Free write stuff on tiger woods and stuff. Yeah.

I've been dreaming of refining my opinion-style writing since college, an embarrassingly long time ago. But I suck at it. It's clunky and boring and doesn't say much. Sigh.

Anyhoo, you gotta ejaculate on paper and then refine, refine, refine. Here's my ejaculate, oh yeah:

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

America, like Hollywood, needs a hero-athlete to answer its celebrity villains, and maybe vice versa. You got a Mike Tyson, a Carl Everett, a bad boy Denis Rodman? Then it's time for a well-scrubbed Tiger Woods, a shiny Oscar de la Hoya, a made-for-television Alex Rodriguez, a perservering Nancy Kerrigan. Say hello to the White Knights in the briar patch of anti-heroes. Group hug, everybody.

This is what the Buddhists call the auspicious and the inauspicious, the ying and the yang. Darth Vader without Luke? Unthinkable. Now it's time for the media to give Luke a flattering story to tell. Throw in a back-story of adversity and humility. Make 'em an underdog back in the day. That way they can be truly self-made, truly American. The underdog is, afterall, always right.

But here's the rub, and no, it ain't pretty. Captain America was, even in the comic books, the manufactured byproduct of a "super soldier" serum -- a steroidal freak. Superman had daddy issues. You think he's up all night fighting volcanoes the world over for his health? C'mon, Clark was desperate for acceptance.

The Buddhists will tell you the auspicious and the inauspicious aren't so separate. There's a big black chunk of ying in the yang, of yang in the ying. Sure, I'm surprised by Wood's infidelity. But that not surprised.

Look, I won't waste my breath defending a guy who has the gall to cheat on his wife while she's home nursing their 10-month-old (son?). Woods doesn't look so well-flossed anymore. But who are we to have dared to dream that the hero of the golf course was a moral power off the links?

Few of our other heroes have lived up to the hype. Rodriguez didn't just abuse steroids; he guzzled them, all while earning hundreds of millions of dollars that left his teammates cold. Kerrigan? An Olympic ingrate who couldn't stop complaining while headlining a parade at Disneyland. De La Hoya? #$$%%^.

Here's an equation for you. Crime is just a motive that's met an opportunity, expressed like this: Crime = (motive) + (opportunity). What's infidelity but a crime of the heart, a moral mistep against your family? And what law of the universe prevents a celebrity from acting on his or her carnal desires and need for public acceptance?

In other words: Celebrity infidelity = (sex / acceptance) + (infinite opportunity, with untold beautiful women, at any time of day, anywhere in the world).

(And so on...)

Next evolution of porn?

Been thinking about writing this piece for a long while now... but I don't really have the inside view. Nor do I tune into mainstream porn. hmmm...

PIECE:

Sa Phoen is pushing herself to get back into animation. Mitss Varl gets migraines. XXX suffers from depression. XXX once miscarried a child. And XXX could really, really use an orgasm, a backrub and a chocolate milk.

TRANSITION HERE...

These are tough times for the porn industry, what with so much being given away on the Internet for free. But the women of the sex industry haven't buckled; they've evolved, marketing themselves through their own interactive Web sites, selling their own short sex clips, and broadcasting their every waking thought into the sometimes hazardous world of the social Web.

Despite anything ever imagined by Woody Allen or Russ Meyer or (robot love author), the next evolution for adult film actresses isn't mechanized or holographic or 3-D or laid out in the bizarre contours of virtual reality. In the information age, it's utterly fitting that women who love and have been consumed by sex and exhibitionism marry their neurosis to technology, self-promotion and over-sharing. Whatever the future of the porn industry, the future for porn stars looks a lot like Twitter.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Weight loss = weight loss

Wow, I'm down to 165 lbs on two different scales, two days in a row, at different times of day. My October entry a month ago had me at 172 lbs.

That's a seven lb. difference. I'll take it!

Personal goals: Running 5 miles at an 8:30-pace

Well, I think I have a new running goal. I completed the Medtronic 10-mile in early October running a 9:32 pace (i.e. 9:32-minutes per mile). I hadn't slept much nor eaten breakfast nor eaten much at all the entire day before, and I ran 6 miles the night before the race just to make sure I was up to it, so I basically was as far off my peak performance as you can get, haha.

That said, assuming that a 9:30 is a "comfortable" pace for me, I think my new goal should be running 5 miles at 8:30.

That would be a wonderful birthday present to myself in January, though achieving that pace by January might be a little ambitious.

Here's where I'm at: I hit the treadmill for about 45 - 50 painful minutes tonight (5+ miles) averaging a 9:05 pace, with mucho variation between 10 minute miles and 8 minute miles. Those 8-minute miles are killer. I had to take a minute break from the treadmill twice and I almost threw up once, I guess from swallowing my own spit and counting down the minutes outloud to encourage myself. I was dry heaving and running for the bathroom, where I coughed up some saliva while making puke noises. Haha.

I think my next workout will be a fartlek, doing 30 minutes in 90-second intervals of 11, 9:00 and 7:00 pace. If I do 7 rounds of those, I'd be averaging 9-minute miles for 30 minutes. (i.e. running 3 1/3 miles).

For the workout after that, I'd like to run 5 miles without stopping at a pace of 8:57 - 9:10. That'd be a 45-minute workout, even. Not sure if my lungs are up to yet. The backs of my legs (hamstrings?) are tight tonight but otherwise I'm fine after my workout. It's the lungs that always fail me. The cramping feeling in the abs and the muscle aches in my back or neck -- neither of which hit me tonight -- go away, but the lungs always do me in; sometimes even for hours after a run I feel tightness in my chest.

Speaking of pain, I put my training with the personal trainer on hold. I kinda wish I'd never signed up for it. It's $300 I can't afford and the workouts are too intense. I don't want to be a muscle man or a top athlete; I just want to be faster and drop 16 lbs. Sigh. I was like hyperventilating at the end of my first workout, but I went back for another. Silly me.

Well, I stopped going entirely after about four or five workouts because I've been working late but mostly because I've been getting these terrible headaches. They tend to start when I'm doing anything more strenuous than running, especially when I'm changing levels as in a sit-up or push-up. One lasted more than 12 hours and woke me up at night from the pain, so I stayed home from work because I hadn't slept at all. I called my doctor and got referred to a nurse who told me to take more Ibuprofen. Sheesh, thanks. Jerk-ette.

It might have to do with my outdated glasses prescription. I'm wearing an old pair because my existing ones broke months ago, and even those were ready to be replaced.

It could also be my couch-sleeping. I don't sleep on my bed because I prefer the openess of my livingroom and the easy access to my computer, the television and the kitchen. As a result, I've worn down my couch and the cushions don't really give me head and back support. I suspect that my torso weighs more than my legs so I'm basically at an angle when I sleep, with the tips of my toes a centimeter higher than my head. That's not good for blood circulation, I betcha!

