seems as though advertisers and marketers have certainly tried.

Over the course of a week in Anchorage, and a day in the capital city of Juneau, I began to develop a sense of the place. It’s pretty country, and rough no doubt. But in many more ways than not, it’s awfully familiar to the places we live in the lower 48, just more so.

To start, in the urban core of Anchorage, there’s plenty of visible poverty, in the form of a sizable homeless population. Restricted from panhandling by law, these men (I saw mostly young men) congregate in small public spaces, and bide their time with games and idle banter. Homelessness in America is no surprise in 2010. It was to me, however, in Anchorage, a place where it must be tough to be on the street in winter. And the volume of food shelters and pantries, some running up against each other in a well worn part of town, testify to the need.

Overheard conversations provide a cheap thrill, at times. But they can also provide an unvarnished perspective. Hearing some of the older men at a downtown athletic club gripe about the state of affairs in America, and what’s wrong with people today, provided some context on the recent success of Alaska’s former governor, Sarah Palin, and the tea party movement in general. Alaska may certainly be ground zero, or at least one of the ground zeroes, in the debate raging across the country. So in that way things are no different than in the other states. But up in Alaska the physical distance from Washington, DC, if not the rest of the country, does provide context for the criticism that regular folks have for the way government is run, and the way dollars are spent.

It’s ironic, however, given the size of the federal presence in Alaska, whether that’s in the form of the Interior Department, or the Defense Department, or the literal payback that Alaskans receive each fall from the oil revenue generated from drilling. But that seems to be an irony only to outsiders, and those few who acknowledge being progressive in a state where even liberal carry handguns.

Holing up at an area college on a project, conversations with the student population covered a range a bit wider than with a prototypical student,, but only with regard to there being more issues with fewer people. While one student missed classes over a week due to time out in the bush moose hunting, another was away due to the birth of his child. In neither instance did the student feel he should have contacted a professor to let them know of their absence, nor seek permission to be away. But in suspecting that their actions were perfectly understandable, and that it should not have bearing on their grades, these students were similar to their colleagues at campuses across the nation. Self righteous, and perhaps indignant had their professors gotten in their face about the need to communicate. But moose hunting? When was the last time you heard that one as an excuse for an absence. And acknowledging an out of wed birth? Same goes. Not your everyday occurance, though of course it happens.

Still, people up in Alaska, seem friendlier, at least initially. Whether it’s stopping in Wasilla, or strolling in Barrow, they are polite, civil, and seemingly meaningful in their actions. When someone says they will do something, they do it, and they mean it. Words seem to have meaning here, and words seem to be ways in which Alaskans bond with one another.

While no cross words were sent my way up north, some folks were free with their criticism of former governor Sarah Palin. One couple, in fact, asked if I would take her back to DC when I returned. Not to provide her with a political forum, but to get her out of their hair in Alaska.

So that surprised me. The bare criticism of this neo-celebrity, someone exalted across America as a demi-god of a movement, yet apparently lacking widespread support across the very place she calls home.

But perhaps in the end that is the quality that defines Alaska. People are much more than the two-dimensional cardboard cutouts that we have of them in our mind, and are more richly layered and textured following some time among them. And much like those New Yorkers and Coloradans and yes, even those damn Californians, there’s more to them than what you get at first, and there’s more to them than they let on, and even share.

Even if there’s no way in hell a place as uglified by strip malls and K-marts can in any way with pride call itself the frontier!

a week in the life

2010-08-20T10:58:00.002-04:00

Now I know why John Lennon didn't write a song longer than 'A Day in the Life.'

I could start with 'woke up, got out of bed' but from there it just deviates significantly.

Though it's still early on a Friday, over the course of this week there's been a car purchase, a curriculum update, a welcome invitation to speak, confirmation on upcoming workshops and programs, and lessons from eastern Europeans on the benefits that come with smoking.

But even the smoking nonsense about smoking pales with the latest development. One that is just so amusing, so comic, and perhaps so expected, that it trumps the sight this morning of a man storing his cell phone in his crotch. Is that a conference call you're on, or are you just glad to be riding the Red Line?

The comedy ensues from a brand new used car, one with an apparent car alarm. An alarm with it's own mind, or it's own schedule. Or perhaps concerns for my neighborhood. As this alarm goes off at will, for no known reason. No vibration, no noise, no contact, nothing.

So I do the first thing anyone would do in this circumstance. I called the dealership. Well, the cell for the salesperson. He was polite, but reiterated that electrical issues are not covered under the limited 30 day warranty, and that perhaps it could all be fixed with a new battery, or something with the fancy key fob, basically something that is beyond his or the dealership's control.

Then, as an aside, he added that he's no longer with the dealership, no longer working where he was a scant few days ago. Poof, no longer a used car salesman for Jim Coleman Toyota. Wonderful. And when asked for the name of someone at the dealership who could possibly answer my questions, and still works there, he offered the name of the used car sales manager. But just his first name. Didn't have both names. Thought it might be Silverman, but knew it wasn't. Since found out it's Stilman, but that's besides the point.

What a great country we live in, where our major issues have to do with a quirky alarm on a car that won't be repaired by a car dealership that either can't hold or tosses away salesman at the drop of a hat.

At least we're not waiting for a tram, in the rain, smoking a cigarette, in Belgrade. Well at least we're not today.

music lyrics

2010-08-12T16:39:00.003-04:00

it's funny how lyrics from songs, regardless of whether they're popular, or just personal faves, pop up in the mind.

today's list has ranged from the Stone's 'Waiting on a Friend' to the Velvet's 'Vicious' over to various ditties by the Ramones.

70's hard rock and basic punk, including inspiration. must be inspired by an upcoming Cleveland trip which will have to include a pilgrimage to the RnR HoF.

funny thing, haven't heard many of these lately, so the tracks running through the mind become a subconscious I-pod. Cool.

rock on, as Wayne and Garth earned fame saying, and David Essex profited from singing.

Ten reasons newspapers still matter

2010-07-26T17:01:00.002-04:00

1)They are democratic. Just about everyone has access to one. Ever see a homeless person reading the daily paper on a Kindle?
2)They make nice paper hats.
3)They can also serve as umbrellas in a brief downpour.
4)They can be used as toys for some.
5)They can be used as weapons against others (and pretty goods ones, too).
6)They can provide protection against a strong wind.
7)They serve as an alternative to lathering up with sun block, if held above the face.
8)In an emergency, they can be used as a mop or sponge.
9)They make for a nice flat blanket against a cold or damp seat.
10)The perennial fly swatter.
11)They make for a very nice, if a bit cumbersome, fan.
12)When jotting around the margins, they make for a nice notepad.
13)They still contain more information in one easy to transport case than just about any other device or implement currently known to humankind. And they're quite easily replacable, require no monthly service fee, and provide us with space and privacy in the event we wish to place one in front our nose while on the subway.

Top Ten Cities for recent College Grads

2010-07-21T17:42:00.002-04:00

The Bloomberg publication Business Week has released its list of the top ten cities for recent college graduates. Using a metric based on the employment rate, the cost of living, and other factors, BW found four Texas cities in the top ten, and several other mid-tier cities that might not be on your target list of places to live.

Some on the list, DC and Denver, for example, offer quite a bit, and are distinctly livable. But Columbus? And Pittsburgh! C'mon, who are they kidding. Been there, but wouldn't want to live there.

Took on Cleveland in another forum. Anyone want to come to the defense of the Lone Star State, or the rust belt? Doubtful.

Businessweek’s 2010 list of Best Cities for New College Grads:

Houston
Washington, D.C.
Dallas
Atlanta
Austin
Minneapolis
Pittsburgh
Denver
Columbus
Fort Worth

Ranting and Raving

2010-07-01T14:00:00.002-04:00

There's often plenty to rant about.

The price of gasoline. The heat. The presence of oil in precious Gulf waters. The humidity. Your kids. Your neighbors kids. Kids. Finding out that Al Gore may have had a sex life. And, of course, anything having to do with close relatives.

But here's a new one.

New to me, at least.

It seems that the British government has finally gotten around to announcing that former BP CEO Lord Browne is now being named the country's efficiency czar.

Of course not everyone who has in any way ever been affiliated with BP bears any responsibility for the disaster that's still ongoing down there.

But there are certainly some who do, in particular those who teeter atop corporations such as BP. And it is those folks who bear direct responsibility.

And if the reporting is correct, that like Lord Browne (don't you just love someone who can get away with an old world title in lieu of a first name), you can cut safety and maintenance at your company, all in the name of economy and profit, then you are among the privileged few who bear direct responsibility.

So it goes without saying, though it is still being said, that the new British government is beyond tone deaf for appointing Browne to a spot wherein all of Britain, and now, thanks to the speed of light, all of the world, will be reminded of his decisions while atop BP.

And if anyone thinks he will survive in this position, and that the British government won't have to apologize in short order for the ham-handed nature in which this appointment was both vetted and then named, then I have some sub-prime mortgages in Detroit I would like to sell you.

I tell you, you can't make this stuff up. Even if you wanted to.

we could all benefit from an editor

2010-06-09T18:34:00.002-04:00

it just goes without saying.

even as it goes again both the grain, and the trend.

look at what we twitter, post, share, even graffiti.

pretty soon we'll all return to grunting, caveman style, while trying to create an image on our IPad that conveys what we would otherwise say, if we had a command of language.

it will be strange, but funny.

sort of like the opening scene from Mel Brooks' History of the World.

and while I'm at it, what are people trying to say on facebook? and why are some saying too much, or too little, or just nothing? would we reveal or share if it weren't at the tip of our fingers? would we care? will we ever know?

discuss at your own peril.

no, we're not all the same

2010-06-06T21:47:00.003-04:00

It would be great if we lived without distinctions.

We could carry on and communicate with one another, listening and learning, without having to evaluate whether this person is signficant, and thus worthy of greater attention, or whether that person, well, you know, don't bother.

But it's not that simple.

The wealthy hold sway, carry themselves as if they're important, and if what they have to say, as well as how they say it, really matter.

Unfortunately, it does. As they hold the cards. Or at least printed the deck. Or owned the company that made the ink.

You see, it goes back. And it often goes deep.

But, still, why do they have to be so damn clueless. So unable to distinguish between the simple and the complex. The clear and the murky. The truth and the facts.

You would think that any person who has a basic command of English literacy would be able to understand a sentence, recognize a comment, and interpret meaning.

But to some, and often this applie to those, as we say, of privilege, it just doesn't matter. They choose to listen to what they want, answer the questions they select, if at all, and carry on as if the center of the universe is about them.

And, collectively, we let them.

But it would be great if those titles and zip codes and appurtenances could be stripped away, and we would have to answer ourselves, absent cover and foil.

Yes, that would be nice indeed.

And it would mean we would have to understand one another. Listening, that is. Listening.

Time to be solemn?

2010-05-30T21:12:00.003-04:00

Memorial Day is our moment for solemnity.

Across America, we celebrate our lives, and in our own way, pause to reflect upon what others gave up in support of our way of life.

But that can be reflected in a myriad of ways.

From the humor of the Rhode Island taxi driver, who turns his tour in the 82 Airborne some 50 plus years ago into a series of running gags over the course of a drive to the airport.

To the merchants and marketers, who take yet another opportunity to ply us with a sense of want and desire for yet another item, another bauble, a discount on a purchase intentionally held off until just this sale.

To the Europeans living in the United States, not entirely familiar with all our habits and customs, but are quick to embrace an opportunity for a get-together, for a party.

And it's that confluence which makes for interesting moments. For example, this afternoon, at a party thrown by a friend from Belgium for friends, colleagues, and neighbors, there were guests from eastern and western Europe, central America, west Africa, and the mid-Atlantic.

Perhaps it's the uniqueness of a place like Washington where you can talk about the qualities of freshly made gelato with the Armenian man who proudly presented this treat to the partygoers. Or to hear from an African women of her concern for her daughter, about to attend an American college as a freshman. Then there's all the French people smoking, but there's no tie-in or analogy for that one.

In a way, the amalgam of people we can come across, all in one place, happens because of the sacrifice made by thousands over the years, continuing to allow our grand experiment in democracy to serve as a guide and a sense of hope for others across the world.

Happy Memorial Day. However you recognize it.

some weekend thoughts

2010-05-07T22:07:00.003-04:00

From our friends at CBS News, one of the MSM baddies, but still among those paying the big bucks for surveys and polls.

On the 50th Anniversary, the golden anniversary, of the birth control pill, some very interesting findings on attitudes and perspectives on this life changing med.

Read down to note, at the end of this cheat sheet, what CBS found on the hypothetical question on whether men would take an equivalent pharmaceutical.

HIGHLIGHTS FROM THE CBS NEWS POLL

--52% of Americans say the birth control pill has been one of the most significant medical developments of the last 50 years. Both women and men think the birth control pill has been an important medical development.

--Four in five Americans think the birth control pill has had at least some effect on American society overall, including 41% who say it’s impacted society a great deal.

54% think the pill has had a great deal of impact on women’s lives in particular.

--Most Americans (56%) say women’s lives were changed for the better because of the birth control pill. Only a quarter think it made no difference, and even fewer say the pill made women’s lives worse. Among women, 54% say women’s lives improved as a result of the pill.

--57% say the pill made it easier for women to have jobs and careers outside the home. Older Americans are especially likely to say this.

Among working women, 55% say the birth control poll has made it easier for women to enter the workforce.

--Most (83%) think the birth control has affected Americans’ attitudes toward sex, including more than half who say it had a great deal of impact on attitudes toward sex.

--In 1966, six years after the pill was approved by the FDA, fewer than half of Americans - 43% - told a Gallup Poll that birth control pills could be used safely without danger to a person’s health. That number has risen to 64% today.

--A majority of women (54%) do not think most men would take birth control pills if they were available. In contrast, two-thirds of men think most men would take the pill if it were available.

