Number of pieces of paper it takes to write up expense reports for 18 days in Salt Lake City: 113.
In case anyone would ever doubt the raw animal power of the Osmonds live, I present to you a live performance from 1972 on the Beeb. (via the always astounding mister pants)
You think football players are stupid? Well, it depends what position they play. Offensive linemen, quarterbacks, and tight ends are all smarter than the average Joe. Defensive players, wideouts, and running backs are a little slower. And offensive tackles, the 350-pound Einsteins of the gridiron, are on average as smart as the reporters covering them. Whoda thunk it?
Sunday night: Saw the closing ceremonies. Quite a spectacle, bizarrely humorous at times (really, Kiss with Kristi Yamaguchi?), awe-inspiring at others (that fireworks show was life changing). Then went out with Juliet and Filip from the NY Daily News to P.F. Chang’s, which is apparently the only restaurant in downtown SLC that thought: “Hey, maybe we should stay open after the closing ceremonies are over at 9 p.m., even though it’s Sunday and this is Utah.”
P.F. Chang’s had also been celeb-spotting central at the Games — Gretzky was there all the time, I understand — so it wasn’t too surprising to see Katarina Witt walk in. Yowzers. Anyway, I’d had a total of one beer in SLC before Sunday night, a Bud at a hockey game, so it was my first real brush with Utah liquor law.
(Aside: One impact of Utah’s alcohol-free legacy is that there’s very little beer-pouring knowledge in the general population. When I asked the volunteer at the hockey game to pour me a beer, he just put a cup under the tap and let her rip, which meant I got roughly 50% foam, 50% beer.)
Anyway, I ordered a Tsingtao to go with my ginger chicken, then, when I was about 80% done with it, ordered another one. The waitress brought it over, then told me she could not put it on my table until the previous beer was all gone. Evidently, you can’t have more than one beer on the table per person at a time in Utah. So I drank up.
Then we went to Squatters, a brewpub across the street, for more alcohol weirdness. All the beer on tap was 3.2, although they had some bottles of regular strength. But last call for regular beer was midnight (!), with last call for 3.2 at 12:45. Saw Dave Barry again; I’m normally not the biggest fan, but he had some good Olympic columns.
Monday: Ran a bunch of errands, bought a lot of souvenirs, traded all the DMN Olympic pins I had for other crappy Olympic pins, then promptly lost them all on the bus ride to the airport. The airport, where I waited four hours for my flight. Grrr. Finally got home around 1 a.m. Tuesday morning, only to find that the key to my apartment door didn’t work anymore. It took me half an hour of pushing and prodding to get into my apartment, only to find it as messy as when I left it three weeks earlier.
Tuesday: Back to reality — a day spent at an educational assessment conference in the Dallas ‘burbs. Yes, I’m an education reporter, and I must be reminded of this fact. Then headed out to Jessica’s birthday party. Then sleep. Sleep is good.
Don’t worry, everybody — I’ll soon realize that my post-Olympic life is much less interesting than my Olympic life, so you can expect me to transition soon from day-by-day accounting of my existence back into “wacky” links, snide commentary, and the other “features” that made crabwalk.com “famous.”
Now it can be told: the correct answer to the little quiz a few days ago was, “I thought you’d look little and Jewish, not like a Viking.” No comment.
Back in Dallas. Did I mention I brushed up against Katarina Witt Sunday night? I brushed up against Katarina Witt Sunday night.
Today’s (final) Olympic stories: Games glide to an end and Beer-fueled crowd clashes with police. I also contributed quite a few of the ideas for the DMN’s best and worst of the Games. (You may recognize a few of the entries from here.)
I fly back to Dallas tonight — see y’all then.
Today’s stories: Mormon Church nearly settled in Texas (boring-ass headline) and Osmonds Rock City.
Did you know that the Osmonds’ “Hold Her Tight” has the exact same bass line and drum part as Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song”? As soon as they start cranking out that familiar “dumdumdumDUMdum, dumdumdumDUMdum” last night, I half-expected Merrill Osmond to start wailing, “We come from the land of the ice and snow / From the midnight sun where the hot springs blow…”
(Oh, this is so unfair — I thought that was an original observation, but a quick Googling found that others have noticed before me. Damn.)
Anyway, caught the US-Russia hockey game yesterday, which was tremendous. I’m a pretty big sports fan, but I’ll be the first to admit I don’t know a damned thing about hockey. (And I’ve never skied. Growing up in south Louisiana will do that to a guy.) But it was a joy to watch, top-notch play on both sides. Shame the Russkis have to keep whining about everything like the All-Time Cold War Losers they are. As a wise man once said: too bad, so sad.
Then headed out to rural Lehi, Utah, to see the Osmond Brothers in concert. They’re so easy to make fun of. They sing a bunch of corny songs, interspersed with impossibly corny jokes (sample: “I’ve traveled so much, I can say Kaopectate in 12 languages”; “If at first you don’t succeed, skydiving is not for you”). They played to an audience 90-percent AARP-eligible, some of them probably old enough to remember the days when polygamy was still an okay Mormon doctrine. But they do seem like genuinely nice people, and they brought enormous joy to their audience. And while their whole baseball, Mom, apple pie, and Joseph Smith schtick has a high cheese factor, folks loved it. I actually had a great time. (And again, every Utahn I interviewed was as nice and open as could be, despite what must have been a real suspicion I was out to do a hit on the Osmonds. I was, after all, out-of-town media.)
Plus, there was even a surprise Donny appearance, so all was right in the world.
In my quest to squeeze in as many actual events as possible before I leave, I spent the morning out in Park City, watching the men’s slalom. I’m about to go see the finals of the four-man bobsled this afternoon, then hopefully squeeze in a little more short-track tonight. Fun, fun. I finished my Osmonds story at midnight last night, so I am officially done with all my stories (well, except for covering the closing ceremonies, but that’s not very hard). Woo hoo!
Today’s stories (3!): Russians claim bias but won’t walk out, There’s more to the Games than the games, and…and…I had another story that was supposed to run. Damn.
Want the chance to spend a little time with Mr. Crabwalk himself? (And who in their right mind doesn’t?) I’m going to SXSW next month, and I’m looking for someone to share my hotel room. I have a double at the Wellesley Inn & Suites on Town Lake.
The cost is $79 a night plus tax. Splitting the cost, it’ll probably be around $50 a night — well under what you can get at any hotel around downtown. And I’m not planning on spending much non-sleep time in the room, so we shouldn’t get sick of each other. Email me at jbenton AT toast.net if you’re interested.
Today’s stories: Russians say they may leave Games and When progress makes perfect. (Not so sure about that second headline. Harrumph.)
