New writers are thrilled just to see their name in print.
I remember when I was just starting out, interning at San Francisco Magazine. It was the eighties and I was all of 23, full of enthusiasm and stupid good will. The idea of getting paid for what I loved almost sounded illegal.
"Any time you write, you should be paid for your work," a slightly older and paid colleague told me.
I had just written a little ad for the magazine's personals section:
San Francisco classifieds bring single bunnies up to date
Getting personal
Now!
The graphics department added a bunny.
After that, marketing brought me into a meeting to bolster copy for a Shell ad. I willingly obliged. I wasn't paid and didn't even think of being paid.
Again, I was chastised by my older colleague.
I was beginning to feel like a chump, but that feeling was soon overpowered by the thrill I got interviewing a local comedian for our special birthday section. It was thrilling because he and I were supposed to have had a date once, but he had stood me up. I take some pride in remembering that I had refused his advances and that was probably why.
I wasn't paid for any of my work that summer, and on my final day cried in front of my editors. They laughed as I was leaving, and it hit me: I was ridiculous.
---
That was nearly 30 years ago, and since then I've had articles published in Entrepreneur (my first, at 25), Time Out New York, Victorian Homes, Scientific American, AARP, MIT Technology Review, Prague Post, Cape Cod Life, Yankee and many other publications. This past week I was published in Slate, where one of my stories was reposted on Facebook over 2,800 times. In 2011, I was one of four journalists plucked to speak at the Univ. of Ga. regarding my coverage of the BP oil spill. Sitting between a New York Times reporter and an NPR reporter was thrilling indeed.
And yet, the subject of pay continues to rear its ugly head.
I had thought I was above all of that when I mastered the art of the contract, but that was before I realized some publishers ignore them.
I recently queried a successful freelance writer, a male friend in New York. He told me that he's still waiting for a check on a story he wrote in July. Other publications such as the New York Times have always been prompt, he told me.
I said it puzzled me why writers would agree to this sort of treatment. Can you imagine waiting four or six months for a check if you worked at Arby's? I remember as a staff editor that people would whine if we had to wait an extra hour for our checks!
I'm not stupid, and I'm no longer ridiculous. I'm wise to the ways of the world, and I get supply and demand. But what I don't and will never understand is why anyone, in good conscience, can mistreat the freelance writer.
Not only do we work as hard or harder than staffers, have to pay our own health insurance and dental bills, live in substandard conditions oftentimes (Top Ramen is a treat when you have no money for food), but we're often far more versatile and talented than your colleagues. I say this because the range of assignments a freelancer lands forces her to up her game. I have written about a Nobelist for Scientific American as well as Maine Coon cats for Yankee, a green hotel for Engineering & Technology and nuclear reactor safety for tce today.
Most staff writers have a niche, whether that be climate change, social networking, technology or finance. That's not a bad thing. I like knowing I can read certain journalists and get the most in-depth coverage of a topic.
The problem is, freelancers don't garner nearly the respect that a staffer does. This is true despite, in my case, having written for some of the most interesting and prestigious publications in the country. This is true despite working through the night and chasing sources, stewing over a grammatical question or skipping family vacations when on deadline.
It's time for freelance writers (and editors, artists, etc.) to stand up and be heard. We're taken advantage of both because there is too little work available for the amount of talent on hand, and because we're considered "artsy" (read: unbusinesslike).
I will only write for dependable publishers who follow their contracts to the letter. I will do this because, in return, I don't miss my deadlines and always deliver.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Government shutdown neophytes: Welcome to the world of the freelance journalist
"In this corner, we have a very large man with bulging biceps and fire spewing from his eyes! Yes, it's the U.S. Government!"
"And in this corner (crowd applauds wildly) the averagewoman, played today by the once fabulous editor, now struggling freelance writer who can't afford her rent, let alone a root canal or that trip to St. Martin she's been longing for!"
