Resolutionary!

So, it's New Year's Eve. Since I am long past the time when standing in Times Square with a million drunks has any appeal, I'm writing a New Year's blog.

The scary thing is I actually agreed with New Jersey Governor Chris Christie on something. As much as it makes me nauseous to admit it, I agree that publicly announcing resolutions is pretty dumb. That's inviting people to watch your every move and kvell in Schaedenfreudan delight when you fail.

What would I resolve anyway? I could resolve to lose weight, but that would be redundant. I could resolve to save more money, but I don't really have any. I could resolve to learn more about computers, but that's pretty much impossible. I could resolve to keep my car clean, but I'd break that as soon as they dog wants a ride. So, you see my dilemma.

No resolutions. No champagne. No Times Square. But that doesn't mean I won't have a Happy New Year. You too.

Un-Christmas

I have never really been Scrooge-like.

Normally, no matter the stresses, I can push everything aside and concentrate on the holidays, but this year, I am having trouble focusing.

Avoidance of office politics has always been a priority with me. Certainly during the season of Good Will. However, this year, I've been getting serious grief from people at two of my four jobs. (I am no longer a Jamaican with five) And this is coming with no discernible reason, continuing right up to Christmas.

My boss describes this as a "woman thing," an attitude I feel is Neanderthal at best, as well as majorly non-productive. Envy? Jealousy? Is that what he means? Whatever, it only serves to get me depressed.

And, it should serve as a lesson. Playing politics is un-Christmas.

One of the scarier things about the Rabid Right is they sincerely believe the left is contemptuous of work.

That's interesting, since the left has often been accused of creating make-work jobs.

There is a difference between creating a safety net and encouraging a culture of living on the dole.

Certainly, that culture has developed, but that isn't the goal of the left and no one with any sense thinks that it is.

If the Rabid Righters actually checked the voting records of the "lefties" they hate so much, they would notice many of them support and introduce legislation that aids small businesses who create 62% of the jobs in America.

Giraffe

Dr. Kalabash once said a tenured professor could only be fired for having intimate relations with a giraffe on the college Oval.

While that may be an exaggeration, it's not really too far off the mark.

But, at least college professors have to earn their tenure in the first place. It isn't automatically granted after 3 years. They have to do some work: create a dossier and be reviewed by a tenure committee and their department chair. The same should be true for public school teachers. If public school teachers support the system, they should be willing to serve on tenure committees for their peers.

They should also support merit bonuses.

Sure politics can invade the evaluation system, but maybe if there were fewer administrators they would have less time to be political. The first overhaul should be to the administrators, then tenue. It would fix a lot.

Sexy Cowgirls Have Messy Kitchens

I used to have one of those houses where everything was in its place and clean. I even had houseplants. They lived! And not just the aloe plants and the cacti I watered whenever it rained in Las Cruces. I had a Norfolk Island Pine that grew to be about three feet tall. Sure, there was cat hair wafting around occasionally, but the place looked great. Then, I married a pack-rat. Actually, a cluttermeleon. A cluttermeleon is one step worse than a pack-rat. A cluttermeleon keeps so much stuff he loses himself in it. It's contagious, too. Not that I was choosing to keep stuff, just that I got tired of getting rid of stuff I considered valuable so he could keep boxes of faded receipts and out of date catalogs. This guy was a Collier Brother in the making.

I finally got tired of cleaning. Whereas I previously cleaned everything, I started finding myself exhausted whenever I started. Finally, I realized I wasn't physically tired, I was emotionally tired. So, I got out of the marriage.

Now, my house isn't perfect, to say the least, but it's better. It's down to the "sexy cowgirls have messy kitchens" catagory.

