Bye-bye, old year

Thus, we bid farewell to 2003.

It was a good year. We moved a couple of times, picked up a dog along the way, and now have more Christmas presents than we know what to do with.

Christmas loot pt. 2

Two additions today:

Unearthed -- Five-disc boxed set by Johnny Cash. It covers his tenure at American Recordings in the '90s and '00s. The set mainly consists of unreleased performances.

Yellow Submarine DVD -- The restored Beatles classic, full of songs and oh-so-60s animations.

These two items likely round out the Christmas gift list. I still need to buy my family some presents, though. D'oh!

Does anyone else think it's strange ...

That the spell-check program Blogger uses doesn't recognize the word "blog"? It suggests I replace that unfamiliar word with "bloc."

Silly, silly computer program.

The visual aspect

As we boot 2003 out the door, I think it appropriate to add a picture to old Rant/Rave/Reassure. I seldom do this.

Why? Let's list the reasons.

1.) It's work
2.) It involves HTML coding.
3.) I have to link to someone else's site.

But I'll overcome those aversions for now. Take a break from this mind-numbing text. Gaze and enjoy.

Great Pleasures ...

... Include shaving with a sharp, hot razor.

And sniffing correction fluid. But I digress.

Free Advice

Returning from his sojourn to parts abroad, the College Answer Guy returns to answer a couple of questions. Isn't that nice of him?

Dear College Answer Guy: Could you write my essay about The Merchant of Venice? I haven’t had time to read the actual play.
~ Overwhelmed by class work

Dear Over: The College Answer Guy is delighted to take up your queries. He hasn’t read The Merchant of Venice either, but that’s not a problem. The College Answer Guy has produced “A-quality” essays about literary works he didn’t even know the titles of.

What follows is a hasty attempt to write your essay. Note that you could flesh out The College Answer Guy’s skeletal outline to considerable effect in many places. Here goes:

“The Merchant of Venice is a delightful comedy by William Faulkner. It is the tale of an old man and a young boy at sea. While they ride their speedboat named Ishmael, they encounter a giant whale named Marlin Brando. Marlin wants people to capture him and put him into captivity because his mother married his uncle after his father was abducted by aliens that communicated to people through mashed potatoes.

“In the end, everything turns out okay because Michael Jackson adopts them all and writes a beautiful song about their adventures. He called it: ‘I Love Obese, Rancid Fish.’

“Faulkner’s work is full of marvelous lines that people have quoted for centuries. Therefore, I don’t have to remind you of any of them except the best known one: ‘Alas poor Duncan, he was a damn spot!’ The line is redolent of many important themes of the play, such as poor people, Dunkin Donuts, and hydroelectric power dams.

“Dunkin Donuts are tasty, nutritious, and full of the Colonel’s 11 herbs and spices. I urge you to try some original or extra crispy literature today by William Faulkner, or his son Edgar Allen Shakespeare. It’s good readin’.”

On second thought, The College Answer Guy doesn’t think you should use this essay. He’s going to keep it for himself. He might be able to get a teaching position at a prestigious university with it!

Dear College Answer Guy: There are so many dictionaries available today. I went to the bookstore and felt hugely overwhelmed by the choices there. After looking at dozens of volumes, I had no idea which dictionary to buy. Any advice?~ Max in Alabama

Dear Max: First off, get a friggin’ grip.

No one is going to invade your house to examine your dictionaries. Visitors and friends will not make harsh personal judgments about you because you have a Webster’s New World rather than an American Heritage. Okay, a few visitors and friends might make harsh judgments about you because of that, but they’re dorks.

The College Answer Guy thinks you should buy one dictionary—preferably one with many words, definitions you can understand and pictures of scantily clad lexicographers on the cover. If you don’t know what a lexicographer is, you really do need the dictionary. Get it quick!

What's Happening?

I'm off from work for four days -- yet the life seems busier than ever. After working on the whole blogging concept since November, it seems as though people are finally reading.

Of course, the reading is going on at my auxiliary blogs, which you can sample through the links to the right. This long-running account of my trials and turmoils doesn't interest folks.

Darn them! Darn them all to heck!

This doesn't count anyone who's actually reading right now, of course. You are the best, finest, and most hygienic folk the world has ever known.

Passing By

Johnny Cash died early this morning.

"We are here to drink beer. We are here to
kill war. We are here to laugh at the odds and
live our lives so well that death will tremble
to take us."

-- Charles Bukowski

Meet the Neighbors

When I walk the dog, I keep to myself. I bring a book or the newspaper or my thoughts. I concentrate on one of those items and try to keep Tundra from racing off and disemboweling woodland creatures.

The s.o., on the other hand, has an inexhaustible appetite for merry adventures, which he shares when he returns with the walked dog.

"Tundra was so excited," he says. "She got to meet Princess Muffin, who is owned by Ebenezer, who lives in a building down the way. Ebenezer is studying dentistry! Then I took the dog to the other side of the complex, and she ran across Conan the Lab, who is owned by this cool guy named Vaclav. And he said --"

And so on.

While I'm glad Max gets to have such a good time, it makes me feel like a recluse. At least I will always have my blog entries. They will always talk to me. They will always be my friends. Ah. That's better.

What I'm Playing...

Blast Corps, a devilishly addictive little game that came out for the Nintendo 64 in 1997 from a developer called Rareware.

What's it about? Who cares. It involves a lot of driving around and blowing stuff up. Thus, it's cool.

Rumsfeld Poetry

Inspired by the cute little book available everywhere, here's my stab at turning some of Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld's words into verse. It's from a New York Times story published today.

Debate and Discussion

I. Opening Words

There should be
A debate and discussion
On these things.
We can live with that.
We can live with a healthy debate
As long as it is as elevated as possible,
And as civil as possible.

II. But --

To the extent that terrorists
Are given reason to believe
He might,
Or, if he is not going to,
That the opponents might prevail
In some way,
And they take heart in that,
And that leads to more money going into these activities,
Or that leads to more recruits,
Or that leads to more encouragement,
Or that leads to more staying power,

Obviously that does make our task more difficult.

Urrrggg

As you can tell by the alluring title to this entry, I'm in tip-top shape. Ha ha!

I don't know why I keep these ridiculously late hours -- I had assumed I would take up a more normal sleep schedule once I moved to the new apartment and everything calmed down. But nooo. I worked late tonight, and thus didn't get home until 1:20 a.m. or so. After time with the s.o., time walking around outside with the dog, listening to music and fiddling with my blogs, I see it's 4-flippin-30.

Times are busy at the Tampa Bay area newspaper, and that's likely to keep me preoccupied for days to come. But perhaps I'll start posting really outrageous things that spur thousands to flock to my site and call me an idiot.

What bliss that would be.

Love Me, Hate Me

Rant/Rave/Reassure, despite its ostensible purpose to document my colorful life and times, is really all about the love. And that love is the love I feel for you -- my tens of readers.

Thus, I've added a whole new level on which to experience the glory that is Rant/Rave/Reassure. A comments feature. Click on the words Rant/Rave under each and every post. Weigh in. Space out. Tell the world what a slobbering goon I am. The possibilities are limitless.

I added this to my copy editing blog as well. So if you're more -- how shall I say it -- of the grammatical persuasion, you can comment on my slobbering gooniness over there.

At My Work Desk

Two pictures of the dog are pinned to my desk there. They're both adorable. In one, Tudra stares at the camera with a smile. One ear stands straight up; the other flops down. A toy dinosaur and part of a rawhide bone are at her feet.

In the other, she peeks out from underneath the couch with a devilish expression on her face.

The positive aspects of these pictures: They don't demand to be taken out and walked.

Pay No Attention to the Previous Post

It was obviously written by an imposter. Investigations are ongoing.

Tough Times

At the old homestead. Granny's rheumatism gives her fits, and pappy's taken to drinkin' whisky afore noon. I don't know what Cletus and I will do. Go join the carnival as geeks, I 'spect. I do some purty singing' as well -- you should lissen to my version of "Pie In The Sky Until I Fry (Some Bacon)."

I Can't Believe I Just Saw This

I've been leaving the television on to provide background noise for the dog. The theory is she therefore won't spin into a barking frenzy when she hears a tiny noise outside. Not sure how well it's working, honestly.

Anyway.

I just watched a TV commercial in which a park ranger gave the Old Faithful geyser a laxative. That seems really, really wrong.

New Blog

I took the plunge and started Copy Massage, my take on the world of copy editing. It's still quite new, so be gentle. I hope to have some serious content up there in the next few weeks. I don't expect to work on it with the frequency of Verse A Day or even this blog. I look at it more as a reference and repository for my grumblings on subjects perhaps too esoteric to deal with here.

So what's ahead for Rant/Rave/Reassure? More of the same, really. I want to make this blog increasingly personal, without falling into the trap of dullness and self-indulgence (too late! chant the onlookers). I'll probably write more about video games, movies, music, and the like. My other two blogs are pretty narrow in content. This is where everything else -- that is, my life -- goes.

