Music: “Future's So Bright I Gotta Wear Shades” by Timbuk3

It’s the end of the year and I don’t feel like working hard.

And reader probably aren’t looking for a serious, in-depth, 18-page treatises (they get plenty of those during the work week, let alone the weekend, let alone the holidays).

I haven’t done this much on this site, so let me conclude 2005 by posting a series of mindless internet quizzes. Hey, it beat’s wearing glasses in the shape of the “2006.”

Enjoy.

Caleb's secret lucky charm is: "A voice inside your head always telling you to do the right things" Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com

Opinion on result: Maybe I should take my medication more often.

The Phillistine You scored 50% Pride, 22% Envy, 65% Ambition, and 32% Deceitfulness!

You are the Phillistine, a citizen of a nation that rivaled Israel. You inhabited the land of Canaan (i.e. the promised land) before the Israelites decided to roll through and claim the land for themselves. In many respects, you had much in common with the other settlers in the land of Canaan. You were a humble farmer, attempting to eke out a decent living in a harsh world. You had a great love for the land and the people around you. People in the community could always count on you for comfort or support. However, unlike the other settlers in this area, you were quite ambitious. So ambitious, that you wanted to defy the armies of God and challenge them for their claim to the promised land. You are not one to be deceptive, so you usually challenged the armies of God directly and made no effort to cover up your dislike for them. In the 21st century, you continue this pattern of behavior in your dealings with other people. There's nothing wrong with ambition per se, but when ambition puts you in opposition to God, well then, that makes you a biblical villain.

My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 41% on Pride You scored higher than 10% on Envy You scored higher than 61% on Ambition You scored higher than 13% on Deceitfulness

Link: The Which Biblical Villain Are You Test written by MetalliScats on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the 32-Type Dating Test

Opinion on result: Cool! I’m Samson bait. Wait. That didn’t come out right…


I'm a Human!





Famous fellow members of my species:
Luke Skywaler, Leia Organa, Han Solo, Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi


My species' special abilities:
Leadership, resourcefulness, piloting


My species' general role:
Leaders, smugglers, and all general professions


Movies my species is in:
Episode I-VI



What Star Wars species would you be?

Opinion on result: Good. This quiz confirmed my species. That’s nice to know.

Intelligence Intelligence is most important in a boyfriend/girlfriend. You like to be able to talk about everything that is on your mind, and if your partner can't keep up, well, you know. You are very attracted to someone who can challenge you, and make you see things in a whole new way. Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com

Opinion on result: I have comments, but the crass vulgarities included prevents me from sharing them.

You scored as Republican. <'Imunimaginative's Deviantart Page'> Republican 92% Anarchism 92% Democrat 58% Green 42% Socialist 42% Fascism 33% Communism 8% Nazi 0% What Political Party Do Your Beliefs Put You In? created with QuizFarm.com

Opinion on result: Equal parts Republican and anarchist. Interesting. Kudos to me for being zero percent Nazi!

Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com

Opinion on result: As long as it doesn’t star Judd Nelson, I’ll be happy.

143,990 descendants - you're more genetically fit than 49% of the current population -

143, 990. Not bad. You're no Mongol warlord, but to have that many copies of your genetic code running around 800 years from now is pretty impressive. You're at the lower end of the scoring spectrum, but, honestly, when you consider that the cheaters, swindlers, and football players of this world are statistically best-equipped to create children, scoring low is something to be proud of. As you'll see below, some of your lines will die out, but nonetheless your genetic material will thrive here on earth for a long time to come. A close friend of mine created a program to generate family trees for this test. It's based on your unique answers. We accounted for sterility, birth rates, death rates, disease, drug abuse, nitwitism, and accidents and came up with this, for you:

My test tracked 1 variable How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 37% on fitnessfactor

Link: The Genghis Khan Genetic Fitness Test written by gwendolynbooks on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the 32-Type Dating Test

Opinion on result: I really don’t know what this means, but apparently I’m not alone in that either.

I Am A: Chaotic Good Half-Elf Ranger Fighter


Alignment:
Chaotic Good characters are independent types with a strong belief in the value of goodness. They have little use for governments and other forces of order, and will generally do their own things, without heed to such groups.


Race:
Half-Elves are a cross between a human and an elf. They are smaller, like their elven ancestors, but have a much shorter lifespan. They are sometimes looked down upon as half-breeds, but this is rare. They have both the curious drive of humans and the patience of elves.


Primary Class:
Rangers are the defenders of nature and the elements. They are in tune with the Earth, and work to keep it safe and healthy.


Secondary Class:
Fighters are the warriors. They use weapons to accomplish their goals. This isn't to say that they aren't intelligent, but that they do, in fact, believe that violence is frequently the answer.


Deity:
Solonor Thelandria is the Chaotic Good elven god of archery and the hunt. He is also known as the Keen Eye, the Great Archer, and the Forest Hunter. His followers respect nature, and only hunt when needed, but are quick to defend the forest from intruders. Their favorite weapon is the bow, and they tend to be extremely talented with it. Solonor Thelandria's symbol is an arrow with green fletchings.


Find out What D&D Character Are You?, courtesy ofNeppyMan (e-mail)



Opinion on result: I’ve never played D&D or AD&D. But I have had ADD. And that’s why I won’t finish this


You're a little gold key, and you unlock other
people's hearts. Your kindness and willingness
to be there for those you care about lets
people open up to you knowing they will be
accepted. People will rely on you, but be
careful not to give more than you have.


What sort of key are you and what do you unlock?
brought to you by Quizilla

Opinion on result: I’ll limit my comments to merely point out “SHINY” and leave the rest, if anything, for others to say.

English Genius You scored 100% Beginner, 92% Intermediate, 93% Advanced, and 100% Expert!

You did so extremely well, even I can't find a word to describe your excellence! You have the uncommon intelligence necessary to understand things that most people don't. You have an extensive vocabulary, and you're not afraid to use it properly! Way to go! Thank you so much for taking my test. I hope you enjoyed it! For the complete Answer Key, visit my blog: http://shortredhead78.blogspot.com/.

My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 68% on Beginner You scored higher than 17% on Intermediate You scored higher than 48% on Advanced You scored higher than 94% on Expert

Link: The Commonly Confused Words Test written by shortredhead78 on Ok Cupid, home of the 32-Type Dating Test

Opinion on result: This is good to know heading into my copyediting job.

How Caleb should improve for 2006: Ignore social conventions Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com

Opinion on result: Seems normal to me. Of course, why change the status quo. Keep moving forward - same heading, same speed.

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Music: “Picture Book” by the Kinks

In previous years I have done a semi-serious rundown of top things for the year.

I’m too tired to do that now. And it’s not just recent lack of sleep. Even in more rested moments, I’m having trouble recalling anything that has happened since August. I mean I can barely recall black caps and gowns sometime before the summer. Before that I can vaguely recall a winter campout back in February where I constructed my own shelter from logs, cedar cuttings, and a tarp.

But not much else. Wait. “Knight-Rider is the devil” – I recall that from my journalism capstone class. I guess my professor had something against David Hasselhoff.

Anyway, though my memory is too fuzzy to make sweeping proclamations about the year, there is one category that I am still prepared to make a stand on. While I don’t recall any entries that came before the fall, I’m confident that the late entries were strong enough to best them all (and in this attitude, I’m like an Oscar voter).