Poll story on CBSNEWS.COM

http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2010/05/07/health/main6468828.shtml

I'm not partial on this issue, but....

2010-04-28T17:38:00.002-04:00

Ever come across a story that's just revolting.

Pedophile priests. Check.

The woman who sunk her two kids in a South Carolina lake some years ago to get with her boyfriend. Check.

Michael Jackson. Check.

Well, here's a twist on an old story. Bush meat. Never heard of it. Well, now you wish you really never heard of it.

Steer clear of the balls. At least those unusal ones for sale in parts of Indonesia. That's all I can say. Thankfully The Meatball Shop on the lower east side still has vegetarian offerings.

Two arrested two over monkey meatballs

JAKARTA (Reuters) – Indonesian police have arrested a couple who made meatballs from the flesh of protected monkeys, an animal conservation group said on Wednesday.

The pair poached dozens of rare Javan langurs, also known as silver-leaf monkeys, from Baluran National Park in the east of Java island, according to a statement released by Indonesia-based animal protection group ProFauna.

"Police found 30 kilograms (65 pounds) meat estimated to come from 20 - 25 individuals, two rifles and a live langur," the statement said.

"The couple admitted that they had known what they did was against the law and they hunted the monkeys for their meat because beef and chicken were more expensive than the protected monkeys."

Meatball soup, known locally as bakso, is a popular dish in Indonesia.

The statement said police were now broadening their investigation to include checks on vendors suspected of selling the monkey meatballs, while ProFauna was in talks with the national park caretakers to prevent further poaching.

Indonesian law states that perpetrators of wildlife crimes face a maximum five year prison term and a fine of 5 million rupiah ($555), but the law is not always strictly enforced.

(Editing by David Fox)

Scamming with Spam

2010-04-27T10:59:00.002-04:00

It's a shame that our friends in Cameroon are going to have to suffer for the mistakes of their Nigerian brethren, but that is what happens when trends go viral, even those which have been exposed, pilloried, and revealed.

But yet they continue.

Which begs the question, are they successful, or ar they being scammed by others?

If interested, feel free to conact dear Ms. Veronica Camara at vero2camara@yahoo.com. I'm sure she would appreciate hearing from you. Sorry, no photos.

Dearest one,
Greetings !
I know this letter may come to you as a surprise considering the fact that we have not had formal acquitance before in terms of friendship or business partner but all the same, I would want you for God's sake to give this an immediate attention in view of the fact that the security of my live and possession is at stake. I want you to be my partner as I can agree for you to take possesion of these treasure under my name,
I am Miss.Veronica Jallo Camara,single, the daugther of a late Camara Santo Jallo,Managing Director,Jallo & Sons Mining & Gold Company, / Guinea Conakry, Who died recently due to political clashes. I and my mother left the country for Dakar,Senegal to avoid being killed as political instability is still in place due to military coup detat.
I am also to inform you that my late father had lodged the sum of (US$8. M and gold worth millions of Dollars in the bank.I am pleased to inform you that these money was realised from the gold and mining export and import from my late father's company.I shall be very greatful if you would kindly help me to relocate these funds to your position as well as my humble self to your country where I can begin a new life.
I will accept any condition you may come up with in this direction.You are also free to come down here as you will be very free to meet with me. Awaiting your reply very soon. Greeting and kiss from
Veronica Santo Camara

blogspatical

2010-04-26T20:11:00.002-04:00

yeah, it's been some time. but don't worry. it's like riding a bike. not that i know anything about that, mind you. but i'll be back with some bon mot shortly. you expect as much, i'm sure. perhaps something travel related. would that work for you?

Reflections from a mountain state

2010-04-06T11:40:00.001-04:00

Go west, young man

Horace Greeley popularized this line, first documented a generation before Greeley made it his mantra, and helped to define America’s 19th century spirit and growth.

Sure, it can be interpreted to be a number of things, but for me, it distills down to enjoying the splendor and natural beauty of our vast mountain ranges, still somewhat clear skies and air, and of course crisp water and expansive space and scale.

Though I’ve only driven cross-country but once, I have been able to find myself out in the mountain west on a regular basis.

And right now, I’m in Salt Lake City, fretting over a spring snow, frustrated by my unerring ability to catch winter weather several times over, while not getting to enjoy the benefits that come from sudden snow and fresh powder.

But it provides time to reflect, and consider the openness that exists in these regions, the trust and faith that seems to endure, and the grandness that forever reminds me why people keep turning west for recreation and relaxation.

Salt Lake City itself is a quintessential western city. Set up on wide blocks, with 8 city blocks to the mile, it’s not designed as an urbanist mecca, with too great a distance to walk between places, and too much sprawl to encourage all but the hardiest bikers. (and those folks exist. Even amidst a strong snow last night, there were a pair of riders, with their bikes, in a local grocery store picking up items for dinner)

The city feels a bit dated, perhaps having as much to do with the traditionalism of the Mormon community as anything else. But the architecture adds to this as well. Sure, there are a handful of new and modern projects under construction right near South Temple, but most of the high rises scream 70’s and the ugly phase of modernism. Buried beneath, and documented nicely with placards and other memorials, are the buildings that helped launch this city in the 19th and early 20th century, from classically designed hotels, to social houses, to banks and trading institutions.

The city of course is home to the complex of buildings and facilities run by the LDS, and that still does seem, to a visitor, to be the predominant element here.

But there is more, for those who wish to press further, from the University of Utah up on the hill, the magnificent State Capitol building to the north, the city-county building in the city center, as well as some other complexes that have sprouted up to support and sustain professional sports and entertainment, facilities that had central roles during the 2002 Winter Olympic Games, and some public plazas that really do seem to have come out of the Disney school of architecture and urban planning. Oh, Michael Graves, what have you done to us.

But despite the tranquil appearance, this is still a city, with the problems and issues that come with urban life. While spending time yesterday in the Moshe Sofdie designed public library, I sensed a flash go off in front of me. It seemed odd to see flash photography in the library. Looking up I saw a cop standing near the photographer, and upon second glance I notice the photographer was also in a police uniform, with CRIME SCENE PHOTOGRAPHER clearly marked across her back. So something was amiss in a place some once considered Eden, and judging by the number of marked and unmarked units outside the library, it was something significant.

And it’s a city with a remarkable view of the fantastic Wasatch range, a unique lake, and vistas that run for miles and miles.

Off to talk with students about journalism and media. Perhaps I’ll come up with a way to provide them with inspiration beyond that provided by nature. Naah, not gonna compete with that one!

Still travelling.......

2010-03-26T13:44:00.002-04:00

The saga continues (isn’t it supposed to)

Connecting through Chicago O’Hare in the winter is always an iffy proposition. I have successfully avoided having to do so for many years.

That streak recently came to an end in January.

Last evening, thought it is technically spring, I was reminded that it’s not just snow or rain that can hinder winter travelers through the second city, but yet another meteorological phenomenon. One that the city works to live down, even as generations of tourists play it up.

The phenomenon: wind.

Yes, the windy city is in fact windy at times.

So windy in fact that a connecting flight through O’Hare from Colorado Springs was forced to fly a holding pattern for 55 minutes over some part of that part of the United States that certainly today was flyover country.

And that’s where the story begins.

Dutiful flight attendants on the incoming flight to O’Hare cheerfully told all of us on the RJ-70 where our connecting flights would be gated. That was nice. It was civil. And it was helpful.

But it wasn’t quite accurate, as our flight arrived 65 minutes late, putting a great many of these connecting flights into a category that could best be described as illusory. But in their best impression of Julie Haggerty, they carried forward, and smiled. No waving, just a lot of smiling, and joking. But no assistance with re-connections.

This being a regional jet, rollerboards are not allowed as carry on. So along with a contingent of frequent fliers, I exited the plane, only to wait on the entryway for my bag. And wait I did. For what seemed like an interminable amount of time. And after waiting a few extra minutes to deplane, coming after what appeared to be the longest taxiing trip on the tarmac, even coasting by my scheduled connection to Washington, this was all insufferable.

And I’ll avoid mentioning that it was freezing in Chicago, the gangway was packed with more middle aged white guys looking for bags than at spring training for the Cubs fans, and the wind was coursing through the metal canister in which we were waiting. Yeah, I’ll avoid that, and the heavy steel door that would slam shut like a prison gate each time an airport employee would access the area.

Once my bag made it’s appearance, it became a race to the inevitable, a rush for justice, or really just me trying to make a plane that was inexplicably sitting at a nearby gate 10 minutes after it’s scheduled departure.

Of course there were no gate attendants at the end of the jetway. That would be too much to ask for a flight arriving at O’Hare an hour late in the early evening.

And the departure board nearby was fuzzy, with a digital hit on some of the screens. Naturally, my screen was one of them. But I was able to make out a sign, not the ON TIME sign that was aside a number of scheduled departures. Alongside my flight 624 was a second time, one that I couldn’t completely make out, but one that suggested there was still a chance of this connection working, and thus my avoiding the plane change limbo that would follow.

So off I went. From the ‘E’ wing of O’Hare all the way around to ‘B’ wing, B10 actually, which was quite a distance. I didn’t set my stopwatch, and didn’t stop to catch any of the usually amusing anecdotal images that I find in our airports. And for once, for just this time, speed, consistency, a good set of polyurethane wheels, and a loud voice, all helped to turn an impending disaster into a moment of triumph.

The headline: Good guy wins! Connection Made! No sweat broken! Well, that may be tmi, but I can assure you, my seatmate was happy with that point.

So I made the plane, but only after seeing the gate attendant closing the door. Yelling out to him as I turned the corner, he hesitated, took my ticket, and let me finish my journey across our wide continent.

As for windy, this note might contain too much wind itself. But it’s a fitting coda to the affect that the invisible hand of nature can have on our traveling plans. Plan accordingly, and be prepared to jettison those plans if necessary.

2010-03-23T23:53:00.002-04:00

Airport observations

People are larger in Chicago than in other cities.

Not necessarily in the city, but certainly in the airport. Not sure if they added girth to protect themselves as they hustle through terminals en route to another destination. Not sure if the center of the United States can bear more weight than the fragile coasts, east and west. Not sure if it’s March, and the masses need the mass to survive what have been described as a frigid winter.

Or is it just that we’ve grown as a people. Grown horizontally, that is. Yes, over the course of our American history, we have grown in size and weight. Both for men and for women. The average man weighs a bit more than in the time of Washington and Jefferson, and the average woman as well. We’re also a bit taller, 5’9” inches for men, and 5’3” inches for women, each about 2 ½ inches more than our colonial era ancestors.

And that’s good. It speaks to opportunities for healthier living, an easier life, and the wider availability of foods and medicines that both nurture and heal.

But there’s a flip side to our growth, and my friends in public health are both aware, and come across the side effects quite often.

We’ve gotten HUGE. I think this is my first airport trip since director Kevin Smith’s well publicized tiff with Southwest Airlines over his removal from a flight due to his size. And already I’ve seen a few folks who might wish to take Kevin on, in sumo.

What has happened to us? How did we allow this to happen? Is it ironic, or just smart politics, that the First Lady, herself a Chicago native, has recently called for a full frontal assault on childhood obesity. And will we do anything about this, both individually, and collectively?

At 2:45 this afternoon, several pubs at O’Hare are packed, empty glasses and beer bottles left on tables in front of patrons like pawn pieces from an abandoned chess game. The healthier food kiosks are not heavily trafficked. The mother sitting near me is feeding her five year old a McDonald’s Happy Meal. Even with the great distances one needs to travel to access connecting flights at O’Hare, it seems as though the desire for fitness and health succumbs to the desire to sate and numb.

And plopping down next to her, well, near her, really, is a seriously obese man who I hope doesn’t have a heart attack right here in the terminal. This guy has to be tipping the scales at 400, and more resembles an oompa loompa in chinos than anything else I can imagine.

What has become of us? And what will become of us if we continue on this path? It's as though consumerism, in the form of health and food consumption, has just run amuck.

But I’m not a businessperson, or a marketing maven. Just an observer. And if I could only see what was ahead of me, ahead of the large family shielding my view from the departure board, then I would know the likelihood of making my connection. The one to a room with no view. But that’s for another time, and another post.

all is not forgotten

2010-03-16T23:01:00.002-04:00

It might appear that it's been awhile. But it's not. That's just a state of mind. I'll be back. It's more like I've never left. There's time with new best friends from Germany, and travel, and writing, and coaching and prodding. And a little bit of living. And planning. And re-booking that which has been dropped, or canceled, or even neglected. But back I will be, even though I've never left.

Olympic Spirit

2010-02-22T20:33:00.003-05:00

We're halfway through the Vancouver Games, and this is certainly one Olympics that has met the hype.

There have been stellar performances by many American athletes, great competition in several of the skills events, particularly short track speed skating. As well as some fantastic visuals from the mountains of jumping and ski-cross and all the boarding competitions.

Frankly, I'm still trying to figure out how Shaun White reached the heights he did, literally, or how Lindsay Vonn powered down the mountain with her injury, or how Bode Miller suppressed his own demons to become a great winner at these Games.

Other than NBC's boneheaded decision to relegate the USA/Canada hockey game to an off-brand and non-HD on my system MSNBC, it's all been good. Costas keeps it going. Michaels is palatable. And Mary Carillo really has some chops.

Hoping this week's coverage continues to be engaging. I know I'll be watching, and scoring the athletes from home.

But don't expect ESPN to buy into any of this. Try and find the Olympics on the main page. I dare you. To them, it's an afterthought. Which tells you a lot about how the worldwide leader treats events to which they don't have the rights. Lovely. And all business. Keep that in mind next time someone tries to hype you on the X-Games, bro.

Winter Snow

2010-02-15T20:35:00.002-05:00

It's winter time.

It's been snowing.

It continues to be a news story, here in DC, as well as nationally, and internationally.

But not necessarily for the right reasons.

We need to get over it, and back to whatever it was we were doing before the storm came and sucked the thoughts from our heads.