How Random Can We Be?

Time to post a random file from my vast and cluttered "My Documents" folder. This happens to be a news/features story I wrote as a classroom assignment several years ago. That's right. Names have been blacked out to protect those poor souls I interviewed all that time ago.

----------

From classroom to concert hall to shooting range, left-handed students at the University of Kansas face a variety of annoyances and challenges. A study published today in the New England Journal of Medicine shows that accidental death rates are much higher among the left-handed population. While not rushing to buy life-insurance policies, left-handed students admit to frustration at a mainly right-handed world.

“The whole academic setting is geared towards right-handedness,” said Matthew J., a senior. “Folders, notebooks, and desks are all irritating.” J.’s main complaint, however, is with computer mice. “In the last few years they’ve started making the mouse contoured for right-handers. “Your hand starts cramping up after about half an hour at the computer, and you have to stop using it.”

J., a cellist with the university symphony, has always played his instrument right-handed. “Musical instruments are pretty much mandatory,” he said. “If you want to find a teacher you have to play the standard way.”

Nathan F., sophomore, was also a cellist in middle school and high school. He feels left-handedness benefited him. Said F., “You start out using your left hand for fingering on a cello, which is an advantage.”

F. currently plays the trumpet in the university concert band and the basketball pep band. “You finger with your right hand on the trumpet. You’re slightly less dexterous at the beginning. But you get so used to doing it with your right fingers it becomes natural.”

Fellow trumpet player Brian H., a freshman, agrees with F. He also discovered an unexpected benefit. “I found I could switch hands on the valves of the trumpet if I needed to,” H. said.

H., who hunts pheasant and quail in the winter months, is most annoyed by shotguns. “The guns are built for right-handed people,” he said. “The gun shucks the shell at your arm instead of out on the ground. Left-handed shotguns are made, but they’re very hard to find.”

The New England Journal of Medicine report studied death certificates from two counties in Southern California. On average, the study showed left-handers died at age 66. Right-handers died at age 75. Left-handers were six times more likely to die in accidents than right-handers.

F. does not see this information as a problem. “We’re doing our part to keep the population under control,” he said. “What are the right-handers doing?”

Welcome Back ...

To Andrew Sullivan, who has taken up his blog again after a monthlong break. Andrew is my favorite right-wing gay iconoclast (and let's face it, there are so many of those), so give him a read.

Welcome to September!

Of course, it's still in the 90s in Tampa Bay. (Sweat.)

In other words, summer isn't over. It's getting its second wind.

One More Entry

Before the month flips over, and this all is archived.

September will be an interesting month, no doubt. Interesting happenings on the journalism front, and I might well start up a copy-editing themed blog. That's still up in the air, though. I don't know if I can handle the responsibility.

The S.O. and myself will doubtless deal with the dog in many contexts, and we yet may be successful in finding interesting things to do in the St. Pete area.

And who knows? Fate well may toss a wrench into everything. What fun that would be.

Cripes!

It's the last day of August. And am I writing some huge blog entry, encapsulating the past month into a slew of witty aphorisms?

Nope.

I'm drinking a jug of Diet Coke, writing a poem and attempting to work. The evening is likely to be busy.

Restraining Rage

And am handling it quite nicely, thank you.

Updated Information

I used to post this about every month, but I've fallen out of the habit. Here, once again, is a bit about yours truly.

Name: Mandango P. Festoon.
Age: 46.
Height: 5'1.
Weight: 460.
Occupation: Night janitor at Victoria's Secret.
Main goal in life: To trim my bloated physique.
Secondary goal: To finish reading the complete works of Marcel Proust.
Another random goal: Learn to chew.

Words

Here are some words for today:

envelop
rectilinear
folded
prune
grotesque
zoom
opportunity
mystique

So Tired

Just back from a walk with the dog. Yes, she's still around, although less adorable at times.

She's delighted whenever she's taken outside, though. I wish I became that happy whenever I stepped outside the confines of this apartment. I'd be a much more outgoing guy.

Ramblings Late at Night

I've meant to update more. The S.O. keeps pestering me about it, and he's right. There's a marvelous plasticity to a blog like this, and I'm a fool not to use it more often. So, after I finish flagellating myself, perhaps I'll write more. Or maybe I'll play a video game.

I realized a couple of days ago that I know how to touch-type. I'm not saying that I know how to do it very well, but I'm able. I've never been taught -- typing was one of those high school courses that slipped beneath my radar screen. I learned how to type reasonably quickly during that time under my own direction. I just looked at the keyboard. But now that years have gone by and I've typed so very much, I've found I pretty much know where the keys are. I don't have to really think about it. I move my fingers, watch the screen, and the words are there. Wow.

We've been playing a lot of F-Zero GX. It's a futuristic racing game published by Nintendo for the GameCube. The series started on the Super Nintendo, was updated for the Nintendo 64 and now is ready for a new generation. It's hella fun.

Around My Desk...

... At the moment.

A wall clock, notably unattached to a wall.

A bottle of Diet Mountain Dew.

An auto insurance card.

A bottle of insulin.

Two rolls of clear tape.

Two erasers, one gum and other kneaded rubber.

The CD booklet for Beck's Sea Change album.

Do You Realize?

Song by The Flaming Lips

Do you realize
That you have
The most beautiful face?

Do you realize
That we're floating
In space?

Do you realize
That happiness
Makes you cry?

Do you realize
That everyone you know
Someday will die?

And instead of saying all of your goodbyes
Let them know you realize
That time goes fast
It's hard to make the good things last
You realize the sun doesn't go down
It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round.

August

We're still stuck in the long, hot eighth month. In Florida, August bites. The temperatures aren't as high as those in my previous home of Kansas, but the humidity here weighs down the air. My clothes stick to my skin. The sun blazes.

And then, nearly every afternoon, it rains. Big, fat raindrops that splat on my windshield as I navigate my way to work. Marshy puddles accumulate in lawns. Mosquitoes swarm. Never mind that in a few months, the temperatures will drop and Florida will be at its most pleasant. For now, I slog.

A Visit to the Dealership

I took my car in today.

The little orange "Service Engine Soon" light came on as I was driving home yesterday evening. After doing a bit of panicking, I checked the ever-reliable web. The consensus was that the light doesn't signify something horrible, but rather suggests politely the car might need a looking-at. Panic subsided.

This morning, however, I brought the car to the friendly neighborhood Saturn dealership. The man in the shop told me I had some sort of leaking hose connected to the vacuum system in the car. Or something like that. It wasn't particularly expensive, in any case.

I realized, though, that the man could have told me anything was wrong with the car. He could have said, "Mr. M, you have a nasty boll-weevil infestation in that engine of yours." And I would have nodded and said, "Make sure you kill those little buggers."

So they killed off the insects, or replaced the hose, or whatever. And thus -- viola! -- no more orange light.

Track List

Here's my track listing of Songs For Dustmites, as randomly generated on Steve's Web Page. (That's Steve Burns, formerly of Blue's Clues. See my earlier entry for more information.)

1 2:57 From the Soundtrack to "Gabe and the Roof"

2 1:20 Noisy, Prime Virion no. 3

3 7:26 Showing the Scientist

4 2:41 The King of the Angry Daisy

5 3:01 A Special Steve Burns

6 3:45 The Last Time You Lick the Mrs. Pepper

7 4:36 The Superstring will Clamp in the Presence of Prime, Trifling Dust Mite

8 8:25 Believing in the Toad

9 8:45 Thinking of the Mail

10 0:04 Madame Entity

11 7:35 The Loving Lithium will Speed in the Presence of Undeserving Beryllium

12 2:05 This Lance Can Truly Control

The Synonym Finder

Other words for "gaze":

stare
gape
gawk
goggle
stand agog
Inf. rubberneck
ogle
Inf. eye
Inf. eyeball
Inf. give [s.o.] the glad eye
look over
scrutinize
Inf. give the once-over
look at/on/upon
take a look at
Inf. have a look-see

What I'm Listening To

Clips from "Songs for Dust Mites," the new CD by Steve Burns.

Who is Steve Burns, you may ask? Why, he's the former host of the kids' show "Blue's Clues." He's now a musician. His first album has been made with the assistance of two-thirds of The Flaming Lips.

Go to his site. Listen. Enjoy. Buy.

It Is Missing

My diary, that is. I've thus been adrift the past week-and-a-half, not able to fill it with notes about the dreary routines that, once assembled, resemble my life.

The pain! The misery!

Slogan at My Desk

"Tomorrow is Today"

Always good to remember in newspaper work.

Clattering into Action

Net access has been erratic.

I have been putting together shelving.

The s.o. seems to be ill.

The dog, as always, is barking mad.

The Net Returns

Cheers resound round the north Pinellas county city in which I now reside. More as it develops, Dan.

I Drop In

No internet connection at new apartment yet. We survived the move, however, and are enjoying sleep right now. Moving involved three very long days. Once hooked up and with a few minutes to spare, I promise to reveal everything.