And here is my pick for

Best Picture of 2005:

For those of you who are curious, it was sent prior to my first out of state interview.

Caption: “Don't worry. The competition is being eliminated...”

A sniper kitten. Priceless stuff really. I don't care if the paw is obviously Photoshoped.

It still makes me grin and that’s enough for me.

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Music: “Sharp Dressed Man” by ZZ Top
“Clean shirt, new shoes. And I don't know where I am goin' to.”

Lately I’ve felt like a Mattel Middle-Manager Ken® Doll.

My wardrobe has greatly expanded recently. This is due to two facts. First, working a copyediting job where I oversee some people will require me to dress in nicer clothes than I normally gird myself. Second, most of the clothes I own (even those that would be appropriate for this new level) are in storage units spread throughout the state of Missouri; especially my thicker winter ensemble which was one of the things first boxed up in May. Those boxes are now “safely” secured at the back of a very well filled storage shed. No hyperbole, we’d have to remove two-thirds of the contents to gain access to them. Until my parents rent a moving truck, they’re not going anywhere.

This isn’t the first time I had to upgrade my attire. Back when I first started working for the Columbia Missourian as a reporter, I suddenly had to stick to a printed employee dress code. Previous jobs had largely skipped this requirement.

The Wal-Mart Lawn & Garden bosses didn’t care what you wore as long as your green vest sat on top of it. I don’t remember the Missouri Department of Conservation giving me specific dressing pointers, though the job itself typically pushed me to wear something that would act as an extra barrier between bugs, nettles, and thorns. Being a desk attendant at the University of Missouri was simple, clothing wise. As long as you showed up bearing clothes, you were good. Pajamas were even acceptable, especially if you were opening in the morning (though you could frequently spot pajamas on those who covered the desk any time during weekends).

Becoming a representative for the Columbia Missourian, as the handbook put it, required some extra efforts on my part. Wearing dress pants and shirts with collars outside church services was new to me. I’d been infamous for arrival at the Honor’s College yearly formal in a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, sandals, and all the Mardi Gras beads I could scrape together. The student advisors hesitated slightly before allowing me to enter, but once in I was the most comfortably dressed one there. I won that round, but knew the Missourian editors would be less likely to bend their policies.

So I got more dress shirts, polo shirts, respectable stuff. I made sure I had black socks and shoes when I covered higher profile stories. One day I realized my collection of t-shirts were finally outnumbered by the sweaters, buttoned down shirts, polos, and other more formal clothing. My closet was maturing before my eyes.

I still slipped some quirks in, especially when I moved to the copy desk (where I got less scrutiny clothing-wise). I wore sandals more often or just plain kicked my shoes off and would slide around the newsroom. The Hawaiian shirts made a comeback; I especially like wearing them in colder times when most people let their colors go more drab.

Of course, I’m taking another step up. My habit of wearing extra large shirts on my medium frame won’t look as professional. Holey blue jeans won’t be kosher. Dropping by, however briefly, in shorts and a t-shirt won’t reflect well on me. It’s the end of an era.

And so, I have found myself in countless discount shopping centers trying stuff on, looking to see if it fits my shoulders, checking the zippers and buttons, and trying to coordinate color combinations. I think I now possess more dress pants than all the previous number of dress pants I’ve owned combined (though this is also due to the fact I’ve downgraded many nice pair of pants by playing too hard after church services and getting them grass stained or ripped climbing around 20 feet of the ground).

It’s a weird transition for me to go through. Some milestones are greeted with bigger fanfare. Congrats, you can drive! Good job, you graduated! Gadzooks, you’re paying taxes because you have a job!

The stepping stone of dressing nicer due to the responsibility of a higher tier job may not be as well known, but it certainly signals another step forward… in shoes and socks that match my jacket and my tie.

A tie, a tie… My kingdom includes a tie!

It is certainly a brave new world, and I haven’t even started working yet. It’s going to be an informative year.

“'Cause every girl crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man”

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Music: “Twisting in the Corn” by Frank Stoat and the Devious Weasel
- Don’t even try to look up this duo. Their two releases were of an extremely limited distribution exclusive to friends and family.

I spent a lot of time with my younger cousins during my time in Iowa. Actually, on that branch of the family, all of my cousins are younger because I’m the oldest grandchild. This means that, in lieu of adult supervision, I’m the one in charge. I’m the one who makes sure things are cleaned up before the parents get back, I make sure everyone gets an equal amount of time with the PS2 (and that the video zombies occasionally break their gamer fasting during their marathons).

I am the biggest kid at the little table, the one who will help build – and later rebuild – the train sets, the one who settles the flights (even tough I’m no longer the tallest one).

It’s a sweet gig.

Of course, with great powers comes great responsibility. There are some extra burdens one must undertake.

One the unexpected challenges I had came in expressing myself. Those who spend time around me know I largely avoid strong words. I think people should be able to express themselves without resorting to vulgarities.

That being said, I’m human and they are in my mental database. Stuff slips out. My mother and I learned a lot about each other’s vocabulary when I first got driving lessons (and I’m still not sure who was shocked more). I’ve been told that some of the words I wince at aren’t really bad, but I since I hold myself to a strict standard I often instantly regret my usage of them.

This is further heightened when I’m around young, potentially impressionable children. Granted, I know electronic media will teach them more about cursing, violence, sex, and other commonly displayed behaviors, but I’d like to keep my sphere of influence a clean bubble.

Playing one-on-one-on-one deathmatches tested me a bit more than I would have originally guessed.

I was working hard to teach one of my younger cousins both strategy and gamer etiquette. He prescribed to the “If it moves, shoot at it” modus operandi. This is the first approach most gamers take, largely because that’s how the game is set up. When one seeks to introduce variations on the theme through stealth, teamwork, and varying tactics, a young gamer can become frustrated – especially when pitted against older gamers.

My 13-year-old cousin (who’s about to turn 14) is the sharpest shooter. He has grown up among gaming devices and has a well developed hand-eye coordination. I am the strategerist. The only gaming system that was ever in my home was an old Atari that at one point would only work during inclement weather. I grew up around books and “thinking” computer games that emphasized problem solving over growing body counts. With our areas of expertise, and the extra years we have of gaming beneath our belt, we have a bit of an advantage over our younger cousin.

He was a quick learner, however. Though sometimes stubborn, he did pick up advice on flanking and multi-pronged attacks, and learning when to press an advantage versus dropping back to regroup. Though our encouragement, through both verbal advice and video game headshots, he noticeably improved during our sessions. At the end of our time together, his team was routinely winning. For the sake of fairness, the youngest and eldest gamers teamed up against the middle, straightest shooter gamer. It is my opinion that this match-up was genuinely fair in the long run (for we were routinely beaten at first and progressively became more dominant).

Of course, tempers sometimes spike in a game like this. If you get driven over after you’ve discussed the “no hit and run kills,” you’re likely to get irked. If you just upgraded a killer weapon and got sniped so that someone else gets to take it, you might get steamed. When your character re-spawns in the cross hairs of an opponent who just offed them, such irony isn’t appreciated. Sometimes, if you’ve accidentally drove into a mud pit and drowned again – after specifically requesting a game zone that didn’t have any water hazards – putting your feelings into words is troublesome.

Venting during such times is important, but must be done so gracefully – especially since certain phrases have the habit of being repeated by younger listeners (“gamer fasting” and “Pea shooter vs. tank” became often repeated comments that I’m fairly sure my cousins picked up from me).

