Category: Burningbird

Categories
Writing

What is good journalism

Recovered from the Wayback Machine

Taking a break from ‘what is good radio’, I wanted to point out what I consider to be good journalism.

Dave Winer is on a tear against the professional news organizations because of an appearance of Jon Stewart on Crossfire. I listened to a recording of this (managing not to hotlink directly to the MP3 file), and I enjoyed many of the quips between the participants, and found Stewart to be both funny and clever at times; but I also found him to be disingenuous and rather cheap.

(Transcript here.)

Stewart kept iterating that they, the Crossfire folk, are “…hurting America’–they in this case meaning, we presume, journalists. No, they aren’t. Americans are hurting America. We’re hurting America because no matter what we hear, no matter how factual the reporting, we’ll believe what we want to believe or what suits us to believe. Americans would rather listen to hyperbole and rhetoric than to fact. Not just Americans – the same can be said of the average citizen of most countries.

“You are hurting us.” “You are hurting us.”

Sounds like Arnold before he learned to act. Oh, wait a sec….

When Dave Winer uses the Stewart appearance as a segue into an exposition that reporters should be paying more heed to their customers, as iterated in this Bloggercon question (in which he insults most of the people who do him the courtesy of responding), I damn near choked on my coffee. If anything, reporters should be listening to their ‘customers’ less.

On any given day I can find at least one example of excellent journalism. It’s sophisticated and chi-chi clever to sneer at the professional news organizations, but if you keep your eyes, and your mind, open, you’ll find that many of these organizations do as good a job as their ‘customers’ allow. And in some cases, a better job than their ‘customers’ deserve.

Take this piece I found in the Houston Press (via a post made today in Fodor’s Travel Blog). No, its not about Iraq, or the Presidential race, or the contaminated flu shots. It’s about osso bucco.

A food critic questioned the osso bucco he was served at a local restaurant and was told, “If you don’t like it, there’s the door. Pay your bill and go. And don’t come back”, by the restaurant’s owner. He was also challenged about his knowledge of osso bucco.

This should be enough to earn a completely negative review; yet the food critic actually followed on the chef’s challenge and researched osso bucco, educating both his reading audience and himself on what to look for (what the restaurant served was not it). And even after being thrown out of the restaurant, he made a qualified recommendation of it because of the freshness of the fish served. Most importantly, he never took himself completely seriously, as you can see in the humor of his writing, particularly with the description of the busboy and his fake accent:

If you get the spiky-haired young waiter who reads the specials off the blackboard with a phony Italian accent, resist the temptation to ask where he’s from. (He was born in Galveston and reared in nearby Santa Fe.) If you play along, he’ll do this goofy Italian accent all night long for your entertainment.

Not to point fingers, but if Robb Walsh was a weblogger, he would have blasted the restaurant, daily, for three weeks; accused them of a conspiracy; nicknamed the whole thing ‘osso buccogate’; suggested that this action in Houston just demonstrates Bush’s Texan disregard for the voters; posted the restaurant’s phone number for people to call and harrass the spiky haired busboy; and then got all of his readers to Google Bomb the place with the words, “This Restaurant Sucks!”

Of course, this was only about food, but if I continued my morning reading of all the publications I check out from throughout the world, I’ll probably find decent reporting in many, and about more significant stories. As for the bias, it’s up to me to spot it where it exists–that’s cuz I is smart, and I rede good.

But if there is bias in a publication, it’s because the customers put it there. Fox got where it was by listening to its customers. What we need is less customer intervention, not more.

Hmmm. I wonder if all of this would sound better as a podcast? Should I start it with the NY Loose song, “Hide?” Is that copyright free?

From the notes I read at the other weblogs, such as Norm’s most people don’t necessarily share my viewpoint. I respect Norm, but don’t agree with him that Stewart is a hero.

When did taking a sanctimonious cheap shot become the

Categories
Writing

Lessons learned from radio

Recovered from the Wayback Machine

Before people run off into the wilds of technology with the newest and latest way to communicate, in this case podcasting, a few lessons to be learned from predecessors in the art.