For now, I'll settle for some Olympic diversions.

Sports Rivalries......no, not the one you're thinking

2010-02-07T17:39:00.000-05:00

Ovie and Crosby

We’ve heard a lot about this matchup, and we’ll continue to hear a lot about it in the years to come.

It’s like DiMaggio and Williams, Mantle and Mays, Montana and Marino, Wilt and Kareem.

Star players, opposing each other in their prime. Each the star of their team, if not their league. Alex Ovechkin, perhaps the most complete hockey player in generations. Sidney Crosby, a born star, with phenomenal reflexes, and a very high hockey IQ.

Ovechkin leads the MVP count, Crosby has his name on the Stanley Cup.

Ovie is the international, a physical player, not shy about playing two ways, mixing it up, and doing what is necessary to inspire and motivate a team.

Crosby is like glue around the puck, with an instinct for where he teammates are, where the opposition is, and where the goaltender will be when he shoots.

And did I mention they are each the captains of their teams, at 23 and 22, respectively.

Man, this is gonna continue to be good.

This afternoon Crosby got off to a great start in the Penguins matchup in Washington against the Capitals. Two strong goals in the first period, some solid playmaking, and all around outhustling of the Capitals made it seem like the Capitals 13 game winning streak was about to fall.

The second Crosby goal seemed to awaken the Capitals from their stupor, but it wasn’t until early in the second period when Ovechkin scored on a beautiful play, taking a head man pass and just steamrolling through a defensemen before blasting the puck through the goalie’s legs, and into the NBC netcam, for his league leading 40th goal of the season, that the Capitals really came alive.

Even though they ended up down 4-1 in the second period, the Capitals did not give up, and eventually Ovechkin channeled his anger and frustration, scoring twice more on goals that relied more on his strength than his formidable skills, and the game went into overtime.

This inspired the Capitals as a team, and with less than two minutes in OT, Ovie blased a snapshot toward the goal. It was stopped by the Pittsburgh netminder Fluery, but not cleared, and with some effort, Caps winger Mike Knuble stuffed it home to give the Caps their 14th consecutive victory, and a resounding victory on national television over their archrivals the Penguins.

Ovechkin was critical to the Capitals victory, as critical as he has been in any victory. Besides his hat trick, and his position at the point on power plays, and his solid checking and following through, he sat penalties for the team, inspired by his leadership, intimidated Penguin players all over the ice, keeping some away from the corners at times, and provided ample ammunition to the home town crowd to cheer lustfully for Ovie and boo mercilessly every time Crosby touched the puck.

But it’s not as though Crosby was outplayed or outclassed. He’s a force, and the Capitals recognized that. He manages to get open with a deceptive quickness, and threads cross ice passes as well as anyone in the league. His on ice vision approaches that of the Great One, Wayne Gretzky, yet his behavior over time, and unwillingness to be more physical, daunts his image, and comes back to taunt him through the chants of opposing fans, particularly in arenas like Washington’s Verizon Center.

As for the rivalry, let it go, keep it on, hype it all you want. This is one of those rare ones that matches up to the billing. Let’s hope we can get a January 1 game outside next year year in DC between these teams. Now that would help enhance the rivalry.

for once, a real article......this one on the Finnish Embassy in Washington going really green

2010-02-02T17:29:00.001-05:00

Since it opened in 1994, the Finnish Embassy in Washington has received accolades from architects and diplomats alike. The open, inviting, and welcoming building high atop Embassy Row has been admired by visitors and gawkers alike. The Embassy building delicately balances the important role that diplomacy plays in society while serving as a standard for design with its’ perch atop Embassy Row and historic Rock Creek Park.

Designed by Finnish architects Mikko Heikkinen and Markku Komonen, the building goes beyond the modern glass box, creating an exterior lattice along the building’s Massachusetts Avenue face, and featuring a series of walkways both behind and below the building. There is a grand open space, the Finlandia Room, just beneath the main entryway, offering space for lavish receptions, and grand views of the edge of the Park. Surprisingly large, and roomy, the building is home by day to 40 Finnish diplomats, ranging from Ambassador Pekka Lintu, on through the military attaché, the press and communications team, and the policy analysts.

Invitation to the building is a welcome ticket in Washington. Some enjoy the frequent festivities and events which celebrate Finland and Finnish-U.S. relations. Others come to stake their membership in the super-secret Diplomatic Sauna Society of D.C. But now, those who visit the Embassy might not even recognize the changes that have been made over the past year, changes that have further distinguished the building from the dozens of other embassies and missions that dot the landscape of Washington’s ‘diplomatic row.’

In January, the United States Green Building Council conveyed LEED Gold certification upon the Finnish Embassy. This is the first embassy building in Washington to receive LEED certification, a particular point of pride for Ambassador Lintu, who sees this as just a first step. “We hope that our adaptation of green principles and our commitment to the well-being of people and the environment will inspire other foreign missions to view their opportunities in this field.”

Ambassador Lintu has made green living one of the central elements of his tenure in Washington, and felt a lasting impression could be made by having his office work towards and then seek LEED standing. Undoubtedly, he is also pleased that the Embassy is expected to completely recoup the costs for the retrofit in two years.

Kari Mokko, the spokesman for the Embassy, sums up the project as ‘pure Finland.’ He says that Finns take to what he describes as cool architecture, and a clean environment. “As your guests here, (there is) no reason to burden your environment more than absolutely needed.”

The process of working toward LEED certification began back in 2007, when the embassy first applied for EPA Energy Star standing. Among the first steps was an energy consumption assessment in order to obtain a better sense of when the building was utilized and occupied, and to more efficiently expend energy over the course of each day. At the time, energy efficient lighting was installed, and natural light was further encouraged throughout the building. Over time, the Embassy has cut electric consumption by 50%, gas consumption by 65%, and compared to early last decade, decreased annual energy bills by almost $150,000.

Last year, the consulting firm CQI Associates was hired to help shepard the Embassy through the LEED process. As LEED rates buildings for energy savings, water efficiency, CO2 emissions reduction, improved indoor environmental quality, and the way a tenant stewards resources and is sensitive to the environment, there was much to do. But at the same time, according to Dick Anderson with CQI, Embassy staff were directly engaged in the project. “They had an extremely committed team. The Ambassador was motivated, and the staff was involved. It’s also how they lived and they carried it over with this project. If they saw an article on wind power, they would show it to us and ask what could be done.”

Toward the LEED goal, the Embassy went further than initially planned. Light switches and lighting were replaced with occupancy sensors, lower flush plumbing was installed, recycling programs were more faithfully followed, and environmental factors became central considerations in each materials purchase. Even cleaning supplies were replaced with environmentally sound products, and low-impact chemicals were used for landscaping and gardening. Embassy spokesman Mokko even notes that the building’s garage space was assessed, and the use of hybrid vehicles or zero carbon transportation devices, like bicycles, was significantly encouraged.

Anderson was impressed that over half of the staff either walk or bike to the Embassy, and there is a bike repair space set up in the parking garage, as well as extra bikes should a staff person want to head out for a lunch time ride.

While the Finns working at the Embassy do not intend to draw attention to themselves and their green office, there is little doubt that the combination of progressive architecture, an attractive location, and now first of its kind LEED certification, will challenge the longstanding quiet and reserve that helps define the Finnish character.

could this be true?

2010-02-01T12:44:00.002-05:00

I have received several messages from this person, so it must be true, right? Senator Momoh. Hmmm...I wonder if he is from the Galactic Senate, or just another planetary system?

Warning.................

We have reasons to believe that someone is trying to impersonate you claiming your 10.5m contract payment. Respond to this email to confirm that you did not authorize Caroline Mann of Sarasota FL to claim your money, after your response, your funds will be delivered to you in an ATM card.

Contact us through this email: sen_johnmomoh@minister.com or call me on my direct line on: +234-70-40993160

Nb: that the displayed email addresses are the people this said has scammed already, so you have to act fast.

Thank you

Senator John Momoh

Optional Clothing

2010-01-23T18:10:00.002-05:00

People dress up. Pretty simple statement, but it’s true. People dress up for work, even in 2010. Kids dress up for school, particularly the first day each fall. And adults dress up for wherever they’re headed, especially for parties, but even for the gym, the movies, a day of errands, whathaveyou.

I was brought back to this seemingly obvious point today at a high school wrestling match, of all places.

So stay with me for a minute as we peruse my memory of clothing and appearances from a moment that has stuck with me for a long time.

I was fortunate enough to attend the U.S. Tennis Open back in 1980, when Bjorn Borg and John McEnroe had one of their famous finals. I was struck by the quality of tennis displayed, but the lingering memory has less to do with those stars, and their play in the old Louis Armstrong stadium, than what people wore and how they looked that day.

By then I had been to plenty of sporting event. I had been to each of the four major team sports in New York, plenty of times to see the Yankees and Mets, a few times to see hockey with the Rangers and even the Islanders, once to a Knick game, and once to a football game with the Jets. Hell, I had even been to a Cosmos soccer game at the old Yankee stadium.

And while people would wear team and sports apparel at each of these places, hockey jerseys, or t-shirts with their favorite player, they wouldn’t come dressed as if they were ready to compete.

That’s what struck me about the U.S. Open. The fans showed up in their tennis best, perhaps hoping that Borg would pull up with an injury, and tap the overweight tax lawyer in the third row to take off his Ellesse sweats, pull back on his Fred Perry shirt, and hit the court on behalf of team Borg.

It doesn’t work that way. The fans stay on one side of the arena, and the athletes get to compete on that other side. Clothing and appearances notwithstanding. At a baseball game you know the difference. The guy with the Yankee 27 World Championships sweatshirt is not gonna want to be in the game. So why does the professional out on a Thursday afternoon at the National Tennis Center feel compelled to show off his designer tennis duds?

Just doesn’t make sense. It’s one thing to wear team colors, or show your support by purchasing an overpriced authentic item, or even a reasonably priced knock-off. It’s quite another to come fully dressed to play, from head to toe, hoping security will think you’re a top ranked tennis stud. I’ve never gone to a hockey game with my skates, let alone pads or a stick. So why go to the Open in full regalia?
Which, believe it or not, brings me to today. This afternoon was spent on the bleachers of a suburban Washington high school watching teenage boys grasp at each other in a sport many call wrestling. To me it just appears to be an attempt at bad teen sex with too many poorly colored tights. Whatever it is to you, it surprised me to see many parents from another school at the match wearing t-shirts and sweatshirts and other outer garments with the name of their child’s high school.

To me it’s nice to support your kids, to offer them suggestions and the benefits you can provide from your years of living on this earth. But what the hell does it mean to wear a shirt, clearly designed for an adult, given the lettering and the style, with a high school name and logo? Were these people regressing? Were they desperate to show some love? Were they searching? Did they lose a bet? Were they playing Candid Camera, or some variation?

Sure, there are some things I just don’t get. Actually, there are many things I just don’t get. If you know me, and I’m going beyond my stellar Facebook list of dear friends here, I’m sure you’ve already thought of a handful of things.

Regardless, it’s just plain odd to see a middle aged woman squeezed into a designer shirt festooned with a high school name, in a cursive writing akin to the old ‘Juicy’ logo of the last decade. And fathers wearing shirts from matches their kids participated in. Perhaps it’s the logical progression from those stickers you see on the back windows of SUVs documenting the size of the family, down to the furry pets. Maybe it’s a self identification thing, and not a clothing thing.

Either way, whether you’re wearing tennis whites at the Open, or high school shirts at your kid’s sporting event, it suggests something else going on in that brain, and for the life of me, I can’t quite figure what it is. And I’m not sure I even want to know.

Let’s see if I’m inspired to talk about face painting and tattoos and sporting events. Now that could be interesting.

I'm Back

2010-01-22T13:41:00.002-05:00

Well, here we are again. Almost a month has passed since the last posting, light years in the realm of the internets. But I'm here. It's not as though I left, or actually went anywhere. It was more an inertia, a disinclination to blog, or even microblog. So while I wasn't here, I wasn't there, either. You follow.

It's interesting to see what you can do when you don't blog.

You can read books. Plural. Yes, books.

You can fix things. Well, they have to be broken in the first place, but I'm sure there's something around that's broken and in need of a fix.

You can work harder at things than you might have before.

You can multi-task a little more smoothly, a requirement for today's independent professional.

And you can plan, or even think, and begin to see where it's all going. Hopefully it's all going forward, though you never can know for sure.

Now, back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Audio Voyeurism

2010-01-01T10:30:00.001-05:00

Initial thoughts for a new year following an old habit.
There needs to be a better term for this, for overhearing the conversations of others. Sometimes they are intended to be heard. Other times, they are not. And they span the range of talk.
They include the argument b/t long married couples in line at an airport security check.
They are what you hear passing by people on escalators headed in different directions.
They involve families debating life options while waiting to board a flight.
Or individuals talking with friends on a subway, questioning choices and decisions, some made long ago, even evaluating the alternatives.
Yes, you can hear them talk about what it was like before they were married. Before children. Before the baggage, or the layers, or however they refer to them.
But how is it that we hear these conversations?
Are our eared perked by certain words, by the appearance of certain individuals, by the look and image presented by some people, by boredom, by intrigue, by the surreptitious nature of the information acquired?
What makes these overheard conversations so interesting?
And, here’s the money question. Is it just me, or are they interesting to others?
Years ago a cartoonist made them into a series that ran in New York’s Village Voice. Mark Alan Stamaty’s stuff was just great, and was advertised as ‘guaranteed overheard’ so that the equivalent of this good housekeeping seal conveyed greater legitimacy than just ‘overheard.’ And it made a difference, as unlike the snippets of conversation we occasionally pick up, he documented complete dialogue, complete with arcs, or punch lines. And they were funny, enhanced by Stamaty’s creative mind, and cartoon images, reinforcing the odd reference made by one of the featured individuals.
So I visualize cartoon balloons above people’s head when I hear these conversations, trip over their words, or quietly slide in to a moment of their lives, their public displays of private communication. And it provides grounding, after all.
So unlike overseas travel, where conversations are little more than white noise, if I hear you on a plane, on the subway, or on the street, I’ll be listening.
Just one request. Make it interesting.