To conclude, here is my short list of alternative curses I employed to protect sensitive ears:

“Friggin’” – yes, I know this is a stronger term in certain European countries. But it’s as harmless as “shag” in the U.S. of A.

“Halfscan” – this is an insult I picked up in the mid-nineties from a Marvel comic book. I’m still not quite sure what it means.

“Blücher” – as in Frau Blücher from “Young Frankenstein,” just without the following thunder and neighing of horses.

“Glarg” - Guttural nonsense in the same category as “flurgle,” “glerg, ”and “ug.”

“By all that is sweet and Tony Danza…” - Not that I’m necessarily implying Mr. Who’s the Boss isn’t sweet.

“Son of a…” - Typically cut off before completed, leaving one with an aura of mystery (“What is he a son of? A gun? Sea cook?”).

“Schubert” – This is an old inside joke. Maybe. Is it still an inside joke if you're the only one who remembers the pun? Well, maybe me and Eddie “Van Pyro.” Yeah... I'm fairly sure it's just me.

Swedish ramblings - or at least the quasi-accent used by the Muppets’ Swedish Chef (“Her dersky du. Herdy flersky de bork bork bork!”)

Random presidential names – Of course, I get mixed up from time to time (“Oh, Gregory Cleveland! No wait. It was Grover Cleveland.”

“Jerk” – the classic, straightforward slam that won’t force you to gargle soap for your exhortation (or for the proclamations of other who overheard you when you should have known better).

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Music: “Back in Time” by Huey Lewis and the News

I know it is a cliché to get to the end of the year and then state your surprise that you’ve completed another lap around the sun so quickly (“Has it been 365 and quarter days already? Are you sure?”).

But seriously, with the senior year shenanigans, post-graduation diaspora, and other diverting upheavals, I’d swear it’s been no more than five months since I was glue sticking snowflakes for back-to-school door decorations in Cramer Hall.

Anyway, to borrow an idea from others’ blogs, to give a general rundown of the year, I’m going to take the portions of the first and final postings of each month (and in some cases, the first entry was also the last entry of the month. For those of you who thought this website started in June, you’d be right. I’m including clips from the former “World According to Gap” to fill out the year. Even with that supplement, however, I still lack entries for April, May, and July. Instead, I will offer a brief synopsis of what occurred in those gaps.

So lets speed up to 88 miles per hour, churn up 1.21 jigowatts of needed electricity, and let the flux capacitor do its thing. On with the time traveling!


January
Good always trumps evil… eventually.

I have grown up believing that, and not just from underdog movies either.


//
Note: I was going to make a G.R.E/GREat joke, but my friend Erin has already used that device. Flittering through my head for another “gre-“ word, gangrenous was the next one that came to mind. The adjective that is sometimes defined as “suffering from tissue death” seemed apt to describe the experi-ence that cost me countless brain cells sacrificed in the name of higher education.


February
Last night, for church I showed up in slightly disheveled appearance. This is partly due to the fact that when my usual ride to church knocked on my door, I was sitting before my computer, dripping wet, clad in towels and franticly typing.


March
Okay, so I bought my graduation cap and gown today. I haven’t done that in a while.

I can’t recall filling out the paperwork for my high school graduation gown, though I can vaguely recollect the Jostens man who always seemed to be there in the spring trying to sell rings. I definitely can’t remember doing anything for my middle school graduation – which we had in my town because that was the only graduation a mentionable percentage of the students were going to get. I think I looked better in the gold middle school gown better than the black high school gown, though I didn’t lose my cap beneath the bleachers during my high school graduation.


//
Recently my Mark Twain (he was really Samuel Clemens, I know) English capstone class had an interest set of parallel assignments based on Life on the Mississippi.

We could either A) Do a mini-research project and then have a 10-minute presentation in which you report your results


or
B) Write a one-page personal essay about a change or changes you’ve seen in your hometown over the years.

Guess which choice 90 percent of the class chose?


April
Let’s just say April Fool’s Day lasted a bit longer this year. Papers, projects, exams, and sleepless nights abounded.


May
Apparently all those late nights spent on video games, internet surfing, music downloading, and talking with friends didn’t hurt my grades that badly. I graduate from college a couple times (I earn multiple degrees, and thus, must sit through multiple ceremonies). I also start summer courses where I aim to get more confidence editing and designing papers (and further delay my entry into the “real world”).


June
Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end…

So here we find something that is familiar but somehow new and previously unknown.

Saddle up. We're aiming to strike out for the unexplored territories, again.

Frontier ho!


//
Bad taste is a disease that strikes without warning.

It moves silently, can hit hard, and can be contagious. The dangerously infectious ways are demonstrated by various fads like wearing your pants backwards, buying accessories for your pet rock, and listening to “boy” bands made up of guys who are all 27 or older.


July
I turn 23, if such sources like my parents or my birth certificate can truly be believed. Many mornings, days, night spent at the paper. Many early mornings spent unwinding after the previously mentioned activities, eating microwaved meals and watching late-night Sci-Fi channel programming.


August
No phone, no internet, no cable...

I feel like I'm a belated addition to Gilligan's Island, only without the benefit of a near infinite supply of coconuts and a doctoral degree in with which to apply them.


//
Quick contact correction.

223 Dix Road, Apartment #38,
Jefferson City, Missouri 65109

The phone number is: 573-635-8872.

Look familiar? Good. This is almost the address I gave earlier. Coinicidentally, it is the one that should have appeared earlier, but didn't.


September
Note: The term "weekend," as used in the title of this post, does not quite fit the typically expected two-day, or three-day time expanses the general public employs. Rather, the "weekend" to which this post refers stretches from Thursday night to Monday night. I apologize for this hijacking of the English language.


//
“Playwright” is a cool title one to add to any job listing. See how it livens up the following vocations:

Actor/Playwright/Producer

Poet/Playwright/Pulitzer Winner

Short Story Writer/Playwright/Nobel Prize Winner

It even works for those who labor beyond the artistic fields

Fisherman/Playwright/Boat Owner

Playwright/Coal Miner/Canary Specialist

Postal-Worker/Sharpshooter/Playwright

It adds a touch of class to anyone’s skill set.


October
My shoes are fertilized, the J.C. apartment is more cramped than ever, and a "For Sale" sign is finally set to go up in front of the house.

It's official. We had the final "final weekend" in Sullivan. It took an extended stay, multiple missed meals, and strong personal control not to lash out at the other members of the family (it helped that most of the weapons and tools were cleared out of the house at the end), but we got the job done.


//
Personal Point-Counterpoint

This is the part of the Blog we give fuel to our critics who argue that I’m mentally unbalanced (of course, this is accomplished in regular posts as well, but the distinction is even clearer in this case). This is also where we get to refer to ourselves in the third-person (and later plural singular and then by a series of grammar-warping pronouns).

I’d also like to note I fully align with neither of the two philosophies proposed by the dueling personalities. To have a strong, fair debate you need to believe in what you’re saying, so I’ve split my outlook between two voices. As always, I believe you can only find the truth if you examine both viewpoints.


November
My computer is angry.

I’m not sure if it has a specific beef with me (maybe the fact that I never named it) or whether I’m the most direct outlet when it strikes out at the world. The only thing I know for sure is that it ate the post I stayed up late working on and now seems to be having digestive troubles.