When was the last time you read something that was written a year ago or longer. Recently? Did you quote online from it, or use it to make a point in something you were saying?

Okay then, when was the last time you listened to a radio broadcast that was over a year old?

Don’t be so eager to dump the written word – it works marvelously well, and comes one size fits all.

Categories
Writing

Perhaps a fall after all

Off to the Ozarks today to see if the color has progressed there. A few more photos from my recent excursion. I can only process a few at a time as my disk space is maxed on my computers, and the Nikon RAW image format, NEF, takes up an enormous amount of space.

I need to burn CDs of the photos on my machines and clear them out, but I’ve not had time recently with working on the IT Kitchen and other projects.

I’ve not had much time lately for poetry, either. Most other writing, too, other than technology, and politics, and weblogging. I feel as dry and dusty as the Missouri forests were before this week’s rain. I look to see if starved and desperate insects hover over me as they do the shriveled late summer blooms amidst leaves dying on the trees. I must begin drinking again.

As Mark Strand recently won the Wallace Stevens award, I thought something of his would be appropriate. Something that seems to suit the photos.

Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.

The Coming of Light

Categories
Books

Spirit Cane

My brother asked me what I wanted to keep of my father’s and I answered without hesitation, his cane. Upon further reflection, I also asked for his books, and I’ll borrow the photos long enough to make digital copies.

I bought Dad the cane years ago when he starting slowing up a bit, at the youthful age of 75 I believe it was. He just needed a little support from time to time, but he hated the canes you get at the doctor’s office. Said they made him look old.

We were out shopping at a store that specializes in hand crafts when I saw an umbrella stand and in it, several walking sticks known as spirit sticks; so called because each is a solid tree branch that is finished smooth, and the face of the spirit in the wood is carved into the rounded knob at the top. We gave it to Dad and he loved it instantly. It stayed with him, always, up until the very end; even then, he would fret about where his cane was.

I love this cane, with its real wood feel, and smooth finish; to look at the pattern in the grain and the bore hole of some insect; the cut off end of a smaller twig that had sprung out from the side of the branch. Most of all, I love it for the wise face of the spirit. And since Dad and I were pretty close to the same height, it’s a nice fit for me if I ever find the need for such…some day when I’m 75. Or so.

Spirit Cane

The books have alternated between being a treat and a puzzle. My dad was very much into mysteries and suspense, so I am now the proud owner of every John le Carré book written, in addition to every Robert Parker book and several by Grisham, Elizabeth George, and so on. Though detective and mystery books are not my favorite, I love a good novel and I’ll have plenty to keep me busy on these increasingly cold evenings. After all, is there anything better than curling up in a warm bed with a good book on a cold evening? Especially at the end of a day of hiking, and an excellent dinner, perhaps shared with another?

Among the books, though, were some surprises. There was one book called The Book of Virtues by Richard Bennett. It’s a odd book that features a different virture, such as courage, discipline, honesty, and so on, each chapter. The author then publishes works that reflect this virtue, ranging anywhere from philosophies of Plato to poetry to the children’s story, The Velveteen Rabbit.

I sampled some of the pages on discipline and courage, the morals of compassion and responsibility and can already tell that I hate it. I mean, I really hate it. Can’t stand it, finding myself almost repulsed by it. I am thus compelled to read it thoroughly and share it with all of you.

I also found Frank McCourt’s Tis among all the whodunits. It’s the memoir of McCourt’s journey from Ireland back to New York, and his experiences re-adapting to his native land. In light of recent news, I particularly liked the following passage from the book:

No, I might be able to confess in the darkness of an ordinary church confession box but I could never do it here in daylight all swollen with the mumps with a screen round the bed and the priest looking at me. I could never tell him how Mrs. Finucane was planning to leave her money for priests to say Masses for her soul and how I stole some of that money. I could never tell him about the sins I committed with the girl in the refugee camp. Even while I think of her I get so excited I have to interfere with myself under the blankets and there I am with one sin on top of another. If I ever confessed to a priest now I’d be excommunicated altogether so my only hope is that I’ll be hit by a truck or something falling from a great height and that will give me a second to say a perfect Act of Contrition before I die and no priest will be necessary.