Dyeing for Color

2009-12-10T14:02:00.001-05:00

OK, let’s get into something completely obvious, plain for all to see, but little discussed.

It should be no surprise to anyone that there are a great many differences between the US and Germany.

Americans are gregarious, enjoy large servings of food and drink, and seem to live out of our cars.

Germans rely more on public transportation, are sparing in their food consumption, relocate less, and are more likely to rent than to own their home.

We have baseball, they have team handball. Sure, go ahead and try to explain the rules of one sport to a citizen of the other country. I dare you.

And then we have NASCAR, and they have Formula One. Try to explain either to a nuclear physicist.

One thing each country shares is a deep appreciation for hair coloring.

We dye and tease and color with the goal of masking age, highlighting skin tone, and providing an enhanced sense of self and at times even character.

In Germany, the widespread use of radiant dyes and colorings seems intended more to provide for individuality, shock value, and as a way to further define one’s place and position. Either that, or there’s a Dada movement going on atop women’s heads.

Let’s illustrate. In the US, it is very difficult to find a woman over age 35 who does not dye her hair. It may be difficult to find a woman in this category who will acknowledge coloring, who will acknowledge the nod to vanity, and the desire to maintain a degree of her youth through her enhanced locks. But it’s a public secret. Everyone does it. Whether it’s professionally done at a salon each month, or in the private of a bath every so often, it happens. And in many estrogen circles, it’s discussed.

“Oh, I love what you’ve done with your hair.”

“Have you gone lighter?”

“Is that a new color?”

And even American men are comfortable with coloring. For years there have been ads promoting virility through dark hair. Retired sports stars Walt Frazier and Keith Hernandez shill products, explaining that without dye, there’s ‘no play for Mr. Gray.” Can’t say I would know. Lucky genes, I guess.

But it is a whole different approach, and appearance, in Germany.

There’s absolutely no hiding one’s color. Sure, fewer mature women allow for a natural gray, but the bold streaks and bright blotches that seem to top the heads of German women of all ages come out of nowhere, It’s as though they were zapped in the morning with a smattering of red that rained down from the sky. Occasionally it’s purple, though that seems to be the preference of older teens, with long, dark hair, who want to make a statement by being different from their unnaturally read headed colleagues.

Just today a saw a woman at the market in the University town of Heidelberg who matched her purple hair with identically colored purple stockings. It worked, and was striking, but can you imagine women in America going this route?

And then there are those free radicals who go for a multi-colored hue. Perhaps a few strands of yellow to accentuate the purple tuft over one eye. Some different shades of red, a range of that aspect of the color spectrum, to note a unique style. Or a mahogany to contrast with jet black, either natural or artificial, for the goth look that you would have thought had left Germany centuries ago, when there were in fact Goths.

But it’s really the age thing that is fascinating. Typically, youth and seniors do not share many trends, habits, or customs. Find a teen who listens to the Stones, or anyone carrying an AARP card into Lady Gaga, and you know you have tripped over something special.

But with color and appearance, you could literally take the head of a student at the University of Leipzig and a train conductor in Bremen and swap them for another, and neither look would be different. Could we say that for a HS student in Atlanta and a soccer mom in Kansas City? I think not.

There must be reasons for the passion for bold colors, the sustained use of these colors by women of all ages, and the ability of many of these women to leave their homes without there being any consistency to the quality and evenness of the coloring.

That point, and how the coloring appears to be haphazard, and done too quickly with the intent to just brush over the previous color scheme that lies just beneath, is what really provides some shock value to those of us accustomed to seeing streaky hair only when blond is painted in. It’s literally as though they left the job undone, and decided nonetheless that it works for them. Hmm.

So while I am not sure today’s soundtrack is from Dylan’s ‘Blond on Blond,” it’s a bit closer to Springsteen’s bawdy ‘Red Headed Woman.”

Contrasts in sound and space

2009-12-09T08:52:00.001-05:00

“Beneath the city two hearts beat.” Bruce Springsteen, Jungleland

“On the roof it’s peaceful as can be.” Carole King, Up on the Roof

It’s another cold and damp morning in Berlin. Seems to be the pattern. I suppose it’s Seattle with a disturbingly dark and still rich history. But without the coffee.

At the Hauptbanhoff, or central train station, there are myriads of options for the traveler. Fast food, fast clothes, papers, trinkets, souvenirs. A lot of junk, and a number of kiosk with information and assistance. It’s a busy place, with tourists leafing through, looking around at the modern glass structure. Inter-city travelers move briskly to get to their appropriate track.

But down on track 8, waiting for the ICE to Hamburg, there’s a dead quiet. Amidst this bustling city, above which move millions, a river, several large trains, and the weight of the past century, it is calm. Perhaps it is because I arrive early, for once. Germans are efficient, as we have been told. And the trains really do run on time here. Which means that if you have a 10:17 train, it will arrive by 10:13, and leave promptly at 10:17, regardless. So people know how to budget accordingly, and while they don’t tarry, they also don’t cue up early for these long distance expresses, at least not in the late morning.

So I seem to have the entire station, or at least a couple of tracks, alone. There is a futuristic feel to all of this. A Will Smith last man standing, minus the detritus and the dog. But it’s the sound that keeps returning. The absence of sound. The deadening of sound. The quiet that usually only comes with expensive Danish headphones, or post-concert ear ringing.

The occasional interruptions from the deliberate voice of the station master, announcing arrivals, making the rare announcement of an upcoming 45 minute delay on the Hannover train, only emphasize how otherwise quiet this significant station can be.

It is unclear to me how glass, steel and concrete can soften sounds, and create a studio like feel, but that’s what you have in the Berlin train station, below grade. It’s literally cool, as ambient air passes through, and the movement from bodies provides a sense that life does continue. But it’s eerie, it’s almost surreal, and it has the feel of a post-apocalyptic vision, one none of us want to experience up close.

And it’s nice, even though it is wholly unfamiliar territory. The question is, can I get used to it?

bonus post

2009-12-08T18:59:00.000-05:00

Round two for today.
It’s multiples day.
One time only.
Though we’ll see, for sure.

Leipzig is a dreary city on a good day. At 40 degrees with a cold rain, it’s downright challenging. But the multitude of Christmas markets inspire the public, provide sustenance, and add color to the monochromatic gray of this otherwise historic and still intriguing city.

And yet students await. They sit patiently in a small conference room, anticipating a 2 and ½ hour discussion on the American media and coverage of President Barack Obama. I am interested in the subject, but I can’t imagine anyone sitting through 150 minutes in another language on any topic. Well, perhaps Robin Williams in gibberish, but me on media and political coverage. Hardly.

But they waited, and participated, and questioned, and challenged, and inquired again. Students in Germany are not the students we think of when we think of college students. Though the Germany post-secondary system has recently undergone significant reforms, and is seeking to more closely mirror the UK and US schedule for courses and graduation after 8 semesters, there are still students toiling under the old system. That system allows students to continue with their studies for as long as they choose, as students qualify for significant benefits and subsidies by way of transportation, education, and rent. And in turn the typical German student does not complete her studies until she is around 25, much older than in the States.

So the students awaiting the good lecture were experienced radio journalists, many of whom had visited the US before, and were somewhat familiar with American media, and in their early 20’s, still working on finishing up their undergraduate schooling. They were more mature than typical undergrads, and more engaged in the subject matter and the material presented.

This led to a series of wonderful exchanges, curious inquiries, and somewhat confusing responses when the answers did not all meet with the expected retort to a question. Suffice it to say that the German students professed a love for the American NPR, a disinterest in commercial new radio operations, and a commitment to obtaining an internship in the United States.

We will see if they get there.

There will be the first in a series of four daily long train rides starting tomorrow. At that time I will begin to coalesce thoughts on the range of hair colors, dye jobs, and unusual visual presentations of head and hair that appears commonplace in Berlin and across Germany. It’s bold, but it loses potency with continued viewings and appearances. And I will try to explain in a way that is both fair and balanced, while recognizing style and criticizing shock for the sake of appearances.

Random thoughts from Berlin

2009-12-08T10:29:00.001-05:00

Random thoughts from street level observations on a dreary day in Berlin.

It’s the 29th anniversary of the murder of John Lennon. RAI Italian television has a retrospective. Even without translation, the story is universal. And the loss remains great.

Music still courses through the mind. Songs heard some time back, but not currently, seem to fill the void left by the quiet. Some Beatles, mostly melodic sounds from Roxy Music, Talking Heads, material from U2, Lou Reed, and even David Bowie have made it past the subconscious gates. The latter three primarily due to their Berlin based recordings from the 70’s, 80’s, and with U2, 1990. It’s a decent soundtrack, but needs an update with another screening of the Wenders classic ‘Wings of Desire.’

The muzak system in the hotel plays a rarely heard song back home, but a personal favorite with deep meaning. Springsteen’s ‘Secret Garden’ is a fave, but not for any anthemic like quality, but for it’s humanity, emotion, and depth. The Boss can bring it to the heart when he wants to. Great to butt this song up with ‘Red Headed Woman’ as part of a Springsteen ouvre. Each has it’s strengths.

Actually on the street, the sounds are more of silence and calm than what we expect from a major metro, one with almost 4 million people. It might be the languages. The harmony of alien tongues, allowing a non-speaker to move quickly past a conversation not understood. We seem to linger on conversations and dialogues we can follow. But when the language is foreign, it’s simpler to literally glide past, and avoid the awkwardness of not being able to communicate, or having to explain, and having to translate.

Italian, Vietnamese, plenty of German, some Russian, some Spanish, and I am sure some other languages as well that are too distant to even be understood. They all fall off the ears like rain on slate roof, while still providing a background, and a soundtrack, to the sounds of the city.

There are very few emergency vehicles racing about. Very few polizei, sirens blazing, hot to collar a suspect, or accost a disorderly person. In fact, very few visible police at all. Among the many contrasts with the United States, this has to be up there. Not a quarter hour goes by in a major US metro without hearing a siren’s wail, and seeing a cruiser race past. Over 48 hours in Berlin, there has been just one situation, and it seemed completely out of the ordinary to all the pedestrians compelled to stay out of the street for those moments when it passed by.

Behavior on the street similarly is distinct from that in the States. People just do not jaywalk here. Perhaps there’s good reason. It seems as though pedestrians are fair game in Berlin. While there are sidewalks, and crosswalks, and signs directly peds to walk or to not walk, there’s an inverted attitude towards peds from ours. This is a significant contradiction, as there is great German pride in being green, in being environmental, and in avoiding large cars, and significant driving. Yet if you take to the streets by foot, it’s you and your body weight against Hans’ Audi, Katerin’s Smart, or even Frederic’s Porsche. You can’t even categoriz the drivers by cars. You are just as likely to get run over by a grandmother in a Subaru Outback as a teen in a tuner, using American cars as the standard.

And bicycling is little different. I have a significant fondness for the two wheeled steel propulsion machine. Have logged thousands on a handful of rides. Even commute from time to time on one. But the way commuters used the dedicated lanes in Berlin you would think they were hustling to be on the autobahn. Forbid you err and cross into a bike lane, a folly easy enough done by shifting a few inches left or right while on any given street. The domino effect this could create is too great to fathom, let along document. The damage to your face, extremities and torso may well be significant. And you’ll be out of sync, and out of sorts, for days to come. So watch out for the mom coming up on your left, from behind, quietly pumping away, racing to get to her cubicle just off Friedrichstrasse, and to start her day.

Then there’s what’s hip, what’s cool, and what just passes. I can’t even begin to get started, but at least the old adage about sneakers being out in Europe is as outdated as that attitude. Which is a good thing for a recovering sneakerhead. And beer drinking, as to be expected, is a participatory sport in Berlin. It is widely practiced, starting with teenagers on trains, and including daytime workers in art galleries and studios, and tourists seeking a respite from a hard day’s viewing of art and other anomalies.

En route now to Leipzig, the ICE or inter-city train is super fast, and super quiet, both inside and out. Germans seem quiet, as though raising a voice will bring unwarranted attention. Don’t they know that’s the reason to talk aloud, to act out, to solicit perspective. Perhaps they do, and that’s why they don’t.

More tomorrow, I promise. Probably on hair dye, the German compulsion.

observed observations

2009-12-07T07:39:00.002-05:00

Just after 12 noon in Berlin. Walking south along the terribly named "Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe." It is mid-day, though the glare from the sun in blinding as I walk west past the memorial and through Potsdamer Platz. It is noon, but in the north country, the sun rises at near 8am, and sets just past 4pm. In winter, this is a country for the late night crowd. There is no sun for months. It is as though the benefits from the northern lights in summer have vaporized, and hidden themselves for another season. It is always good to be in Berlin. It´s a fantastic city, with boundless energy, great opportunities, and a dynamic range of people. But it has literally gone dark, as though there is a power outage at 4pm. And to see the sun directly in your eyes, mid-day, is simply startling. The up side is that there are literally no chances of leaving a bar to daylight sun!

The luxury of overseas travel (as in, you've got to be kidding)

2009-12-06T18:32:00.002-05:00

The words still have an allure. Overseas travel. Heading to Europe. Going to the continent.

And the reality can meet that attraction. It can. Once you’re at a restaurant in Roma, or walking along the left bank in Paris, or crossing through the Brandenburger Tor while in Berlin.

But getting there, well, that’s another story.

Airports have become large transit stations for us, the commuter rail centers for the 21^st century. There are people rushing to make the last plane out, whether it’s Geneva, Frankfurt, or Brussels, it’s not all that much different from the 7:48 to North White Plains. Hustle, wait, clutch your gear, shuffle ahead a few steps, wait, oh, this line please, wait a bit more, strip down a bit more than you had planned before this many people, take a little radiation, recollect your stuff, and then resume all hustling and waiting, minus the clothes stripping.