I'm still updating Verse A Day, of course.

Keep in touch, people.

Frantic Moving Day

We're moving today. Things are crazy. Internet access will (of course) be disrupted as our friendly local telecommunications company gets its act together.

The living room is now filled with boxes. In a few hours, we'll make the trek to our new place. That will begin a frenzied rush of item-transferal.

The day after that, I'll be back to work. The S.O. will be callously left to pick up the pieces (sorry!). I'm sure a grand adventure will be had by all.

Watch for updates.

The Best Joke Ever

I found this anecdote while cruising around the Web. I've tweaked it a bit, just to be contrary.

Pay special attention to the tale's ins and outs, now. You don't want to miss anything.

The King's Quest

Once upon a time there was a king named King John. He ruled a happy kingdom, because there were no taxes and free beer given out every day.

Everyone was content except for one thing. That thing was that there was not much room to spread out. Everyone's gardens were just a little bit too small. King John was upset about this, for it was the only bad thing in his kingdom. One day, it was a Tuesday, he asked his advisers, "How are we going to solve this problem?" The advisers disappeared off into the pub and came back many hours later and said, "I love you mate, you know that? I do. I really do."

Some time later, when they had sobered up a little they told the king what was to be done. This is what they said. "What you should do, your majesty, is invade the neighboring kingdom, ruled by the evil King *&$#. He is so evil, even his name has to be censored. We should gather an army and go and take some of his land." "That's a wicked idea" said King John, and promptly set up a poster campaign asking for volunteers for his army.

Loads of people were up for this idea, consequently the army was very large. It numbered 1,024 people. After much preparation and training this huge army set off with the King to invade the kingdom of *&$#. It would however take many days to travel all that way, but they did not mind, for the prize was worth it -- more land for all.

At the end of the first day the pitched camp, had a few beers, and some food, and fell asleep. When he awoke the next morning the king was shocked and upset to see that half of his proud army had been killed in the night. Only 512 remained. He was distraught, and ran around shouting for the others to get up. It was then that he saw, away in the distance, just going over the hilltop, a man. He was dressed all in white on a white horse. He had white boats and carried a white flag at the end of his white lance. King John yelled to the white man, but he ignored him. The king pulled himself together and sat down to breakfast. His advisers said, "Don't worry, your majesty. We have more than enough men to defeat King *&$#. We'll continue after breakfast."

So they did. They journeyed all that day and by dusk were very tired, so they didn't have so much beer. The king wasn't taking any chances, so he posted guards around the camp. Then he went to sleep. Next morning he awoke and ran from his tent. "AAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHH" he cried. Another half of his men had been killed. Just as they were counting exactly how many had been killed the king noticed the white horseman again. Dressed all in white he was riding away into the sunrise. The king spotted that the white man had totally white hair. The king was a bit annoyed by now, as only 256 remained from his once proud army, but had no choice but to continue on his quest.

They traveled all day and in to the night, so that when the king finally called a halt, the men and he slept straight away. The king woke first and could hear the sound of hooves outside his tent. He burst outside to see the white horseman galloping past his tent. In the horseman's arms there was a white guitar, which the man was playing as he disappeared off into the sun. Upon looking around he found that half of his men were dead. A mere 128 remained.

The king was beside himself with rage, and the remaining men had to restrain him and calm him down. The sat down and came up with a new plan. "We'll have to take the enemy by stealth, as there aren't enough of us to kill them in a fight." His army, now looking small and a little worried, agreed and set off for a day's travel.

They decided to take it easy that day and didn't travel more than about 10 miles. The sun set and they made camp. They ate their rations, which had increased enormously, and settled down to sleep. All night the king was plagued by visions of the white horseman. He woke in a cold sweat just as the sun was rising. He opened his tent door with a sense of trepidation. As he looked around it became clear that half of the remaining men lay dead. The king, almost resigned to defeat, just shrugged. "Come on everyone, we might as well get going. We might be able to defeat King *&$# with 64 men." Just then the white horseman burst out from behind a tent and started galloping away into the east. Once again he was playing his white guitar, and waving his white flag. The king shouted at him to stop, but he didn't even look back.

The army packed up and started their long days march. They stopped just before nightfall and set up camp. As they were all very nervous about going to sleep, because they had seen so many of their friends murdered, they all decided to stay awake. Time passed and one by one they all nodded off. In the morning the king was awoken by the sound of shouting. He ran out of his tent and was met by some of his men. "Half of the men are dead," they said. The king just nodded and gave the order to march. As they were packing up the king saw the white horseman trotting off into the distance. He just waved and started off. All through that day the king tried in vain to think of a new plan which could be accomplished with 32 men. In the end he decided on a competition against the best of King *&$#'s men. The winner would take half of the other's lands.

That night they set up camp in a wood. Because they had had to leave most of their provisions behind (there were not enough people to carry them) they hunted deer to eat. After they had eaten their food they all fell asleep. In the morning the king guessed what was going to happen, and he was right. Half his men lay dead and the white horseman was galloping off into the sunrise. As he galloped he was throwing white rose petals from a white bag and scattering them behind him.

The king looked at his 16 men. "Well, we've come too far just to turn around and go back. We might as well try," he said. His men agreed and set off towards the *&$# kingdom. King John was going a little crazy in the head at this point. More than a thousand of his men had been killed while they slept, and he could do nothing about it. "Not tonight," the king said to himself.

That evening they stopped a little earlier and built a tall fence around the camp. They put spikes on top of the fence and went to sleep. In the morning the king woke and burst from his tent. He was eager to see if his plan had succeeded.

Alas, it had not. Half the men were dead and there was a large hole in the fence. Peering through the hole the king saw the white horseman riding away. He was distraught. The 8 remaining men comforted him. "Maybe we can ask King *&$# for a treaty. Then we can share lands," they told the king. The king would not listen and gave the order to pack up and march.

They rode fast all day and had covered 50 miles by nightfall. The king said nothing as he lay down to sleep. The men decided that half of them would remain awake and stand guard. They drew straws and settled down for a long night. In the morning the king woke up, stretched, and had a coffee before leaving his tent. He opened the tent flap cautiously and peered about. Four men remained alive. The others (the ones who had been on guard) were all dead. The king yelled as the white horseman rode past on his white horse, waving his white flag, playing his white guitar and scattering his white rose petals. The 4 men packed up what few possessions they could carry and set off.

All that day the king sat on his horse and laughed to himself. When they eventually reached a place to camp they were very tired. They had been riding for days, they were hungry, thirsty and had seen many friends killed in their sleep. They sank down onto the ground and slept. "Oh. What a surprise," was the king's sarcastic exclamation in the morning. "Half my men are dead. Only 2 remain. And there goes the white horseman off into the sunrise."

He and his two men, Alan and Nala, set off. They were nearly at their destination, so they could not stop now. They rode and chatted about this and that. The king seemed in a very jovial mood. Alan and Nala thought that he was all right until he jumped off his horse and started attacking a tree because it was "looking at him funny." They thought that was a good time to stop for the night. They pitched their tents, one for the king and one for the two men, and slept a peaceful night.

In the morning the king went outside and poked his head into the men's tent. One of them, Nala, was dead. He woke Alan and started looking about for the now familiar white horseman. He saw him just mounting his horse and ran after him. The king could not catch up with him, and came back to camp. He and Alan were one days march away from the castle of King *&$#, so they polished their armor and sharpened their swords. Then they rode off towards the castle. Near evening they saw the castle. It was huge and dark. They felt a little foolish turning up with the smallest army ever to try to take over this mighty army, but they could not travel home without trying so they pitched a tent and waited for morning.

When the sun rose the king awoke to find that his last man had been killed. 1024 of his men had been killed while they slept. The king burst out of his tent. He was confronted with the white horseman. His clothes were white, his hair and beard were white, he carried a white guitar, and there were white rose petals scattered on the ground by his feet. The white man looked a little worried and edged slowly towards his white horse.

"Have you been killing all my men while they've been asleep?" asked King John.

"No," replied the man.

Altavista, Baby

Here is Will's entry from yesterday, translated back into English from Korean. Thanks to the almighty Babelfish translation program at Altavista for making this possible.

Anyone it hangs quite but it does not mean

To go out, when it talks, "it cold in inside from here," that position the meaning is sun the heirloom wears out quite saltily with the enemy, it talks more, "it is cold"? Yet it is a cold and a right? -- "Ohio, me in my attention that quite you who are happy it brings, will." Under -- but your line luck be. It spreads out. Referred to a rank is quibbling coldness or happy? }perhaps{. When "quite" quite being the L it will be necessary, when you will be able to think freedom lop to hour but, the impression which uses it. That le or it hangs anyone but not meaning, under extensive language there is I.

While We're Talking About Newspapering

Will A. tackles a pet peeve of mine at his copy editing blog. Take it away, man.

'VERY' DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING

If I say, "It's very cold in here," does that really mean more than saying, "It's cold"?