A noise that sounds eerily like electronic demon crickets holding a deathmatch keeps emanating from my hard drive. I fear the end will be soon (either for the glitch or the computer).


//
Lost Log: Episode 2.9
Or “All the Pretty Horses”

Blah, blah, blah, last new episode of the year, let’s get going...


-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-
Reunions near a grave - remembering who we’ve recovered and who we’ve... um... for lack of a better word, lost.


December
I am part of the first generation that grew up hearing about HIV and AIDS.

World Aids Day was founded by the World Health Organization in 1988. Before then, the disease wasn’t widely known, or even as it did come to the surface, it was only mentioned in whisper.

Even with its growing prominence, I still vaguely remember people being confused on how it was spread and being afraid of people who were said to have it. Our knowledge and understand have come a long way, though I believe we should keep repeating the lessons we have learned.


//
I know it is a cliché to get to the end of the year and then state your surprise that you’ve completed another lap around the sun so quickly (“Has it been 365 and quarter days already? Are you sure?”).

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Music: “Carol of the Bells” by John Williams’ choir

If it’s Monday, it’s recap day. Though I got a bit off track over Christmas, I’ve retroactively posted what I meant to write (or did write, but simply hadn’t the time to transfer from my notebook to the keyboard). I realize this is one of the slowest periods to blog, since more people are concerned with celebrating or partying or enjoying their presents than reading online content, but I’ve got a posting streak still going and I want to stretch it out as far as I can in anticipation of a derailment once I start regular work.

And on with the flashback

Last Monday, December 19, I repeated the announcement that I’d snagged a copyediting job in Wyoming.

Tuesday I contemplated alternative occupations I was willing to settle for if I hadn’t landed a journalism job by Christmas, the deadline set by my parents.

Wednesday was the Winter Solstice, so I weighed in on the so-called holiday wars concerning the use of “Merry Christmas” in lieu of “Happy Holidays” or versa vice. In the end, I conclude by arguing semantics won’t carry the day, but the victor will be the side that puts their emotions into productive actions.

Thursday I got some new lenses. The adjustment headaches prompted me to compose a shorter post than usual. Time pressed readers rejoiced for my pain. Die hard fans felt my pain. I didn’t care what either side thought because I was in pain.

Friday I left the place where I’d rested my hat for the last few months. It was the place that has seemed the most like a home since I left college. Thinking of that, I tried to illustrate nearly a dozen small scenes to show what life is like at the Independence Smith home.

Saturday, on Christmas Eve, I try to explain the meaning of Christmas by outlining what it isn’t – with a little help from Paul Simon and Steve Martin.

On ChristmasI had a short, straightforward message of kindness and hopeful prayers for the year to come.

To come: I’ve got several holiday musings burning a hole in my notebooks. Crowded malls, sugar plum-less dreams, and more are forthcoming.

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Music: “Do You Hear What I Hear” by Martina McBride

Sometimes the most important messages are ones that can be conveyed with the simplest of words. I am reminded of the angelic announcement concerning the arrival of the Christ child.

Luke 2:14 – Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men. (King James Version, since I like the Shakespearian lilt, though you are free to pick another version)

It’s a basic benediction, but is very difficult to live up to. Here’s hoping we can do our best to see them fulfilled in the final days of this year and in those to come in 2006… and 2007 (if we make it that far). Cheers.

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Music: “Silver Bells” covered by Paul Simon

Note: There are two modes of defining something. The positive way is to say what something is. The negative way is to say what it isn’t. While the second version often takes up more time, the opposite can be quite illustrative of what its polar twin actually is. I don’t post lyrics very often, but this old Steve Martin routine perfectly exemplifies what Christmas isn’t (and through the negative, what it is). Also, it gives people some extra eggnog recipes. Enjoy.

(Paul Simon plays Silver Bells in the background as Steve Martin narrates:)

Last night my child looked up at me and said, "Uncle Steve?" He didn't know I was his father. I didn't know for sure either. I just assumed I was. I'd had his mother so many times, and in so many different ways, the odds were with me. Anyway, he looked up at me and said, "What does Christmas mean to you?" And I said, Limiel, Christmas is a time for giving, a time for receiving, a time for eggnog and rum.

A time for cutting down trees and hanging plastic doo-dads on them and watching them die slowly in your living room... catch fire and burn down your house and all your possessions.

It's a time for buying things that haven't sold all year long, wrapping them up in shiny paper, and giving them to your friends. Who return them and find out you got in on sale, and they can only exchange them for things of equal value like charcoal briquettes or matchbooks with other people's names on them.

A time for giving your wife that special coat she's always wanted. Those seals didn't need their fur, anyway. What do they want it for, they're dead already.

It's a time for eggnog and brandy. Driving home on icy streets. Accidentally nudging the car next to you off the bridge into the frozen river. Watching the car sink. Seeing bubbles float up under the water.

It's time to sip an eggnog martini and think about the poor. Talk of feeding the naked and clothing the hungry.

A time to get Christmas cards from all your friends at Consolidated and Allied and Acme.

A time for seeing all those happy children sitting on Santa's lap at Toyland, thinking to yourself, "Hmmm... Maybe I'll be a Santa next year. Twelve years is not so far from eighteen. Maybe I should be laying a little groundwork for the future."

It's a time for parties at the office with eggnog and vodka. Telling your boss what you really think of him, while he gets a perfect Xerox of your wife's rear end.

Time for sitting by the hearth sipping eggnog and tequila, with your feet up on a burning log, realizing that Uncle Walt has been in your garage for forty-five minutes with the car running. You say to yourself, "Damn Uncle Walt, he was supposed to bring me back more eggnog." And that, Limiel, is what Christmas means to me.

(The two harmonize on the final verse:)

Soon it will be Christmas Day…

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Music: “(I’m Going to) Kansas City” by Hound Dog Taylor
- It’s a strange song to play as you’re leaving, but it’s the song that is in my head, nonetheless.

It looks like my extended stay in the Kansas City area is about to come to an end.

I’ve been here since November 3, excepting for brief jaunts off to Oklahoma and Wyoming (and the places in between). Not bad for what was supposed to be a weekend trip.

I originally showed up to help my aunt and grandma with their booth at the 20th Annual British Faire sponsored by the Daughters of the British Empire. The next thing I know, nearly a month has passed, I’m fielding some hot job opportunities, and I’m finally offered a bed.

Note: Prior to Thanksgiving, I had only slept on a bed once since leaving college in August. I kept sticking with the floor because it felt more temporary and I didn’t want to “put my relatives out” by taking up a room. It was late in the game when I realized I did them more good by keeping my stuff in a room, rather than camping out downstairs (though it did take my back a couple of weeks to adjust to sleeping on a mattress rather than the “firmer” flooring).

If memory serves me right, I think this is the longest stay I’ve ever had with relatives. I’d have to flashback over a decade to hit the second-longest stretch.

During a summer vacation from middle school, my sister and I were dropped off at my grandparents’ house. It was with the same set of grandparents I’ve been staying with, though they had a different home then. About the same time, my aunt and uncle dropped through and deposited two of my cousins (a third, while briefly present, decided she’d have more fun on her own, rather than being surrounded by her siblings).