Red carpets draped over heavy traffic carpeting don’t really convey respect for the elite flyer, nor distinguish a slot for those of us not airborne enough to merit star treatment. Overlapping and conflicting boarding messages from gate agents can either go unheeded, or more often, lead to confusion, herd activity, and a press at the aforementioned red carpeted gate. Flights booked with several hundred eager passengers are required to pass through one narrow corridor, steered into a line that may or may not move, may or may not test your patience, may or may not bump against you, and may or may not actually cause some pain and suffering.

The flight. Well, we’ve all flown. What else can be said. Though overseas travelers are still provided an unfortunate meal, and a bevy of beverages. That’s far better than what you get from the mainland to Hawai’i, a distance greater than that between Washington and Frankfurt, Germany.

It’s upon arrival that you realize you are somewhere else.

The faces have a different look. The eyes a different gaze. The clothes a different drape, and a different cut. The eyewear more intent on showcasing the designer brand. The hairstyles are distinct, and the colors are bolder, and often redder, than they should be. A quick glance while moving between gates reveals 20-something Italian men aiming for style and hipness, in that Eurotrashy way. A Mediterranean couple near, engaged in what appears to be an intense conversation. The man tired, and seemingly withdrawn. The woman, well, it’s hard to say how her face expressed itself, as she was wearing a black chador, with just a narrow slit for her eyes. Still, hand movement speak universally to meaning. Americans move aimlessly through the terminal, seemingly oblivious to signs and direction. The only Americans to whom this doesn’t seem to apply are the burly white males with short hair, mostly headed to a connection en route to Kuwait.

And don't even think about accomodations for special needs. For ramps, rails, or walkways. Got a 40 pound bag. Good, hump it up 30 steps to get to customs. Want to get on the train. Good, drag it back down 20 dirty steps to get to the Bahn. Lovely. Very old world, and delightful, of course.

There’s such an efficiency to all movement, that even while exiting passport control, it’s quite easy to find yourself outside the airport, and having to return through a separate area to be screened and admitted back to your connection.

Not sure if TSA could learn from Germany security, or the other way around, but each has it’s own eccentric behavior. While TSA barks reminders about what can be taken through screening, and how to pack the cart, German security is solemn, leaving you to guess what goes through the detector. Laptop. Yeah, that needs to be screened. Shoes, not here. Liquids? Same standard here. Belts? Well, you better take yours off prior to entering the magnetometer, as they will assuredly do a secondary search if you fail to pass this pop quiz of a test.

And then you’re back in, ready to grab a free newspaper (oh, that’s how they survive in Europe!), trip over information and food kiosks, and glare at overpriced yet duty free items that people no longer seem to use in this day and age.

Ah, overseas travel. It’s sleek and sexy, but in a cramped, crowded, and all too familiar way.

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles (holiday edition)

2009-11-25T03:30:00.000-05:00

Recent postings have mostly been inspired by travel. The trend continues, for now, though at this moment the travel is of a different variety, and thus in a different vein. Or so the story says.

Thanksgiving travel can be the worst.

What with the crowds, the mad dashes, the time constraints, and of course that damned turkey related somnolent inducting situation that infects all on Thanksgiving.

And if you’re flying, add to that TSA, staff not entirely pleased to be working a holiday, and the psychology associated with thoughts and behavior over the holidays.

This can be a potent cocktail.

This year I was able to add an additional wrinkle to an already furrowed brow.

Rush hour.

Bad enough that Brettt Ratner got to make three films with this title, now I had to star in my own feature, experiencing just about the worst our capital city has to offer right before I was set to head off on a six hour cross-country flight.

Wonderful. Just wonderful.

Now you have to understand that I love driving. I’m damn good at it. Driving. Even parking. Getting from A to B. Even from A to C. Can navigate without maps. Have great stories from the road from over the years. Even have a great car for driving, one that can hug the road, accelerate the heart, and still be efficient in this time of green. But fortunately I don’t have to commute for work, so I am able to avoid that daily grind, certainly that grind which involves bumper to bumper traffic for miles at a clip.

Until yesterday, that is.

The day before the day before thanksgiving.

So you would think the traffic would not be that bad, that people would not be jamming the roads and highways surrounding our fair city. There was no opera out on the turnpike this night, just a misting rain that slowed us all to zombie speed, testing the patience of those of us with hard flight times, and seriously causing anxiety and a not insignificant amount of stress.

15 minutes to get out of my zip code. 40 minutes to cover what typically takes 10, when traffic moves at what the professionals call ‘highway speed.’

All the way thinking, just a little bit of rain after dark, and the entire region is reduced to a bright series of red and white serpentine steel chains. While also thinking, are we gonna make it. And thinking further of John Candy and Steve Martin and about the best road movie ever made, sorry Bing and Bob, and hoping, hoping, I don’t have to end up sleeping next to a fat snoring guy. Anywhere.

At the 45 minute mark, which should have been the 12 minute mark, a turn onto the airport access road produced the first smile in quite some time. It was just about all clear ahead, nothing but state troopers and slow minivans to temper the pace.

And with not much time to spare, a few wasted moments searching for a suitable parking spot (don’t want the jalopy doors dinged any more, you know), it was on the shuttle bus, off to the airport, and the pleasure of checking in, stripping down for TSA, and trying to avoid being OJ in order to get to the plane.

Suffice it to say that the system worked, though there are plenty of bugs in it. Along with a fair number of cars, busses, uniformed security folks, and an occasional pleasant airline professional along the way.

Now, about that rental car operation at SFO.

Oh, yeah, have a happy Thanksgiving.

Lost in America (Part Deux)

2009-11-11T21:29:00.000-05:00

On the road again.

That’s just about all I know about Willie Nelson. The line from the ‘70’s. That and the fact that he likes pot, and didn’t like the IRS for some time.

Plenty of songwriters have written about traveling.

Jackson Browne had a great tune, also from the ‘70’s, called ‘The Road,’ in which he lamented about the loneliness, even amidst the groupies and acclaim.

Can’t speak for the groupies (does the woman providing complimentary beverages in the hotel lobby count?) or acclaim, or even for loneliness, but the road can certainly wear on the body, and the mind.

On an individual basis, this has been a year of significant travel. To date, two trans-Atlantic trips, one half-Pacific trip, two trips to the west coast, and numerous trips to the Midwest, New England, and the Gulf Coast. And there’s one more trip to California, another to Germany, and a holiday swing through several southern states still ahead.

In total this will mean over 100 nights away from home. Almost a third of the year. Most of this has been work related, though some has been for family, some for fun, and the rest some combination. The combination works out well, even when there are morning meetings, or long mornings traveling in advance of an afternoon lecture, or even a connecting flight to make it to a program or an event.

I was reminded of this, inadvertently, just yesterday. Following a lecture at the University of Missouri, a friend on the Mizzou faculty noted that by years end he will have logged 105 nights away from Columbia. I’m not gonna comment on whether that’s a good thing or not, but it did get me to thinking.

What I first thought of was what I see on the road. Not from 35,000 feet, but from ground level, when walking about, or talking with hotel staff, taxi drivers, guys working at parking lots, even folks on the street. Talking about the economy, and the challenges we all face, is surprisingly easy. People are more comfortable talking about this than you would think. It’s not sex or religion. Those are still tougher subjects. But the economy, and finance, it’s certainly open season.

Amidst our prevailing economic conditions, there are still crowds at airports, lines at restaurants, and congestion at hotel checkouts. But the signs of economic uncertainty, and worse, grow ever more clear.

Just this past week in St. Louis, downtown seemed abandoned by day, the hockey arena was literally half full for a Tuesday night game, trendy neighborhood restaurants accommodated walk-ins, and boarded up offices, warehouses, restaurants, and many, many homes (and even one brewery!) dotted the landscape.

The same could be said for the situation in Providence, where restaurants filled earlier in the year changed strategies by fall to accommodate paying customers, even if they were dancers and drinkers, not diners and wine connosours.

The other week in New York, there were fancy restaurants still crowded with patrons, people coming in for late evening reservations. On a weeknight. Wall Street types still wielding expense accounts. People celebrating the Yankee victory in the World Series, though I’m unsure if this was a temporary blip of spontaneous and public happiness to counter the chilled economy, or just the elation that comes with victory and success.

There were gallery openings, with people spilling out on the street in the East Village, Soho, and across Manhattan. Movie theaters drew film goers, Broadway theaters seemed to still bring them in, and 42,000 strong still came to not only run the fabled New York City Marathon, but to stay a few days, and take in the city and the sights. And that ain’t cheap.

But it’s all still a bit unclear. Unemployment is over 10% nationally, higher in industrial quarters. The stock market has roared back, but is that temporary, or evidence of a real confidence in a stable economy.

The off-year elections seem to portend a significant disaffection with incumbents, with anyone continuing to represent as a politician, and with anything that suggests an affiliation with Wall Street or corporate finance. Just yesterday a traditionalist like Connecticut Senator Chris Dodd, asleep at the switch through 2007 when banking and real estate deals collapsed under his watch as Senate Finance Chair, introduced a huge bill proposing sweeping banking and finance reforms. Even the insiders don’t like themselves any more.

But do we see that concern on the street? Do the revelers to the ticker-tape parade for the Yankees last Friday, the people chanting ‘Wall Street sucks,’ on Wall Street, no less, harbor these same concerns? Or were they just engaging in ironic wordplay?

There’s an odd kindness to all of this. People seem friendlier. Not just in places like St. Louis and Baltimore, but in New York and Washington, DC. We seem more approachable, as though we’re somehow all in the same boat, from the former mid-town trader now out on the street, to the waitress looking for another shift in order to help make her rent next month. Immigrant cab drivers note their appreciation for being here in the United States, so we must still be doing better for those aspiring to make the middle class than for their family back home in Mumbai or Islamabad.

But the road does provide some great visual distractions. From the checkerboard farms you do see at 35,000 feet, to the fantastic cityscape that is Manhattan that is as wonderful on an approach in to LaGuardia as it in entering the Queens-Midtown tunnel. From the Atlantic ocean in fall over the eastern tip of Long Island, and then Block Island and tiny Rhode Island, to the billboards and rest stops that both dot and often mar our landscapes from interstates that criss-cross every corner of the nation.

From those with amusing cosmetic adornments to those who literally wear their team loyalty on their chest. From the tourist traps like Ozarkland in central Missouri, to decent seats at a Knick game at Madison Square Garden.

The sounds too. The accents at airports, the languages from across the globe, more often heard in New York than these other US cities, and the din of everyday life, from 4am garbage pickup in Manhattan, to the appended ‘sir’ heard more often in the mid-west than anywhere else, even to the all Bruce station on XM while crossing the heartland.

Willie Nelson had it right. I just seem to be on the road again. And it’s ok. Hopefully for the economy as well.

Perhaps next time I’ll write about food. You do have to eat when you travel.

Not yet lost, but definitely searching

2009-10-16T22:46:00.001-04:00

I’ve gone to look for America.

Sung by harmonists Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel almost two generations ago, the lines come to mind to me with greater frequency these days.

We’re still a large and diverse country, even with our consolidated media, concentrated lifestyles, and coordinated schedules. Just because CNN is on in airports doesn’t mean New York has the same feel as New Orleans or Houston or Denver, or even Honolulu or St. Louis. Hundreds of miles can feel like thousands, separation from one another can become ever more evident, and we seek out private space in public places just so we can digitally link ourselves to hundreds of ‘friends’ with updates and reflections.

She said the man in the gabardine suit was a spy.

Even with baseball blaring from overhead sets, watery drinks served in sloppy bars, and chain stores flogging identical shirts and books and curios, our airports reflect the character and the pace of the city in which they’re located.

New York’s LaGuardia is a dirty, disheveled mess, with rodent control devices strategically placed on seatbacks in waiting areas, security attendants either disinterested or overwrought by what’s going on around them, and passengers either thrilled to be returning home from the land of $11 domestic beer or excited about their once in a lifetime visit to the Big Apple.

Landing in Honolulu, let alone being on a flight to Honolulu, is just like being on a flight and landing in Vegas. Everyone is there to party. Young or old, fat or thin, American or international. Everyone is in good spirits, ready to feel the sand under their feet, sweet drinks across their lips, and the warmth of the sun on their naked shoulders.

So I looked at the scenery. She read her magazine. And the moon rose over an open field.

Well, New Orleans is another thing entirely. It’s said you can get a contact drunk on flights leaving the Big Easy late on weekends or first thing Monday mornings, from folks heading straight to Louis Armstrong from the French Quarter. All I know is that the smell of piss, that’s other people piss, by the way, is so acrid that it’s the closest reminder of New York’s Grand Central station of my youth. And that’s just on the welcome, before you even depart and enter the maelstrom that is the alcohol and tattoo and skin festival that is downtown New Orleans. Hell, the damn airport is humid, with low ceilings, poor ventilation, disengaged staff, and furnishings and adornments left over from the ‘70s. Even an impressive photo display on the role the airport played during the 2005 Hurricane Katrina response and evacuation is buried around a corner from the main corridor, en route to several restrooms. Again, think piss.

Houston. Well, Houston is another thing. But that’s Texas for you. Once another country, it retains that feel over 160 years on. Women’s hair challenge gravity, as well as style and modernity. Men’s girth know no bounds, no limits, no sense of decency. Conversation among Texans engage small groups, roping people in as if they had all been going to the same church on Sunday for years, held at decibel levels that must run up against the din of the aircraft around them. And I’m not getting anywhere near the clothing styles and personal habits you see in Texas. Not gonna do it.