Or, I could just have a popped blood vessel in my head. Or all three. Dunno.

Anyway, I resume with the personal trainer on Nov. 30, the Monday after Thanksgiving.

The good news is I'm 168 lbs. tonight, down from 172 whenever my last entry was. But I never trust one weighing, as your weight changes day to day and moment to moment. I ate very lightly today, just a yogurt and granola bar for breakfast and a grilled chicken salad from Wendy's with a cup of coffee for dinner, though I drank a rum drink at SAUCE and later drank some O.J. just before weighing myself. It probably cancels out.

My goal continues to be 153 lbs., but I think focusing on speed and frequency of workouts, rather than weight, is smarter, healthier and more sustainable in the long-term.

Okay, this must be the most boring blog post ever. I sure hope no one is reading this!

Weight loss = weight gain

Listening to "Modest Mouse" and their album "Good News for People Who Like Bad News"... they rock. I heart music.

So, two different scales tell me I'm at 172 lbs. I guess I've actually gained weight over the summer. Oh, man, that was the opposite of what I've intended. I'm kind of amazed. I was sure I was below 167. I don't feel 172.

I do feel a little more solid than I have been before, even though I haven't been doing virtually any upper body work. I kind of think this 172 lbs. suits me in this cold, hearty Minnesotan environment. That said, what I see when I look in the mirror is so different from what I see when I look at myself in pictures. I'm sometimes pretty round-faced in pics, which I dislike.

Plus, people tease me about my weight (including my recent ex-girlfriend, who really pissed me off bringing it up a lot one weekend in particular) and that's just annoying.

I've tried to eat healthier lunches but night time is tough. I catch up on missing calories, and when I'm having a late-night beer, I automatically reach for pizza or quesadillas, and a fair amount of them.

Sigh. I know the answer: run 5 miles every other day. Nobody who runs 5 miles every other day is overweight, I don't think.

I'm just disappointed because I've been running a bit, though to be fair, not much more than once a week. I guess no one loses weight working out once a week. I did a 10-mile road race and a little hiking this summer, and I think my lower body looks more muscular as a result, but my tummy is sizable when I slouch or touch my toes. Sigh.

Things that shouldn't be done but are done

Everyone is entitled to at least one strange fetish but it has to be consensual, folks! And when it goes so far as to involve children and poop, makes me wanna call the cops!

I just got back from climbing in the White Mountains, so I'm especially sensitive to this little bit of fecal tom-foolery. Sigh.

From the Associated Press:
Man admits crawling into outhouse pit _ again
(AP) – 23 minutes ago
PORTLAND, Maine — A Maine man caught peering up at a girl from below an outhouse toilet seat four years ago stands accused of crawling into another pit toilet on White Mountain National Forest property in New Hampshire. A federal affidavit indicates a 49-year-old man confessed to repeating his previous act on Memorial Day.
Federal agents sought the man out after a 9-year-old boy saw him climbing out of a toilet at the Hastings Campground. Two witnesses saw him walk away from the outhouse.
Forest Service special agent William Fors wrote that the man initially said he climbed into the waste-filled pit to retrieve a T-shirt. Four years ago, he said he was retrieving his wedding ring.
Fors wrote the man eventually confessed climbing into outhouse pits on more than two occasions.

MGMT, "KIDS"

Damn, this video is so wrong to this poor little baby! And I think that's his mother in the video. But the song plays on 89.3 FM, and it's a great song!

For some reason, I can't copy and paste the code (only half of it pastes), so here's the link. The band is called Management and the song is called "KIDS":

Video of MGMT with "KIDS"



If you can make any sense of the lyrics, you're a better man (or woman) than me...

Lyrics courtesy of MetroLyrics.com

You were a child,
crawlin' on your knees toward it.
Makin' mama so proud,
but your voice was too loud.

We like to watch you laughing.
You pick the insects off plants.
No time to think of consequences.

Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.

Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.

The water is warm,
but its sending me shivers.
A baby is born,
crying out for attention.
Memories fade,
like looking through a fogged mirror
Decisions to decisions are made and not fought
But I thought,
this wouldn't hurt a lot.
I guess not.

Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.

Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.


Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.


Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.


Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.

Boy did I get round!

Well, I've officially tipped the scale at 170 lbs... that's what not running and not exercising will do to you!

My new goal is to drop 15 lbs. in 15 weeks ... and get to 155 lbs. by the end of November. Hmmmm....

Matt and Kim

I love the group Matt and Kim. They're real-life sweethearts, met in art school, and live in Brooklyn, which adds to their other-worldly appeal. Kim's face when she drums is like this other-worldly ecstasy. I wish I had a hobby that drove me to such orgasmic heights. They look like they really enjoy performing .... oh, and they take their shirts off in every video I've seen!



MATT AND KIM - YEA YEAH

POEM ABOUT GOD AND DROWNING

POEM ABOUT ALL OF HUMANITY AND EVERYTHING, EVERYWHERE, ALL AT ONCE

It's said that God provides
but then how do you explain
drowning

I hear the battle hymn of the Christian faithful
in the moments before the explosion
of that doomed flight over New York
the one where the body parts of Latin travelers
landed in the back yards of their loved ones
or the harbor

Maybe you can draw some parallel to Job
but Job woke from his nightmare, tested
and I know some never rise
They land in Chernobyl, Auschwitz, ovens

The Hebrews debate the old word, Timshel
Thou shalt triumph over sin (predestination; some of us are effed)
Do thou triumph over sin (obedience; go flog yourself)
Though mayest triumph (hope)

I believe in God, I'll stick with hope
knowing, as I do, that sometimes
it just don't float.

-- END --

So I was in the bathroom today at work, feeling groggy... when I was overcome by a story, sumpthin' fierce, I tell ya. It's pretty brutal, but it doesn't start out that way. I've been reading McSweeny's fantastical stories or something of the like, and this one jumped out at me...



Considering how awful my niece has behaved recently, I think the motivation here is clear: kids can act like animals! Here goes:



A little girl is sitting in her third grade classroom, and she sees a guy dressed in a monkey suit poking his head in the door. No one else sees him at first. The monkey suit is obviously a suit, brownish, but the eyes and hands are freaky. They don't look suit-like. They look real.



He keeps popping his head in, catching her attention, disappearing. She sits near the back of the close, sideways, so she has a good view of him. But other kids start noticing too.