It's still cold, right? -- "Oh, I'm very happy you brought that to my attention, Will." -- But you are happy. You are not sad.

Is this quibbling about degrees of coldness or happiness? Perhaps. But if you can think of a time when "very" is very necessary, feel free to use it. But, I'm telling you, it doesn't mean anything.

Repeat Headline

A newspaper consultant mentioned this point in a workshop I attended a couple of weeks ago. I think it's a good one for people who work with words to remember.

Just because someone else has said the same thing doesn't mean it's not worth saying.

This was applied specifically to headlines in the workshop. If many newspapers use the same headline -- or a very similar one -- that doesn't automatically mean the headline is bad. Many will invoke the copy editing monster of "cliche."

We should avoid cliches. I agree. But they are ultimately part of our language, part of the day-to-day discourse of millions of people. When push comes to shove, then, we shouldn't act like robots. Take it on a case-by-case basis. (And yes, I realize there were two cliches in this paragraph. So what.)

Thus, "Thanks for the Memories" as a headline for Bob Hope's obituary is not necessarily a bad headline. Yes, the phrase is a cliche. Yes, lots and lots and lots and lots of newspapers used it. But I bet many readers liked it. I doubt a significant number looked at A1 and said "Too bad my newspaper is so unoriginal."

Sometimes, I realize, I sound flippant about editing matters. I take this seriously. We should watch and know every time a significant cliche is used in a story or a headline. We should have an excellent reason to use it. But if the reason exists, if the cliche (or its brother, the "obvious" headline) is apt, run the headline.

We have nothing to be ashamed of.

Mistah Dylan Sez

A random excerpt from "Down the Highway: The Life of Bob Dylan" by Howard Sounes.

"Sloan was duly summoned to the Hollywood Sunset Hotel where Bob played him acetates of Highway 61 Revisited. Sloan rolled about on the floor laughing when he heard 'Ballad of a Thin Man.' Bob laughed too. He slapped his knees as if it was the biggest joke in the world. Then he said, seriously, 'I gotta big problem here. Columbia records doesn't any idea what this song is about. They think it's communistic.' " (189-190)

The rest of the anecdote is really good, but it would be way tedious to type it all out.

Buy the book here.

Already August 2? Darn!

I'm working longish shifts this week and am preparing to move. Thus, the updating has been sparse.

Am listening to the soundtrack of Bob Dylan's new movie, "Masked and Anonymous." A lot of fun stuff on it -- four live takes from Mr. Dylan, a smattering of foreign-language cover versions, and some other interestingly skewed covers.

A Big Hello to August!

I hear it's the eighth month, you know.

Random File Time

Back in the innocent days when I began this blog, I would sometimes post random files from the neglected scrap heap that is my "My Documents" folder.

Older and wiser, but still hoping for some good,-old-fashioned public humiliation, I will thus try the experiment again.

[Clay picks the file. He purses his lips.]

Hmm. The document seems to be from my sophomore year of college. It's a translation from my second-year Latin class. I have no idea if it's my translation or transcribed from somewhere. It's from the Aeneid, I think. Or it could be from some Latin workbook.

Whatever the case, it's full of multisyllabic, myth-laden names. "Enjoy."

I.

Greece waged war against Troy;
The tenth year they took Troy prisoner.
Many Trojans fled from Asia,
After many labors they came into Italy:
Of these the leader is Aeneas, son of Veneris.
There the Trojans disembarked,
And plundered cattle from the fields.
Latinus, king of those lands, joined battle with the Trojan troops:
By battle Aeneas is victorious, and makes peace:
Then he gives his daughter Lavinium to Aeneas in marriage.
The Trojans found a city:
Aeneas calls it after the name of his wife, Lavinium.

II.

After the death of Aeneas, Ascanius the son ruled.
This man relinquished to his mother Lavinium, rich city;
This town was named Abla Longa.
After the death of Ascanius, Silvius ruled.
After Silvium, many kings ruled.
At great length, Procas was made king,
The father of Numitori and Amulius.
Numitori, who was eldest, was chosen King by Procas.

III.

Twin sons, it is said, were to Reae Silvia and the god Mars.
Amulius, angry and alarmed, orders Silvia to be bound,
And the infants to be thrown into the river.
By chance the river flooded its banks:
And so men were not able to approach the river.
They arranged to expose the infants in the nearest pool.
A basket, in which the infants were exposed,
Floated hither and thither.
Soon, nevertheless, the river receded within its banks,
And the basket was left on the dry bank.
After that, a thirsty wolf approached form the hills,
And heard the crying of the twins.
The wolf approached and the infants suckled,
She licking them with her tongue.
Faustulus, master of the royal stock,
Found the wolf with the infants.
Faustulus brings them home
And gives them to his wife Larentiae.
Thus the twins were raised by shepherds.

Brace Yourselves

I've started an alarming new trend with my diary.

I'm not writing it in cursive anymore. Print all the way, babe.

More on this exciting information as it develops, Chuck.

Diet Pepsi Ingredient of the Day

Phosphoric acid.

Milestone of Sorts

My other blog, Verse A Day, hit the three-month mark yesterday. I'm proud of the little booger. I didn't expect it to do much of anything, but the site has become part of my daily routine. I look through my notebooks for some lines to revise and post, or I go into a deep creative funk and produce a poem on the spot.

Whatever the case, there really is a verse a day up there. OK, so a few times I've been on the wrong side of midnight. But the poems are all there and mostly on time.

My task right now is printing out those poems and taking a critical look at them, with an eye toward sending them somewhere or to someone. What happens after that depends on where or to whom they're sent. I could twist my grammar into even tighter knots, but I guess I'll ahead while I'm quit.

Mr. Dylan Also Sez:

"One look at you
And I'm out of control.
Like the universe
Has swallowed me whole."

Mr. Dylan Sez:

"You may be a state trooper
You might be a young Turk
You might be the head of some big TV network"

But he says you're still going to have to serve somebody. Hmm.

Where Are We Now?

Three days since the last entry to this blog, that's where.

So what have I been doing?

Going back to work. The week off whizzed by, but once I returned to the office, it felt as though I'd been gone for months. Seeing folks nearly every day creates a certain workplace intimacy. You've all been through the same heckish days and have horror stories aplenty to share.

But I was gone. And I didn't know the stories. I'm having to learn the new ones.

I Decline

Mr. Will has started a copy editing blog. As this blog was originally intended to be something of the sort (before being sidetracked by the miscellany that is my mind rationed out in paragraph-sized bits), I thought I'd add some of my own recent gripes. Please direct any criticism of my opinions to Will. It's all his fault.

Newspaper writers to often lean on tired, stereotypical language.

An annoyance to me is using the word “decline” to mean “refuse” or “wouldn’t.” The usage will be familiar to anyone who has read a news article about police or politicians.

“The detective declined comment about the allegations.”

“The governor’s aides declined to elaborate on his remarks.”

In both of these cases, “decline” is used to soften the blow. There is something wanly elegant suggested, as if a hack politician’s aides told the reporter: “Sorry, old chap, but I have to decline to answer your frightfully on-point query.”

But people don’t often talk that way, and they certainly don’t talk that way to nosy reporters. The aides probably said “no comment,” or “are you out of your bleepin’ mind? I’m not answering that!”

These people are refusing our requests. They are turning down reporter’s questions. They don’t want to tell readers what’s going on. Don’t let them hide behind the fussy verb “decline.” Tell it like it is:

“The detective wouldn’t comment on the allegation.”

“The governor’s aides refused to elaborate on his remarks.”

Overheard on the Copy Desk pt. 364

"This is a place that spawns champions, not where champions spawn, right?"

House Guest

My friend James is visiting this weekend from Chicago. Last night, we offered him a sparkling glimpse of St. Petersburg's exotic and exciting nightlife. Today, he'll have the opportunity to sample from the full buffet of Floridian experiences. Or at least a partial buffet.

Look, he'll do some stuff, all right?

Let's Hope He Doesn't Go into Government

Courtesy of the folks at the Urban Legends Reference Page, here's an e-mail from a legislative intern. What makes it unusual? The writer was fired because of it, for one thing. And it's about the meanest missive you'll read this year.

The spelling and grammar has not been corrected. I've split up some longer paragraphs, though, simply to make reading easier. Take a look.

"From: Kelly Tripplehorn
Sent: Tuesday, June 03, 2003 2:11 PM
Subject: you suck

"Well, as of this afternoon, I was planning on ruining your career by making phone calls to all of my parents friends and have you blackballed from the workplace as well as every prestigous law school in the country, but then (lucky for you) I decided not to do that because you are a sad sad person and I will just let your life self destruct right before my eyes.