Tonight I get to see the Osmond Brothers live. Envy me.
Wednesday night, like a big idiot, I didn’t realize I had a chance to see my heroes, the Dismemberment Plan.
I might be able to catch the US-Russia hockey game this afternoon, which would be great. Might. The Osmonds might interfere. Seriously.
One of my personal Olympic highlights: watching the crowd at the US-Germany game sing along to everybody’s favorite Village People classic, YMCA. It’s always fun to (a) watch the foreign visitors who don’t get the hand motions, and (b) watch the roughly 10% of the audience who don’t realize you only do the hand motions twice in a row in the chorus and keep doing it for the entire song.
Today’s quiz! A regular crabwalk reader recently met me in person for the first time and was surprised to see what I look like. “I thought you’d look [blank],” he said, “not like a [blank].” Let’s play fill in the blanks! Best answer gets a free lifetime subscription to crabwalk.com.
Today’s story: Good help is not hard to find. Mediocre headline, mediocre story.
Just got word that I may have been asking for your story ideas for naught — it appears that one of the slots for my remaining stories has disappeared, meaning I’ve only got two more stories to write: a piece on the Osmonds (yes!) and covering the closing ceremonies Sunday night. In other words, I’m gonna have me some fun from here on out. (And hopefully, my Mormon history epic will finally run sometime this weekend.)
Apolo! Short-track speedskating rocks. No, correct that — short-track speedskating rawks. Just got back from Ohno’s rockin’ eve. Short-track gets your heart racing a mile a minute. I don’t know if TV showed it or not, but the Korean who got DQ’d threw a big fit on the ice, throwing his national flag down onto the ice and gesturing pathetically to the crowd like some WWF villain. It was great. I would love to run short-track. Perhaps I should learn to skate first.
Have I mentioned that I’ve reached the conclusion that Canadians are, on the whole, the most attractive creatures on Earth? And I’m not just talking Jamie Sale here. The Canadian short-track relay team is a wonder to behold. Mmmm…Isabelle Charest. Women’s short-track relay (or actually, as the official Olympics term has it, “Ladies’” short-track relay — what’s up with that?) looks like some 19th-century French sexual fetish come to life. Even at the Olympic rodeo, the Canadian women in the audience were gorgeous, albeit in an Olympic rodeo sort of way. No offense, Yankee ladies, but you’ve got some competition from up north.
Just got to see my first actual Olympic event of the Games, the U.S.’s 5-0 win over Germany in hockey. My bus driver over there was a nice older Polish woman who talked about how great it was to come to the U.S. and join the Mormon church. “In Poland, women had many very important jobs,” she said. “Sixty percent of the doctors were women. But I came here and went to a meeting of Mormon women. They were all protected by their husbands. They knew their place. That’s the way it should be.” To each her own, I suppose.
I almost felt guilty being there in my media seat — I wasn’t covering the game, after all. (Which is fortunate for Dallas readers, since I know about as much about hockey as I do about the native games of Papua New Guinea. Which is to say, not much. Growing up in south Louisiana’ll do that to you.) I was about three rows up from center ice — if you watched the game on TV, you saw the back of my head quite a bit, in the lower left portion of your screen.
Unfortunately, the arena (which normally hosts the minor league Utah Grizzlies) acted as if this was just another minor league game, not the Olympics. So it had all the typical sensory barrage of modern marketed sport: blaring AC/DC before face-offs, the constant “Make some noise!” signals on the big screen, and more “Who Let the Dogs Out?” than I’d care to remember. Come on, this is the Olympics. Have we no dignity?
Speaking of dignity, way to go, U.S. Coach Herb Brooks, whose pregame comments about the Germans being eager to battle the Americans: “Maybe that’s why they lost the Second World War, guys.” Classy.
I’m back at the press center, about to run over for Olympic Event #2, Apolo Anton Ohno hopefully rocking to a gold in short track. Screw all this journalism — I’m going to see some games.
What an opportunity! I’ve got to write five more daily stories before the Olympics are over. I know what four of them will be — but No. 5 is up for grabs! Do you have an Olympic story you’d like to see told? Maybe I’ll tell it! Leave any suggestions in the comments.
You know it’s a good news day when you see a column item start with “When we first heard that Gary Condit was into shaving his entire body…” (fifth item).
Today’s story: Skating scandal remedy: U.S. buys Canadian. My favorite quote, from the manager of a store here that sells Canadian-logo clothing: “Americans were coming in saying, ‘You were robbed! We need a hat! We need a scarf! We need to support you!’”
On the bus ride into the office today, the driver was showing Rush Hour up on the video monitors. It seemed kind of wrong, at first because those bus rides had been blissful silence for the last two weeks here. After a few minutes, it also seemed wrong because my hotel is about half-filled with Japanese TV folks, so the lengthy string of Asian stereotypes coming out of Chris Tucker’s mouth seemed somehow inappropriate.
I now know Wayne Osmond’s home phone number. You don’t. Take that, readers.
Sorry for the lack of Olympic excitement here the last few days. I’ve abandoned all hope of getting ahead a day and thus having some time off, so I’m just plugging along, filing every day and trying to get out at a reasonable hour. Last night was my first success: I was out of here by 8 p.m., a new land-speed record for me. But rather than go get drunk on 3.2 beer, I headed to a bookstore so I can read up on Mormon history. I’m a wild man. Also finally got to go to Apollo Burger, which was achieving legendary status among my colleagues. I’m not as sold: I had their namesake burger, which is a patty with pastrami on it. ‘Twas merely okay.
Had an interview today with Rocky Anderson, SLC’s mayor and a liberal Democrat stranded in a sea of conservative Republicans. I asked him what would happen if he ever ran statewide: “I’d lose overwhelmingly.” At least the man is self-aware.
Canadian readers, watch this space tomorrow. Something special for you.
Overheard media center discussion:
Editor: Is “lovefest” one word or two? Or hyphenated?
Reporter: Well, LobsterFest at Red Lobster is one word, so I think we should use that as our guide.
Today’s story: Pin trading reaches fever pitch. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t stoop to writing another damned story about damned Olympic pins, but I couldn’t help it. I think it turned out okay, although the desk did cut out my favorite line in the whole piece: “She’s been trading pins since the Los Angeles Games in 1984, which she considers the fever’s ‘absolute peak’ — kind of like 1873 was a bad year for typhoid.”
Please allow me to introduce lorem ipsum, another fine Toledo-based blog.
FYI, this brings to two the number of Toledo-based bloggers named Kelly. Since I’ve known Kelly L. of Stupid McNupid fame for much, much longer than I have Kelly M. of lorem ipsum, Kelly L. will remain this blog’s default Toledo Kelly. FYI.