[cue: bell at boxing ring]
If you are a writer trying to wend your way through the maze that is the "government shutdown", you're a little like you've always been: unclear on where you'll next find food or whether food stamps will continue. In the event that you make, oh, $1,000 this month instead of your usual $552.32, will you be on a 'spend down' with Medicaid, who can't apparently understand that a contractor's income fluctuates wildly? And as with most things American, apparently the right for anything beyond basic medical is a luxury. Don't you dare dream of replacing that missing tooth!
If you are not a freelance writer, but are instead, say, a forest ranger, an EPA pesticide regulator or a restaurant food inspector, I feel for you. You are not used to wondering where your next check will come from, commiserating with folks at the Unemployment office or yelling at the TV whenever the names Boehner or Cruz crawl across the screen. I feel you.
So here's a primer; here's what you need to know:
So good luck. If you have a job but are furloughed, enjoy the time to catch up on "The Talk" and those back issues of In Style. Don't think you'll learn a darn thing about what's happening in this mess by watching the delightful Candy Crowley or Anderson Cooper push a mike up the GOP's face.
For, truth be told, we're at war: with ourselves. And any network that funds itself with Lipitor and BP revenue will never fully level with you. But I will...that is, if you'll make room for me on this park bench.
"And in this corner (crowd applauds wildly) the averagewoman, played today by the once fabulous editor, now struggling freelance writer who can't afford her rent, let alone a root canal or that trip to St. Martin she's been longing for!"
[cue: bell at boxing ring]
If you are a writer trying to wend your way through the maze that is the "government shutdown", you're a little like you've always been: unclear on where you'll next find food or whether food stamps will continue. In the event that you make, oh, $1,000 this month instead of your usual $552.32, will you be on a 'spend down' with Medicaid, who can't apparently understand that a contractor's income fluctuates wildly? And as with most things American, apparently the right for anything beyond basic medical is a luxury. Don't you dare dream of replacing that missing tooth!
If you are not a freelance writer, but are instead, say, a forest ranger, an EPA pesticide regulator or a restaurant food inspector, I feel for you. You are not used to wondering where your next check will come from, commiserating with folks at the Unemployment office or yelling at the TV whenever the names Boehner or Cruz crawl across the screen. I feel you.
So here's a primer; here's what you need to know:
- America is not exceptional, but many Americans are. Sadly, though, the exceptional ones are not running the country.
- A single payer system would make all of this stress a lot more palatable. Some Democrats aren't even sure if this is worth it. Give me back my Yosemite campsite! Give me back my food inspection! And when can my disabled cousin apply for Social Security, again?
- Remember how many times you told we Humanities majors that your jobs were so much more practical? How's that again, Mr. Laid Off Environmental Engineer? (Sorry, that was mean. I promise to keep it positive.)
- We have a serious problem with "homelessness" in America, but the bigger problem is the prejudice, lying, selfishness and narcissism that have created it. This writer spent one or two homeless nights, and in the process, learned that the nicest people in the world are those without homes. They would literally give you the shirts off their backs, while even most family members shut one another out. Should the government shutdown lead to your homelessness, be kind to one another.
- President Obama could be doing more than he is. It's all well and good to blame this on the GOP and the Cruz-cicle, but as any fifth grader knows, it's the principal who's in charge of the school and not the two bickering classrooms.
So good luck. If you have a job but are furloughed, enjoy the time to catch up on "The Talk" and those back issues of In Style. Don't think you'll learn a darn thing about what's happening in this mess by watching the delightful Candy Crowley or Anderson Cooper push a mike up the GOP's face.
For, truth be told, we're at war: with ourselves. And any network that funds itself with Lipitor and BP revenue will never fully level with you. But I will...that is, if you'll make room for me on this park bench.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
The 10 Best Lessons I Ever Learned From Tough Bosses and Editors
Growing is painful, or so we're told. It's never a joy at the time, but in hindsight those jarring, embarrassing, soul search-inducing moments we have with our difficult bosses and editors can push us toward a higher level.