Thus began a marathon session of late night movie watching, suicide drink making, and other ruckus making. This was the summer of the angry emu. For those of you who have heard the story and wondered how we got in this situation, it was during this vacation where occasional gaps in our supervision were exploited (not maliciously, mind you – though the emu might disagree – but to the extent that prepubescent kids press the available boundaries).

No, we should not have put grandpa’s hat on the emu that was walking freely around the Kansas City Zoo. But Grandpa was watching the youngest who had gotten tired and wasn’t around to tell us: One, we should not put a baseball cap on the flightless Australian bird because it was wrong, and Two, a more importantly in retrospect, don’t put the hat on the bird because the difference between the difference in the circumference of the hat and the skull of the emu will cause the bill of the hat to fall forward and temporarily blind the bird. Attempting to retrieve the offending hat from a bucking, crazed emu – because it’s grandpa’s hat and if we abandoned it we’d have to explain how we lost it – remains one of my more exotic childhood memories.

I’m not sure how long the stay lasted. It was back when summer vacations lasted an eternity (but in a good way), so the time perception is stretched to begin with. Also, our parents kept extending our stopover. They’d ask if we wanted to stay and “YES!” was the quick reply, and the grandparents seemed to be open to us sticking around, and the cycle went through a couple renewals. It was one of my better summer vacations.

It did end, like all things, good and bad. I’m thankful for the time spent then as much as I am for my most recent stay (though I’m a little bit quicker to realize how good I’ve had it this time around).

To close out my stay, I’d like to end with a few general impressions I’ve formed staying here – dashes of life in the Kansas City branch Smith home.
-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

It’s a bi-polar house. Between my grandpa’s business office, the areas taken over in the name of my aunt and grandmother’s antiques/crafts business, and the perpetual renovation the home has undergone since it was purchased in 2001, it can be a cluttered place. You can go from an exceptionally organized sitting room to the entryway that is crowded with ladders, paint cans, and an abnormally sized vacuum cleaner nicknamed “Murgatroid.” At frequently as the piles shift and migrate, often in the middle of the night, I don’t stub my toe near as often as you’d think.
-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Some items are just for show, not for ingestion. A popular pastime for visitors to the kitchen is spot the real food:
“Is that bread real?”
“No.”
“The lettuce?”
“No.”
“I take it the hanging garlic isn’t real.”
“Nope.”
“Good, because I thought it was a bit too squishy.”
“Yeah, but the peppers hanging next to it are real.”
-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Need table settings for 200? We have that… somewhere… let’s check the basement. I know we’ve got that two foot stack of plastic plates by the door, but we’re looking for something classier, as in, not bulk made in Japan.
-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Food is sometimes bought in similarly large quantities, especially certain specialty items to be stocked in my aunt and grandmother’s booths. There’s nothing that will make you feel cultured like a gross delivery of tea from England. Of course, your erudite ego can be trimmed when you buy the jumbo box of Sweet n’ Low (with 1,000 packets) to go with it.
-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Greenery and garlands can add a touch of style to any presentation. Thus, there are semi-frequent discussions on botany beautification necessities.
“I need to go make an evergreen run…”

“Do we need white plastic flowers?”

Note: The question wasn’t whether or not we needed additional plastic flowers. The question was, do we need extra white flowers.

The answer, in case you were interested, was yes.
-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

I’ve recently been placed in one of the spare bedrooms. The theme of the room, established prior to my arrival, was babies. So the dressers and walls are filled with bonnets and dolls and other related baby items. This leads to some bizarre mix-ups when I wake up in the night:

Fumble, fumble…
Is that a lamp?
Bumpity bump, bump. Flick, flick.
No, that’s the leg of a wooden stork. The lamp is to the left.
CLICK!
-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Fresh cookies are baked almost daily. The average accepted serving is four at a sitting, unless they are fresh from the oven, in which case you eat until you are content. Life is sweet, though I must brush my teeth more often to keep ahead of cavities.
-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Picking a glass is both simple and complex. The dining room that is connected to the kitchen has been overwhelmed by recent renovations. The table that is largely saved for special family get-togethers like Thanksgiving is swamped with stuff. The other day I counted over 30 cups. There were long fluted cups, goblets, mugs, plastic kiddie cups, wine glasses, tea cups. This is in addition to the half dozen (I counted six) tea sets, the plates, silverware, ceramic rabbits, and the cardboard box of vitamins and other dietary supplements that also was on the table. Personally, I typically grab one of the plastic cups because they are more likely to bounce rather than shatter when dropped. Thus, I’ve only busted two glasses over the last two months.
-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

There is a Cold War for the garage. Before I got here, and summer temperatures were still around in October, my grandfather agreed to move his car out of the garage so my grandmother could house some extra pieces of furniture that she was working on restoring. This was to be a temporary arrangement. The car is still parked outside and there is more furniture jammed in the garage than ever before. This has been a point of tension that has yet to go nuclear, but still remains under pressure. The statement, “There’s another piece in there,” has become a regularly heard rhetorical question/exclamation.
-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

One picks up a lot of information through osmosis in this type of environment. I find myself perusing nearby history books during meals, or picking up smatterings of Victorian trivia through overheard conversation. I now know that pink used to be the baby color for boys, that special spoons were given out as gifts, and that military pressure was one of the factors that prompted my ancestors to emigrate from Russia to Canada (and later the U.S. of A.).
-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

I had a brief talk with my grandfather about this being the longest I’ve stayed with them and that I’d greatly enjoyed the whole thing.

He smiled and said, “It’s a good way to get to know each other.”

It has been.

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Music: “One I Love” by Heywood Banks

Blink, blink. Ug…

I got a new pair of glasses today. Or rather, the pair of glasses I ordered and paid for last week came in today. The prescription strength of my lenses was upped. Going into the eye exam, I was expecting this to happen.

I haven’t gotten a new pair of glasses in a couple of years. This is actually one of the first times in recent memory that I wasn’t rushing to get a new pair of glasses. In the past, my rationale for getting new glasses was that the previous pair had been mangled.

I’ve had glasses destroyed by general gravity, the impact of an unexpected thunderstorm, and by a music festival. I don’t wish to rehash these embarrassing stories here, but some brief contextual points should get the point across.

- If you’re feeling very ill while riding in grandpa’s car, your mother will repeatedly warn you that you can’t get sick inside the car. If such verbal chastisements don’t calm your digestive system, and you feel compelled to stick your head out the window to dually comply with the demands of your mother and stomach, make sure you have some way to keep your frames attached to your head.

- If your glasses have been falling apart lately, and you’ve been mending them yourself with Elmer’s Glue rather than taking them to be professionally fixed, don’t get caught in a massive downpour. Elmer’s glue is water soluble and you are bound to lose parts.

- If your school is hosting a marching band festival and your band is the first to play, don’t lose your glasses half-way through the performance. Or if you do, try to retrieve your frames before the festival continues and 36 other bands trample back and forth across your lenses.

So, this is one of the times I wasn’t awaiting new glasses while wearing sunglasses so my squinting wouldn’t be as obvious.

Right now, I’m concentrating on not having my eyes roll back into my head thanks to the added strain. The pain isn’t as sharp as it first. I’m fairly okay if I concentrate on things close by. My trouble comes when I start looking at things farther away. That’s when my head starts to feel googly and my concentration starts to swim and ugg….

I’ll adjust fast. I’ll probably go to bed earlier tonight, too. We all cope with pain in our own ways.

Here's blinkin' at you, kids.