Today’s story: Home cooking, with a dash of Salt. The headline’s much better than the story, which brings up the rear of my Olympic contributions thus far.
America’s greatest Cajun journalist dies. Howard K. Smith was up there with Ron Guidry, Paul Prudhomme, Michael Doucet, Bobby Hebert, and Edwin Edwards in the modern Cajun pantheon.
Day Nine: Started the day out with photographer Chris at Bonneville Elementary School here in SLC, for the schools story linked below. Six Chinese figure skaters were there for an assembly. Chatted a bit with Zhao Hongbo, one of the bronze-medalist pair that finished behind everyone’s favorite Canadians. He’s clearly the guy in charge of the team: I tried asking questions of the other folks, but no matter who I asked, he’d do the answering.
Stayed much longer at Bonneville than I’d wanted, thanks to a hard-of-hearing cab dispatcher who sent our cab to Bountiful Elementary in Bountiful, Utah, half an hour and four towns away. Finally got back downtown in time to see the pairs gold medal press conference. Spent the day writing my schools story and doing more Mormon history research, including reading a really interesting master’s thesis on the hitherto unknown connections between Sam Houston and Joseph Smith.
Here at Media HQ, there are a bunch of volunteer massage therapists available to give free massages to us hunched-over journalist types. They also are available for the athletes, but it’s kind of silly — they’re available to us from noon to 10 p.m., but to the athletes from only 1 to 9 p.m. I know we writers are working hard, but I somehow suspect that jocks need massages more than we do. Anyway, after feeling a little bit guilty about the whole thing for the last week, I broke down and got a massage. Mmmmmmm. I could feel the evil spirits leaving my body. Closed the evening at the Denny’s near the hotel with Juliet, getting the standard awful service. It was the only place still open when we were done working, alas; the Apollo Burger, which has gotten good reviews from my colleagues and has a great name to boot, shut at 10.
Since I have to finish this Tuesday page 1 story today, there’ll be no story by me in tomorrow’s paper, which is an awful strange feeling. Not a bad feeling, mind you — just strange. But eagle-eyed readers will find a short biography of yours truly in the sports section, on page 2, I think. Please do not be alarmed by the photo, which should be burned in all its forms, digital or meatspace.
Brilliant description of the new Britney Spears movie: “So vanilla yet so transcendentally sleazy that its target audience seems to be pubescent girls and dirty old priests.”
Today’s stories: School embraces difficult task and Area Catholics serve in Utah. Apologies for the world’s least exciting headlines.
I can’t tell you how proud I am to be the fourth-best answer to a Google search for “jamie sale” naked. Sorry, horny surfers — can’t help you out.
I know Utah’s on a mission to show the world it’s this progressive, sophisticated place during the Olympics, not the hyper-conservative, backward stereotype some have of the state.
But, really, are the helping the cause if it’s front page news here that Mitt Romney, the head of the Olympics, might have used the F-word when yelling at a subordinate?
Adventures in Journalism: How did this guy convince his newspaper to get him to do this story? “Hey, boss, let me go to this sleazy massage parlor/brothel, get some stimulation, then right a first-person story using phrases like, ‘More than once and more frequently as the massage continued her hands grazed across the front of my boxer shorts, a move I began to believe was intentional’?”
Today’s story: Mormons help Hindus build. (This is why I’ve been talking to Hare Krishnas the last few days.)
I realize I’ve missed a couple of daily updates (and I just know you’re all waiting with baited breath to learn of my Wednesday lunch plan), so to catch up:
Day Seven: Worked a lot.
Day Eight: Told myself I wasn’t going to work a lot. Worked from 8 a.m. to 12:30 a.m. That went really well, obviously. Learned a lot of really, really interesting stuff about 19th century Mormon history, much of which should make its way into a page 1 story in the next few days. I’ve basically turned into a religion reporter since I’ve been here: it’s all about Mormons, Hare Krishnas, and Falun Gong (coming next week).
Maybe the Mormons are a bit hypersensitive to bad press, but it seems pretty logical when nuts are writing things like this. (Here’s his weak apology.)
The Sports Illustrated folks are putting out a complete daily issue throughout the Games — bravo for them. But do they really need to start blasting their stereo as loud as it goes as soon as they put the issue to bed? Particularly when the ceiling’s 50 feet high, but the walls separating our offices only go up 10 feet? London Calling is a wonderful, wonderful thing, but not on deadline when you’re trying to interview a Hare Krishna temple leader.
Now I know how my college newspaper coworkers felt when I insisted on playing Sloan and Morphine at high volume during production.
More non-Olympic material, as I wait for Hare Krishnas to return my call (the story of my life). My old college newspaper was founded on Valentine’s Day, so every year they publish a huge issue that day. Any student gets to write a valentine to anybody else. Considering how generally sexually repressed those students generally are, they’re usually an outpouring of lust. (Editing this issue was always much fun, if only to see what you could sneak in about your co-editors.) Here are some random entries:
Samantha Green-Atchley (TC): Thanks for showing me some love. I was getting real lonely… —Vik’s Penis
Naomi (PC): How sad! The only banging going on in this room is of my snooze button! Over and over and over again! —Your alarm clock
Ramsey Jishi (SM): Remember you’d wear a dress and I’d call you Rachel and make sweet love to you? Those were good days —Armando
Tate Rich (PC): You gave me the most intense 20 seconds of love I’ve ever had. Why did it have to be so short? —Cyndi Thomson
Neil Tolopey (CC): Dude, we could have hooked up, but I was tired. —your gay sweet mate
Erik Ward (TC): Why have you set me aside for these last few years? I can not stand by and watch you dry hump ugly girls in public. If things don’t change, I’m leaving for good. —Shame
Alex Stegall (MC): Why haven’t you let me come out and play recently? —Herpes
Duncan Jones (TC): I’ve enjoyed getting to know you this year. We’ve grown pretty close so I feel comfortable admitting to you that yes, I am that hot….but how dense do you think I am? You don’t have to repeat “You’re so hot!” 40 times a day to me…please! —Your Mirror
Peter Shanley (BR): From the depths of freshman year to the bleakness of a Juniorish Winter amid the clouds of pot smoke, over dominos you’ve always been my fall-back crush. You always will be. Thank you for being faultlessly steamy. —Wish I were funky enough for you
Adam Oppenheimer (SM): Can you be gay for a day? —Someone you may know
Solomon Silber (BR): You are the reason why there is no hope for the human race —the future
MuchMore (CC): we really enjoy listening to the thumping of your bed against our floor late at night. Much More!! —below you
Brandon (MC): ummm sorry about the orange juice —Leah
britt (MC): i saw you NAked… i saw you NAked… —about 75 people
Terence Chiu (SM): We’re coming for the shit you stole, —Microsoft
Ani (ES): Yep, that’s the daddy. —Miss Cleo
saad khan (TC): I love your freaky gas station attendant cap. Alot of people think its stupid but i dont. I love your jeans also and the way they stick to you —sehar
Dan Hammond (PC): Next time maybe you’ll know how to use the CORRECT end of the plunger. Sheesh. Freshmen. Don’t know a THING about anal sex unless you tell em. Well, we’ll teach you —Mixed Company
Have I mentioned how disappointed I was to hear that Jamie Sale is engaged to her partner, Goofus? Sigh. Cute and Canadian rarely arrive in the same package.