I was thinking today about some of the lessons my tough bosses taught. Without naming names or publications, here they are - in no special order:
I was thinking today about some of the lessons my tough bosses taught. Without naming names or publications, here they are - in no special order:
- Don't reveal your reporting methods in the story, other than to say "by e-mail" or "by phone" if appropriate. For example, don't say "Joe said Ginger was a difficult boss after he looked at my picture of Ginger on the desk." It's important to keep everything in the right context, but don't pull up the curtain for your reader.
- If you're quoting excessively, you probably don't know what you're talking about. Do enough reporting and research to thoroughly understand your subject. Use The Economist as a model for how to do it right.
- Just write "he said" or "he says" and don't feel the need to embellish with cutesy "he shared" or "she gushed". Maybe she did gush, but isn't that your opinion? There are exceptions, but err on the dry, professional side.
- Don't write when you're sick. I know it's the American way and all, but if you're like me, when you have a fever you're better off under a down comforter watching a series of "Who's Life Is it Anyway?"s and blowing your nose with only your dog watching.
- If you've got it, flaunt it. OK, I wasn't really taught that but I sort of learned that on the job. Sort of difficult when you no longer have "it" but remember, you'll always have that witty sense of humor. Use it to soften up a difficult source. They might just reveal more than you thought they would.
- Always proofread your work - multiple times. I learned over a decade ago not to rush the process. The first draft is always fast, but that first gust is always inspiration in need of a good sweat. Even on a daily -- especially on a daily -- polish.
- Don't blow up at anyone if they misspell your name or sexualize your lead or insert a weird adjective for a landmark building. These emotions are better left for you alone or with a beer, best friend and punching bag.
- Someone will always be ahead of you so don't give yourself an ulcer always having to be the best. This is a subjective business and editors can be inscrutable. Don't ever assume you know how to please them. Just keep pleasing yourself and be pleasant along the way.
- Don't drink six Cosmopolitans with visiting British colleagues. Especially on the night before you go to press. Ouch...
- Finally, don't make out with anyone who shares the name of your boss and then dump him. If you are going to date a Herman and your boss is also Herman, at least give it the old college try. Chances are your boss won't take too kindly to his doppelgänger getting the shaft, especially over Cosmos.
Sunday, August 4, 2013
HIROSHIMA - the NAKAMURA FAMILY
At 8:15 on August 6, 1945 Japanese time, "the largest bomb ever used in the history of warfare" flashed above Hiroshima. When figures were tallied, an estimated one hundred thousand lives would be lost in the name of democracy. Survivors, like Mrs. Nakamura and her three children, would live with the memory of radiation sickness and death through-out their lives.
The widow of a tailor killed in the war, Mrs. Nakamura scraped together a life for herself and her family as a seamstress. After the bomb was dropped, she unthinkingly plunged her symbol of livelihood into the receptacle which for weeks had been her symbol of safety - the cement tank of water in front of her house, of the type every household had been ordered to construct against possible fire raid.
As the horror of events unravelled, her children - five-year-old Myeko, eight-year-old Yaeko, and ten-year-old Toshio - would ask questions. "Why is it night already?" asked Myeko. "Why did our house fall down?" Mrs. Nakamura, confused because the "all-clear" alarm had sounded, could not offer answers. Instead, she gathered the children together and prepared to follow orders.
Her family and others - many of them burned or bleeding with severed limbs or cuts, all of them shaken and many vomiting - poured into Asano Park. There, amidst a haven of bamboos, pines, laurel and maples, surrounded by the estate's exquisitely precise rock gardens, Mrs. Nakamura and her children sought refuge. They settled by the river bank and because they were thirsty, drank without thinking from the water. At once they were nauseated and began vomiting, and they retched the whole day. Later they would try swallowing a bit of pumpkin a minister had found, but alas, they could not keep it down.
Spending the night at the park was difficult because medical help was scarce. The children had trouble understanding the severity of the situation. Toshio Nakamura got quite excited when he saw his friend end up in the river in a boat with his family, and he ran to the bank and shouted wildly, "Sato! Sato!"
The boy turned his head and shouted, "Who's that?"
"Nakamura."
"Hello, Toshio!"
"Are you safe?"