The Summer of the Hideous Tattoos

Among the advantages of moonlighting at a theme park is the opportunity to "people watch." People love to dress as cowboys any chance they get, with more or less success.
However, during a particularly hot summer, there may be rather too much of people to watch.
Anyone who doubts there is an American obesity epidemic hasn't spent much time in New Jersey in the summer. Besides the obesity epidemic is a pandemic lack of modesty. People who by right and sanity would remain as covered as possible display what often appears to be acres and acres of skin.
Worse, often that skin is decorated (or defaced, depending on your taste) with what is euphamistically referred to as "body art."
It is not art.
Kandinsky is art. Charles Russell is art. Even what your kids bring home for you to hang on the refrigerator is art. The Tazmanian Devil inked on a bicep that hasn't lifted anything heavier than a pint of beer since the Carter Administration is not art.
While some people who apply tattoos may have passed 8th grade art, most ply their trade for economic, rather than artistic reasons. And the more popular tattoos become, the more likely it will be to find a tattoo artist who isn't.
Adding to the quality problem is the quantity problem. People don't stop with one tattoo. I must be an addiction. They may start with a discreet bluebird on the shoulder, but it doesn't stop there. Soon they move on to feathers and crucifixes (huge feathers and long crucifixes) and the name of their "true love." which may doom them to a succession of "Lucys."
Worse, even than lumpy, hairy men with Bugs Bunny smoking a cigar on their arms are super plus-size women with Betty Boop on a motorcycle on their matronly upper backs.
Some of these gals were obviously not plus-sized when they got inked. Unfortunately, when a rose tattoo expands, it looks like a cabbage rose on steroids. Not, in all probability, what the gal was thinking.

The Last of the Fedora Wearing Reporters

Mike Celizic died this week.
I could use all the euphemisms that are painfully PC today, but Mike wasn't terribly PC. And the fact remains, there will be no more Friday nights at a bar, both of us telling boring stories of the glory days of being a reporter when what was important was getting the story and getting it right, not getting it posted on a Web site.
Mike was a fine reporter, masterful writer and one of the best drinking buddies I ever had. That's saying something for a reporter.
He also always wore a hat. In winter, a fedora like the old guys with press cards in the band. In summer, a perfect Panama. Gals he was drinking with would vie for the opportunity to wear the hat for a while at the bar.
One year, at the New York Press Association in Saratoga Srpings, they had a casino night. Mike understood craps, which is sort of like understanding nuclear physics as far as I'm concerned. I told him I always wanted to be the girl who blew on a guy's dice, so he let me. He started out with $5,000 in play money and ended with $12,000. If only it had been real. I don't know if I'll ever by the good luck girl again.
The unfariness of losing Mike at 62-years-old stings. Who would have thought the rookie Statehouse reporter would have left us before his mentor?
When we weren't swapping war stories over endless rounds of Jack and Ginger (always my favorite couple) or glasses of beer, Mike and I discussed deeper subjects. Talk would drift around to matters theological. Mike was convinced this is all there is. I kinda figure he and God are discussing that right about now.
Basically a sportswriter, Mike covered several Olympic Games, including Beijing '08, where he discovered the miracle of Chinese bespoke tailoring.
I would enjoy bugging him about the fairness of sports that are size dependent, mostly basketball, which I loathe. He would actually agree there is something unsportsmanlike about the need for excessive size.
Mike would take the best photos of fireworks. What skill and patience that requires. I imagine from now on, whenever I see fireworks, I'll think of Mike. I imagine many things with send me thoughts of Mike.

Who Unplugged Uncle Stanley?

I was in an aerobics class when the music suddenly changed to a polka.

The instructor, who chose the music, is Chinese-American, married to a WASP, so she didn't miss a beat, but most of the class started giggling because most of the class has an Uncle Stanley. His name might not be Stanley and he may not be an uncle, but he plays the electric accordian every chance he gets. 
The instructor was amused by our collective memories and by our disappointment that she didn't have an Uncle Stanley who plugs in at every available moment.
"Well, I guess it isn't too late to get one," she said.
Which is an interesting concept.
Can we acquire alternate ethnicities and alternate relatives? Would we want to?
That's a concept worth exploring. 
But for now, I want to know if we can unplug the relatives we have.