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Music: “O Tannenbaum (O Christmas Tree)” written by Ernst Anschütz

Today is the Winter Solstice, the day with the shortest amount of light (in the Northern Hemisphere) this year. From here on out, through June 21, each day with get a little longer.

I only know a handful of people who make a big deal celebrating this holiday. While I met one or two self-proclaimed pagans/wiccans in college, I know of more atheists who make it a point to observe this holiday as a counter-point to Christmas. And with that attitude in mind, I think it is a good time to weigh in on the recent holiday skirmishes in the long running “culture wars.”

I really don’t know how one could have missed it, but in case you weren’t aware, there’s been a huge debacle going on between those employing “holiday specific terms” versus those who use “generic season greetings.” The identical complaint is that the other side is corrupting the language.

“How dare someone use the ‘wrong’ holiday terminology when seeking to celebrate this time where we are to strive for peace on earth and goodwill towards mankind!”

Personally, all the grandstanding makes me want to perforate my skull with an ice pick. Of course, I don’t have an ice pick. I’m not even sure where you could buy one nowadays. And if I went out asking for one, and people found out what I intended to do with it, they wouldn’t sell it to me anyway (or, at the least, they’d put me on a three-day waiting list and I’d probably change my mind by then).

Is it really necessary, in the year 2005, to have a bitter discussion over what to call our decorated trees? Before we get into the modern arguments, let’s look at the origins of this practice. After all, you won’t find any biblical references of Christmas trees mixed among the mangers, shepherds, and angels found in Bethlehem. We need to know how we made the Easter Bunny hop from scripture to modern plastic conifers.

As with many traditions, the practice of decorating greenery in winter cannot be traced to a specific source. Rather there is an intertwining collection of roots, stemming from both Christian and pagan practices. Some earth-minded tribes were known for decorating trees in the middle of winter, to attract spirits and coax warmer weather back into their lands. In some Christian homes, evergreen cuttings were brought in as part of the “festival of Christ” or Christ-mass, representing the symbol of new birth.

There are additional sources of tree traditions, some even dating back to ancient Egyptians, but the general point has been made. Because of the overlap of origins, it’s nearly impossible to tell who influenced who – especially since an idea like decorating trees could have come separately to many people for different reasons. What one can tell is that the additional cross-pollination of cultures spread the practice even farther than it would have reached independently.

In some cases, the pagan practice was adopted by church leaders who were seeking a shared point of understanding with the community and sought to link it to a biblical truth. In other instances, it was borrowed by more secular people who simply liked the decoration. For whatever reason, the trees spread to more homes, eventually crossing borders, oceans, and moving throughout the world.

And now we’re arguing over whether the lighted stand in the corner is a “Christmas tree” or a “holiday tree.” It really makes one want to spike the eggnog; but then I’d have to start drinking eggnog and I don’t need to go there.

It all reminds me of appearance of “Freedom fries” a few years ago. I still like to crack “freedom” for “French” jokes every once in a while.

“Ooh! The mint chocolate ice cream looks good, but I think I’m going to go with the French vanilla.”

“You mean, ‘Freedom’ Vanilla!”

Before I get nasty comments pointing out that French Fries are an American culinary creation (most people think; like the trees, some recipes can be hard to track down from a sociologist’s standpoint) and that I’m a mindless automaton, please hear me out. I don’t say “Freedom toast” out of a strange manifestation of patriotism or to question France’s resolve in the war on terrorism. I do it because I like tweaking people who get bent out of shape by the political incorrectness of the phrase.

These people need to get tweaked, in my opinion, because they need to be taught that things like this aren’t that serious. There are other much more important things to worry about than me asking for more garlic butter for my “Freedom bread.”

Of course, the pendulum swings both ways (when a clock is working correctly, that is), so I also have to take issue with those who are militant in their application of all things Christmas.

There are people who would be extremely offended if I wished them a “Happy Holidays” rather than a “Merry Christmas.” I’ve always been pretty casual with my usage of holidays. I don’t mean it to specifically exclude Christmas from the equation, but also as a catch-all of other holidays. In addition to a Merry Christmas, I’m also wishing you a cheerful Hanukah (because I know some people of other religions who double-dip their holidays and celebrate more than they are required to), a great Boxing Day (for those of you north of the continental U.S. border), a happy New Year’s, good luck with whatever bowl games you watch (best of luck at the Independence Bowl, MU – you need it), and even stretching all the back to St. Valentine’s Day (because face it, some of us need all the help we can get concerning that holiday).

A friend recently introduced me to the practice of spelling the holiday as “CHRISTmas.” This makes me cringe on multiple levels. Let me proceed from least important on up:

One, as an English major and copyeditor, the gross application of CAPS makes my head swim. Two, as a word lover, I see it as a misconstrued attempt to balance out season greetings. I’m sure some mean it to combat the deemphasizing of Jesus’ involvement in the season by deleting his name; like useage of “X-mas.” What this doesn’t take into account that X-mas wasn’t originally a capitalistic plot to cut out Jesus, or save advertising space. It comes from the Greek letter X, which is the symbol for “Chi” that is the start to the Greek word for Christ, Χριστός. Third, as a Christian, I see it as a misspent use of time and energy.

When one is competing for hearts and minds, the battle won’t be won with semantics.

Yes, words can be powerful. In some arenas, those who shape the way words are used can influence the outcomes. In the abortion debate, think of how the two sides try to position themselves in the most favorable light and cast their opponents as the most negative. Of course, in that example, as in the holiday conflict, the competing sets of definitions are entrenched; mere rephrasing will no longer change any other minds. When it comes to that point, you must shift the debate to another more active level.

I am less concerned about the word choice and more interested in what people do with their energy. Stop fighting over words! Speak your peace and act on your passions.

Funnel that drive into something more important. Donate time and money to those less fortunate. Turn over that spare change to the bell ringer outside the store. Hold a door open for a stranger. Take the time to make a new friend. Check up on an old acquaintance. Remind those close to you how much you love them (with hugs, baked goods, or whatever method you prefer to get the point across).

One is free to stress one greeting over another, but then act on that sentiment. By doing this, you do more good for your cause and can better teach others what you mean by having a good holiday spirit.

And remember, it’s supposed to last all year long.

Merry Christmas.

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Music: “Bang the Drum All Day” by Todd Rundgren

The offer of a journalism job was great timing in my book (and not just because so many friends were increasingly telling me they were getting worried about my mental health). It saved me from a looming deadline I was not looking forward to. I had a little known deal with my parents worked out that I had until Christmas to land a journalism job or face going back to Wal-Mart.

Note: I’m not sure if “deadline” is the proper word to use. Based on the conversations we had, however, there wasn’t any wiggle room left for renegotiation at the conclusion of our talks. The message of “ultimatum” was conveyed in tone, if not in direct word choice.

I have since repeated this fact to people and found that not everybody believed me. Of course, when you repeat so many outrageous lies for the sake of a laugh, sometimes outrageous truths get accidentally mislabeled.

While Wal-Mart made for a solid first job, with a steady paycheck and dependable employee discount, I was working really hard to avoid working for Sam Walton’s heirs. While some people say they hate the worldwide conglomerate that is Wal-Mart, having living around some of the Walton grandkids and watched their behavior, I am in the lesser-known position to say I love Sam Walton’s business (especially the low prices) but take serious issue with the people who run it.