"Yes. What about you?"
"Yes, we're all right. My sisters are vomiting, but I'm fine."
---
Hiroshima was off-limits for weeks; refuge had to be found elsewhere. The Jesuits offered shelter to Mrs. Nakamura's family and some fifty other refugees in a chapel at the Novitiate. In bed that night, Toshio would awaken with a start.
"What is it, Toshio? What's wrong!" his mother asked.
The trembling child whined, "Hideo, Hideo!"
She cradled him in her arms. Hideo Osaki was a hero of Toshio's, but the nineteen-year-old mechanic had been a victim of the atomic blast. The child dreamt of seeing Mrs. Osaki come out of an opening in the ground with her family, and then he saw Hideo at his machine, the one the child had watched him work at in the factory.
"Shhh," Mrs. Nakamura whispered. "It will be all right."
But she knew it wasn't all right. Her sewing machine was ruined in the blast; it would cost money she didn't have to restore. Plus, her hair and her daughter Myeko's hair was falling out. They had no way of knowing this indicates radiation sickness, and when their fevers began to rise in the forthcoming weeks, they could only hope to get better. "The atom bomb," Mrs. Nakamura would later write, "is the size of a matchbox. The heat is six thousand times that of the sun. It exploded in the air. There is some radium in it. I don't know just how it works, but when the radium is put together, it explodes." As for the use of the bomb, she would say, "It was war and we had to expect it." And then she would add, "Shikata ga nai," a Japanese expression which means, "It can't be helped."
Though destitute, Mrs. Nakamura summoned her strength and began contemplating ways to regain a livelihood. One year after the bombing, she figured she could either work as a domestic for the Allied forces or borrow about five hundred yen, a little over thirty dollars, from her family to repair her machine. Though rusted, it could be fixed and she might be able to resume work as a seamstress.
From the Magazine Writing class with Journalism Professor John Burks, San Francisco State University, 1984
Friday, July 26, 2013
Let's leave the 'Royal baby' alone and write about the children in Syria
I'll admit that I've been fascinated by the progeny of Prince William and the Duchess, Kate Middleton, but now that he's born and we know the name, enough.
In Syria, an estimated 6,000 children had died as of June, according to the UK's Guardian newspaper. Who knows the real number or how dramatically that number has grown; and the figure obviously swells when one adds their parents and other adults.
I realize that since the world is full of heartache, it's uplifting to focus on the future King (unless he abdicates), but neither should we ignore the pressing humanitarian issues plaguing the world today. Ditto the impact of climate change on the very children we are trying to protect.
And while the so-called royal baby doesn't deserve the hype, most certainly Anthony Weiner et al (somebody Leather) doesn't either.
As journalists, let's focus on what matters. It was painful to see Wolf Blitzer interview Miss Leather on his CNN program last night. "It really sucks," she said of the situation, before adding, "if you'll pardon the pun." Wolf Blitzer looked as uncomfortable as Prince Harry at a formal dinner party.
In addition to Syria, we need to bring to light the legions of children in America who are going to bed hungry, the young women forced into prostitution or who are otherwise living on the streets, and those with illnesses their parents cannot afford to tackle because we lack a national healthservice. We'll see how well Obamacare takes care of them, and wish for the best.
So while we toast little George Louis Alexander, let's remember he's just one more child on this planet, and I am quite certain his lovely parents wouldn't want it any other way.
In Syria, an estimated 6,000 children had died as of June, according to the UK's Guardian newspaper. Who knows the real number or how dramatically that number has grown; and the figure obviously swells when one adds their parents and other adults.
I realize that since the world is full of heartache, it's uplifting to focus on the future King (unless he abdicates), but neither should we ignore the pressing humanitarian issues plaguing the world today. Ditto the impact of climate change on the very children we are trying to protect.
And while the so-called royal baby doesn't deserve the hype, most certainly Anthony Weiner et al (somebody Leather) doesn't either.