The story switches to little vignettes -- her uncle once wore a monkey mask like this, to scare her at the zoo; her father told her a monkey had once bit him, and he'd been sick for days, nearly died; there is a bratty girl in her class who has big bags under her eyes but who is popular just by being so aggressive and mean in her personality, that girl has a little tag-along follower, and the bratty girl implies to the other girls she may have been molested, though she does so as a boast, like "I've kissed boys twice my age!" (she's nine); the protagonist of the story doesn't get along with the bratty girl, though the protagonist is also quietly popular with two other girls always competing to sit next to her on the school bus. She's just as happy to sit alone, though, and stare out the window, plotting what she's going to draw next. she's an artist. Also, in first grade, the teacher loved her so much, she brought her an apple (she read it in a book), and on the last day the teacher hugged her hard and kissed her on the cheek. You're wonderful, she thought to herself, or something like that. But she had the same teacher for second and third grade, and this one doesn't seem to care much for her, and has her sit at the back of the class.



The mean girl with the bags under her eyes eventually sees the monkey (by this time, a little nervous ripple is going through the class; only the teacher is busy preparing her lesson at the chalk board while the girls work in teams on projects). She and her tag-along friend look scared. The monkey motions to her, and the girl walks to the back of the room, near the exit, turns to the class, curtsies sadly, head bowed, eyes downcast, and walks out in the direction of the monkey.



Insert a vignette here.



Now, back to the classroom. The monkey, who has stooped, monkey like movements, is suddenly back in the doorway, howling. Even the teacher turns around. THe girl recognizes him. Of course! So familiar, he is! He raises himself up to his full height. Then he swivels so his upper body is out of eyesight. He's reaching for something .... it's the bratty girl's body! She's all broken up and stuff, with her head facing the wrong way, looking lifelessly at the classroom (I forgot to mention it's an all-girls academy). The monkey tosses the body into the classroom, where it knocks the teacher's desk. Everyone screams and goes running, most kids jumping out the window. One girl lands and her ankle goes pop. Another girl helps her.



Hey, I did say it's a brutal story, and I've been reading fantasy / horror type stories!



The monkey jumps into the classroom and rips up the teacher, gnashing at her eyes and throat with his hands (he's wearing a monkey mask, so no mouth).



The fat girl in the classroom is frozen. The protagonist is frozen. The tag-along to the bratty girl is hiding in the corner.



The monkey looks at the fat girl, who pees herself. He bows and motions for her to leave. She can't. He does a mighty kick, like a spinning drop kick and slaps her in the ass with his monkey foot. She goes half-running, half-hurtling for the door, safe and unharmed. SHe escapes. he turns to the tag-along in the corner, grabs her, and breaks her neck. Then he turns to the protagonist, who has done nothing all this time but stare.



He kinda takes a seat on the floor next to her, so he's looking up at her. After a long moment, she says, "You've really made a mess here." The monkey looks sad, downcast, stares at the floor. "Please try to be neater next time, okay?" The monkey looks up, and she kinda strokes his head and scratches him under the chin. His eyes are fascinated and familiar. They begin to giggle together. The end.



Wow. I dunno if I could ever write this one, and if I had the talent to do it justice, who would publish it!



The intro quote, beneath the title, would say: "Little girls and ferocious men in monkey suits are not always so distinct."



Man, I think I could be a horror writer, if only I'd practice the craft. My mind works in such a way that I can see odd moments, some beautiful, some awful, some just bizarre. I just need a little stimulus and it comes -- scenes, vignettes. I combine something I heard, with something I've read, with something I've experienced, and poof! The scene is in my head. But I never write it down in time. And by the time I do, it's crap. Maybe it was always crap.



I really want to slow down the moment of recognition so that when she sees the monkey and recognizes who it is in the doorway, she thinks to herself:

The monkey!

Stella gasped in recognition as the monkey raised himself to his full height, suddenly occupying every inch of the doorway, arms outstretched and anger bellowing. For the first time, he was making noise, and it was a terrible noise. His howls sounded like monkeys screaming before some tribal animal war; but not just one monkey, so many of them, a dozen at least, all of them furious and committed to clawing and biting whatever enemy, real or perceived, had the misfortune of standing before them.

The monkey! The monkey! The monkey!

Every girl saw and heard the monkey now. How could they not? Even Mrs. Rosen saw and heard. There was so much screaming. Fat Lucy was crying and so was tag-along Susie. So were the others. The monkey suddenly swiveled his upper body down to the side, his legs planted in the doorway but his torso obscured. He was reaching for something out of eyesight.

And then it was in his arms, offered to the classroom like a gift. It was bitchy bratty Cassie, or what was left of her. Her head hung crazily, facing the girls with wide, lifeless eyes, a red ribbon of blood threading her nose to her chin. Her body faced the wrong direction, a broken doll. He'd snapped her neck.

The girls were all screaming, all crying, even Mrs. Rosen was crying. The monkey was in the room now, lifting bitchy bratty Cassie above his head. And then he threw her.

She cut through the air like a flopping sack, legs and arms a jumble, and hit the hard front of Mrs. Rosen's table with a ka-thump. A second whump as she bounced to the floor. Chest to the ground, Cassie's doll head stared up toward the desks to the right of Mrs. Rosen, her eyes still open. Tag-along Susie met her lifeless gaze and instantly became silent. She could no longer scream or cry. They stared at each other, the living girl and the dead.

The monkey was upon everyone now, chasing the wannabe-twins and the tall girl and the shortest of the short. Girls were pushing open the window, crawling over the sill. It was a half-story drop. They dropped. Stella saw dark-haired Annie land awkwardly, her left foot splayed on its side. She moaned. Jenny Liu was helping her up, pulling her to her feet. They were running off now, Annie limping. They would be safe.

The monkey pressed his face close to one of the new girls and growled, his monkey paws in the air; an awful noise. She screamed, then ran around him to the window, another found the door. He chased after another, then another. But they all made it away. Well, almost all.

The monkey locked stares with Mrs. Rosen.

"Please," she whispered, clutching at her own face.

But it was too late. The monkey was sailing through the air, ripping at her eyes and at her throat. Stella hadn't noticed anything like claws on the monkey before, but they must have been there now. It was short work; a disaster. The monkey was relentless.

Mrs. Rosen's ruined body sank in shreds to the floor, a scrap of her falling from the monkey's paws a moment later, a bloodied afterthought. Only three girls remained. The monkey turned for a moment to tag-along Susie, who still had not made a new sound. He turned to Fat Lucy. She was crying quietly, her chin bubbling, standing in the middle of the room. The monkey looked Lucy up and down, up and down, then dropped to his haunches. A large wet stain formed across her pants.

He raised himself up a bit. And then the monkey bowed.

With a little flourish of his bloodied monkey paw, he motioned from his bow toward the door. Fat Lucy stood still as the earth itself, a lake of tears slipping off her face. The monkey righted himself and bowed again. Again, with the flourish of his hand. She was free to go.