Today’s main story: Visitors root around for roots. Again, not linked from any main list of today’s Olympic stories. What, are they ashamed? Also a short piece, Home is where heart of gold is (uncredited, but the first bit’s by me).
Evidently, the PR staff at McDonald’s has figured out how to infiltrate the hearts and minds of journalists. One of them just dropped off a box of 60 reporter’s notepads, each of them emblazoned with the mighty arches and filled with McD’s coupons and McD’s story ideas. (“During the Games, we expect to use more than 1.8 million meat patties!” “Totalling nearly 20 pounds,” they most certainly did not add.)
I suppose this is an attempt to get us using McDonald’s rhetoric in our stories. “Winning gold was as satisfying for Plazhtova as a juicy Big Mac on a cool autumn evening.” “Ohno’s turns were as crisp as a McDonald’s french fry, yet as smooth as a classic Triple-Thick Shake.” That sort of thing.
More likely, it’s an attempt to get McDonald’s mentioned in those awful “reporter’s notebook” things newspapers run about things of interest only to, well, reporters in Salt Lake City. Or perhaps it’s an attempt to get McDonald’s mentioned in, um, Olympic blogs.
Warning: non-Olympics material ahead. Kim (who is becoming an alarmingly good source of good web tips, both M&M-corruption-related and not) points out this engaging story about a “child genius” who’s been outed as a fraud perpetrated by his mentally ill mother. (Sprinkle in the words “allegedly,” “apparently,” and “accused of” in that last sentence if you want to make it non-libelous.)
Consider it this site’s Chapter 2: The Dark Side of Child Genius after the relatively cheery Chapter 1.
Day Six: Relatively unexciting day Tuesday. Wrote up my halfpipe story, then spent much of the day at Mormon Central, on Temple Square. Had an early afternoon meeting with H. David Burton, presiding bishop of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, for a story that should appear this weekend some time. The LDS media guy was very helpful, but he did show a hair of the quasi-paranoia the church often does, insisting on tape recording my interview so that if I misquote him, they’ll have documentary proof. I suppose I can’t blame him — the church has gotten mauled a few times in the past by folks in my profession — but it’s still a bit annoying.
Anyway, later that afternoon went over to the Family History Library, the depository of the world’s biggest collection of genealogy records, for another story for Thursday’s paper. The story turned out to be mediocre, but I was pleasantly distracted by the very attractive “guide” the church shackled me to for the duration of my visit. (The church isn’t big on letting reporters wander around alone, even in public areas like where I was.)
Came back to the office, started work on another couple stories, skipped the Rick Perry meeting, then actually left at a decent hour (well, if working until another 12-hour day that ends at 9 p.m. qualifies as “a decent hour” — my, how standards change once you get to the Olympics). Caught up on some email, watched some boxing ESPN Classic (rapidly becoming my late-night TV SLC guilty pleasure), and off to sleep.
Apparently my halfpipe story made the paper today, but they didn’t feel like putting it up on the web site. Gee, thanks guys. The only thing that got up there today was my little story: Texas governor visits Olympics. Double-plus-grrr. Update: A well-placed complaint has gotten the story posted: Halfpipe: Grooming isn’t just for dogs.
Day Five: Less hectic than the previous few days had been. Wrote my rodeo story and watched some American domination in the men’s halfpipe.
A Utah question: there’s a local bank called Zions Bank. On all their ATM machines, the screen has the following message: “We haven’t forgotten who keeps us in business.” Like most things named Zion around here, it was once owned by the Mormon Church. So here’s my question: is the bank referring to their customers or to God in that question? I’m honestly not sure. I’m going to try to find out (and of course risk looking like a fool to some bank PR person) later this week, but leave your guess in the comments. (A micropoll!)
At 4 p.m., I had to wander up to USOC headquarters to catch a ride out to Park City, my first visit to a real Olympic venue. I’d scammed my way into what I hope will be an interesting story for tomorrow: I got to ride along in the big machines that ripped the halfpipe apart. It’s hard to tell on TV, but where the halfpipe was yesterday is also where the bottom of the snowboard slalom will be tomorrow. So the folks who run the place have only a few hours to tear apart the halfpipe, move around all the snow and refashion it into the finish line. This is actually cutting edge snow science: this sort of quick transition’s only been done once before (here, last year, in practice for the Olympics). Generally, resorts just let their halfpipes melt. So I got to ride along in one of these awesome machines, crashing into the right wall of the halfpipe, getting right up the edge inches away from falling in, then backing up and doing it over and over again. I felt like I was six years old playing with Tonka trucks. It rocked.
Then it got even cooler when we saw a cop with the bright idea of climbing up to the left wall edge (which hadn’t been taken out yet) and jumping off, sliding the 17 feet down to the basin and down the halfpipe. Even though I was again underdressed (careful readers will be noticing an underdressed theme to these Olyblogs right about now), it looked like enormous fun. And it was. I got covered in snow. While I didn’t have the proper snowboarding moves that my fellow American men showed off earlier that day – and actually, didn’t have a snowboard at all – it was still deeply, unabashedly cool. If I couldn’t get gold, silver, or bronze, maybe there’s a tin medal, or maybe balsa wood.
Drove back to SLC with some Quebecois journalistes, which gave me a chance to show off my minimal knowledge of Canadian politics. I hardly claim to be an expert, but just knowing your Stockwell Day from your Brian Mulroney tends to impress Canadians, who imagine Americans know only about the fine bacon Canada produces.
The night even ended well: I got to have my first real sit-down dinner in a restaurant last night, after three straight nights of vending machine dinners. (Woo hoo! And it was only 10 p.m.!) Dined with Juliet, who I truly feel sorry for, since she’s getting maybe four hours of sleep a night because she has to get up at an insane hour to get to Park City and cover skiing every morning. That might be manageable for a few days at a time, but we don’t get days off to recharge here – just 17 straight days. I have a feeling she might not be too pleasant to be around by next week. (Hi, Juliet! Just kidding! Ha, ha!)