Tweeter Twits

Back in the dark-er ages, the musically literate had thousands of dollars in stereo equipment. These folks weren't consumers. They didn't walk into a store and buy the entire package. Only rich amateurs did that. True music mavens purchased each component individually, often from tiny shops run by funny little old men who used to build wire recorders and electric train transformers in their basements. The proprietor would have suggestions for wiring up the components which the purchasers would ignore. Among the components were enhancers for the bass and treble called woofers and tweeters. Every time I hear today's gadget-addicts talk about tweeting, I think of the electronic geniuses who actually understood what they were doing. And, actually DID something. Today's contact-obsessed just randomly "tweet" like twits. Which may be why they call it twitter.

Horses are God's Apology for Men

I'm not one of those women who doesn't like men.
I do like men. Some of my best friends are men. My son is a young man and he is a lot easier to get along with than his sisters.
I tell my girls boys are like Labrador retrievers, lovable, but it takes a little longer for their brains to kick in.
I was having lunch with a dear male friend who mentioned I seem very familiar with the needs of the horses we both work with. "Horses," I said, gesturing with one hand, "men," I said gesturing with the other. I excluded my present company, of course, but, in general, horses are a lot easier to get a long with. They let you know what they want. They are affectionate without asking for more. They are just so much easier to communicate with. And I say that as a professional at human to human communication.

The Queens of Schadenfreude

I used to keep an informal "Lord High Executioner's list." You know, from The Mikado. The Lord High Executioner wished he could choose the people he executed. I no longer keep the list, but I sure have a new category to add: The Queens (and Kings) of Schedenfreude. You know them. They are the people who take obscene joy in the misfortunes of the technologically inept. Worse, they take perverse glee in the knowledge that people with glaucoma and other vision problems have trouble seeing on a computer screen. They wouldn't dream of kicking someone in a wheelchair down the stairs, but they bask in the thought that computers cause problems for a lot of people, all the while, tsk, tsk-ing that technology will improve so much the problems won't exist for long -- yeah right.

Housework, if done properly, can kill you

One of my favorite places for years was the kitchen at 22 South Lincoln Avenue in Washington, New Jersey. It wasn't a big modern kitchen. It was a comfortable kitchen with a small table and an old-fashioned farmhouse sink, which I really liked because it was lower than modern sinks so easier to wash dishes in. By the time I spent hours there, the walls had been painted, but I knew under that paint were comments and sayings written by journalists and cops and neighbors and hangers on. Those were the times when reporters and cops would hand out (read: drink) together. Over the table hung a sign that read "Housework, if done properly, can kill you." That sign is now in my kitchen.

A Spaniard in the Works

When John Lennon wrote the book with the above title, he was just having some fun with the language. He didn't have to worry about the political correctness of using "Spaniard" for Spanner because the term hadn't been invented. Back then, we still said "Mexican photo" for a picture that lined up people and "shot them down." We still said Chinese fire drill for jumping out of the car and turning around it before getting back in different seats. We had nothing against Spaniards, Mexicans or the Chinese, it was just something you said. While I don't defend an era of unconcern, things were certainly easier then.

When is a meeting not a meeting?

Ok, that's kind of a riddle. A meeting of a governing body, in New Jersey and most other states, must be advertised so the public knows and can attend if they chose. The trouble is, in small towns, there may be only three members on a governing body. Which means, when two of them meet by chance at the Post Office, it can be an illegal town meeting. Some officials are happy about this. They use any opportunity they can to discuss municipal business illegally. Others try their best to avoid illegal meetings. Unfortunately, sometimes it's hard to tell the difference. The public needs to be informed about the rules and also savvy enough to cut officials some slack. It pays to assume they are acting in your best interest until proven otherwise. And when proven otherwise, yell like crazy.

Why did you major in THAT?

Do student journalists really understand the importance of comforting the afflicted and afflicting the comfortable? Are they dedicated to the principles that guide the true believers? Or are they going into the business for other reasons? Can't imagine what those would be. Certainly not the money. . .There was a prestige factor right after Watergate when Woodward and Bernstein were the heroes of the moment, but now, reporters aren't exactly respected. Actually, many of them aren't exactly reporters. Most news organizations don't have the budget for detailed investigations or the travel budget to send reporters all over the map. You can only do so much over the phone or the Internet. So the inherent attraction must be something else. I hope it's the kind of idealism we all felt in the days we were knee deep in the hoopla. . .