As journalists, let's focus on what matters. It was painful to see Wolf Blitzer interview Miss Leather on his CNN program last night. "It really sucks," she said of the situation, before adding, "if you'll pardon the pun." Wolf Blitzer looked as uncomfortable as Prince Harry at a formal dinner party.
In addition to Syria, we need to bring to light the legions of children in America who are going to bed hungry, the young women forced into prostitution or who are otherwise living on the streets, and those with illnesses their parents cannot afford to tackle because we lack a national healthservice. We'll see how well Obamacare takes care of them, and wish for the best.
So while we toast little George Louis Alexander, let's remember he's just one more child on this planet, and I am quite certain his lovely parents wouldn't want it any other way.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
When the media gets it right, but the jury doesn't
I feel similarly today, when an unjust verdict was decided in the George Zimmerman trial. While I respect the jury -- a phrase that's becoming pat to say -- I don't respect a system that allows a defense to hire better lawyers, or draw ineffective witnesses for the prosecution. While we all sympathize with poor Rachel Jeantel, it's fair to say she didn't do her dead friend many favors. Throughout her testimony, I wanted to hug her and say, "It's all right; just tell the truth."
But in the U.S. justice system, as with many the world over, truth is subordinate to clever lawyering, polished witnesses and a lack of fumbling on behalf of the other side. And then there's the jury.
In the OJ case it was African Americans who got him off. In the George Zimmerman trial, it was mainly Caucasians. Isn't this the real statement about race relations in America today? Have we learned nothing since 1995?
Throughout this, though, I was proud of my fellow journalists, from the eloquent Charles Blow with the New York Times to the steady Don Lemon on CNN last night. It was more than a little ironic that it was an African American journalist, and not the equally erudite Wolf Blitzer or Anderson Cooper, who was there to soothe us when the bad news was delivered.
The media got it right this time; the jury did not.
That does not mean I blame the jury. In my experience, most people are doing the best they can in life. But justice would have been much better served by a half-African American jury. We are not far enough along in race relations in this country to bury our heads in the sand and say, 'oh well, whites will get it right, too.'
No, too many upper middle-class Americans living in gated communities, people who've run away from hooded teenagers in convenience stores, who want to protect their SUVS, their precious Ikea furniture, their perfectly manicured lawns and children's boarding school futures were watching.
This writer has worked with many children throughout New York's more impoverished neighborhoods in Harlem, the Bronx, Brooklyn and Queens. I am frequently reminded of how ambitious, smart, funny and forgiving most of these children are compared to the privileged white kids of, say, a Marin or Fairfield County.
I don't hate my own race. I don't hate the American justice system. I hate injustice.
And last night, justice was not delivered in America.
Photo by David Shankbone, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons, Mar 21, 2012, New York Union Sq. Million Hoodie March
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Yes, I friended you but I don't like you; I defriended you because I do
Facebook-speak affords the latest twist on, "It's not me, it's you."
Yes, by now it's a cliché to say our "friends" on FB, for the most part, aren't really our friends. Yes, some of them are, but the rest are a mix of distant cousins, former employers you'd be persona non grata to unfriend, (if you're a writer) fans, cute guys in Italy you'd love to meet and the one marginal celebrity who's ever spoken to you (with the Friend request, undoubtedly, having been accepted by his publicist).
But what do we make of the volatility of Facebook friendships, the unending desire to defriend followed by, perhaps, the execution of that all-mighty button: "unfriend"? And if we are unfriended, what are we to infer if say, that individual still or chooses to follow us on Twitter or retains a Linkedin relationship? Don't even get me started about the other social networks; believe it or not, I still have a marginal life that does not include virtually anything virtual.