Fat Lucy did not move. The monkey raised himself, reared back, rocked, and Lucy's chubby face became amazingly taut. This would be the end for her.

The monkey moved to the left quickly, then back to the right, snapping his legs around him in one 360-degree rotation. A roundhouse kick. His monkey paw hit Fat Lucy square in the seat of her pants; her body, lifted, swam toward the exit a centimeter ahead of her feet. She was out the classroom exit and tumbling down the hallway. She caught her balance by the landing. She was down the steps and off through the schoolhouse doors. She was almost home.

Other than the impression of his monkey toes in her ass, she was safe.

Then the monkey turned toward Tag-along Susie, who had finally taken refuge in the corner. She was curled in a ball, arms clasped around her head, still in silence. The monkey stepped forward. Grabbed her up in his arms. Stella couldn't see what was happening, with the monkey's brown body blocking her view. She heard a snap. Susie fell to the ground. Her eyes caught Stella straight-on from the corner, her body was crumpled toward the wall.

Susie was dead.

The monkey wasn't finished.

He turned toward Stella. He looked down at her from his full height. Stella looked up from her chair. She hadn't moved, screamed or cried. She had just watched.

He took one step, then another. He was right there before her now.

He dropped slowly to the ground, beside and beneath her. She stared into his wild, human eyes.

They remained there for a long moment, an eternity. The room was no longer a room but a ruins of desks and chairs, three bodies, broken glass, papers and books, pens and pencils, art projects that would never be finished. It was a disaster.

"Oh monkey," Stella said finally, "you've really made a mess here."

The monkey dropped his gaze toward the floor, and a sag went into his shoulders.

Stella shook her head.

"It's okay," she said, taking his cheek in one hand and lifting his face, scratching the top of his fuzzy head with the other. "Just try to be neater next time, you promise?"

The monkey looked at her, his joyful, familiar eyes fascinated and shining. He snorted. Stella giggled. They would be good together, this team, she seemed to be saying. And they both laughed until they fell down dizzy, happy to be so alive.

THE END

Pioneer Press, STRIB in snip snip mode

The Pioneer Press and the Star Tribune are both dumping water out of the canoe like nobody's business.

It appears the PiPress needs to cut $2 - $3 million out of the company budget this year, and most of it from the already stark-thin newsroom. What gives?

The Star Tribune may be a bigger ship, but it has been losing so much money, it's arguably in worse shape. (That paper declared bankruptcy not long ago).

Here's more:
http://www.minnpost.com/braublog/2009/05/20/8978/pioneer_press_newsroom_slammed_with_24_million_cut_demand

My two cents is this: You may think newspapers are irrelevant, but so much of what you read on the 'net from the AP, or see blogged about, or hear on television or on the radio, began with the paper. Mass media "retweets" what the newspapers go out and collect, see? It has to start somewhere....

Trent Reznor -- engaged!

Why am I always the last to know this stuff?

And who the heck is this Mariqueen woman? She's in the band West Indian Girl. Sounds familiar. I think I heard them on the radio. Hrmmmm..... Can't place them, though. Does she sing for them? Dance? She looks a bit like a stripper. Kinda strange-faced. But still (oddly) pretty.

Reznor used to be super-private. Now, any thought he thinks goes straight to Twitter. It's funny, a lot of rockers are like that, I think, because they can bypass the media and tell their thoughts straight to their fans...

Here's a hot picture of Mariqueen, but her band mate needs to practice the whole alluring sex bomb thing. The blondie looks a tad Minnesota nice here:

http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=239582939&albumID=745633&imageID=4406229

Here's her Myspace:
http://www.myspace.com/mariqueenmaandig

Ok OK she's officially a super hot gorgeous sex bomb here:
http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewPicture&friendID=239582939&albumId=210605&page=2

Scenes in my head

Okay where to begin? Typing in the dark is deefeecult... But it's 2 a.m. and I'm as awake as rain, if that makes any sense. I left work early today and crashed at 5 p.m til 1:30 a.m. My weird schedule has me completely spent. Gotta work on getting the whole sleep schedule thing under control. The issue last night was that I worked late and didn't fall asleep until after 2 a.m. or so, and I had to be up before 7 a.m. to take a relative to a conference. First alarm went off at 6 a.m. Youch. I was already sleep-deprived to begin with.

There are two stories rumbling around in my head, and they've been beating at the inner membrane for months now. The problem is, they're more like scenes, not words. As in movie scenes. One would look great animated. But on paper? I don't know if I have it in me. I haven't written a short story since high school, that I can remember. I tried something or other in college, without success.

I haven't read fantasy-fiction of the spaceship or wizards and warriors variety since probably middle school... but these two stories definitely fit the fantasy bill. I wonder why? I don't think I'd be very good at writing fantasy, seeing as it bores me to read about these elaborately drummed up societies and caste systems and feudal worlds, with all their maps and heavy verbiage. Nope, never got into Dune.

But tonight I put some meat on the bone, at least internally. I woke up with a bit of a back-story on the tip of my tongue... The character's name is Berlin Strummer. He's in a bit of an amalgm world, kind of like Flash Gordon or the animated film Heavy Metal, where there are both robots and planes, but also wizards and warriors (I think). Tonight I decided he is the son of "visitors"... Earth-humans who came to the planet he grew up on before he was born. Or maybe he was born in space? Hmmmm... I was thinking mom was from Argentina and dad was from Minnesota, mostly because I like the idea of him trying to remember and then sound out the words.

Where I started with Berlin Strummer in my head was that he was on a cliff, surrounded by "the enemy." He had a gun or some kind of weapon, but he was reluctant to use it because the bad guys had turned his family or friends into mind-controlled weirdos, zombie-ish or flesh-eating. If this were animated, the 'camera' would pan across grandma and grandpa, mom and dad, and then little Timmy -- who is growling with his hands clawing at the air. It'd be comic I tell you. Comic. But not so comic that Timmy would actually be saying, "Brains!"

Anyway, Berlin isn't about to shoot his family or adopted family or teamates or whoever they are on that cliff. So he says, audibly, but quietly, "I'm sorry," fingers his weapon, and then he falls backwards, off the cliff.

He's scared but kinda making his peace with death internally as he's falling. That's when -- badda bing! -- this lithe winged angel-creature shows up. We would have introduced her earlier as a captive of the bad guys, or a carnivale attraction held against her will. Anyhoo, she's all giant wings and feathers, and she doesn't so much catch him and get tangled up with him, and they fall earthward in a ball. It's mildly sexual, see? But innocent. Funny, if it's written write.

There's also "the little man." He's a midget (little person?) who rides a flying skateboard. The only problem with this character is it's so familiar, I'm afraid I might have plucked him from Heavy Metal. In any case, little man and Nimh (the winged woman) manage to prop up Berlin Strummer, and he falls to the ground a-okay.