Today should be interesting: gotta write up the halfpipe experience, go work on a few stories, then hang out with Gov. Rick Perry tonight (he’s in town to promote Houston 2012 – ya, sure, best of luck, guv). Then, perhaps some sleep.
I won’t post too much about my Olympic rodeo experience, since I got a lot of the color I would want to post here into the story that ran today. (At least I hope – I haven’t seen the final version yet.) It was a very interesting contrast in styles on two fronts: first, the rodeo fans inside the arena versus the animal rights protesters chanting, “Hell, no, we won’t go, to Mitt Romney’s rodeo” and “1-2-3-4, rodeo is not a sport” outside; and second, the rodeo fans versus the dressage equestrian demonstration Mitt put on inside. (Read the tail end of the story to get an idea what I’m talking about.)
I’m not sure if Mitt wanted to show his allegiance to all things horse or what, but it didn’t strike me as a brilliant public relations move. These fans were ready to worship Mitt Romney like a god – he’d saved Olympic rodeo, if only for the Salt Lake Games – but instead there was this weird class warfare vibe going on in the arena as Mitt reminded them that this god-awful boring sport he was demonstrating was worthy of full, medal-awarding Olympic status but rodeo was not.
As an aside, the announcer at the rodeo was great. I’ve never heard a better riff on U.S.-Canada relations. “It’s a neutral border! It’s a neutral border! They tend the same cattle we do! They ride the same horses we do! Canada and the United States ride together!” Almost brought a NAFTA tear to my eye.
Today’s story: Rodeo experiences rough ride. Grrrr…they called me Josh instead of Joshua in my byline. For deep psychological reasons I do not fully understand, I hate that.
The B-list celebrity sitings continue: Utah Gov. Mike Leavitt just dropped by. He said to say hello to everyone in Dallas for him. So: hello.
Oh, I actually had another story in the paper, cowritten with the stellar Terry Stutz: School ideas may tilt governor’s race. (Anybody see the paper today? Was this on page one? I can’t tell from here. It’s very odd to think about education writing when you’re in the snow in Salt Lake City.)
Day Four: Before I get started, I’d like you all to read Kelly’s story of the one-legged man in the Tough Man competition. I’ll wait.
Back? Okay. A couple of planned stories fell through for me Sunday, so I had to scramble to do a piece I’d planned for later. Many, many thanks to Vis10n for coming through for me when I needed some help on my volunteers piece.
Have I mentioned that the ancient Dell laptop the paper gave me takes roughly 15 seconds to switch between IE windows? Well, it does.
Went to a Mormon church service Sunday morning. I’ll admit that it was for sniper-journalist reasons: I was hoping the Olympics would come up at some point, at least to the degree that I might be able to turn it into a brief story. No dice, but a pleasant service nonetheless. Chatted with the LDS media folks afterward, where I learned a bit more about the Nauvoo Temple rebuilding, which would be a great story for a religion writer to do. Spent the afternoon interviewing volunteers for the Monday story, then headed up to tiny Farmington for the Olympic rodeo. Quite an experience, but no time to write about it now — I’ve got to write my story about it for tomorrow’s paper. Another classic Olympic day, working until 11 p.m.; I hope that ceases to be the norm sometime soon.
Two more stories in today’s paper: Smile, darn it; that’s an order and Reporter’s Notebook: Dullness, efficiency going hand in hand. (Alas, space requirements meant my brilliant observations about the New Orleans/Utah Jazz were cut from the notebook story, which is why it seems a little oddly constructed.)
Actual conversation a few minutes ago, at the checkout counter of the convenience store within the Main Media Center in Salt Lake City:
Smiley checkout lady: Have you seen our new dollar coins?
Stunningly beautiful Italian media woman: No. Who is that woman on them?
Smiley checkout lady: That’s Sacagawea. Do you know who she is? She led the Indians to America.
Second, less smiley checkout lady: Are you sure?
Smiley checkout lady: Yeah, I think she led them to America. From America? To America? Something like that.
Me: [smarty pants] Actually, I think she led Lewis and Clark across America.
Stunningly beautiful Italian media woman: [stunned] She led Superman across America?!?
Me: [pause] [realization] No, Lewis and Clark. They were explorers in the American West.
Stunningly beautiful Italian media woman: [uninterested] Oh. Okay.
Smiley checkout lady: Are you sure? I think she led the Indians to America.
Second, less smiley checkout lady: Honey, the Indians have always been here. Nobody had to lead them here.
Smiley checkout lady: Hmm. Learn something new every day.
Today’s story: There’s a jiggle in their walk. (Folks, I don’t write the headlines, just the stories.)
Day Three: Well, my office has become writer-celebrity central. Sitting a few desks away from Dave Barry is now Mitch Albom, sports columnist and writer of sappy, yet oddly affecting memoir. First impression: he’s a little bit short.
Slept in a bit, then headed downtown with the goal of writing the definitive story on the role lime Jell-O plays in Utah life. You can read tomorrow’s paper to see if I’ve succeeded. Spent some time wandering around the ZCMI Mall (the Z stands for Zion, and don’t you forget it), where a traveling exhibit of the Jell-O Museum is current stationed. Jell-O was invented in Le Roy, N.Y., and I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive my friend Kim for not telling me about the museum when we were but a few minutes away in Rochester back on December. (I will give her a pass, though, for telling me about the exhibit.)
Anyway, interviewing Utahns is a treat. They’re all extremely nice. So are Texans, but Texans are nice with an edge of suspicion. Ohioans, in contrast, are not nice and very suspicious. Just Midwestern chill. Utahns just open up with a smile, even if they secretly suspect you’re going to write a stupid story vaguely making fun of them for eating too much Jell-O. These people could be abused pretty easily. (It’s also quite a contrast from the Mormon church, whose media-industrial complex is extremely sophisticated and quick to call out any media coverage they think is out of line.)
At lunch, I got a chance to try out another Utah delicacy, fry sauce. Don’t like ketchup with your fries? Well, try this concoction made of ketchup and mayo, perhaps with some pickle juice thrown in. (And you though Quentin Tarantino invented the mayo-with-fries idea.) Not bad, although I’m not sure if fries really need any more fat content.
Here are my two stories in today’s paper: A show of force in name of security and Less than 1% test positive.