Down the Shore/Up the Lake

It's summer. Ok, the summer solstice hasn't hit, but anything past Memorial Day is summer here in New Jersey. It's hot, it's humid, the poison ivy is blooming. So, it's time for Jersey Girls to get ready for summer. Pull out the swim suits, beach towels, beach chairs, Coppertone, luminescent pink nail polish, Sun In, and most important, trashy books: tis the season for Janet Evanovich, Martha Grimes, Reginald Hill, Carolyn Hart, Edna Buchanan, Archer Mayor. No serious reading from Memorial Day to what we used to call (before political correctness) Give the Lake Back to the Indians Weekend -- the weekend after Labor Day when the "summer people" went back to The City (New York, but nobody had to say that) and we got Lake Hopatcong back to ourselves. We pretended it was our favorite weekend of the year. We pretended we were happy to see the summer people go. Actually, the summer people were fun, but the traffic wasn't. I kinda miss those days Up the Lake (Like Down the Shore, prepositions are not necessary). Life was simple, full of swimming, softball, Monopoly on rainy days, making ice cream. And books that didn't pertain to school. Well, some things didn't change.

Is Copy Editing a Lost Art?

You can't rely on spell check. It only flags misspellings that create non-words. If you misspell a word and it becomes another word, it's perfectly ok with spell check. As if it weren't bad enough to rely on technology for something a human should be doing, it's just as bad, or worse, to ignore copy editing and proofreading all together. And what is scary, is that newbies to the biz may not realize what they don't know. These are kids who never learned to diagram a sentence. Sure, kids who did learn to diagram thought they would never use the skill, but if you write for a living, it's a good skill to know. When copy was set by a typesetter, there was often another check past the copy desk. The most valuable employee on many newspapers was the typesetter who went to a Roman Catholic elementary school. Nobody new grammar like those nuns. Nuns are far better than spell check.

Professional Organizations

The salient fact is that the dues of professional organizations are tax deductible. People are willing to donate to the animal shelter and the fire department, but not their own professional best interests. Professional organizations protect the rank and file workers. They're like unions with jackets and ties and decent wine. But the members of professional organizations are graying. We need young blood to energize us. We need people at the table who aren't interrupted by their teenagers calling their cell phones to beg for a driving lesson or running off to Florida to make sure their parents aren't driving. Not to mention, the organizations need people who are more at home with the new technology. It could take the entire board of some pro orgs to open a Facebook page. Young professionals: take pity on us and join. You won't regret it.

Wait'll Next Year

On the playground, in first or second grade, kids are supposed to learn how to lose.
The first few times there are tears (mostly from the girls) or tantrums (mostly from the boys). Then kids learn to shrug it off.
There is always another day. Wait'll next year, the Cubs are known for saying.
The Cubs and elementary school children need to teach some grownups the rules for being a good loser.
When the majority votes for something, those who voted against it are supposed to shrug it off. They can work to pass another law -- not too publicly please, nobody wants to see sausage made. But, ranting about socialism, spitting on people (oh, yes, you did, it was on videotape) and making racist comments is childish, counterproductive and stupid. We (thinking Americans) can only hope enough people are disgusted by them to vote them out of office.

Mr. Right or Mr. Right Now

Feminists are not to blame for my having been in a bad marriage. The only reason I'm bringing this up is that Lori Gottlieb wrote a book, Marry Him: The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough. She has been, for some time, warning women not to be too picky. She rejects the notion, posited by Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally, that a man named Sheldon can be a great dentist, but can't make a great lover. But, having apparently not heeded her own advice, she finds herself that cliched woman who is "tragically alone." No, Lori, it's not feminism's fault you rejected every guy who liked sports or was born in the Bronx, it was your fault. Just as it was my fault I married a guy who was good with cars and looked great in tight blue jeans who turned out to be a lousy husband. Women tend to be too picky or not picky enough and many of us do it alternately for most of our lives. Sometimes we don't know if we are looking for Mr. Right or Mr. Right Now and sometimes the guy doesn't know which he wants to be. Regardless, it's not feminism's fault or the fault of any other political movement. Once again, we did it to ourselves.