I had different takes in my head... Instead of Nimh and little man, a Mytzylplk-like character shows up (that's the all powerful trickster from Superman who doesn't really mean the protagonist any harm but likes toying with him, like Q on Star Trek). I think I'll scratch that.

Well, it's tough to write a story around a scene. You're beginning in the middle. I gotta get my character to the cliff, and off the cliff. Hmmm.. I'm getting sleepy.

My second story is even more involved. There's a girl who wants to defeat this creature or bad person who has the entire world living in fear. The world is really a collection of tribes, loosely but not necessarily exclusively based on race. Each one has a different skill -- Asians have martial arts, African tribe has the spear, Indians have arrows, etc etc. There's a white kid from a kind of Nordic Viking tribe, who has Thor's hammer or something.

But she's the only girl, about 14, and she's the leader of a group of boys, one from each tribe. They're off to defeat the monster... but she gets them all killed. Maybe they just get turned to stone or something in a kind of "final battle." In any case, they're done for.

She's kind of a proud leader. So right before her own death, she casts a wish to put others before herself, or something like that. Basically, she learns humility. The moment that she learns that, the kids are returned to life. She still fails to kill the monster, but somehow, a minor character (lets say a gnome-like creature that they carry as a mascot) is able to televise her plight to all the tribes all over the world, and then channel the power of all the tribes in a kind of spiritual ultimate weapon aimed at the creature.

It sounds goofy, I know, but you gotta think big. Big! Like soda pop. Whoever invented that wasn't no small thinker, no sir.

I have a bunch of characters and scenes in my noodle, but they're mostly just that-- scenes. There's no story around them, at least, not really.

In one, there's a team of space mercenaries who are shipping cargo illegally for some evil empire, until they realize the cargo is children from the major planets around their galaxy. They're furious and they switch sides. The most self-serving and wimpy of the bunch lures the bad guys into thinking he's on their side, but then he blows up their "mother ship" or does something equally courageous. I've thought at times that he has hidden tentacles and rooms in his stomach that can store devices. So he hides poison gas in his tummy... but it's not poison to him. I've also thought that the captain of his ship, who is more respectable, blows up the mother ship, but then this tentacle dude teleports onto the ship before it pops and takes the captain's place (there's only one teleportation device, and it's one person per trip).

At some other point, I've thought of pairing these mercenaries up with their opposite-sex counterparts (there would be one lesbian couple) on the same planet that Berlin Strummer is from. Hmmm....

Somewhere in the child-trafficking story is the story of a girl and her baby cousins or baby brother. She gets captured and place in a cargo container, which is presented to the king of this warrior-race that is doing the trafficking, on his homeworld. The problem is that the homeworld is oblivious to the trafficking, which is being conducted by the king's son out in space for huge profit. The son is maybe telling the king he's protecting shipping channels or mining or fur trading or something. But somehow the king gets to sample the wares. He's an odious Jabba the Hut-like lump with lots of tentacles. The queen, in contrast, is this sexy warrior Ninja. Her body guard, the sergeant at arms, is the strong, silent type and it's implied that they're lovers. He has kind of a Native American warrior ambience to him.

Anyhoo, the king sends the sergeant at arms to open the cargo box... and out pops the girl, shivering and shaking, with the baby cousins clutching her legs and huddled behind her. She has a bow and arrow in her hand and she lets it rip. It hits the sergeant at arms in the arm, but he barely does more than flinch, more intrigued than injured.

The corrupt son sends his men to kill the girl but the Jabba the Hut creature rips their heads off. with a tentacle. He wants to know why there are kids in the cargo box. Slowly, the son's subterfuge begins to unravel. The queen takes the girl under her wing, and she and the sergeant at arms and her maids in waiting (who are also, secretly, trained ninja body guards) travel into space with the girl to see for themselves, and somehow enter the fight.

Okay, it's 3 a.m., and Im outta here!

Today was gratifying

Today was busy, gratifying, almost complete. I loved my job today, even though I made my first phonecall at 8:30 a.m. and my last one at 9:30 p.m., and then took a call from my editor probably 20 minutes after that.

Maybe it's wrong of me to enjoy what I do so much on days like today. I covered the aftermath of a homicide and a political story. But they felt meaty; weighty; good.

I did not work out and breakfast was a little fatty, but overall I had light meals and healthy ones, to boot. Only problem is it's 2 a.m. and I'm still up! :)

Matt and Kim, "Lessons Learned"

They're just the cutest...!!!



I would do this in Times Square, too. Provided I could keep my socks on until the end...

Merlin's Rest and french fries in malt vinegar, plus some

I discovered a new great food stuff tonight, and yes, it's worth any corresponding fats and greases...

French Fries. In Malt Vinegar. With mint sauce (light oil-based sauce, not the creamy kind). And ketchup.

Went to Lake Street pub called Merlin's Rest for its two-year anniversary. It was the owner's birthday and my friend's birthday, all rolled up into one. Good times...!

Mixed results

I gained a pound.

Or something like that. Every scale gives me a different result. The one at work tells me I'm 164 lbs. The ones at the gym tell me I'm 169 before my workout, 167 lbs. afterwards...

That would suggest I'm actually about 168, perhaps?

Which means ... no change at all.

I haven't really been working out more than once or twice a week, if that, so I have no reason to complain, I guess. Though weight gain while I am trying to lose weight is / would be depressing.

Sigh...

I need to break out of my funk. I wish I'd read more today / tonight. I did get to the newspaper and the gym, and an important errand. But still, my weekends are not productive enough. Gotta enroll in a class or something...

25 saddest songs of all time?

I won't pretend to know all these songs, but here's a list I found of the 25 saddest songs of all time. I certainly agree with some of these, like BRICK by Ben Folds Five, and Jeff Buckley's version of HALLELUJAH.

Listen here:

http://www.spinner.com/2007/05/04/the-25-most-exquisitely-sad-songs-in-the-whole-world-no-11/

Tiny parents

Can't sleep. I was, er, in the bathroom and a few simple lines came to me. I made some tea, munched some food, and came upstairs. Now I'm trying to recall them, and it's not coming out anywhere as crisp and clean. Here's my best effort at remembering:

Tiny parents, OR: At 32, 64, and 67, respectively

When did my parents become so
small, I don't remember this of them. They are as short now
as they were once endless.

My nephew, who is 3, kisses the white t-shirt holding my father's belly
and says, "Big tummy." I remember holding him there,
and wondering if he were Santa Claus.

Some eternal magic, a happy mystery,
this great love that does not end.
I was too young to understand
that they do.