Day Two: Woke up early to get an early start on a couple of stories. Along with the security story I knew I needed to do, I’d been asked to do an anti-doping story too. I caught the 7:10 bus downtown, which meant that when I arrived at our mock-office, the place was locked. I wandered around a bit and settled down in the bullpen, which is the big open space filled with desks for reporters who don’t work for big papers that can afford to rent space. (Here yesterday I bumped into John Harris, my old colleague from the Toledo Blade, and got introduced to a bunch of people by Juliet, who also covered the Sydney games and thus knows a goodly part of the traveling Olympic brigade of journalists.)
Now’s as good a time as any to mention perhaps my key observation of the Olympics so far: sports writers are, on the whole, about as unattractive a species imaginable. I don’t mean personality-wise, since many of the people I’ve met have been very nice. I mean they don’t know how to dress themselves. They all have haircuts from the Peggy Fleming era. They could all lose a few pounds.
Now, I won’t pretend that journalists as a whole are a deeply foxy people and that these sports reporters are complete aberration. But most non-sports reporters have the advantage of working in environments that are roughly equal in male-female ratio (or at least pretty close to equal). The typical gender preening that results from that sort of environment raises the bar for personal appearance a bit. But sports reporters are still mostly stuck in a male-dominated, watching-football-on-the-couch sort of environment, and they look it. (Note to any sports writers I know reading this: Hey! How ya doin’? Of course this isn’t about you – it’s just a broad-based indictment of everybody else.)
Wrote up my security story without too much trouble, then bored my way through a dull press conference. I was planning my evening on the town when Terry, my boss here, came over and said he’d scrounged up an extra ticket to the Opening Ceremony. I said I could take it off his hands.
There was only one problem. I was thoroughly underdressed for spending four hours in a windy stadium. I had a wool coat, a fleece sweater, jeans, and gloves. No special quintuple layer socks, no flannel undies, no thermal scarf, no hat. So I started sprinting around downtown in a mad search for someplace that could sell me warmth. (I eventually found one of those earwarmer headbands and a scarf at a Gap about eight blocks away.)
I got on the media bus in plenty of time to get there, but we ended up being stopped in the middle of the University of Utah campus for almost an hour because a bunch of protesters were teeing off on police and they’d blocked the intersection we needed to pass through. What they were protesting, I’m not sure – probably efficient bus service. Finally, we were told to walk the last mile or so in the cold, which we did, only to be confronted with a 20-minute wait at a security screening station, then another 20-minute wait for reasons no one has yet determined. Eventually, we snuck in.
If you watched the ceremonies on TV, you know that everybody in the crowd was handed a variety of props, like flashlights and colored cards and flutes. Everybody but me. The entire stadium was blanketed by actual paying customers, but the top eight rows in one corner of the stadium were reserved for non-paying schlubs like me who scored tickets through sketchy means. The organizers must have decided that we have no Olympic spirit, because we were the only people in the stadium not given the goodie bags. The result was an already cynical media turned extremely cynical. The people around me refused to join in at the singalongs (except for a couple people in front who relished the double entendre of “She’ll be huffin’ and a-puffin’ when she comes” during “Comin’ Round the Mountain”) and generally snickered at the whole affair. I might have joined them, but I was there by myself, so I had no one to impress with my world-weary sense of the absurd and I just kept quiet.
A few random Opening Ceremony thoughts, because I have to get going:
- Robbie Robertson, eh? When I saw a rock band set up during the Native American set, I thought to myself: “That had better be Robbie Robertson or some other Native American singer. If it’s that damned Sting, I’m shooting someone.” Sadly, Sting popped up not long after.
- Countries that got big welcomes were pretty predictable. The potato famine may have sucked for Ireland at the time, but all the folks it sent to U.S. paid off when the Irish team entered to a thunderous round of cheers from all the McGillicuttys in the crowd. (Same with Italy.) The nontraditional countries like Jamaica and Bermuda got big applause. Then there the political considerations: all the former Yugoslavias got a nice welcome, as did India, the U.K., and Turkey. Notable for lukewarm welcomes: all the Stans from Central Asia, China, and Puerto Rico. (Come on, people, they’re American citizens! You can cheer for them!) I felt bad for the S countries like Sweden, because the crowd was way too involved in nailing a perfect wave around the stadium to notice them.
- How can some other guy (forgot the name) be credited for “composing” the American West music for that segment when the centerpiece was an Aaron Copeland piece?
- The 1980 U.S. men’s hockey team: the most inexplicably overhyped sports team I can remember. Folks: the Cold War’s over. Russia got a big welcome from the crowd. Get over it.
- I had no idea ice skating was so pivotal to the pioneer experience in the American West.
Anyway, it was a fun time, and I didn’t get completely frozen until the last half hour or so.
Since I’m a bit behind, I’ll post the events of the last few days in quasi-chronological order.
Day One: Like an idiot, I did my usual stay-up-all-night schtick last night before getting picked up for the airport Thursday morning. I did the same thing before I left for Japan in October. Back then, as I waited for the SuperShuttle outside my building, up drove the guy who delivers the newspaper to the boxes around my complex. He stopped and said hello, asked me where I was going, and gave me a free paper and a handshake. In all, a very nice guy.
Well, this morning I was back at my usual waiting station and up drove the same guy. He started asking me the same questions, then stopped himself short: “Wait, you’re the guy who went to Japan!” A flash of recognition, another free paper and another handshake, and I was on my way.
The flight was uneventful, other than the feelings of envy I had looking over at my traveling partner Juliet, who (a) somehow got the aisle seat while I got stuck with the middle, and (b) is able to conk out as soon as the flight attendants start showing how to use your seat belt, while I stayed in that near-death state of exhaustion I know so well.
The airport in SLC is where I got my first taste of Utah hospitality. Everybody is just incredibly nice. All the volunteers (identifiable by their color-coded parkas) are smiling, happy, and helpful. The airport’s also where I get the first glimpse of how much effort SLOC has gone through to make us media types happy. They’ve gotten so many buses to transport media people to their hotels that we have an entire 80-person bus to ourselves, despite there being many, many media people around. (It appears they’ve learned one of the most important lessons of dealing with the media – do anything in your power to avoid making us cranky. Around Day 15 or so, we’re going to pissed off about something, and that’s when the nasty articles about transportation mishaps or food flaws will start popping up in the world’s newspapers.)
Please excuse a moment of disappointed catty comment. I was for some reason under the mistaken impression we were staying at the downtown Holiday Inn, right in the hub of all things Olympic. Unfortunately, upon arrival I was corrected – we’re staying at the airport Holiday Inn, which is far away from anything of interest and (quite frankly) something of a pit. The walls of my room appear to be some sort of mirage, because I can hear passersby whispering outside my room as if they were cuddling in bed next to me. (I’m pretty sure they’re not.) And the only nearby restaurant is a ‘70s-era Burger King down the street, which could be trouble considering I have no access to a car. I know, I shouldn’t be complaining when I’m at the freakin’ Olympics, but going a day or two without sleep does that to me.