That, and while my immediate supervisors at Wal-Mart were good, hard-working people, by bosses’ bosses were largely jerks. Even though this is a common workplace complain everywhere, I allowed myself the luxury of blaming the corporate hierarchy and declared my intent not to be put in that situation again, even if I was allowed to work with box cutters on a daily basis (which I always thought was cool).

Regardless of past experiences and prejudices, thanks to the Wyoming gig, I need not don my Wal-Mart vest any time soon. I’m not saying it’s not in my future, because the economy can be a wacky thing, but I take some pleasure its going to stay on the hanger for the time being.

This also saves me from having to put into motion one of my last minute, alternative employment plans. What is to follow is a short list of unconventional career choices I contemplated in place of returning to Walton’s fold:

#5 – Bookstore worker – While my librarian mother has given me a nostalgic love of the Dewey Decimal System, I think I would prefer to work in a place that sells books rather than one that lends them for free. I make this decision largely looking for an employee discount. The problem with this is that I’d most like steadily work myself into poverty, each day discovering another stack of books I was interested in. Fairly soon I’d fall behind and would be slaving away each day to cover the cost of the books I’d already purchased (with the money I was supposed to spend on other amenities like rent, insurance, food). When the heat would be shut off, however, I’m sure I’d have a selection of less desirable tomes I could sacrifice to continue reading – by the light of flickering flames – just a little bit longer…

#4 – Mad Scientist Assistant – I think I could make a great Igor. Though I lack the hump, I’m told my body posture isn’t too far removed from the lovable lumbering, hunchbacked gimp. I also have a “can do” attitude and a cool head. If asked to a series of bizarre biological “components,” I think I would blink no more than twice before asking, “Do I need to bring extra ice with me, or do you think it will be found on sight. I also have enough confidence in myself to challenge questionable plans. “Um, Herr Doctor? You may want to rethink the whole piranha/flying fish cross-breeding idea. It has ironic, man-plays-god-and-gets-destroyed-by-his-monstrous-creation accident written all over it.”

#3 – Apple product tester – I don’t know what Steve Jobs is thinking of working on next after the iPod, but I want to be a part of it. Sunglasses with video monitors built in, 3-D television sets, a toaster with web accessibility, I would kill to be part of the team that tests it. How great would it be to be on the ground floor of a technological revolution like virtual reality or being able to check sports scores while eating toasted bagels? Even if I don’t keep the prototypes, just the bragging rights would be worth the efforts, at least until the next wave breaks.

#2 – Human Cannonball – If I could land this job, and the announcement of my employment didn’t slay my mother, this could potentially be an explosive gig. Flying through the air every night, getting to work with explosives, having a wicked-cool crash helmet – what’s not to love? Also, I’d hope to pick up some side jobs around the big top where I’d pick up some tips on lion taming, swallowing flaming swords, and driving a tiny car that fits 14 people. Just point me toward the net and fire away.

#1 – Chimney Sweep – This is thanks to numerous viewings of the movie “Mary Poppins ” back when I was young and impressionable. Watching Bert cavort around London, I was tempted to follow in his sooty footsteps. You have to admit he had a killer theme with “Chim Chim Cher-ee,” (though “Votes for women – step in time!” remains my favorite line from the movie). Dick Van Dyke also got away with making messes in fancy living rooms, bouncing off ceilings, and dancing on roof tops and with penguins; though never both at the same time. If I could be a chimney sweep like Bert, you’d never hear me voice my preference of banging drums - unless it was my day off and I was doing one-man band duty. But if one is going to get picky about that, I’d just tell them to “Go fly a kite.”

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Music: “Get a Job” by the Silhouettes

“Yip, yip, yip, yip, yip, yip, yip, yip, yip, yip, yip, yip, yip, yip…”

I got a job!

If it’s Monday, it’s recap day… unless I tweak the schedule. But in this case, I didn’t. It’s the traditional time to take a breather, review where we’ve come from, and let Caleb get off easy by merely writing introductions to previous posts instead of another lengthy diatribe. For the record, I did cram more experiences into the previous eight days than the typical standard. Rationales being justified, or at least repeated, let’s get on with the storytelling.

Last Monday, December 12, I began the first in a two-part series on surviving the holidays. The beginning entry warned people to be watchful of the seasonal malaise that can strike friends and family (or ourselves) if one doesn’t defend against it.

Tuesday I concluded the holiday survival guide by explaining why Death deserves an invitation at the holiday table. The spectre of mortality can cause more damage if allowed to float unchallenged about one’s thoughts, but if the idea is given a position and held to it, one can better understand the meaning of Christmas.

Wednesday I had my weekly recap (which I had posted prior to my Monday flight to ensure interrupted posts during my trip to Wyoming) and a brief, stream-of-consciousness update to let people know I had returned to familiar terra firma.

Thursday kicked off a three day collection of notes taken during my trip in various terminals, planes, and altitudes. This post looked at my lack of flight fears, airport security, and in-flight music.

Friday continued the series spotlighting some of the changes one experiences when switching to a smaller, budget-orientated airline. Topics tackled included bourgeoisie seating, baby faced pilots, and wrestling with my subconscious not to make cannibalism jokes.

Saturday concludes the series with a hodge-podge collection of random musings. In it I explain why I personally don’t run in airports, the symptoms of altitude sickness, and the importance of picking the right song prior to your final descent.

Sunday, after I had an extended digression on frequency of happy stories in the news, I break the fact that I will be starting a copyediting job in Wyoming. After waxing poetic (or at least copasetic) on the responsibilities of the press, I now have the charge to do something more about it. Note: If you listen closely enough, you can hear the neurons in my brain fire YIKES/YEAH at the same time.

To come: I’ve still got some scribblings on zombies I can work up, salad day offerings, and scattered observations about life with my grandparents. Having listed these potential topics, you will probably see none of them posted this week.

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Big news to come, but first, a digression/meditation/rant on the state of journalism.

My News about the News

Music: “Where has all the Love Gone” by Sheryl Crow

"Today I saw the strangest thing on the evening news:
A man who wasn't sad at all about what's going on."

This line makes me smile every time I hear it, but probably for a different reason than the songwriter intended. One of the most common complaints I hear about journalism is that we don't cover happy stories. There are typically two responses to this grievance.

The first one, made by diplomatic people, argues that the media does recount positive stories. The problem is they are too often overshadowed by disastrous stories since tragic events more easily grip public perception. Upbeat stories are out there, you just miss them.

The second retort, often repeated by more cynical journalists, is a little more direct: “Sorry about missing your last bake sale, but we were too busy covering the latest abuse of power on the other side of town. We'll be sure to drop by for the next one; unless there's another major drug bust/sex scandal/12-car pileup/embezzling charge and subsequent resignation/lawsuit/murder mystery/or natural disaster at the same time. In that case, we’ll issue another rain check and hope this one doesn’t bounce.”

On calmer days, I would admit the difference is somewhere between the two primary explanations. Good stories are in the paper; they’re just more often buried on the inside after a breaking debacle bumped them off the front. We often default towards the harsher news because it seems more important at the time. One hopes the depraved is a departure from the routine, so we ignore the status quo.

As part of an old design project, I once sketched out a paper that celebrated stories that would normally be skipped. “Grass grows!” was the top story. “Sun also rises” was the sidebar. The idea is that these are important things that happen everyday but they are rarely highlighted on the front page unless something goes wrong.