"Michele I am sorry, I don't care how big of sadistic fucked up crush you have on me but people like me simple don't date people like you. You are too competitive with me and you just simply will never be better than me. I will always have more friends than you just because I don't care about beating people and lying to get to the top. (You are an absolute hipocrit in everything that you do, I am not going to go into details why you are because that would be a waste of my time and yours but I can assure you if you were to ever meet yourself you would hate your twin)

"I have told most all of the staff about our situation now and they already knew you were really messed you. They said when you were talking to them about me, they all told me you had 'serious issues' and that every word you said sounded scripted and they knew without a doubt that you were lying. I have noticed that people who you think are your good friends actually really dislike you but unlike me, they will not tell you to your face because they would rather be fake nice to you than be your enemy.

"Now talking about how I am obsessed with money, I simply am not. You are. You always are trying to impress me by how much money you have and I don't care. The difference is though I talk about it but it is never about bragging and it is never directly about money, it is always directly about the conversation. For instance, someone will ask, what are you doing for july 4rth. And then I will say I am going to aspen. It is a simple fact that I am but since you don't have a house in aspen, you get offended because of your competitive nature. When you talk about money you will say something like UT's tuition is 5% of your family's income, thus my tuition would be 125,000. Yea, Michele you are right, I brag too much about what I have.

"Well I am just going to stop writing because you are just absolutely beneath me. I have heard that you try to undermine people all the time that are better than you and everysingle time it does not work because people can see through such shallowness and that is why as I have heard so many times, Most "everyone at UT absolutely hates you." For instance even the people that you thought were your friends Mellissa Mahaffey or that girl you met at espn, they hate you, they just never say anything. Everyone knows you are a pathetic social climber who will go to any discusting means to move up the ladder. But guess what Michele, you will never move up the ladder because I am at the top and people like me hate people like you. You might be able to trick people like me for maybe a month or so but your true personality comes through after a while and it is vile, if that.

"You have sooooo many people that absolutely hate you and you will never know it because they will never say anything to your face. You will not succeed in life and even the staff thinks that also, after I told them about the things that you do. You suck and good luck being miserable for the rest of your life. I do not even know why I wasted my time typing this for suck slime. Everyone tells me that you are so beneath me (which you are) and I should not get worked up over suck trifles. By the end of the day if I wanted to, I could make a phone call and have your life absolutely ruined but there is no need because you are falling fast enough towards failure without me. In the end, all I can say is that people love me and people hate you. You should observe me and take a few notes on how to make real friends. Other than you tieing this one other person, I have never had such little respect for a human being in my life. I don't even have to tell you why because in my very accurate analysis that most everyone else agrees with, if you were to agree with my analyis about your character than my whole entire analysis would be wrong.

"Your inflamed ego has left you so blind and so impotent that you can nto even recognize the most obvious flaws in yourself. All your old roommates absolutely hated you and you still think the problem is with them, not you. Well I talked to your roommates and I thought they nice normal girls. So naturally, you would not fit in with them because you are so intellectually above them all. Right? You suck at life and you need to figure out why or you will be miserable for the rest of your life.

"Once again from your intellectual, moral, social, and emotional superior,
Paul Kelly Tripplehorn, Jr. "

The girl complained and the boy was booted out of Kay Bailey Hutchinson's office. Does someone sound a wee bit insecure?

Read more about the sordid story.

The Insatiable Public

They want more.

They beg that I add more words to this blog.

Yet, alas, I am but one weary soul. And a silly one, at that.

More soon.

Incidents of Interest

Highlights of today:

Mother dearest purchased a pair of sandals and two shirts for me. One of the shirts features everyone's favorite videogame Italian-American stereotype, Mario.

Saw "Pirates of the Caribbean." It's a fun, frolicking movie. Arrr!

Introduced my sister to a bewildering array of computer and N64 games.

Being home has a comfortable aspect to it, I admit.

Putting It in Perspective

Heat-related annoyance aside, I've had a semi-startling realization in the last couple of days.

I'm pretty happy.

Now, I'm not at exactly the perfect job, and it's not in exactly the perfect place. But I am, by and large, content. I'm doing work that I enjoy with people I respect. I have friends, though perhaps not as many or as close as I would like. And I have a person I care about.

These things are what it's all about. If I kicked the bucket in some unexpected way tomorrow, it would surely suck. I still have a lot I want to accomplish. But I would still accept it. Because I've achieved more than I thought I could. And I've done things I never imagined.

And there is love all around me. It's easy for me to ignore it, or act all ironic, or just gripe. But that doesn't change the fact that it's there. And it doesn't change the fact that I need and appreciate every bit of it.

At Home

I'm in Kansas. In small-town Kansas, in the home where I spent eight years. I'm in my room, which has largely been changed by my father into a place for his assorted stuff.

There is no air conditioning here, which is making me cranky.

The S.O. is dealing with the dog at home. I miss him, and I wish I hadn't been so cranky when I talked to him. I well remember the week I spent with the dog, alone, while he was away. It makes one desparate for human companship and communication. Or silence.

But I'm making the best of it, I suppose.

We'll all be seeing Pirates of the Carribbean tomorrow. And I'm showing my sister many and varied computer games. And I might get some clothes and the like.

Then, once I return to home sweet St. Petersburg, it will time for James' visit. Eventually, I'll find my way back to work. I'll be ready for it when it comes, too.

Familial Quest

It sounds adventuresome, only it's not. No, I get to go home tomorrow for the first time in half a year. Goodness knows what kind of excitement and thrills await me there.

It's true, the Kansas trip is the beginning of a week of quality vacation time. Perhaps it will be wonderful beyond all imagining. I'll let you know.

I Continue Breathing

A hi to the folks who are reading. I mean to e-mail you all, but things have been busy/crazy.

I was out buying stuff for the apartment today. I was running the dog through her paces. And I finally finished watching "Minority Report." I thought it let down a little bit toward the end -- one plot twist too many. But it was still impressive work, esp. for the oft-belittled Mr. Speilberg.

Coming up for Air

After that whole long thing from Sunday ...

Watching "Minority Report" on my computer. It's really shockingly good. I didn't think Stevie Spielberg still had it in him.

He basically takes everything George Lucas did wrong in the recent "Star Wars" sagas and does it precisely right. A story sheathed in special effects, true. But it's most importantly a story.

Longest Entry So Far

The house is quiet today. I plan to make up for that by posting my longest single entry to this blog -- up to today. Who knows. Some pressing matter might require gargantuan space in the future.

Part One -- Clay Outlines His Self-Referential Aims

I'm going to be adding to the post over time, and publishing at intervals. I realize that somehow violates the sanctity of the single post, the single long post, but I can't risk losing the entire thing because my browser has been inactive for too long, or something trivial like that.

I also don't want to compose the entry in Word, because that's lame. Actually, so is the entire concept, but why should I let that stop me?

Am currently reading a story about something vague and financial. It involves development funds. I'd say that since I started my life in journalism, about a third of everything I've read has involved development in suburban communities and related craziness.

I'm sure these sorts of things matter to the folks who live next door to "The Oaks at Wingate," or whatever unimaginative name is affixed to a building project. And newspapers do them a service with comprehensive coverage of such sprawl. But otherwise ...

Part Two -- Clay Muses on the Cosmic Importance of Receipts

Pay no attention to the "Parts" dividers. They serve no purpose other than breaking up the trail o' text.

Oh my God. The vague and financial story included the term "millage." Pardon me while I fall asleep.
[Clay makes faint burbling sounds and has a pleasant dream about Pokemon.]

OK, done with that. Next step: Caffiene.

Mmmmm. Nothing like a liter of lightly chilled Diet Mountain Dew. That should get me mildly excited for the evening's activities. Oh, I haven't finished the liter yet. No sir. I've only just started. It should last me for the next hour or so.

I've started drinking these liter-sized jugs o' drink all the time. At one point, I was ingesting way too much caffeine. I would have two or three of the liter jugs, topped off with some 20-ounces, a can or two, and a shot of Diet Red Bull. It pretty much turned me into a shaking, stuttering wreck.

I've cut back, but I'm still drinking the liters. They mean I don't have to visit the drink machine that often (except in awakeness emergencies).

Part Three -- Clay Travels to Ancient Egypt

The books on my desk:

Florida Almanac 2002-2003
The Synonym Finder
Lapsing Into a Comma -- Bill Walsh
The New York Times Almanac 2003
The Careful Writer: A Modern Guide to English Usage -- Theodore M. Bernstein
Words on Words -- John B. Bremner
The Associated Press Stylebook -- 2001
The Associated Press Stylebook -- 1977
The Copy-Editing and Headline Handbook -- Barbara G. Ellis
Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, 10th Edition
Webster's New World Dictionary, 4th Edition

Part Four -- A Scandal In Bohemia

So you're asking at this point (as is some dark, frothing part of my brain), why even bother with this? It's clear you're just stringing together what would be a bunch of separate posts on any other day.

And I respond (as does some sunnier, more drug-affected part of my brain) that I'll do what I want. Thanks.

I still don't understand my phone at work, though.