More New Jersey embarrassments

I promised more New Jersey embarrassments and here they are: 3) The Highlands Act has a noble purpose in protecting water supplies, but the first priority should have been to make sure farmers would be fairly compensated for their land. Any state that puts any citizens before farmers has its priorities messed up. 4)School funding. We have way too many school districts. The state should force all schools to be regionalized by county and eliminate most administrators. The state should also amend the "least restrictive environment" clause in special education to say "least restrictive environment that doesn't cost more money than the taxpayers can afford. We spend too much money to "educate" people who aren't going to become productive members of society or informed voters. That is another backwards priority. The largest investment must be in those students who will pay society back.

I think that's enough for now.

And Things Not to Be Proud Of. . .

I posted the one thing I am proud of lately about New Jersey, so in the interest of fairness, I feel I should mention some of the things I find embarrassing. 1) The fact the state believes it's residents are too klutzy to pump their own gas. This results in over-enthusiastic pump jockeys reaching for the gas tank before you turn off the engine. They touch the gas cap and your service engine light comes on. Or, they don't tighten the cap and your service light comes on. And, not to be ethnic about it, but you can't ask them to wait or tell them to tighten the cap because they don't speak English. It would be a lot quicker and easier if we could just pump our own gas. 2) New Jersey doesn't have a work exemption for DWI license revocation. That is unconstitutional. It penalizes the co-workers of idiots who drive drunk. Three times in my career, I have felt penalized by the judicial system because I worked with someone who couldn't drive. That is so stupid. There is no logical reason for not allowing them to drive to work like every other state, or at least a lot of states.

I'm not done yet, more NJ embarrassments in a future blog.

Proud of New Jersey

It's nice to be proud of New Jersey. It doesn't happen often, but it happened recently when the legislature voted to allow medical marijuana and now-former Gov. Jon Corzine signed it into law. There are a lot of laws it would be nice to have in this state and even more laws that we have it would be nice not to have, but if any laws had to come into being in the new decade, I figure the medical marijuana law was the best. It's personal with me. I watched my grandmother go blind from glaucoma, then my aunt go nearly blind and my mother have vision problems. If marijuana has a chance of helping people with glaucoma (and I have heard plenty of anecdotal evidence it does) it outweighs every ridiculous argument against legalizing its medical use. Never mind the potential to help people with nausea from chemo or weight loss from AIDS or MS. And, the arguments are ridiculous. All medicines are drugs or poisons in some form and opiates are legal for medical use and not for street use when marijuana is far less threatening. And the argument was never a legitimate argument that marijuana is dangerous or a gateway drug. It was an argument by the large paper companies who didn't want competition from hemp products. Hemp is such a marvelous plant and its use would be an economic boon. But the big paper companies don't want to hear that, so they produce "reefer madness" mythology. Well, congratulations to the New Jersey state legislature and the outgoing Gov. Jon Corzine for ignoring the spurious protests of robber barons and allowing an important medicine to be used.

Two things not to discuss: religion and politics

In the ancient days when I was a recent college graduate teaching at a parish parochial school, I observed the intersection of religion and politics at the most basic level. On the days of the township council meeting, if I looked up at the classroom windows in the afternoon, I would see the deputy mayor leave his car and walk to the rectory for a meeting with the parish priest. In many municipalities in northern New Jersey, very little went on at council meetings that wasn't signed off on by the parish priest. These were communities settled by Italian immigrants who came to work the mines. Everybody was Roman Catholic and therefore the parish priest controlled the town. It worked very well until some pesky Protestants moved into town. Seems very simple when you consider the religious conflicts today.