The challenge is for journalists is to get both kinds of stories out there. The human experience is comprised of victories and defeats, big and small. If the news is to reflect that we, as gatekeepers, need to work harder to achieve that balance.

Of course, it's easy to spout theory and philosophy when you're sitting on the sidelines. It's a bit different when you're about to start doing it on a daily basis. By that I mean to say that I’m picking up some extra responsibility on behalf of the profession and the citizens of Rock Springs, Wyoming.

In case you hadn’t heard through other outlets, I’ve landed a copyediting/design/managerial position. My trip to the Daily Rocket-Miner went very well and they offered me the job I was quick to accept.

While I can’t point to any single experience I related or question I answered, I think my exploding pen helped me. I mentioned it once before, but during my flight to Denver, I had a red ink pen detonate in my fingers due to the change in cabin pressure. I did my best to clean it up on the plane and later in the terminal bathroom (doesn’t that sound ominous), but I was still severely besmeared. Walking into the Rock Springs terminal, the publisher was able to pick me the copyediting applicant largely thanks to his splotchy hand.

Personally, I would think I’d be apt to take points off a prospective copyeditor if they didn’t appear ink smudged somewhere in the testing process. By starting out that way, I hope I started things out on the right foot.

I will be flying out to Wyoming on January 2. That leaves me time to rendezvous with several branches of the family tree prior to heading out west. I’m scrambling to nail down as many details prior to taking off as I can. It’s a bit unnerving have such a prolonged gap between the end of the school and the start of my first major job. Still, the excitement is overpowering the anxiety and I’m looking forward to making this jump.

I still find myself in an interesting place. Between all the checklists and the insurance questions and winter wardrobe shopping and book hoarding (buying books that I won’t read until January) and other complications, I still find myself thinking about the larger questions that face journalists and how I have a have a chance to make an impact. Cool.

“Today I saw the strangest thing…”

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Music: “Fly Like an Eagle” by Steve Miller Band

From the notebook of Caleb Michael Smith, Esquire: Recorded over the course of multiple flights and stopovers Dec. 12 to Dec. 14, 2005, with some polish and supplementation after the fact.

If you are named Jack or Jacqueline, please have a predetermined nickname worked out prior to being greeted by the airport by friends. Either that or agree, beforehand, that no one will use the salutation, “Hi!” Think about it.

In regards to sprinting through the terminal, I generally try not to run in heavily crowded areas; especially those that are thick in security. I know it's a common sight to see people rushing to catch a plane, but I’m afraid I’d appear to be the frazzled, disgruntled male who is “up to no good.” It’s not worth risking a strip search in exchange for a few seconds. Besides, I speed walk well – thanks to years of practice stretching out my stride to compensate for my shorter legs – so I might as well continue to take advantage of that talent.

Personal Note to the Terminal Announcer: Gate 153 and Gate 163 sound awfully similar when you don’t take the time to clearly enunciate between the two. One can waste plenty of time rushing back to a gate previously bypassed if you don’t phonetically differentiate between the terminals, that despite their proximity on a number line, are quite stretched out in the southern terminal of the Denver Airport. Jerk.

Apparently, the McDonalds Corporation has been delayed in updating its airport outlets in regards to its dollar menu. One could clean up with the dollar menu at the airport.
Considering all the other inflated prices, you'd have lines up and down the terminal waiting for little burgers and handfuls of McNuggets. Of course, it wouldn't last long. Eventually the other airport vendors would probably form an unruly mob (not that there is a different type of mob) to violently close down the dollar menu - all for the sake of business, of course.

While in theory broken escalators equal stairs, no one seems to be taking them. I guess people are worried about the loss of five seconds if they take the stationary steps rather than the mechanical descent.

While I appreciate the fact that my seat cushion can be used as a floatation device, I'm not too worried about a water landing between Kansas City and Denver.

The CNN Airport Network sucks. Merely stating that is giving the channel way more attention than it deserves.

Health tip - Symptoms of altitude sickness: You're sick and you're at a high altitude.

In smaller planes, it’s often possible to be able to look down the aisle and see the runway through the plane’s windshield. Of course, you’ve often got to tilt your head around to see around the other heads straining to get the same view. It’s a perfect early warning system. If things are off-track, the pilot doesn’t have to spend precious seconds alerting you to your impending close encounter with physics. It frees up all parties to join in pre-crash cursing, crying, and general falling to pieces.

Having ice out on tarmac when you get off the plane will not inspire airline passengers to think better of your airstrip. If you want to put on your best face, put more salt out.

This is just general thing, and not directly related to the topic at hand, but I think it is worth mentioning. If ever break into a rendition of “So Long, Farewell,” you all have legal permission to put my ever-lovin' goard out of its obvious misery. Please do so with any firearms, cutting edges, or blunt object you may have on your person, immediately and without hesitation. I promise to do the same in return, if asked.

Smarmy comment from a passenger behind me on the plane: “Those in the back of the plane are the last to arrive at the scene of the crash.”

An oil man concludes his story about his experiencing -125 degree wind chill in Alaska: “And that’s why I moved down here.”
Geographical observation made in response:: “Ha, down here.”

Are carnival ride seatbelts really the best engineers could come up for the Beechcraft airplane? Couldn’t they have spent a little bit more to get the buckling type rather than the little metal clasp kind? I believe they had better restrains on Disney’s Space Mountain. Do they really want passengers to take their airplanes seriously, or what?

I know I’m on the same plane that I flew down on because it has the same abnormal divot in the left engine cover. The loose panel is better fastened down, though, so it’s not all bad.

Dear short cutting airline: I understand you’re a small outfit and in a hurry, but please don’t start refueling the plane while passengers are still disembarking. It’s illegal to do that on many buses or other forms of public transportation. It’s not that I’m a worry wart, but with the crew I’ve already seen you employ, I wouldn’t put it past one of them to be smoking while they’re doing so, and I’d rather be far removed from both the plane and the tanker truck when this inevitably occurs. Sincerely, Caleb Michael Smith.

It shows that you’ve been flying quite a bit recently when you start to develop favorite tracks on the in-flight airplane music system.

It’s a telling fact that the pilot switches off the music channels when an announcement is made. They must realize that people like me would completely tune them out while they talked about turbulence or seatbelt signs. This course of action displays a clear understanding of human nature and dedication to safety. The music muting also always occurs in the middle of a great track, which is guaranteed to make people like me annoyed when these interruptions occur.

The last song you listen to on your flight is very important. Should an accident occur, you don’t want your final song to be some flittering bubblegum song like something by the Spice Girls or Tony Orlando. My pick for my final descent on my last flight: “Me and Bobby McGee.”

When you’re done flying, don’t take the headphones that you used. If you’re going to steal a pair, grab one from a different seat so they can’t track the theft back to you.

For those keeping track at home, "Flying by myself," was #311 on my long-term to-do list. It came between #310 "Perform a minor medical procedure on myself," and #312 Play the Quiet Game for more than an hour. Considering the longest version of the Quiet Game I played lasted 15 seconds, I’d wager I’ll cross off #310 long before I ever put ink through #312.

Most Important Lesson: If you're going to write about racial profiling, plane crashes, or "really hungry rugby teams," angle your notebook so that those next to you can't easily read your morose scribblings. Switch to shorthand or some foreign language, excluding pig Latin. You're not going to fool anybody with "annibalism – cay.”

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