Joyride (I saw the film)

Man, this video brings back high school memories. Not that high school was fun for me, but still, there's something about musical nostalgia... the song that transports you to another time. I saw this late 80s/ early 90s alt-rock Boston band called TRIBE, briefly, at the second-ever Lollapalooza concert, circa 1992. They disbanded a couple years later, it sounds like.

Their breakout song was "Joyride (I saw the film)." Here it is on MTV's alternative music show, "120 minutes"...

Weight loss?

Hmmm... I weighed in today at 167 before my workout, and 164 after... That would suggest a quantifiable drop from my previous weight of 168 - 171. Or at least a pound.

That said, I kinda fell asleep before 8 p.m. last night and missed dinner, and then left the house without breakfast (as usual) this morning, and then had a grilled chicken salad from Arby's for lunch. There was a mini danish, half a donut, a brownie and two cups of coffee in there somewhere.

So the 1-lb. drop is probably a result of an empty stomach. But I'll take it!

I celebrated by downing two beers, and fish and chips smothered in malt vinegar at Merlyn's Rest. What can I say? I'm a bad boy...

Bleecker Street Theatre and Rumspringa

Hey theatre fans! My friend's play, "Rumspringa," just got extended to early May in New York... so he partied like a rock star with Hugh Jackman (aka Wolverine) this weekend.

Here's his note:

Date: Monday, April 6, 2009, 12:32 PM

We've been extended through May 2nd, so come join us any Thursday, Friday, or Saturday at 8pm through April. There's plenty of B-Dog Magic Big Gulp to go around.

www.amishrave.com

here's the plot from the Web site:

WHAT IS A RUMSPRINGA?

Rumspringa is a rite of passage for many Amish teens describing a period where they temporarily break away from the church and it’s teachings to see what life is like “on the outside” of the Amish culture. Periodically “Rumspringa” gatherings occur in cornfields at night where Amish (and non-Amish) adolescents congregate. At these gatherings, many of the Amish teens wear “English” clothing, drink alcohol, and some participate in illicit drug use. The idea of such gatherings was the inspiration behind the new Off-Broadway play, “Rumspringa".

SYNOPSIS

On a cold December night, 57 year old married software executive, Steve meets 28 year old surfer, Brandon on Southwest flight 1049 from LAX to Chicago. Brandon is on his way to visit a love interest, Cecily, an expatriate riverboat casino blackjack dealer living in Joliet, Illinois. Meanwhile, an ominous rave party is percolating in a nearby Indiana cornfield - organized by a large group of rebellious Amish teenagers. These events set the stage for "Rumspringa", a dark comedy that explores the temptation in all of us to see what it's like on the outside of our own lives - and what can be gained or lost through such an exploration.

history

“Rumspringa” was workshopped in Chicago at Victory Gardens Theatre and at HB Studio in New York City. In October, 2008 it was performed in the public reading series at the Geraldine Page Salon in Chelsea. The play begins Off-Broadway previews on January 29, 2009 at the Bleecker Street Theatre and opens on February 11, 2009.

Childhood rock heroes vs. Sen. John McCain

I sought out an Irish rock band I was in love with a long, long time ago in the sixth grade -- the Waterboys -- and much to my surprise, discovered that Mike Scott, the lead singer, is not only alive and well, but he's apparently become a bit of an artsy techno-fan.

He updates on Twitter at least 3 times a day, or, as you can see below, nine times in 2 1/2 hours. And unless Twitter is recording his posting time inaccurately because of the different time zone, he's an early riser!

Read up from the bottom. The first TWEET is about Liam Neeson... the rest is directed directly at ex-presidential candidate, Sen. John McCain.

http://twitter.com/MickPuck


Messaging Twitter central to complain about "chisel-chinned fraud" (ie his minions) being able to retroactively delete my messages to him.8:13 AM Mar 19th from web

@SenJohnMcCain Now do us all a favour you chisel-chinned fraud. Retire. Subscribe to Rolling Stone magazine. And shut the feck up.7:38 AM Mar 19th from web in reply to SenJohnMcCain

@SenJohnMcCain Your answers to Steph yesterday were the height of arrogance. 'I wouldn't do this/that..' You LOST the election, charlatan!7:36 AM Mar 19th from web in reply to SenJohnMcCain

@SenJohnMcCain I still meet people fooled by yr concession speech. 'Great speech' they say forgetting all the vile bilge that went before.7:35 AM Mar 19th from web in reply to SenJohnMcCain

@SenJohnMcCain Incredible how you can pontificate on issues w/ straight face after almost foisting Palin on the world. Shameless old fraud!7:34 AM Mar 19th from web in reply to SenJohnMcCain

@SenJohnMcCain Very impressive how you've repositioned yourself as "Mr Principled Guy" after your despicable, ugly, desperate campaign 08.7:34 AM Mar 19th from web in reply to SenJohnMcCain

@GStephanopoulos As for you, ya twit, how you can appear on TV with yr face uncovered after the 2008 Prez debate is a profound mystery.7:30 AM Mar 19th from web in reply to GStephanopoulos

@senjohnmccain I still meet people fooled by yr concession speech. 'Great speech' they say, forgetting all the vile bilge that went before.7:02 AM Mar 19th from web

Morning coffee walk. Thinking about Liam Neeson. Met his missus same year I met mine, knew her same length of time. Very sorry for him.5:42 AM Mar 19th from web

New York Times to Boston Globe: We can close you like that! Poof!

Well, this is depressing. The New York Times Co., owner of the Boston Globe, is threatening to close Boston / New England's biggest newspaper if the unions don't concede to pay cuts.

New York Times threatens to close Boston Globe

Here's more depressing news, from local quarters:

MediaNews, the Denver-based owner of the St. Paul Pioneer Press, has been slow in paying off its debts. Skipping debt payments was a strategy of the Pioneer Press' main competitor, the Minneapolis Star Tribune, just before declaring bankruptcy.

MediaNews skips payments

Weight loss!

Okay, so I weighed in today at a somewhat round-in-the-belly 168 1/2 lbs. after getting off the elliptical machine and stripping to my naked core, no towel or nuthin'.

Yesterday, I was 171 lbs. before my treadmill run and 168 lbs. after, but I think the clothing I had on before and lack thereof after contributed to the discrepancy.

I'm sticking to the idea that I weigh 168, and hoping the 171 was, you know, a cruel joke that those pesky electronic scales at the gym sometimes like to play on me. Not funny guys, not funny at all.

For a guy who once wrestled (in high school) at 112 - 114 lbs., my adult heft is quite a change. Naturally, I have no desire to lose 60 lbs. (I'd look like a scary skeleton, or maybe just French.) I do have much desire to drop 15 or even 20.

For now, I'm going to set a smaller goal of losing 8 to 10 lbs ... in seven weeks. That's 1 lb. to 1 1/2 lb. per week... Not a modest task, but, according to
TheDietChannel.com, those who aim to lose no more than one or two lbs. weekly are more likely to keep it off than those who engage in quick-result, fad diets.