See You in the Funny Pages

Cartoons, whether the comic strips or editorial cartoons, have a unique role in the newspaper. They offer opinion, like editorials and columns, but quickly and often with humor. They also reinforce the newspaper's role as the first draft of history. In cartoons, the style, colors used and subject matter all reflect the era in which they are written. Even though many of the characters never age -- like Alexander and Cookie Bumsted -- others are examples of their era. Many comic strips are thinly disguised editorial commentary, most notably "Doonesbury" and "Mutts." Regardless of where political cartoons run, they elicit responses from the readers. Sometimes, laughter, sometimes annoyance. Rarely real anger. At least in the U.S. where most people take it with a grain of salt. Unlike in Denmark where cartoons allegedly poking fun at Mohammad resulted in a murder. Makes you thankful for free speech over here, doesn't it?

The Perfect Blog for a Sunday

I remember once an ACLU-type remarking to a colleague that, while he knew we had to be objective, he was sure Dave agreed with his position on this matter because "all journalists are atheists." "Really?" Dave replied. "I'm Episcopalian." I'm not sure why many people, like this ACLU-type, are so sure reporters are unbelievers. Sure, we are skeptical and cynical about the people we cover. Jesus was pretty skeptical about the leaders of the Pharisees, too. I do know journalists who are atheists. I also know plenty who are observant Jews, Roman Catholic and mainline Protestant. No, fundamentalist Christians are not attracted to the profession. They are not raised to question, which is what we do for a living. It would be an uncomfortable shift, I'm sure. But lumping us all together with non-believers is just plain wrong.

The Age of Incivility

It's like I wasn't looking for a minute and suddenly the world fell into a pit of incivility. I was brought up with manners. Some of the gestures must seem quaint now. Men stood up when a woman entered a room, pulled out her chair, stepped ahead to open a door. Some women may have felt they were being patronized, but most probably considered themselves respected. And, in turn, women leaned over to unlock the drivers' door -- remember how Chaz Palmenteri told Lilo Brancato that was how to tell if a girl was worth it. How do you tell now. I can remember not being able to use a gift until I wrote the giver a thank-you note. This makes me wonder if many people today were raised by wolverines. Celebrities celebrate their lack of manners -- that twit who interrupted an award presentation to say the young lady didn't deserve it -- he didn't have a mother. And the Congressman who called the President a liar -- he was obviously raised by a wild tundra creature. But worse, people pay attention to these people. They keep bringing up the uncivil things they do. As if they deserved notice. They don't. These people deserve to be ignored. Maybe we should start 2010 by celebrating civility again.

Sarcasm, Just Another Service We Offer

I read a column recently in which the author noted journalists don't deliberately make people angry. We ask people to think and very often that makes them angry. Which is a shame. Thinking should be something all people do routinely. They shouldn't be afraid of it. Readers shouldn't expect to receive their news watered down. News isn't polenta, it's not supposed to be bland. It's supposed to contain the facts regardless of who looks foolish. We don't make people look bad. They do a very good job of that for themselves. Like Joe Friday from the old Dragnet, we deal in "just the facts." The "commentators," mainly right-wing talk show hosts, spoon feed their babble to their listeners and the listeners start to believe they should be spoon fed all the time. They should grow up already. Read objective articles, read commentators from both sides. Read more than listen, actually. And if they get angry, it should be for a reason.

Profession? Craft? Calling?

Is journalism a profession? We call ourselves professional journalists when we join the Society of Professional Journalists. But, professionals are licensed and one of the most important things the Founding Fathers did was to reject the British notion of licensing the press. Well, they rejected a lot of British notions, but that was a biggie. We are not licensed. We cannot be licensed and do our jobs, so we are not professionals. I prefer to think of journalism as a craft. It is learned far more on the job than in a classroom. When I started, in the early Woodward and Bernstein days, most of us didn't even have degrees in journalism. My editor was a French teacher by training. I'm certified in English/Secondary Education. I never once considered that a handicap or felt I knew less than someone with a J degree. They didn't learn about covering planning boards or taking photos of bodies dead an undetermined length of time any more than I did. So, it's a craft. But, it's also a calling. Sort of like the Holy Church without the Holy Orders. You don't do it for the money (like that's a surprise). You do it because you think you can make a difference. So, don't call us professionals.