I was given a poorly photocopied sheet of instructions when I started at the Tampa Bay area daily newspaper, and I suppose the expectation was that the poorly photocopied sheet of instructions would give me all the information I needed to work the phone. Which they didn't and they don't.

They're still there under the phone, over the bay, taunting me as I sit here at home, insinuating I'm not enough of a man to comprehend their poorly photocopied truths. They may taunt me, but I will not rise to their bait. I will not allow poorly photocopied directions to run my life. Nossir.

Yet the phone persists. It still has a greeting from the previous person to have my number. Sometimes, people leave me messages. I can't listen to them, of course, because they're in this previous person's voice mailbox. The little red light on the phone telling me I have a message is still lit, though.

It will stay lit for several days, then go out. The message will float off into the ether. And I will be happy.

Part Five -- An Investigation into the Medicinal Qualities of Herb Extracts

It's about 8 p.m.. In a bit, I'll start my evening rounds of the neighborhood. But before then, some random comments:

The dog chewed up my cell phone antenna a couple of weeks ago. I have restored it with tape. It does not look just like new. It does not look new at all. It looks as though I have wrapped tape around my cell phone antenna.

I have created an anthropomorphic copy editing mascot named Prickly, the copy editing porcupine. He will shortly star in his own Saturday-morning cartoon show on the WB.

Meat Loaf as a dish is much less overwrought than the singer.

I have always sort of wanted to ride in a hot air balloon. It seems as though it would be neat.

Part Six -- Paradise by the Dashboard Light

Things have been busy today. I intended to devote far more time to this monumental post. However, that seems like so many good intentions, pipe dreams, and other such cliches right now.

I'll include some more random observations to finish it all up:

Who is this guy, and why should I care?

Stress is good food.

I always liked the Transformers. There's more than meets the eye with them, you know. Plus, their movie had Eric Idle and Orson Welles in it.

Subjectivity and objectivity are both pretty boring.

I believe in plastic.

Part Seven -- Clay and the Wizard in Oz

So was this all worth it, in the end?

You know, when you add up the columns of little numbers and see what result they give you. Did the conceit pan out? Was the result truly a product of the effort?

Admittedly, my long-form prose work varies. This is from a guy who wrote a novel when he was in middle school. It's true. I did write a novel when I was in middle school. But it wasn't overly gripping.

An excerpt:

"Pete sat at his desk, feeling nervous. Today was the day he was supposed to trip Kimberly. He didn’t know why he was mixed up in all of this, but he really wanted out. How could he leave it, though?

"Jeremy appeared in the classroom doorway and walked towards Pete. Pete glanced around, hoping a trap door would suddenly open up and he could escape through it. No trap door opened.

"Jeremy stood next to him now. Pete looked up and smiled weakly. Jeremy gave a small, cold grin. “In four minutes,” he said, “you’ll be by the water fountain. Eventually Kimberly will walk by on her was to class, and you’ll trip her. Got it?”

"Pete began to change. The doubt that had collected inside him for days changed to anger, anger that Jeremy tried to control him like this."

Yeah. So.

Maybe this whole "longest blog thing ever" thing was a mistake.

But perhaps it was a brilliant meta-blog thing thing.

It's all a mystery. In the end.

You know.

If You Can Spare a Quarter ...

Go to Scott McCloud's site and read part one of his new online graphic novel, The Right Number.

Mr. McCloud has written and drawn a couple of concise, intelligent books explaining comics as an art form. He believes the future of the medium is online, and has devoted a lot of time to his site and putting various comics up there. They're all free, and I urge you to look at them too.

One of Mr. McCloud's dreams has been effective micropayments online. That is, you could quickly and easily spend a quarter or some other tiny amount to access a piece of creative work. The reasoning is, of course, that such a system would reward the creator with instant income and the surfer with low-cost fun.

For whatever reason, micropayments have been slow in arriving. But Mr. McCloud has found such a system for this new work, and I urge you to try it. It helps to have a Paypal account. You pay a few bucks into a micropayment stash, which then can be doled out to individual projects.

Not sure if the explanation makes sense, and it's all a bit long-winded, but the concept interests me. The point is, though, The Right Number is an intelligent, slickly drawn comic. And there are two more parts to come.

Check it out.

Tragic, Tragic Thoughts

Nothing more fun than mocking people you secretly feel superior to, right? Then let's take a look at some excerpts from the Official Enya Web site's message board. The subject? The eventual demise of the Irish singer / songwriter / ethereal goddess.

(In my defense, I've been known to listen to an Enya album. I have not yet been known to post on the Web about her though. Until today, I guess.)

But let's listen to the fans.

"Everybody,are waiting for the new album,(me too),but we dont know if this new album will be the last one(I hope not),but suppose this was the last one,what you do?? you will try to find another artist like her?? How many albuns she will make until stop making music??"

And then --

"Do not worry, I think we will be hearing music from Enya for a long time and I would say that she will be writing music for as long as she physcially and mentally able...but that is a scarry thought. You have heard this phrase in a very popular movie..."There is another"..."

And then --

"Sometimes I've thought about what it would be like if Enya had a daughter? Has anyone else ever been thinking about that? Just imagine... another ethereal girl with an angelic voice? Or a son? Can you imagine a handsome young man singing songs that would be classified in the genre of Enya? Sorry about my imagination... I actually don't even know if I wish or not that Enya would have children to continue her genre... I've just been thinking. As I said."

OK. It's gettin' scary. Or scarry, I should say.

Not Much Change in a Day

Still on page 402 of Mr. Potter and the Phoenix. Hopefully will make progress soon. I feel the irritation of my sister, thousands of miles away.

Harry P. Update

I'm on page 402 of Order of the Phoenix.

Blog Round-Up

Some pertinent passages from my favorite online journals. Make sure to visit them all.

Mr. Will writes the following on the Supreme Court's sodomy decision in Lawrence v. Texas:

"I can't say enough good things about this surprising decision -- a shock considering the conservative court that made it -- and it brings us one step closer to recognizing gay people as normal people, just like heterosexuals, whose sex lives aren't deemed deviant."

Mr. Simanoff, over at the Daily Dave, gives us this:

"Head pain. Massive migraine. Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow."

And a cool story about he and his complimentary spouse purchasing Apple computers.

Brad speaks for many:

"I love my new job and hate it with a passion, all at the same time.

"I love this new city but miss what I've left behind, all at the same time.

"The buzzword of the moment is "confliction." But it's better, I suppose, than apathy."

The ever-reliable George Harrison -- or someone who looks remarkably like him -- contributes his usual scintillating prose.

"Some things on my To Do list for this weekend:

- Thank You card for Betty
- Charge razor
- New shoelaces on DMs
- Work on that other song
- Find the referral to the wisdom tooth dentist"

Recent Issues

1.) Odd rumors about an ex.

2.) Craziness from the dog -- who is also celebrating her one-month anniversary with us.

3.) Still in the 300s of Harry Potter.

4.) Looking forward to vacation

5.) Going through seven-months'-worth of St. Petersburg Times issues

6.) Preparing for an August move

7.) Antonin Scalia should take a cruise or something.

The Supremes Rule

The Supreme Court, that is. The court today overturned a Texas sodomy law and a 1986 decision that said legalized prohibition of private sexual conduct was OK. In other words, the 13 states that prohibit sodomy between consenting adults don't have a leg to stand on.

One of those states is Florida. One of them is also Kansas, which has the distinction of being one of only four states that specifically criminalizes sodomy between people of the same gender.

I've long found sodomy laws repulsive. It's shameful they weren't thrown out years before this. But it's heartening to see something done. At least the S.O. and I are now assured that we won't be breaking any state laws anytime soon.

You can read the decision here. Some of the best commentary on the issue has come from Andrew Sullivan. Get his take here.

Overheard on the Copy Desk

"Well, if we put it in quotes, we should actually write what she said."

Stack of CDs

There's one on my desk. Let's take a look at the titles.

Brian Wilson -- Live at the Roxy Theatre, disks 1 and 2
Brian Wilson -- Imagination (words and music promo disk)
Phish -- Hampton Comes Alive, disk 3 from the 11/21/98 show
Johnny Cash -- The Man Comes Around
Brian Wilson -- Self-titled 1988 album
Icewind Dale PC game -- Disk 2
Neverwinter Nights PC game -- Installation disk 1
Starship Titanic PC game -- Disks 1, 2 and 3
Holly Cole Trio
The Beach Boys -- Love You
The Beach Boys -- Good Vibrations Box Set disks 2 and 5
Philly Variety Assortment -- Mix CD
Brian Wilson -- The Andy Paley Sessions 1996
Brian Wilson -- Live at the Royal Festival Hall, disk 1
Monterey International Pop Festival -- Disk 1
Dave Matthews Band -- Under the Table and Dreaming
The Zombies -- Odessey & Oracle
Bob Dylan -- New Morning

Book Update

I purchased the latest Harry Potter volume on Monday. I'm on page 288 now. Reading isn't going quite as quickly as I expected. I'm reluctant to skim, and many other things are going on.