So how do I lose a lb. per week? Well, the Diet Channel has 10 tips for me, and because it's on the Internet, they must be true! Actually, the tips are sensible ones that parrot stuff i've heard elsewhere.

Eat slower; do at least 30 minutes of exercise a day, five days a week; add weight lifting and cardio to your workout routine; focus on getting healthier, not thinner, etc. I can accomplish this last part by focusing on my running goal. I need to get back below 9-minute miles for my distance runs. I was so much speedier 1 1/2 years ago... sigh. :(

One tip I didn't know:
One pound is equal to 3,500 calories. So to drop 1 lb. a week, you would need to drop 500 calories per day, on average. (Or 700 calories a day for five days, followed by two days off).

There's two ways of going about this: you could drop 250 calories from your daily intake (i.e. skip dessert) and then exercise for 30 minutes, and drop another 250. Or, the way I figure it, keep your caloric intake more or less the same while exercising for an hour per day.

This latter option is actually hard to do because our tendency is to eat more once we start expending a lot of energy (and if you've ever run for an hour, which is six miles or more, you realize you are using quite a bit of energy!).

Still, thinking this way gives me hope. As long as I can take 700 calories off a day, five days a week, I can drop seven lbs in 7 weeks... If I can push it a little harder, I can drop 10 lbs. in seven weeks.

March 29 was my first way-in date... April 16 will be my final weigh-in date! Yippee yee haw.

Ann Arbor News to shut down after 174 years

There's some disheartening news from the world of news, and no, this time I'm not talking about the decline of the American newspaper.

I'm talking about Saudi Arabian religious leaders, calling for an end to women in the media. That means no women in magazines, no women on television, no women, period. Don't believe me? Believe Yahoo News:

Saudi clerics want women banned from TV, media
"There should be no Saudi woman on television, in any case," they said.
http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/20090324/lf_afp/saudireligionwomenrightsmedia

But for every really depressing story about the evils that men do (and yes, I said MEN; I pity, sympathize, and emphathize with my brethren on many occassions, but this is just sicko shit) there's also a bit of light and happiness.

For instance, in Thai land, a firefighter was at a loss in how to coax a scared autistic boy off a dangerous ledge. Suddenly, a brainstorm. He got dressed up as Spiderman.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/20090324/od_afp/thailandchildrenoffbeat;_ylt=Ah_SNge0hOIt5F9o7inKxckeO7gF

Okay, back to the depressing stuff.

The Ann Arbor News, which has published continuously in Ann Arbor, Michigan since 1835, is closing down in July. A new Web site company will take its place. It's a small paper, circulation 45,000 -- about 1/5th the size of the Pioneer Press. But it's still depressing.

http://www.mlive.com/news/ann-arbor/index.ssf/2009/03/ann_arbor_news_to_close_in_jul.html

not. fun.

Sylvia Plath's son commits suicide

Jeez, poets are a lonely, miserable lot! This is like the Kennedy curse, the Jeff Buckley curse, the ... the... I dunno what else curse...

FROM:

MSNBC

LONDON - Nicholas Hughes, the son of poets Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes, has killed himself, 46 years after his mother committed suicide and almost 40 years to the day after his stepmother, Assia Wevill, did the same. He was 47.

Hughes, who was not married and had no children, hanged himself at his home March 16, Alaska State Troopers said. An evolutionary biologist, he spent more than a decade on the faculty of the University of Alaska Fairbanks. Marmian Grimes, the university's senior public information officer, said he left about a year ago.

From the time that Plath died, in 1963, Ted Hughes tried to protect and strengthen their children, Frieda and Nicholas, from their mother's fate and fame. He burned the last volume of his wife's journals, a decision strongly criticized by scholars and fans, and waited years to tell his children the full details of Plath's suicide.

----

Why we should appreciate this lousy recession

Ever seen "American Psycho?" I think the one good thing about recessions is that the psychotic metrosexual serial killers no longer have reason to bash a corporate partner to death in the men's room because the font on his businesscard is nicer than their own.

Actually, there are lots of good things about recession. It evens the playing field a bit, returns us to an earlier American dream (fantasy?) of equality and brotherhood and all that. Misery loves company, and no matter how successfully you rose above the masses in your previous outfit, we're all one and the same when we're standing together in the bread line. Or drinking together at the bar ... before noon.

That's what inspired me to recall that scene in American Psycho. When too much money goes flying around, people get pretty annoying. The prissy Stepford wives of America with their botox lips and implant bosoms, the flashy mortgage brokers with their high-end import autos, the Ivy League hotshot who makes corporate vice president at age 24 ... suddenly, it's no longer cool to have too much. Showing off when the guy next to you is losing his house isn't so much fun anymore, I suspect. It's certainly a lot easier to resent. You just got a male pedicure? Not cool. Not cool at all, bro. Maybe it never was.

Okay, enough of that. Let's channel some positive energy now...

There are other things to appreciate about recession, beyond the equalizing lousiness of it. For instance, dirt-cheap home sales is one, bargain airplane tickets is another.

Don't forget vacation deals in exotic locales you couldn't afford before (three nights free at Disney World when you pay for four? Woo-hoo!), and also all those job opportunities in those odd industries and venues that are prospering even as the economy flails, like schools, biotech, environmental consulting, Internet search engine companies and companies that specialize in designing Internet advertisements, pawn shops, and accounting firms, to name a few.

Finally, enjoy the run on breakfast cereal (it's what's for dinner in many American families. I kid you not.)

Here's more ideas from:

Slate Magazine -- In terms of our economic competitiveness, the recession will make the U.S. a better international player in the long run.

Careerrealism.com -- A great opportunity to re-invent yourself professionally, rationalize and explain away why you were terminated, and stop judging others by job title.

And don't forget: Cheap stocks!

What would you add to this list? Hey, this couple thought it would be terrible after dad lost his job as a forklift operator. They hit the gym together everyday now and their health improved, and they spend more family time than ever before!

Two-part Associated Press series on Michael Bhatia, Pentagon's first social scientist killed in Afghanistan

Well, it's late, so I'll use this as a placeholder for now, but suffice it to say the Associated Press has written a two-part series about Michael Bhatia, the Pentagon's first social scientist to die in Afghanistan. Mike was a personal friend and old acquaintance. His humvee rolled over an explosive device back in May.

Here's a link, and the top of the piece:

Michael Bhatia, first of two parts

"One man’s odyssey from campus to combat
Michael Bhatia was on the frontlines of a Pentagon experiment

First of two parts

updated 2:29 p.m. CT, Sun., March. 8, 2009
MEDWAY, Mass. - On the overcast New England morning Michael Bhatia came home, nearly 400 of his colleagues, family and friends turned out to meet him.