Took a brief nap, then headed downtown. There are twice-hourly buses to the Main Media Center (normally known as the Salt Palace). All of the bus drivers are from Texas. Well, maybe not all, but every last one I’ve had in the first three days. I know this (a) because many have Texas/Dallas/San Antonio memorabilia on board, like the Cowboys hat hanging from one guy’s mirror, and (b) they all talk so damned much. I’ve learned every bus driver’s children’s names and ages, how long he’s been driving, how he’s not used to driving in snow (way to inspire confidence), etc.
Salt Lake City isn’t at all what I expected. Because the city’s grown a lot in the last few decades and is a pretty significant high-tech center, I expected a largely new place – new flashy buildings, signs of new money, etc. In other words, I’d been expecting an urban version of Park City. In fact, it’s a relatively grimy place that’ll probably be a disappointment to a lot of foreign visitors. The sky, always a bright deep blue in the photos, is sort of a muddled gray. All the buildings appear to have been built in a one-month period in 1953, and every last one came in under budget. (Maybe it’s just the bus route we’re being funneled through – other neighborhoods are more attractive.) Downtown’s a little more attractive, but surprisingly empty. I’d expected the streets to be thronged with people, but they’re pretty vacant, even a block or two from the downtown venues. (Of course, this is the day before the Opening Ceremony, so I’m sure that’ll change.)
The Dallas Morning News is sharing an office with the Knight Ridder newspapers (Miami Herald, Philadelphia Inquirer, Detroit Free Press, etc.), which means I’m sitting a few desks away from funnyman Dave Barry. If he makes any mention of uppity Cajuns in Salt Lake City, it’s a good bet he’s talking about me.
Part of me wanted to go out and explore Salt Lake City’s world-famous nightlife, but a much, much larger part of me was having trouble maintaining consciousness, so I bused back to the hotel and caught some much needed sleep.
Government press release error of the day: President Increases Funding for Bioterrorism by 319 Percent. Oh great — first we have Saddam and Osama funding bioterrorism. Now Bush is funding it too?
Yeah, I’m in SLC, but not much time to post — two stories to write, a press conference to attend, people to interview, snow to walk through. Will post more later.
Important CD Mix of the Month announcement: Since I’ll be out of state for most of February, Tom has graciously agreed to be in charge of mix distribution this month. So if you normally get a CD in the mail from me (or want to — check the page for details), you’ll be getting it from Tom instead for February only. (It’ll still be my mix, it’ll just be coming from his house, not mine.) Email me if you have any questions or want in.
In exactly four hours and twenty-six minutes, I’m being picked up to go to Salt Lake City for the Olympics. I wish I could tell you that I’m tremendously excited, but to be honest I’ve been too busy doing other things at work to get excited. I’m sure that’ll change once I land in Utah around noon, though.
In a whole lot of ways, this is exactly the kind of assignment I loath: 9,000 reporters in a few square miles, all chasing the same 10 basic stories. Pack journalism at its worst. I’m hoping to get past that a bit by finding little niche stories to write, but I fully realize that even those little stories will all also be found by 50 other reporters. I prefer dealing with real people in my stories, and once you’ve been interviewed 100 times by other reporters, you really cease to be a real person — the answers get rehearsed, the lines get too pat, and so on.
All that complaining said, it’s also exactly the kind of assignment I love: an extended high-adrenaline rush, the kind that comes with (hopefully) finding great stories on little sleep. There’s absolutely no structure to my job. Everybody else going there for the DMN has their next few weeks planned out for them hour by hour, day by day: “If it’s Tuesday, it must be luge prelims.” All I have to do is come up with an interesting story to tell every day.
And you can judge to see how I do, by checking out the web site every day. (And here, of course, although I don’t yet know how much time I’ll have to post. Hopefully, enough to keep you guys interested.)
This is nothing short of freaky.
In 1993, I enrolled as a freshman at Yale University. So did Hiram Torres. I was from a small town in south Louisiana; he was from Springsteen territory, Perth Amboy, New Jersey. I lived in Vanderbilt Hall, he in Welch Hall — if you leaned out of my third-floor window and had a good arm, you could probably hit Welch with a solid throw. He was the son of a seamstress, which meant we shared a working-class background that put us in the minority on campus.
I never knew the guy, but our seemingly aligned paths diverged pretty quickly thereafter. I started working for the college paper, failed miserably with the ladies, and generally had a standard-issue college experience. Hiram, in contrast, dropped out, converted to Islam, changed his name to Mohammed Salman, and apparently became a warrior for al-Qaeda.
I immediately dug up my old freshman facebook and turned to the T’s to see if I recognized his face. Unfortunately, he didn’t turn in a photo; where his face should be instead sits a photo of fellow Yalie Bill Clinton. (Boys who didn’t turn in their photos for the facebook got stuck with a photo of Bill; women got Hillary. A few of undetermined gender got Socks the cat.)
When you’re at a place like Yale, every once in a while you’d think about which of your classmates would get noticed by the outside world first. When we arrived in New Haven, there were two celebrities (of sorts) in the class, child actors Sara Gilbert (who played Roseanne’s younger daughter on TV) and Matt Shakman (who had been the boy on Just the Ten of Us, everybody’s favorite Growing Pains spinoff). Not much later, Mia Doi Todd started getting noticed as a singer-songwriter. Now, for reasons completely unexpected, you can add Hiram Torres to the list of famous members of the class of ‘97.
Anybody catch Fresh Air Monday? Gene Simmons of Kiss was the guest, and apparently things got a little out of control.
Simmons: The notion is if you’re going to welcome me with open arms you also have to welcome me with open legs.
Gross: That’s a really obnoxious thing to say.
Simmons: No, it’s not. Why should I say something behind your back that I can’t tell you to your face?
Simmons (asked about his “studded codpiece”): It holds my manhood, otherwise it would be too much for you to take. You’d have to put the book down and confront life.
Gross: Has it come to this? Is this the only way you can talk to a woman, with that shtick?
Simmons: Let me ask you something - why is it shtick when all women have ever wanted since we crawled out of caves is, ‘Why can’t a man just tell me the truth and speak to me plainly?’ So if I do that, you can’t have it both ways.
Gross: So you really have no sense of humor about this, do you?
Simmons: I was going to suggest you get outside of the musty place where you can count the dust particles falling around you and get out into the world and see what everybody else is doing.
Gross: Having sex with you?
Simmons: Well, if you choose but you’d have to stand in line.
Gross: OK, well we since you keep bringing this up … You write that you’ve had 4,600 sexual liasions.