I'll let ya'll know about them soon. Within the next month, at least. How about that?

The book is quite good so far. I do wish it had been more rigorously copy edited in places. Too many adverbs trailing saids. Of course, given the book's nearly 900 pages, I have two-thirds to go. I'll let you know how it progresses.

Birthday Wishes

To Mr. Will A., who turns 23 -- or is it 54? -- today. Congratulations, man. Speaking as someone who has been 23 -- or possibly 54 -- for several months, I can tell Mr. A. that it's the age where everything suddenly makes sense. Ha ha.

As you shake your head at my wit, head over to Will's Damn Blog and wish him the best.

OK, OK, OK

A sibling informs I absolutely have to go out and purchase the new Harry Potter book so I can discuss it with her. I'd planned on holding off until I could read a copy for free, but I suppose I'll bite the bullet and buy the thing.

The series is good, don't get me wrong. But now I'm committed to reading a 900-page book as quickly as possible. Perhaps I'll update this blog as I make progress. That should offer some entertainment.

Toodles.

What I've Been Reading Lately

Not a book, but a message board. The American Copy Editors' Society message board.

As geeky as it sounds, there's a fun, outspoken debate about headlines going on over there. You really have to read it for yourself. And no, I haven't tossed in my spare change. I would be tempted to say something nasty.

Ditto

Same as last night.

Cranky Muttering

I wish there was something particularly original going on tonight.

Sadly, there isn't.

The news business still chugs along. The wealthy continue to consolidate money and power. People throughout the country continue their life missions of being effective cogs in inefficient machines. Or vice versa. I churn out a few poems, chat with the S.O. and play with the dog.

Perhaps that's the best one can hope for. Until naptime.

Surprise Music Chart News

Several years have passed since I considered using that headline. But this week's Billboard album chart has some interesting debuts.

Closeted R&B music icon and stroke victim Luther Vandross is at No. 1.

Androgynous '80s icon Annie Lennox bows in at No. 4.

And making their first appearance in the albums chart for decades, the Beach Boys' latest collection of old and moldy hits, Sounds of Summer, arrives at No. 16.

Congrats to all.

Today's Events

Max and I were quite the jet setters of St. Petersburg today. From the tables of IHOP to the aisles of the grocery store, we were where things were cookin' in this great city, one of many such great cities in the sunny state of Florida.

We started off by taking Tundra, the delightful dog, to the vet. She got shots. We then raced to the pet store and bought her some puppy food. After dropping her off at home, we went to the bank and the drugstore. After that, we traveled to a comic book store in Seminole, where Max burned some bucks on X-Men items.

We then returned home, where we picked up the dog and took her out to one of this fine city's many delightful dog parks. This park was full of other dogs and their owners, all devoted to the pleasures of running around and peeing.

After that, it was back home briefly. We then purchased some groceries. Watching of videos and eating of hot pockets followed. What bliss. I'm not going into the whole unfortunate incident with the bottle of iced tea. That's for me to know and Max to tell.

He's Home!

The significant other, that is. I picked him up from the airport Sunday morning.

Now I have someone to share all this ridiculous with on a personal basis. Yay!

Why the Delay?

I've been answering e-mail from devoted readers of the site. Okay, one reader, who may or may not actually be devoted. But this reader did e-mail. So that's cool, then.

Vitals Revisited

A quick recap of me, this blog and the location of those pesky weapons of mass destruction.

Name: Clay McCuistion.
Age: 92 and a half.
Height: 8'1.
Weight: 40-ish.
Occupation: Civilian administrator in charge of Iraq.
At Times Also: Copy editor at a daily newspaper published somewhere in the state of Florida, possibly near the Tampa Bay area.
Main goal in life: To be a friend to our dog.
Secondary goal: To somehow transfer all the cool music files from old, grimy computer to my new, sparkling one.
Another random goal: Compose an avant-garde dance piece

Just a Note

I'm listening to Phish's Hampton Comes Alive live CD set (six disks covering two complete shows) and am on "Divided Sky." A 15 minute, 12 second opus.

I suppose I wanted to say it's awesomesauce. Thank you.

The Worst Car Song Ever?

That's what NPR car advice gurus Click and Clack (also known as the more-difficult-to-spell Tom and Ray Magliozzi) said about the Phish song "Contact" years ago. Here's the lyrics. See what you think.

Contact
By Mike Gordon

The tires are the things on your car
That make contact with the road
The car is the thing on the road
That takes you back to your abode

The tires are the things on your car
That make contact with the road
Bummed is what you are
When you go out to your car and it's been towed

I woke up one morning in November
And I realized I love you
It's not your headlights in front
Your tailpipe, or the skylight above you
It's the way you cling to the road
When the wind tries to shove you
I'd never go riding away
And come back home without you

Obsession Alert

This actually started with Max. Then it snowballed.

I've been listening to a lot of Phish lately. The S.O. purchased one of the now-20 volume "Live Phish" set. I listened, I downloaded some of their shows, and I've been buying up assorted other merchandise. It's fun.

But what -- or who -- is Phish? I'll let the erstwhile folk at All Music Guide explain.

"During the early '90s, Phish emerged as the heirs to the Grateful Dead's throne. Although their music is somewhat similar to the Dead's — it's an eclectic, free-form rock & roll encompassing folk, jazz, country, bluegrass, and pop — the group adheres more to jazz-derived improvisation than folk tradition, and they have a looser, goofier attitude."

In other words, a jam band. With four guys -- Trey Anastasio (guitar), Jon Fishman (drums and vacuum cleaner), Mike Gordon (bass) and Page McConnell (drums) -- Phish goes a lot of different places. I've been engaged and excited by their music.

Let's see where it goes.

Early Morning Meander

My head hurts from the binoculars I rented at the Fleetwood Mac show this evening. By "this evening" I actually mean the evening of June 8, a.k.a. Sunday. The show was good in an arena-rock sort of way, and I'm glad I had the binoculars. But they made my eyes focus kind of funny, and now my head has interesting little pinging sensations.

Did a load of laundry this evening. It should hold me for a few days, although I plan to do more. Obviously that will be worth some serious space in the blog.

The dog has a name now -- Tundra. It was not so much decided in a burst of inspiration as finally settled on. I think it's a decent name, although the dog clearly doesn't associate with it yet. She was wild tonight -- my time at the concert should have been spent running around with her, she seems to say.

Over For Raines

The executive editor of the New York Times, Howell Raines, resigned yesterday. I'll let the folk at the Times tell it.

2 Top Editors Resign After Furor on Writer's Fraud
By JACQUES STEINBERG

Howell Raines and Gerald M. Boyd, the top-ranking editors of The New York Times, resigned yesterday morning, five weeks after the resignation of a reporter set off a chain of events that exposed fissures in the management and morale of the newsroom.

In a hastily arranged gathering in the newsroom on the third floor, the newspaper's publisher, Arthur Sulzberger Jr., told staff members that he wanted to "applaud Howell and Gerald for putting the interests of this newspaper, a newspaper we all love, above their own."

Mr. Sulzberger said that Mr. Raines, 60, who was the paper's executive editor for less than two years, would be succeeded on an interim basis by Joseph Lelyveld, 66, his immediate predecessor, who retired in 2001. There will be no immediate successor for Mr. Boyd, 52, who was the paper's managing editor.

A spokeswoman for The Times, Catherine J. Mathis, said that the search for a permanent executive editor was likely "to move quickly" — other company officials said it could be a matter of weeks — and that candidates would be considered from inside and outside the paper.

Read the rest of it here (registration required).

Zzz

I'm beat. More soon.

Continual Praise

The canine companion remains wonderful. She's about a foot away right now, sprawled on the orange tile floor. I tried writing a poem about her tonight, but poems about pets tend to suck.

I wrote a poem about my ex-roommate Sean's cat. It was called "Kira," and I was pleased with it. But cats seem somehow more suited for poetry. After all, Old Possum wrote an entire volume about them. And then the horrid ex-Mr. Brightman felt compelled to pen some tunes for those poems.

Thankfully, that's all a separate story. Much more coherent too, if I weren't quite as exhausted.

Dog!

The dog has finally arrived. She's a mostly white American Eskimo Dog (with some touches of light brown). She's about five months old and weighs 20 pounds.

Max and I picked her up from the Humane Society of Tampa Bay this morning. She's been a joy, so far. Intelligent, kind and incredibly responsive.

I'll try to stop gushing for now. It's late. But she's a wonderful dog. If only we could figure out a name for her.

Dog Dog Dog Dog!

The dog should come home today. I promise to update soon after the beautiful (and hyper) creature enters this apartment. Perhaps I'll have her try her paws at an entry. Stay tuned.

Dog Dog Dog!

As in, Max and I are getting one.

It's an American Eskimo dog, a beautiful animal from the Tampa Bay Humane Society. It should arrive Saturday.

I'll detail all the wonders of that adventure soon. Stay tuned.