Denver is a whole other thing. People seem to be in better shape in the Denver airport. Many are sunburned all year long, with weather worn faces, tougher skin, and infinitely more casual clothing. A cowboy hat worn by an older man in Denver not only seems real, it is real, and for good reason. The kids with their snowboards and overstuffed backpacks are also for real. The men in suits, few that they are, are probably not as they appear. Though not poseurs, they just don’t fit in casual country, the American west. And you don’t see many suited passengers, though you do see women with longer hair, less makeup, and bluer jeans. At all ages. Colorado casual, I suppose.

Sitting here in St. Louis, after two straight weeks of coast to coast travel, there’s a distinct Midwestern feel. Not a sense, mind you, but a feel. This place is perhaps what America once aspired to be. Business travelers mid-week almost seem stranded. But outside the airport, it appeared as though I was the only person making u-turns across double yellow lines all over town. The only person willing to risk a parking ticket instead of seeking change for a coin meter downtown. One night earlier this week, I was literally the only person walking six blocks early in the evening from my hotel to a restaurant for dinner, on streets so quiet you would have thought there was already an H1N1 curfew or quarantine in place.

But the relative tameness and sedentary pace set by the fine and ordinary people of St. Louis belies a further level of calm, of diminished expectations for the grand, or the wild, or the exceptional. Even the architecture here, while classic, is frozen in the golden age of 19th century industrial might, with a few early 20th century neo-classic buildings thrown in for what was then a modern touch, and is now just a reminder that the city, or at least what is left of it, is frozen in an earlier time, and a time that the rest of the country, at least the more engaged coasts, have long forgot.

They’ve all gone to look for America.

Airports capture us at a range of moments. They can strip us of dignity as we shed our clothing for inspection. They can examine our moods, and our patience, and our dietary habits, or preferences. And they serve to remind us of where we are, whether that’s in the rat-race of New York, the tranquility of Honolulu, the vastness of Texas, the openness of Denver, or the commonness of St. Louis.

And it’s good that homogenization hasn’t taken us over any more than it has already, the plethora of Wolfgang Puck fast food and Sam Adams pubs notwithstanding. Well, except in St. Louis, where Sam Adams is not a domestic brew. But that’s another story.

The new New York baseball stadiums

2009-09-15T18:31:00.004-04:00

Well, it took me almost the entire season, but in early September I was finally able to accomplish my goal of taking in games in both of the brand spanking new public facilities built for the Mets and Yankees this year.

I had tried to go to each of the Opening Day games. Was even in New York for each. But, even with the sour economy, fans were bullish on baseball this spring.

So I waited. And plotted. And waited. And missed a couple of opportunities.

Finally, it was September, and action had to be taken. A fast one day trip took me to Queens, and the impressive Citi Field. Much has been written already about these stadiums, what they each sought to evoke, how much they cost, and what the hope is for profits for each team. For now, I’ll leave the business aside and just speak as a fan.

As barren and common as Shea was for all these past 45 season, Citi is its own place, with its own character, its own sense of history, and its own wonderful sightlines, playfulness, and space. This is a first class ballpark. From the Ebbets Field exterior entrance behind home plate, to the Jackie Robinson Pavilion, on to the plentiful food stands, restrooms, and wide spaces to walk, this park is welcoming and pleasant.

Designers continued the trend of turning the space beyond the bleachers, beyond the outfield, into a party zone. And with plenty of food options, lots of open space, and enough bars to keep fans drunk well into the second game of a day/night doubleheader (not that we’ll see any of those quite so soon), this zone works, draws fans, and presents the game on enough monitors to hold everyone’s attention.

As to the architecture, it’s just about all evocative of the place and the setting. The bridge motif works, and appears not only as the primary pedestrian walkway in right-center, but on the edges of the decking. It give Citi a local touch, and a reminder that just because a model is being followed with a retro-park, it doesn’t mean there aren’t individual components that stamp it as New York.

Over in the Bronx, the New Yankee Stadium is a breed apart. It’s a stadium on steroids. Just the footprint alone for this behemoth is greater by almost 50% the park it replaced. And while the dimensions for the field are comparable to the old Stadium, and even though there are slightly fewer seats, there are enough separations and sections and distances that you can find everyone and everything from a mullah to a mullet from the fancy seats down low to the reserved seats up high.

History is much of what is being marketed and sold with this park. The exterior goes back to the original park, opened in 1923, and does a good job reminding us of that classicism. Still, there are banners and placards noting current stars on the outside of the park, a way too small plaza on the 161st Street side, and a screaming need for a subway exit that brings you onto this plaza, not the other side, the old Stadium side. Couldn’t something be done about that by now, let alone by the opening of the season back in April?

As to the interiors, oddly, they feel cramped. Sure, there are elevators to race you to the upper levels. And the promenade goes for a bit, and access through the open scheme entrances goes smoothly. But when faced with a crowd, and that’s what you get at a Yankee game, a crowd, movement is slow, there are several choke points around very narrow tunnels in the outfield area. There’s a sense at times that you’re stuck in Madison Square Garden, walking around the 33rd street side to get from one half of the arena to another. Yet you’re in a brand new building that really should have no reason to compress people and create claustrophobia.

Another issue with the stadium is the constant shilling. Everything is for sale. It’s a combination Modell’s, Christie’s, and TGIFriday’s all wrapped into one. Here you can buy everything from a simple trinket, to a game worn uniform from the 30’s, to just about any and every food imaginable. The offerings are there. The question is, do you want them.

There is a wide array of beer choices, but from my seats in the upper reserved section, it seemed that I was limited to light beer, or gourmet beer, nothing in-between. That seemed odd, and I can assure you I checked to see the options in this category.

On a plus note, there was a green market on the lower level, with great looking fruit and some veggies, not just dried out or soggy looking things. Each food kiosk has a calorie count next to the item price, though I doubt anyone ordering an Italian sausage cares that it comes with 500 calories. After all, you’re gonna wash that down with a beer or two, light beer or not.

A humorous aside was the reference to Fries on each of the boards. There are no French Fries at Yankee Stadium. But there are Fries. American Fries. Go ahead, laugh, but in arguably the most liberal city in the country, or more likely the second most, there’s a strong and unambiguous international political statement that certainly does not go without notice.

And then there are the bars and restaurants. You want a white tablecloth place, you got it. Want a casino feel, you got it. Want a taproom, check. There are enough bars and restaurants to water the south Bronx for weeks. And that’s where the space comes from, space you won’t see from the field, or from the seats in the lowest bowl, separated by a concrete wall from the rest of the stadium. From the best seats, this place looks clean, new, and fantastic. After all, it’s the best money can buy. Your money, that is. But for the rest of us, this place comes up a bit short, not only when compared to Citi Field, but compared with what one expects of a Yankee Stadium, and what exists with recently opened ball fields in major league parks across the country.

Open house night.....same as it ever was.......

2009-09-03T22:29:00.003-04:00

High school never ends.

It doesn’t end with graduation.

It doesn’t end in the back seat of a ’71 Mustang, or the beach in Malibu, or even with the start of college, boot camp, or even cosmetology school.

Is just continues, and comes back to you at times. Sometimes it’s inopportune. Sometimes you know it’s coming, but there’s nothing you can do about it. Like you’re a deer in the headlights.

Back to school night fits that category when you have a child in high school, and of course make the obligatory annual pilgrimage to smile on the teachers so they treat your child like the prodigy you believe ‘the one’ to be.

You get all types at back to school night. The hard working dad, still in his suit on a late summer night. The workout addicted mom with the great arms and probably killer abs, who’s trying to figure out what to do about the lines in her face. The PTA moms who live through their kids. The parents taking a second or third free beverage, just because it’s there. The moms with the bad dye jobs. (would it have killed you to spend another 30 seconds on the side of your head, in front of the ears. You, yes you, the women I sat next to in the gym!) The kids dying for the community service hours willing to prostitute themselves for this club or that school activity just to be involved. The football players selling tickets to who knows what because they’re too cool to have a pitch down that works, and don’t they realize football is no longer the fall sport in this part of the east coast, anyhow?

There’s the teacher who used to be a party planner, still using balloons as the background of her powerpoint. And the science teacher who was so unintelligible, no one was able to ask him a question at the end of his presentation, as no one had a clue to what he just said. (I do have a great deal of sympathy for my kid in this class)

And then there's the gym teachers. They fit every stereotype. And then they add this to the mix. They take themselves seriously. They talk about posting the curriculum online. They talk about tests. They talk about the course. It's fucking gym. You either get hit by the dodgeball, or you catch the dodgeball. Has gym changed that much? Not by the look of the teachers, legs spread, standing as tall as they can, hands behind their back, looking trimmer than the other teachers, but probably thanks to the Under Armour gear more than any regular form of exercise. For the umpteenth time, Woody Allen was right when he said those who can't teach, teach gym.

But then it’s also about the wonderfulness of a community wealthy enough to put a promethium board in every classroom. But, still, has to tape a handwritten note alongside each board warning that it’s not to be written on with markers or other pens or inks!

Another type is the cautious and caring teacher, the one who warns parents about the problems at this school. Drugs? Sex? Pregnancy? Truancy? No, the silent agent this fall, H1N1, and the perennial favorite in these parts, the overindulgent parent who provides their child with the excuse necessary to stay out of school on exam day. This, it appears, is the big problem in our community. And it certainly speaks to the overindulgence of the parent, the coddling of the child, and the disdain it shows for both educators and the process of teaching and learning. I suspect it will continue to go on, as we know that every angle will be taken to get Missy into Yale and Skippy into Brown.
And then the evening ends, after you’re offered cookies and brownies and drinks and memberships and clubs and galas and trips and who knows what. You walk out into the preternaturally cool late summer evening, into what at first seems to be a nice, refreshing, open space. Then, right in front of you is a reminder of the way the kids are treated. Of what they have to deal with each day. Three very large security guards, evident to all by their embroidered shirts with ‘MCPS Security’ over the left breast on their XXXL buttondowns, arguing either with one another, or with a parent, over some sort of transgression.

There is no calm in high school. There is probably very little reason. There’s a lot of emotion, a decent amount of pheromones, way too much sweat, and a false sense of being in the universe. But not to worry. It doesn’t end. And by the look of it. Many people spend many years trying to get it right. Even if they don’t follow the rule, if you wore it back in high school, it’s more than likely not appropriate to wear now.

Now, where’s that Mustang.

How to be an asshole, the baby steps

2009-08-31T22:16:00.000-04:00

It’s easy to be an asshole.

Here’s a quick how to guide.

And none of this required repeated viewing of Curb Your Enthusiasm, the final episode of Seinfeld, any episodes of the Ali G show, or visits to the in-laws.

Go to the supermarket. Buy a lot of stuff. A lot of heavy stuff. Big jars and bottles and things. Don’t complain when the checker, a guy who looks like he just was cut from an NFL training camp, overstuffs each bag. Try not to exhale when pushing the cart out the door, even though it’s probably the most weight you’ve moved in a few months. (There’s extenuating circumstances there, but not for this post.)

Leave the cart while retrieving your car (remember the upscale neighborhood post from earlier this summer? It applies here. No one will steal your groceries in Bethesda. It’s my litmus test, and it works.)

Now here’s the thing. For the roughly 15 years I’ve lived in this neighborhood, and shopped at this one grocery store, on the trips in which I’ve used my car, I’ve just about always left the cart at the door, retrieved my car, and then loaded up the trunk with the food and stuff purchased.

Well, out of nowhere pops up miracle parking area bag supervisor boy extraordinaire. He’s wearing a Safeway shirt, perhaps even a nametag with the moniker provided by his parents some twenty years ago.

Now I don’t recall seeing this guy anywhere before. Not when I left the store a moment earlier. Not when I walked through the door 20 minutes earlier. Not on any of my hundreds of visits to this store.

But here’s miracle parking area bag supervisor boy not only ogling my bags, but beginning to fondle them, seeking out somewhere to take them, to place them, so the bags and the contents could have a good home until they would be consumed and properly disposed of.

So this is his job, right? I mean, where else, even these days, can a down’s baby get a responsible job, one that’s challenging. It’s really going to be bag checker, or bag loader. Something with bags, unless your mom was the Governor of Alaska, I suppose.

Again, I didn’t ask for miracle boy to appear, wasn’t offered the services of miracle boy, wasn’t asked if I needed assistance with my bags (a polite offer often made at the checkout at this store, but not made by the former NFL wannabe at checkout.)

So what did I do? I accepted the non-verbal offer of services by miracle boy, I opened the trunk, helped to organize a fire line of the bags from the cart from the wonder boy to me so at least these overstuffed bags could make it into the trunk before exploding, as opposed to landing on the stained and already pungent once dark asphalt tarmac of the parking area space I was temporarily using. This worked, everything made it into the trunk, organized as if it were luggage in the belly of a jet, and with a swift move, I closed the trunk, and made way to the driver’s seat.

Now, here’s the instant asshole part. I didn’t tip the kid. Didn’t even take the time to seek out a nametag, or say anything other than thanks.

Partly this was because all I had on me were a pair of twenties, obtained at the register checkout. I’m not one for cash, and I usually have a few bucks on me, but not at this time.
What to do? Get change somewhere? Be a real big asshole and ask for change for a twenty? Tip him a twenty? Blow him off? Thank him, and wish him well?

There’s no winning this, is there. And it’s even more troubling when you have the look of the bag boy in your eyes, like the last thing you see before you die, or blog, whichever comes first.

Does it matter in any way to hear that miracle parking area bag supervisor boy was a down’s child? Was he let down further by my behavior, or just accustomed to the rudeness of early 21st century life in the important Washington suburbs. At least the car he helped load the stuff into was a modest old Toyota, not some fancy new thing, one that cries out “tip me, motherfucker, or this car loses, now.”

But, still, it’s easy to be an asshole. Just see. Your time will come. We all have it in us. Some more than others.

trashed, ouch!

2009-08-25T18:41:00.002-04:00

My fancy pants alma-mater (that's 100,000 dollar talk for college) was just trashed in the latest issue of GQ.