Simmons: You’re supposed to say “so far.”
Gross: So far. To you this will be asking the obvious, but why have you wanted so many encounters?
Simmons: M-A-N, the notion is plain.
Gross: I’d like to think the personality you presented on our show today is a persona that you’ve affected as a member of Kiss, but that you’re not nearly as obnoxious when you’re at home or with friends.
Simmons: Fair enough, and I’d like to think that the boring lady who’s talking to me now is a lot sexier and more interesting than the one’s who’s doing NPR, studious and reserved.
Notice to hack sports columnists: The whole first-initial-first-syllable-of-last-name thing doesn’t make you look “happening.” Use of the form (e.g., J-Will, J-Kidd, C-Webb, etc.) is hereby banned. Thank you.
Priest-rapper a hit with Catholic youth at US conference. A rap-singing, grey-habit-wearing Franciscan priest with a funky gray beret reached out to young people at a national conference of Catholic youth in the United States.
Fr Stan Fortuna’s concert at the Indianapolis Conference included music with lyrics touching on masturbation, pornography and sex. His songs include an eclectic blend of rap, hip-hop, traditional and jazz melodies.
Key phrases in that article: “funky gray beret,” “rap-singing,” “touching on masturbation.”
And of course, the rapping priest also has a web site. (If this guy hasn’t been Metafiltered yet, someone please get the ball rolling, please?) Sections include JPII - 4 - U (to bring the Pope to the homies) and MP3s (natch).
Sorry the posts have been borderline lame of late (and I’m probably being generous with the borderline part), but I always know I can count on the people of northwest Ohio to break me out of a blogging slump. Defendant claims his clone shot youth.
OTTAWA, Ohio - In another day of bizarre testimony, a Putnam County sheriff’s deputy recounted how Marvin Martin II told him it was his clone, not him, who killed 15-year-old Charles Breckler.
Deputy Harry Berger told the court he met with Mr. Martin and his parents several times between May 9, when young Breckler was shot to death, and Aug. 2, when Mr. Martin was arrested. The deputy said Mr. Martin claimed he had been cloned three times while he was in the Army, and he and the clones were part of a death squad.
Remember back in November, when I mentioned that the Mars Society was looking for volunteers to live for a while this summer in its research station on Devon Island, far above the Arctic circle? (It’s up there because its polar desert climate is apparently the most Mars-like place on Earth, and they want to use it to learn what’s needed for an eventual Mars colonization.)
Well, I applied. And while they haven’t made their final decisions yet, I took my first step to the Arctic yesterday when I found out I’ve been accepted for a stint at the Society’s other research station, in a remote part of the southern Utah desert. (Actually, I’m not tremendously interested in a space there, and didn’t even apply for one, since the Arctic station seems much more interesting — I mean, look where it is! The largest uninhabited island on Earth, a big meteorite impact crater, farther north than 90 percent of the population of Greenland! Roaming muskox, polar bears, Arctic foxes, walrus, beluga whales! Utah seems much less interesting, no?)
Anyway, I find out by the end of the month whether I get a spot on Devon. Keep your fingers crossed for me. (Well, not all month long — that could hurt after a while.)
Quote from the guy who sits next to me at work: “I’m a linear thinker. You know, a Luby’s kind of guy.”
You want to know what happiness is? Happiness is getting stuck working the evening shift (1 to 10 p.m.) one night and no one realizing it. The guy who should be my boss just came over to give me some good-natured crap about working late. I didn’t mention it’s because I didn’t come in until 1 p.m. and that I’m supposed to be at his beck and call for the next few hours. His ignorance is my bliss.
Big changes in store for Sesame Street, including more focused narratives and features aimed at a younger audience (2-year-olds instead of three-to-fives). If the sort of child development theory discussed in the article is interesting to you, I highly suggest you check out The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell, which has a chapter on how children’s TV producers design their programs to match what we know about how children learn. (Very brief excerpt here. The book’s actually mostly about other stuff, and well worth reading even if you hate children and never were one.)
Grrr. Just got word that the problem mentioned below isn’t temporary: the dallasnews.com redesign has permanently broken all story links. Which means that all the links to all my stories over the last few months are useless. And the screwups continue — my Sunday Metro cover story apparently never got posted, and my front-page story in today’s paper is only accessible four or five clicks from the front page, buried in a long list of links.
But enough kvetching. I’m waay too busy to kvetch, what with all the silly things I have to do before my flight to Salt Lake City. (Like get some winter clothes, for one thing.)
Finally, how ‘bout that Super Bowl? A great game if you’re looking for drama, a horrible game if you’re looking for quality play. But I suppose even a Pee-Wee football game can be fraught with dramatic tension.
Problem #2,476 with the dallasnews.com redesign: all the links to my old stories are now broken. And I can’t even find my story from today’s paper on the web site. (Print edition readers, all three of you out there, can find it on the front page of the Metro section.)
At the paper, we’re all in a rotation to work weekend and night shifts, and tonight’s my lucky night. Since there’s usually precious little education news breaking at 10 p.m. Saturday night, I write about other, random things, so look in tomorrow’s DMN for a short wet/dry alcohol election piece by me.
And, in other ego news, I should be on page 1 on Monday with a pretty good education story.
More news from the M&M Evil Empire front. First, my friend Kim points out that calling purple a “new” M&M color is little more than a cheap fraud. From 1941 to 1949, a bag of M&Ms featured red, yellow, green, brown, orange, and violet. Violet! A color known by many as nothing more than purple! The M&M-endorsed attempt at global confusion, already powerful via the purple-pink confusion, is reaching critical strength. Are these new “purple” M&Ms really just old violet M&Ms from V-J Day, kept in storage for lo these many decades? Have they abandoned use of the word “violet” because it’s too eerily close to “violent,” and thus might tip the public off to the M&M plans for global domination?
Secondly, that same bit of M&M propaganda pretends to tell the story of the many color-changes M&M has put its customers through over the years: the 1949 violet-to-tan switch, the 1995 blue-to-tan, etc. But it makes no mention of the most celebrated change in the brand’s color composition, the 1976 removal of red M&Ms because of fears they might cause cancer. No mention of the century’s greatest candy-based health crisis! It’s like Stalin erasing his political enemies from Politburo photos after he had them “neutralized.”
It is my earnest hope that the good, noble people of America may rise up and combat this attempt at revisionist history. Just because it melts in your mouth and not in your hands doesn’t mean that it’s not worth fighting.
Joshua Benton is the director of the Nieman Journalism Lab at Harvard University, among other things. Before that, he was a staff writer and columnist for The Dallas Morning News. (More.)
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