Rick Bragg Redux

I am unhappy with Mr. Bragg. The New York Times reporter announced he'll be resigning from the paper, after a stinging correction on one of his stories brought his news-gathering methods into question.

Rick Bragg is a great writer. His collection of news stories, "Somebody Told Me," is full of stories that resound with grace and good-ole-fashion Southern charm. But his reactions to the correction have been egotistical, slanted and undo virtually all of my positive feelings toward the man.

(Follow this all on Romenesko for details. I'd link more extensively, but it's late and I'm irritated.)

To pass off an uncredited stringer's work as your own, when that person contributed significantly to a story, is wrong. I don't care if it's institutional policy not to give that credit (Mr. Bragg claimed that was the case, the NY Times says not quite). It's still wrong.

If you dedicate yourself to the craft and art and backbreaking toil of shaping words, but you don't understand that, then I don't understand you.

Write what you know. Write what you know. Write what you know. That's the mantra. Journalism, by definition, is writing what we know. It's writing what we find out. It's writing what we experience. It's telling the truth.

Skimming off someone else's quotes and experiences and wrapping it in homespun verbiage ain't writin' what you know. And it's not journalism. It's doubtful you could call it art -- or even expression. It's an attempt by a person to be someone he or she isn't.

I don't know Rick Bragg's story. I don't know what personal factors may have motivated him to act the way he did. I hope that, if indeed he has medical problems that hinder travel (as he's said), he rests and gets medical help. I wish the same for Jayson Blair, who seems to have struggled with depression.

But the work is separate and must ultimately be judged on its own. Mr. Bragg has not been honest with us. He has not been a journalist.

Things That Make Me Smile

Monty Python
"God Only Knows" by The Beach Boys
Douglas Adams books
"Good Omens" by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett
"Goodbye Yellow Brick Road" by Elton John
"Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk" by Rufus Wainwright
"Why Does It Always Rain On Me" by Travis
The Daily Show
The Onion
Cats and dogs (when not attacking me)
Phone calls from friends
A cup of coffee with milk in it
Watching Max
Bubble baths

All the Money In Tokyo

No, I haven't lucked into a fortune. I am listening to a song by the Magnetic Fields called "All the Umbrellas in London." If I were British, I might say it's bleedin' brilliant, guvnah!

It's not only melancholy and beautiful, but I think the lyrics are pretty clever. Take a look:

All the Umbrellas in London
By Stephin Merritt

if i make it tonight it'll be all right
it'll make a good song or something
i've been trying to give myself reasons to live
and i really can't think of one thing

i drive around, i walk around in circles
'cause i've got no sense of direction
and i guess i've got no sense at all

all the umbrellas in london couldn't stop this rain
and all the dope in new york couldn't kill this pain
and all the money in tokyo couldn't make me stay
all the umbrellas in london couldn't stop this rain

i don't cry anymore, i go out the door
and i usually keep on walking
i will sit in the bar where the cocktails are
but i really don't feel like talking

i lie around and let the darkness fall
'cause i've got a sense of perfection
and nothing makes much sense at all

all the umbrellas in london couldn't stop this rain
and all the dope in new york couldn't kill this pain
and all the money in tokyo couldn't make me stay
all the umbrellas in london couldn't stop this rain

Not Him Too!

Rick Bragg has been suspended for a couple of weeks by the New York Times. His situation is much milder than Jayson Blair's, but it's irritating nonetheless.

Slate has a pretty opinionated take on it here. I could grouse for awhile about this, but I won't. I love Bragg's writing, but this irks me.

Search For Canine Companion Continues

Max and I remain committed to the idea of a dog. The concept of a peppy ball of fur that bounces around the apartment and barks now and again is appealing.

Yet the specifics remain difficult. We both want a smart dog ... poodle or schnauzer-esque. Max has taken a shine to corgis. I keep pushing for something a touch larger.

Whatever way you slice it, we're looking to adopt in the next few days. It should be thrilling.

The Project

From February to early this month, I embarked on an experiment.

I created a comic strip, from the ground up. Titled "Dorm Room," it follows the adventures of three residents of, well, a dorm room. It's quirky and, hopefully, amusing. With Max adding suggestions and fine-tuning some of the knottier jokes (not to mention adding some punch lines), it's a project I'm proud of.

I'm a cartoonist from way back. From my third-grade to eighth-grade years, I drew some 2,500 pages of comics. I was proud of the count, and the output allowed me to make it through middle school sane. The work also taught me how to draw, how to write, and how to look at the world (absurdly, it turns out).

I started writing more seriously in the eighth grade, and since then I've written a lot in the way of poetry and nonfiction. But I never turned my back on cartooning entirely. I drew editorial cartoons steadily through my college years.

As I spent time with Max, we worked on some art projects. We've planned to put them online for some time, but it involves time and a scanner, both of which we're without for the moment.

For all that, I figured my time working on cartoons proper was over. But then my friend Katie Hollar zapped me an e-mail some four months ago. She was working for a publisher and wanted to see some of my cartoons -- and not sketches, but a proposal for a series.

It took a long time. I knew I wanted to deal with college life, but the angle and character development took time to evolve. The writing of the six strips took several days of brainstorming. And then I spent about a month working on the final drawings. By that time, Katie had left her employer.

But I sent them off anyway. It was a blast.

What's Going On

A lot, but not much.

That is, many minor incidents but few major ones. Got a filling put in on Monday. Joy. Worked a six-day week, which really wore me down to the nubbins.

Was off Wednesday and Thursday. Max and I have decided we're going to get a dog. Am scouting around the internet now, looking at breeds and other such information. Purchased The Best of Bowie, a 2-DVD set of videos from the erstwhile rock icon.

Looking forward to doing some copy editing this upcoming week. Not sure why. I guess I've been twisted.

A Great Story

Take a look at the ongoing series: 13: On The Edge Of Everything at the St. Petersburg Times. Those of us in the copy editing biz can grouse about narrative journalism, but this is a series that couldn't be done any other way.

Congratulations to writers Thomas French, Monique Fields and Dong-Phuong Nguyen and photographer Krystal Kinnunen. This is some special work. The interactive Web version is a canny example of convergence as well.

Today's Accumulation

A brief mention of a few of the entertainment items sitting on my desk. This very moment. It's true!

1.) "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot" CD by Wilco.

2.) "Love God Murder" three-CD box set by Johnny Cash.

3.) "The Dance" DVD by Fleetwood Mac.

4.) "The Sims Hot Date" PC game expansion from Electronic Arts.

I'd go on, but even I'm bored.

Random Grousing

It's been a tough week or so.

I've just come off the week of working zoned copy at the major metropolitan daily newspaper, and it's left me tired. I had a weekend that really wasn't that restful. Not sure why ... but I'm sure that staying up until the wee hours of the morning didn't help much.

I have to go to the dentist Monday, which fills me with dread. I had a filling come out several weeks ago, and I couldn't get into the office that my dental HMO assigned me. I didn't tell them it was an emergency, and thus got stuck calling them every day to see if an appointment had opened up. None did.

Thus, I'm scheduled to go to a fee-for-service dental technician bright and early Monday. Oh well. Just get it out of the way. To top that off, on Tuesday I have a meeting at work and on Thursday I get to go talk to a bunch of Dow Jones Copy Editing interns (the program I was in a year ago). The meeting and talk aren't bad things ... I expect to enjoy them ... but they are extra commitments.

Plus, I'm working a six-day week. Ack. Weeks like this come along, I suppose. Times like this happen. One just keeps at it.

And gripes about it in one's blog.

Reason Prevails

For now at least.

The University of Kansas has found that its -- gasp! -- sex class is not obscene. The issue was raised by a state senator. I'd hope this ends it all. But I doubt it.

Embarrassment Detailed

The Times has released an article outlining some of Mr. Blair's failings.

"NEW YORK - A staff reporter for The New York Times committed frequent acts of journalistic fraud while covering significant news events in recent months, an investigation by Times journalists has found. The widespread fabrication and plagiarism represent a profound betrayal of trust and a low point in the 152-year history of the newspaper.

"The reporter, Jayson Blair, 27, misled readers and Times colleagues with dispatches that purported to be from Maryland, Texas and other states, when often he was far away, in New York. He fabricated comments. He concocted scenes. He stole material from other newspapers and wire services. He selected details from photographs to create the impression he had been somewhere or seen someone, when he had not.

"And he used these techniques to write falsely about emotionally charged moments in recent history, from the deadly sniper attacks in suburban Washington to the anguish of families grieving for loved ones killed in Iraq.

"In an inquiry focused on correcting the record and explaining how such fraud could have been sustained within the ranks of The New York Times, the Times journalists have so far uncovered new problems in at least 36 of the 73 articles Blair wrote since he started getting national reporting assignments in late October. In the final months the audacity of the deceptions grew by the week, suggesting the work of a troubled young man veering toward professional self-destruction."

Read the whole article. Registration is required, but it's the New York Times. You can fill out a few lines for the Times, can't you?