That's supposed to sting, but has GQ mattered since Level 42 broke up?

Under the header '25 douchiest colleges' the magazine proceeds to swipe and slime a broad range of schools, from large state colleges to elite academies to micro-schools.

It's actually quite funny, especially when it's nailing the other places, so it's with mock offense that I note what it said about humble Brown University, ranked #1 as the top douchiest school.* And I add that they mostly got it right, dammit!

Here's the copy from GQ:

Home of: The "Peace Sign on My Mom's 7 Series"

DoucheAffectations: A belief that grades, majors, and course requirements are just another form of cultural hegemony; using the word hegemony.

In ten years, will be: Living with your family in an old house that you quit your job to refurbish yourself (by overseeing a contractor) with painstaking historical accuracy in a formerly decaying section of the city that's recently been reclaimed by a small population of white guys in hand-painted T-shirts who are helping you put together a health care fund-raiser for MoveOn.org.

Douchiest course offering: English 200: On Vampires and Violent Vixens: Making the Monster Through Discourses of Gender and Sexuality.

Honorable-mention limousine-liberal institutions: Duke, Reed, Oberlin, Wesleyan, Bard, RISD.

*They wanted to rank Duke as #1, but didn't want to give it the satisfaction.

Ahh, the convenience of air travel

2009-08-24T07:46:00.001-04:00

OK, summer travel season is almost over. But that means fall travel season is right around the corner. And those meetings you put off, that event you have to attend, that relative you must see, those trips are coming up.

Even with Labor Day flying estimated to be 3% down from last year, there’s still a bunch of us heading up to the once friendly skies, looking to get somewhere, on time, luggage in tow.

But wait. We all know the indignity that is airline travel today. Even Tom Wolfe parodied it from the perspective of a plutocrat brought down to earth in this months Vanity Fair. And for those of us who don’t have G5’s, or drivers, or stubborn faith (or time) in Amtrak, that mean we need a coach seat to get cross country, or to that conference in Dallas, or that show in Minneapolis.

So if you think that baring feet, and allowing pants to sag from stripping off your belt, and having to bag and limit the volume you carry of lotions and potions and notions of travel that was once romantic, then get ready for this update when it comes to traveling overseas.

A local television affiliate in Washington, DC, has this real winner, the kind of thing that might leave us running naked through a concourse, seeking a blanket from a flight attendant (for a fee, I’m sure) just to get past the indignity.

Tip: Register Items Before You Leave The United States.

If you laptop computer was made in Japan—for instance—you might have to pay duty on it each time you brought it back into the United States, unless you could prove that you owned it before you left on your trip. Documents that fully describe the item—such as sales receipts, insurance policies, or jeweler's appraisals—are acceptable forms of proof.

To make things easier, you can register certain items with CBP before you depart— including watches, cameras, laptop computers, firearms, and CD players—as long as they have serial numbers or other unique, permanent markings. Take the items to the nearest CBP office and request a Certificate of Registration (CBP Form 4457).

It shows that you had the items with you before leaving the United States and all items listed on it will be allowed duty-free entry. CBP officers must see the item you are registering in order to certify the certificate of registration. You can also register items with CBP at the international airport from which you’re departing. Keep the certificate for future trips.

And I am sure we’ve all been keeping receipts for our cameras, our shoes, our shirts, our pants, our eyewear, our laptops, all that we have that is now imported, and for which we just presumed it was ours, no need to justify.

Thanks, DHS, for sharing this new Customs and Border Protection initiative with us.

It makes last week’s requirement that we have to provide our complete legal name and DOB when purchasing air travel seem, well, dated.

Overheard conversations......

2009-08-10T17:48:00.002-04:00

Fingers are healed. Hopefully the funny bone is back intact. I'll let you be the judge.

How many of you can cite Mark Alan Stamaty.

For many years, going back to the mid-70’s, the cartoonist wrote a weekly strip for the Village Voice, I believe it was called ‘Guaranteed Overheard conversations.’
These were often amusing fly on the wall musings from a Manhattanite, picking up on the angst, the humor, the lust, the drudgery, the life of New York at that time.

I read it pretty regularly, and found it both enlightening and pretty damn funny.

So just this afternoon I’m making a run to the local supermarket to pick up some things. I only had a few items, so I was in the express line. I really did have fewer than 15 items, way less, which was good. Don’t you hate it when someone busy 47 items of just 3 products, and claims they’re just 3 things.

So I’m in line, and the guy doing the register in my line strikes up a conversation, with the cashier behind my back, in the next stand. At first this was offputting, but the conversation was amusing.

“Hey, man, ever been to Amsterdam?”

“No.”

First guy is a medium skinned kid, around 20, heavy eyes, seems laid back. Second guy is real dark, short rasta curls, skinny as a whip.

“I’m going there in November. For Potfest. It’s gonna be great.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

By this time all my stuff had gone through, I’d signed and paid for my stuff, and I was loading it up into my backpack.

The young woman behind me seemed to look around 18, though I suppose she was 21, 22, even. Small white woman, buying one can of soup. I guess she’s planning to be a cat later when she gets older. Whatever.

But here’s the interesting thing. Little white girl who looks like she could do J. Crew ads, if she wasn’t 5’2”, listening to what these guys have been saying, jumps in to add some context and offer a warning.

“Be careful about the shops over there. They might have the stuff marked on the labels, but it’s a lot stronger than the stuff over here.”

So skinny little girl offers her wisdom, pays for her Campbells soup, and walks on out.

Wouldn’t have thought this clean cut kid had context on weed, let along experience in Amsterdam. Funny what you hear while waiting in the line in a suburban supermarket.

And we’re worried about a war on drugs 40 years after Woodstock? Perhaps it is time to legalize, tax, and regulate the damn stuff. Start in California where it’s the state plant, and let each state determine how to work with it, just like alcohol. Allowed by the feds, regulated at the state level. Doesn’t seem that it would hurt any more people than it has already, and if anything it might free up law enforcement in some areas, expedite judicial proceedings in others, and fatten the coffers in some counties and states across the country.

Where’s former New Mexico Governor Gary Johnson these days?

Hard to blog with broken fingers

2009-08-04T08:53:00.001-04:00

Gonna have to take a short blogging break. Hard to type and blog with broken fingers. No worries, but if you red the blog below, you'll understand. Back when privileges are returned.

How Do I Look?

2009-08-03T15:59:00.002-04:00

How can four simple words, all single syllables, strike fear into the heart of any conscious male?

How do I look?

Is there a correct answer? Of course. You look great. That’s the winner. It’s clean, simple, hopefully honest. It’s direct, and positive. Great has meaning, significance, potency even.

How do I look?

Other answers suffice, but none measure up to you look great. You could add an affectation at the end, so that it comes out you look great, darling, or you look great, honey, or you look great, scruntchums, all of which make it a bit more endearing, a bit more earnest, a bit more human and connected. You look great, dear, doesn’t do that, so avoid the irony, the sarcasm, even the hint of wry humor, particularly if it’s morning, and you’re each racing to get dressed and out the door.

Inappropriate responses include:

You look fantastic. Too showy. Too forced. Too gay, unless you’re in a same sex relationship, and then go for it.

You look fine. Might work if you’re into a 70’s Barry White phase of life. But if that’s still your soundtrack, get with the program, drop those platforms and poly bell-bottoms and upgrade to this century.

You look OK. OK? OK for what? That gets each of you nowhere. It sows doubt on your ability to provide free praise or offer a compliment at any time. It completely undermines anything else you might have been doing, saying, thinking for the past, oh, I don’t know, length of the relationship. OK is just not OK, never. OK?

I don’t know. OMG, what would you be thinking to respond in this way? Is there a tumor putting pressure on your skull, restricting blood flow to the brain, neutering certain cerebral functions? Are you asleep. Never respond to this question in your sleep. Who knows what you might be thinking, and you don’t want to suggest your lovely significant other leave the house in what you’re imagining at that moment. Are you just clueless? Have you never heard the question before? Are you just an inert, sluggish, wisp of a being, incapable of thinking, responding, and communicating with others in a way that engages and extends existing relationships? (if the answer is yes, just return to your Star Trek play set immediately, and leave interpersonal relationships to those with legitimate interest in one another)

Are you talking to me? The denial option could work, but if you’re in a store, a crowded store, and you’ve been dragged along on a shopping trip. If that’s the case, you’re in way too deep, and even feigning deafness, confusion, vertigo, or any other illness or malady, permanent of temporary, won’t cut it. If you’ve not only been dragged to the store, but are still there when she comes out of the changing room, and haven’t come up with a creative enough solution to get yourself out of this predicament (think, I’m venting), you’re a goner. You damn well better have a good answer, and it better be something that sounds like you look great. (For reference, think of the response Rob Corddry provided his wife in the Farrelly brothers’ remake of ‘The Heartbreak Kid.” When out clothes shopping with his wife, he said perfect, you look great, and added thumbs up and facial gestures to support the spouse. All of these are perfectly good options, and work well, depending of course on conditions and circumstances.)

How do I look?

Don’t say she looks good if she just doesn’t in that getup. It will come back to hurt you, in ways you cannot even begin to imagine. At a time of her choosing. And she knows it, and you don’t, so it’s doubly dangerous for you to try and lie your way out of the predicament. Or even just gloss over it.

So don’t wake up unarmed. Don’t ever leave the house for a weekend shopping spree unprepared. Protect yourself against those scare words. Those questions that can lead to pain, suffering, even banishment. Don’t become a victim of circumstance. Protect yourself. Knowledge truly is power.

Besides, there is no good answer, or right answer, or ….well, I hope you get it by now.

Tomorrow, we take on the mother of all questions. That loaded six word question, again, all single syllables, that goes beyond fear, creating sweat lines across male foreheads the world over. Tomorrow, should I live to see the day, we take on the eternal question, does this make me look fat?

That Jonathan S. Leibowitz guy is funny

2009-07-28T14:41:00.002-04:00

Jersey is known for a lot of things. Some good, mostly bad. I grew up across the Hudson, the good side of the Hudson (snap), and took in the view that Jersey deserved its second tier status, the smells of Elizabeth, the problems in Newark, the decay down in Atlantic City, and the distance and challenge it took to get into the city from just about anywhere.

But then there was Bruce Springsteen, Jersey’s Bard. Hell, probably America’s Bard, as at least we can understand him better than others who carried that mantle for years prior. In the mid 90’s there was breakthrough music by the Fugees. And then at century’s end we began an intense relationship with that remarkable television drama brought to us by David Chase. Where would we all be today without the Soprano’s, Jersey’s most favored drama, and a show that may have singlehandedly both reinforced the worst of a range of stereotypes while similarly documenting the reality of this existence for those either allied or related to it.

But all of them, and, yes, I mean all of them, may very well have been lapped by the short guy from suburban Trenton, America’s most trusted newsman, Jon Stewart.

Celebrated last week by TIME for this honor, Stewart acknowledges he’s not in the news business. But America may differ. Pretty soon Comedy Central may be able to supplant ABC News with the tired line ‘more Americans get their news from Jon Stewart than from any other source.’

Across the board, across the country, across even the political spectrum, Americans turn to Stewart, and his angry doppelganger, Stephen Colbert, for more than just some late night yucks.

Stewart is now at the point where he has transcended political comedy, leapt ahead of established news figures, and enshrined himself as a monumental force in our popular and civic culture.

A few years back ‘The Daily Show’ was pretty damn funny. Some cracks about politics, some easy laughs at George W. Bush’s expense, and then on to a celebrity interview. The show wasn’t all that different from the other late night fare, though it was shorter, and required cable.

Today, and this has been the biggest difference for this show over the competition, Stewart consistently books policy wonks, academics, and authors, and accepts their humor, or lack thereof, even as he seeks to probe how human these folks can be, and how willing they are to take a skewering.

Barney Frank was on last week. The Massachusetts Congressman is probably the funniest guy in the House of Representatives, and arguably the smartest. But it’s always tough to be on in someone else’s world. Look at what happens to politicians on Bill Maher’s show. Look at what happens to CEO’s when they come to Capitol Hill to testify. It’s tough on people to be on parade outside of their safe zone.

But Stewart manages to both make people comfortable enough to be willing to appear, comfortable enough to sit with him on the set, and comfortable enough to provide answers that feed back to a zinger, or to a substantive followup.

Frank held his own with Stewart. Hell, he’s from Jersey too, though that’s besides the point. What’s important is that Frank, the Chairman of an important House Committee, a representative of the Democratic leadership, a person who needs more media attention the way Jon and Kate need more kids, came on the show, handled his appearance admirably, and both pleased the host and the audience, a dual challenge that is not always met.

Last night William Kristol came on the show. He’s not your typical Daily Show viewer, or even the kind of person you would expect to see on the show. Kristol didn’t hold back on his politics. He discussed the subject of last night’s show, the woman who just didn’t quit as Governor of Alaska, Sarah Palin, in favorable terms, and parried with Stewart in an informed and amused way. Stewart worked with it. The line about Palin doing Stewart went over well. Stewart’s well timed response about having Cheney do him was one better, but Stewart gets paid for the humor, Kristol for the analysis, after all.

So it’s nothing new to hear kind words about Stewart or the Daily Show. It should be new and refreshing, though, to hear of this show as a seminal program, marking a transition from the days of stilted evening news anchors and traditional late night show hosts (Uncle Walter, Johnny, to name the best of the lot), and from the Letterman’s and Leno’s and even the Conan’s of the world, past the network and even cable news anchors, into this brave new world in which we live, where we are informed online throughout the day, and by late night, want to see all the substance processed and synthesized into tasty morsels of comedy, samples suitable for all in the family.

We’re in slightly unchartered territory here, and whether other television entities will seek to join the fray with similar programming remains to be seen. But watch what happens to Nightline at ABC News once the summer ends. Going tabloid and cheap might not hold up against the consistent humor and truth-telling that goes on each night at 11, and then again at 11:30 with the Colbert Report, over at Comedy Central.