Sometimes I think I’d be the best Catholic in the world if they’d only do away with priests and let me talk to God there in the bed.

Categories
Just Shelley

Slipped out of time

My favorite place is not at home in front of the computer, or out on some trail somewhere, taking photos. It’s not in any city or town, in the country, or along the water, though you get close with the latter. I am in my car, but being in my car doesn’t make it my favorite place. And the place loses its magic if someone else is with me.

My favorite place is the car wash. In the middle of the car wash to be exact. I love the car wash. But before you start with, “Lady, you need a life”, give me an ear, an eye, and a sec of your time.

The excitement of the car wash starts when I move my car on to the rail and put it in neutral; I have lost all decision making power at this point except which wash I want. Do I want the wash with the pink, yellow, and blue foam, or just the pink and yellow? Do I want that clear liquid rinse they say is a wax, but how can it be when it isn’t waxy? Does my underbelly need washing? I don’t know, is my underbelly dirty?

After this decision, though, I am free from any further need for action as soon as the car starts moving forward until I respond to the bright green DRIVE light at the end.

I am isolated in the car wash. The radio is off to prevent interference with the wash sensors, and the cellphone doesn’t work through all the equipment. The wash is too short to start any task, no matter how small or trivial. If it was a bit longer, I’d feel guilty for the ‘wasted’ time, and probably whip out a notebook or some such thing, in order to do something useful. But the wash is over before this activity can be made worthwhile; so I sit and do absolutely nothing.

Nothing except watch the two young people scrub my front and back bumper and windshields to remove the corpses of tiny little creatures who zigged when they should have zagged. After that is the water spray, and I am moved to hum a note or two from “Singing in the Rain” during this event. The excitement begins to build within, anticipating what’s to follow.

First comes the big soapy strips that move back and forth across the car and take off the initial layer of dirt. They remind me of great dark blue tongues, bigger than a cat’s, even bigger than Mick Jagger’s –reaching out and licking across the glass and the metal, the tips lingering on the warm metal at the end. Following these is another shot of water, for the initial rinse, but it’s nothing to get excited about; mere foreplay made more mundane by what’s to come.

The car moves past tubes set into the wall and bright white, pink, yellow, and blue foam squirts out all over the car; pulsing to some internal beat; swirling together into a purple color that slowly drips down the sides of the windows; softly teasing small bubbles, sparkling in the light, glide past me as I look out. Always bright white, pink, yellow, and blue. Never all white, or all pink. I imagine a study was made in the past and the car wash people discovered that people respond better to different colored foam. I know I do — it wouldn’t be magical if the bubbles were all white.

But the moment doesn’t end when the foam ejection finishes. No, next comes the lighter blue yarn like threads that spin around very fast, along the the sides and top; following the contour of the car in a passionate but surprisingly gentle grasp. They start in front of my car and part ever so reluctantly as the car moves slowly forward, never losing the grip they have on the sides as they glide compellingly towards the back. At the end, they give a saucy little flip to the rear, a pat of appreciation and familiarity in passing.

Of course, once the blue threads are finished, the fun part is almost over and the excitement begins to wane. The car is rinsed with one clear water rinse and then another, followed by the wax, and though it’s pleasant, it doesn’t tingle or give one a thrill. Still, there are those fun little fans at the end, moving up and down and across the car, chasing water droplets across the hood and the windshield. A final fun and piquant moment before the green light comes on and I’m booted out.

What’s best about the car wash is that all during this experience, I don’t have to think about what tasks need finished, or what improvements need to be made in my life; who I have pleased or disappointed or let down. I don’t have to read the opinions of this wit or another, alternately cheered and depressed, calmed and angered. I don’t have to hear the bad news on the radio, or listen to even sadder news on the phone. I am slipped out of time.