Seven months had passed since Bhatia, a 31-year-old scholar in international relations from Brown University, hefted his pack across the tarmac at Fort Benning, ready to begin his sixth journey to Afghanistan.

Every trip had come with risks, but this one was the toughest to explain. No one questioned Bhatia's commitment to Afghanistan, but many disagreed sharply with the way he'd chosen to pursue it."

Why didn't anyone tell me music could be this good?

The SilverSun Pickups have a song called "Three Seed"... and it has me!!!



So what is it about? Abortion, addiction, a street fight, a failed romance?? Others have debated the meaning, here:

SongMeanings.net

An economy built on service is an economy built on selling each other pizzas

What I understand about economics could fit in a thimble, but I do understand this: this economy sucks. Someone's been asleep at the wheel, and the U.S. stopped producing things that the rest of the world wants to buy along time ago.

We seem to be very good, however, at producing lawyers, which is helpful when we all start suing each other for our failure to stay financially solvent and pay back our (student, small business, large business, mortgage, car, medical) loans.

So I asked my friend, the Internet, to pony up a more academic explanation of "What went wrong?" with the U.S. economy. I came across a couple of interesting Web sites and learned more than I care to recall about banking in 30 seconds of skimming.

Here's an attorney and former Congressional candidate out in Illinois who seems a little bit too conservative for my tastes. He's a former assistant county prosecutor and the author of, of all things, "Get Your Illinois Suspended Driver's License Back: Step by Step Instructions."

But when he talks about U.S. corporations investing more money abroad than at home because, frankly, it's easier, he may be on to something!

QUOTE OF THE WEEK:

"The fact is that current policies that have envisioned the American economy as a service economy and left manufacturing to the rest of the world are truly at the heart of the economic problem. We can only survive so long selling each other pizzas."

FROM:
The Problem with the American Economy, by David J. Shestokas

"Daylight"

This is the cutest video I've ever seen, so help me oh my stars and stripes and garters:

Art shanties in Minneapolis -- Frozen. Funky. Art.

FROM: http://3minuteegg.org/

"Six winters ago, Minneapolis artist and art activist Peter Haakon Thompson teamed with David Pitman and other artist friends to construct ice houses and place them for a few freaky, frigid weeks on Medicine Lake, west of Minneapolis. The Art Shanty Projects has since become a January tradition — 20 teams of artists, designers and architects to turn their whimsy into three weeks of reality on the tundra. 3-Minute Egg poked around Saturday’s opening festivities, braving gthe Arctic winds so you don’t have to. Of course, if you care to, the Shanties remain up through February 14."

Layoffs hit the Pioneer Press, Star Tribune newsrooms

Well, the STRIB has declared bankruptcy but is still printing. Seven people were laid off from the Star Tribune newsroom Friday, with the possibility of six being hired back if anyone else in the newsroom reconsiders and takes the buyout offer, the gossip train calls a pretty meager package. Fat chance.

Layoffs hit the Pioneer Press on Friday, as well. This is the first time my sources can recall the PiPress laying off full-time newsroom staffers. In the past, they've offered voluntary contract buy-outs, reduced their part-time and on-call staff. This is new.

Here's the memo that circulated Friday from the top brass:


Fellow staffers:
We've taken steps this week in reaction to the severe economic downturn and in anticipation of a very challenging 2009 -- including Friday's layoff of four newsroom colleagues.

The layoffs included:

--- Picture editor Randy Johnson

--- Clerk Tom Morley

--- Web producer John Vincent

--- Sports copy editor Tim Whitecotton

Additionally, Cindy Larson, one of our newsroom clerks, and Dick Klitsch, who worked on our sports copy desk, will be moving to the ad production department.

We also eliminated the budget for on-call help on the sports copy desk, most directly affecting five regular on-call contributors: Kyle Anway, Brad Perlich, Travis Petschl, Alexandra Pluym and Val Reichel.

I thank them all. We will miss them and their daily contributions to the work we all do.

I made these moves reluctantly -- but also knowing that I had to, given the immediate and near-future outlook for the economy. My overriding goal was to protect our reporting power. Our ability to continue to produce distinctive journalism that can't be found anywhere else is more important now than it has ever been. And we must produce that work for our online operations, daily newspaper and niche publications.

Towards that end, we're making some other changes. We'll be merging the operations of the news and sports copy desks, to more widely share the load and increase how efficiently we move copy. To help do so, we'll be rearranging desks and asking lots of people to move, including photo and the hub and sports desk staffers on the 6th floor. We'll be moving desks on Monday morning.

What can we all be doing, right here and right now, to help? Journalism. Break exclusive news online and in print. Tell stories that can't be found anywhere else. Find photos that jump off the page and videos that must be watched. Design dynamic illustrations and pages. Write headlines that demand to be read.

Thanks. As always, I'm here for questions. --

Cloud Cult and auto insurance

The local band "Cloud Cult" has a song on an E-surance (auto insurance) commercial.

Cloud Cult is pretty good and extremely creative. They're definitely an acquired taste. If you listen to their lyrics, you'll find repeated themes in their albums...


The lead singer, Craig Minowa... his son died a while back so the music has a bit of a sing-song quality to it sometimes, with references to toys, and childhood, and then to something more meta-physical... from Jesus to his dead grandfather to the hereafter... thereby connecting death, the afterlife and infancy... Anyway, that's my take on it...

Check out this Advertising Age article about the band's decision to go with Esurance after rejecting other companies because of their "extreme" environmental beliefs

A true Christmas story

A true story:

When the Scooby Doo gang’s Rube Goldberg trap misfires, the feet of the Mayan Gods land in large metal springs. Suddenly vulnerable, they bounce pogo-like into a nearby pond. Their masks fall away. These are no vengeful, angry gods. It’s the archaeologist and his wife, in disguise!

My youngest nephew’s eyes are small moons of surprise. “They’re just people!” the cute little chub-bucket explains to my older sister, his high-pitched, three-year-old voice an octave higher, his tiny finger crooked toward the television. “The monsters are just people!”

This is what it means to be a kid. On Christmas morning, I come downstairs in a t-shirt and bath towel, an accusatory finger pointed at the wrapped packages under the tree. “Santa brought you all presents,” I shout at my three namesakes. “But he stole my pants!”

They giggle at the thought of a mischievous, thieving Santa. But hours later, at dinner, the cute little chub-bucket recalls a dream he’d had during his nap.

“There was the mummy from Scooby Doo in the closet,” he tells us, in a voice absent humor or irony. “And a really creepy hand. And Santa Claus on the roof. And then he came down into my room. And he stole my pants.”

I am beginning to think my nephew is too impressionable, even for age three.