Methinks they’re more than on to something. In fact, they’ve redefined late night, and indirectly are going to be changing the way news is seen and delivered for all.

the things people ask one another

2009-07-17T18:35:00.002-04:00

We live in a pretty decent community in our neighborhood abutting Washington, DC. It’s decidedly upscale, close to things you need to live, like the subway, movie theaters, decent restaurants, and enough bank branches and coffee shops that you can caffeinate and withdraw every 5o feet.

One other thing we have is a very robust list-serv for our area public schools. It starts with the elementary school, then there’s one for the middle school, and one for the high school. We’ve graduated to the high school stage, so we’re getting postings about drivers ed, and college prep classes, and shared rides to tennis lessons, the usual suburban shit you would expect.

Every so often there’s a posting on this listserv that just stops you dead in your tracks. Up until earlier today, that one had been amusing, in a perverse way.

You see, everyone who posts is obligated to note their connection to the school. So once you post your query, or your comment, you add your name, and then the name of your child, or children, if your wish, and the year that child, or all your children, will ostensibly be graduating from the public school system.

Pretty simple, easy to understand, all comments are signed, basically, so you are accountable for what you say, what you ask, and if you are seeking a response, each respondent knows to whom their comment is going.

Now the amusing one was such because it was the sort of thing you just don’t think you would put out in the street. Sure, we all go to the doctor from time to time, or even regularly, if you have decent health insurance, a lust for people in white coats, or suffer from hypochondria. But this one person, this one woman in our neighborhood, someone I know, once posted that she was looking for a gynecologist, and was seeking recommendations from the listserv.

Now I’m all for vaginal examination, mind you, and even considered suggesting that I had a degree, and would take all sorts of insurance. But propriety, the law, and a disinterest in this woman’s 40 year old snatch kept me from responding, in any way.

Still, to me at least, it was pretty damn funny. Doesn’t she have friends to ask? Doesn’t she have a primary physician to run this by? In this case, this person had recently posted that her sister in law lived in the community, so you would think that might have been a person to turn to, privately, for a suggestion. No, apparently was the answer to all these questions.

But enough digressing.

Today, we have a winner, and perhaps all time listserv posting. Someone for whom reality is not a concept, but a guess. For whom no question is beyond bounds, no inquiry can be too naïve, no solicitation too bold. And, yes, this is verbatim.

“We will be driving to Buffalo in August and are trying to figure out the best way to get there (there is no direct way to get there on the interstate system). A friend has recommended taking US 219 part of the way, rather than the mapquest route. If anyone has experience driving to Buffalo and can recommend a good route, I'd appreciate your replying to me directly.”

Of course I have removed the name to protect the innocent, even though this person can hardly be considered innocent given how stupid she is (yes, I know the gender of this person, and no, she was not the person seeking a gyno), and how totally ignorant she is of anything from highway maps to AAA guides to I-95, the Pennsylvania Turnpike system, and the New York State Thruway.

So let’s make a game of this. What do you think the reason is for this person’s apparent inability to navigate arteries traveled by hundreds if not thousands of American motorists every week. And one I drove two years ago, so I know it is possible. Though I did it in reverse, which may be confusing to the inquiring mind.

Here are our options, though feel free to offer option (F) on your own:

A) too much termite spray when they moved into the house, and it has had a long term effect on their mental competency?

B) inbreeding

c) got hit in the head with a backswing at a corporate golf outing, suffers short term outages

d) never heard of the Eisenhower Interstate Highway system

e) never been north of the Mason-Dixon line, ever

Respond accordingly. There may be a prize in it.

While you may laugh at the comics page, you can learn from the obituaries

2009-07-06T14:10:00.002-04:00

I have been reading newspapers just about all my life.

I recall poring over the sports pages of the New York Times, memorizing batting averages (how did Alex Johnson with the Angels win the 1970 AL batting title with a .329 average, and why do I still remember that nugget?) before I reached 10.

And at the same time, I leafed through sections other than sports to read the obituaries.

Back then only famous dead people were recognized. The mainstream papers are a little more democratic these days, and just about anyone with a life story, or with a good cub reporter on your tail, or corpse, is profiled. And this is all a good thing, for any number of reasons.

From Aunt Millie being recognized for raising a brood of kids, and being patient with her husband, and moving about the world every few years in response to her family’s every changing employment, or the sad story of a death way too soon, even on to the 1000 word pieces on celebrated figures from history, sports, and the arts.

Hell, just think about the attention we are giving the gloved one now in the third week following Michael Jackson’s death, and you know what I am talking about.

And every so often, something comes out from one of these obituaries that either reinforces a long forgotten memory, or a moment from history, or even just provides context to an old political fight, or a battle, or a court case.

An obituary from Sunday’s Washington Post provides a wonderful illustration. I had never heard of William Hutchinson. Didn’t know that he was living in Honolulu in 1941, that he was an editor for one of the city’s papers that fateful December morning when the American fleet was bombed by Japanese kamikaze fighters. Didn’t know that the Honolulu Advertiser was not able to publish on Sunday, December 7, 1941, due to broken equipment. That sure must have been frustrating. Imagine having an outage today that lasts for hours, rendering us unable to post for what seems like an eternity.

But that’s not the educable moment.

Remember back to September 11, 2001. For those of us living in DC, there were widespread reports of attacks and fires and detonations all across the downtown area. Rumors abounded of an attack at the State Department, on the National Mall, and up on Capitol Hill. Of course those reports turned out to be inaccurate, but they were reported nonetheless, and amidst all the hubris and tumult, were not knocked down until mid-day, several hours after first being reported.

For those among us who think the media just got it wrong with some facts on 9/11, note what was included in William hutchinson’s obituary.

The Advertiser was finally able to publish on December 8, a full day after the Pearl Harbor attack, and several editions behind their competition, a paper that had run several EXTRAS that Sunday.

And what do you think the headline was on December 8? Japanese bomb Pearl Harbor? Thousand of Sailors Killed in Japanese Attack? Pacific Fleet targeted?

No, “Saboteurs Land Here!” was the headline for the Advertiser. Notwithstanding that no saboteurs did land in Hawai’i that day, or that the story had details that turned out to be way off.

Mistakes are often made under the pressure of crisis. We all need to continue to work to avert them, to confirm, via multiple sources, the validity of what we’re hearing, and to do what we can as journalists to avoid freaking out the public. That’s never a good thing.

you can still learn

2009-06-28T22:31:00.003-04:00

went to a the birthday party of a friend this afternoon. was looking forward to it. the friend has been just great over the years. and the party was as expected. older crowd, given that this was a celebration for a 60th birthday. but beyond the tributes, and the humor, and the excess of food, and the range of ages in attendance, was one remarkable person who you would just never have expected to have the perspective or even just the plain humility that was shown.

later in the party, when the crowd thinned, and those with either too much time on their hands, or too much too worry about in order to get home, stayed on and congregated closely around one another, there were more intensive conversation than the usual pablum.

one person, a reed thin man, looking around 60, with an indiscernable accent, ended up sitting near me, and we struck up a conversation. turns out that Silvio is near 70, from the north of Italy, been on his own since the age of 15, speaks 5 languages fluently, not including Portugese, I was later told, and holds forth on a range of topics and experiences. born on a small farm in the Dolomites, as a child he carried buckets of warm milk to a cooperative to obtain goods for his family, skiied the Alps on handmade skis tethered by leather straps. and by december 10 of each year, they would slaughter the Christmas pig purchased earlier in the year, using every part from the animal, for food, soap, or trade.

this was where the conversation began, oddly enough, on recycling, and how in post-war Italy his family never had any waste. they used everything they had, bartered or made whatever they needed, and didn't leave a footprint. Silvio talked of a class a young friend of his was taking on environmental sustainment, and how similar what she was learning was to the way he lived two generation back.

yes, some things go around, and there's the old saw about the simplicity of life on the farm, in agricultural communities. but Silvio added that his village has changed, dramatically, over the years. he still visits the family that remains in the region. but where there was once just a mountain to climb in order to ski down, there are now a jumble of lifts taking vacationers to the summit, higher than Silvio was able to climb as a child. and there is no longer a family farm, replaced by automation, the success of the Italian economy in the '60's, among other things.

there was plenty more Silvio discussed, from moving to Venice to work in the hotel industry as a 15 year old. moving on to Paris to become a construction worker at 17. then on to Bermuda at 21. Spain, England, and Germany as well in his twenties. and then Rio, which was admittedly hard to leave, he acknowledged, before first coming to the States some time ago.

Silvio tells me his travels are far from over. he has stayed in Washington for going on five years now, and suspects that he will soon be in another city, in another country, within a year. it seems like a great life, with great experiences, and great perspectives. and one that appears to be easily shared, which serves as a learning tool for us all.

Really, Senator Burris

2009-05-27T22:40:00.005-04:00

Is that all there is?

That's you're just as lame a hack politician as the ones who almost preceded you in the United States Senate.

That you demagogued on race at a time that this country was beginning to accept the prospect of uniting on the issue. Someday.

That you may well have lied before the Illinois investigative body examining your pal (no denying that now, is there) Rod Blagojevich.

Here's what the AP says: 'Sen. Roland Burris says he didn't tell an Illinois House impeachment committee that he discussed fundraising for ousted Gov. Rod Blagojevich because, like any good lawyer, he didn't want to volunteer information he wasn't asked about.
Burris told The Associated Press on Wednesday it never occurred to him he should've told lawmakers in January testimony at the state Capitol about his conversation with the former governor's brother."

And your response, you weren't asked specifically. Really.

And to know that it follows your previous response that this tape exonerates you. Really.

Senator, you have some 'splainin to do.

Thanks, Seth Myers, for letting me steal your trademark line. Really.

bring back the just say no campaign

2009-05-20T16:59:00.002-04:00

Let's go retro. Old skool. Back to the early '80's.

For those of you without a sense of history, that's when Nixon bombed the Germans at Pearl Harbor to win World War II for the Americans.

For everyone else, it's when Nancy and Ronald Reagan corralled the media, and were the darlings of the Washington elite and were well covered by my media forebears.

One of dear Nancy's pet projects was to get America's youth to cut back on those nasty drugs that kids were taking back then. You know, the kind of stuff that let you to believe Level 42 was a good band, or that Wham! presented danceable music, and even provided Simon LeBon with a mansion. Not the kind of stuff that would help you appreciate the whimsy in Elvis Costello lyrics, or the energy of the Replacements, or the beauty of Roxy Music.

The bad stuff, whatever that may have been, was what Nancy wanted us to stop doing.

And she went about it by chanting a simple message, 'just say no.' This caught on, due to it's simplicity, and the humor that many found in it.

But perhaps that message can be reclaimed, in time for summer, as I present ten television news shows we should just say no to.

1) Nancy Grace. Has she no shame?
2) Rush Limbaugh. Has he any decency?
3) Rick Sanchez. Has he ever seen his show? You need drugs in order to sit through that hour.
4) Glenn Beck. What's with the crying. There's no crying in news.
5) Larry King. It's hardly live. He's barely alive. And you've got either Ashton Kutcher or Joy Behar on just about nightly.
6) Anything featuring Donald Trump. No need to explain.
7) Diatribes by Joe Scarborough. Talk about letting success get to your head. Gingrich lite is too much to take, even in the morning.
8) news pieces based on anecdote, without more than one anecdote as illustration (ask if you want examples....too many to mention)
9) hype and hyperbole........to paraphrase Joan Rivers, can we talk

and saving the best for last

10) Nightline. It's a crying shame what's happened to this show. And it's an unbelievable paradox to learn that ratings continue to grow with this formula of tabloid and trash.

Is this the new Will Ferrell comedy?

2009-05-18T16:23:00.003-04:00

Here's a news gem straight to you (via the AP and the msm) from our friendly dopers in Belgium. Imagine what would happen in an MLB locker room if the same situation occured, or a bike team's training hotel, for that matter.

Event canceled after competitors flee

Associated Press
May 18, 2009
BRUSSELS -- The Belgian bodybuilding championship has been canceled after doping officials showed up and all the competitors fled.
A doping official says bodybuilders just grabbed their gear and ran off when he came into the room.
"I have never seen anything like it and hope never to see anything like it again," doping official Hans Cooman said Monday.
Twenty bodybuilders were entered in the weekend competition.
Cooman says the sport has a history of doping "and this incident didn't do its reputation any good."
During testing of bodybuilding events last year, doping authorities of northern Belgium's Flanders region found that three-quarters of the competitors tested positive.

The People 1, Bad Architecture 0

2009-05-13T14:14:00.003-04:00

In a blow to the preservation movement, but with a nod to the sanity movement, the concrete monstrosity on the northwest corner of 16th and I, NW, in downtown Washington, otherwise known as the Christian Science Church, will be allowed to be taken down.

A representative for DC Mayor Adrian Fenty overruled a preservation committee's decision, and will allow the congregation to raze this brutalist box, and replace it with a design of their choosing.

While I can't speak for those who thought this was a good design back in the late 60's, I can speak to the great hideousness that this building presented, and represented. Like other concrete monoliths, it was imposing, uninviting, and even created it's own microclimate (wind around the perimeter, aromatic urine along the westernmost edge).

Good riddance, concrete box. Welcome, future ugly glass box.

she looks like herself!

2009-05-12T11:32:00.002-04:00

Roxana Saberi came to the door of her apartment in Tehran today, and said just a few words. But seeing her smile, hearing her voice, and knowing that she is free, and with her family, said even more.

There are plenty of links to the video. Here's a quick transcription of her brief remarks.

"I am very happy that I have been released and reunited with my father and mother. I am very grateful to all the people who knew me or didn't know me and helped for my release. I don't have any specific plans for the time being. I want to stay with my parents. "

Hoping that she continues to rest and recuperate, and that she will plan to come to the United States for a long visit quite soon.