Here's how I see it:
1) You should unfriend anyone who... publicly insults you, ignores you (if you write on their wall and they respond to everybody but you), writes on your wall ad nauseum (they're obsessed), or reminds you of your ex. If it is your ex, that's fine, as long as you're sure you're over it (hint: if you are checking out photos of their new baby every day, chances are you're not over it and should unfriend);
2) Get a handle on what your own limitations are. For me, it was a sense that once I'd passed the 200 mark on Facebook it was enough. I'd be hard pressed to accept new friends at this stage, unless I'm replacing them for unfriends. My sense for this being a healthy demarcation is knowing how many comments I can reasonably respond to while eating dinner. God only know how I'd handle 2,000-plus friends like my buddy P. has, though I am sure he's blocking some of us from his stream;
3) Don't say too much on Facebook or too little on Twitter. People who are following you are doing it for a reason. On Facebook, though, they probably felt coerced into it when their mother reminded them how you helped them get through math in 3rd grade. Back to Twitter for a moment: if your thing is underwater horticulture, don't go rogue and start writing about the Republican party's chances for 2016, not unless you want a bunch of defectors;
4) Keep your friends close but your Facebook friends at a distance. I know this sounds mean, but there's a tendency to share too much online. If you just imagine that you're having casual banter with your virtual friends -- even if they are your real-life besties -- you'll keep yourself in check. No one wants to hear about your brush with death last night when you swallowed the peach pit whole. OK, your mom wants to hear about it, but you don't want to deal with her 39 comments on your wall telling you to give up your stressful job as a sidewalk fruit salesperson, do you?
5) If you have a falling out with a friend, try to remain connected on Linkedin. This has happened to me a few times. I don't like it when friendships end, but it seems to be a natural evolution in life; ebb and flow. I like to think that by at least remaining "linked in", he or she will see what they're missing in their lives when I've: a) won my Pulitzer; b) upgraded my status to Married; c) Obtained my PhD in Physics and d) bought the New York Times.
A girl can dream, can't she?
Now to go post this where everyone who is only marginally remaining my "friend" can find it ...
Yes, by now it's a cliché to say our "friends" on FB, for the most part, aren't really our friends. Yes, some of them are, but the rest are a mix of distant cousins, former employers you'd be persona non grata to unfriend, (if you're a writer) fans, cute guys in Italy you'd love to meet and the one marginal celebrity who's ever spoken to you (with the Friend request, undoubtedly, having been accepted by his publicist).
But what do we make of the volatility of Facebook friendships, the unending desire to defriend followed by, perhaps, the execution of that all-mighty button: "unfriend"? And if we are unfriended, what are we to infer if say, that individual still or chooses to follow us on Twitter or retains a Linkedin relationship? Don't even get me started about the other social networks; believe it or not, I still have a marginal life that does not include virtually anything virtual.
Here's how I see it:
1) You should unfriend anyone who... publicly insults you, ignores you (if you write on their wall and they respond to everybody but you), writes on your wall ad nauseum (they're obsessed), or reminds you of your ex. If it is your ex, that's fine, as long as you're sure you're over it (hint: if you are checking out photos of their new baby every day, chances are you're not over it and should unfriend);
2) Get a handle on what your own limitations are. For me, it was a sense that once I'd passed the 200 mark on Facebook it was enough. I'd be hard pressed to accept new friends at this stage, unless I'm replacing them for unfriends. My sense for this being a healthy demarcation is knowing how many comments I can reasonably respond to while eating dinner. God only know how I'd handle 2,000-plus friends like my buddy P. has, though I am sure he's blocking some of us from his stream;
3) Don't say too much on Facebook or too little on Twitter. People who are following you are doing it for a reason. On Facebook, though, they probably felt coerced into it when their mother reminded them how you helped them get through math in 3rd grade. Back to Twitter for a moment: if your thing is underwater horticulture, don't go rogue and start writing about the Republican party's chances for 2016, not unless you want a bunch of defectors;
4) Keep your friends close but your Facebook friends at a distance. I know this sounds mean, but there's a tendency to share too much online. If you just imagine that you're having casual banter with your virtual friends -- even if they are your real-life besties -- you'll keep yourself in check. No one wants to hear about your brush with death last night when you swallowed the peach pit whole. OK, your mom wants to hear about it, but you don't want to deal with her 39 comments on your wall telling you to give up your stressful job as a sidewalk fruit salesperson, do you?
5) If you have a falling out with a friend, try to remain connected on Linkedin. This has happened to me a few times. I don't like it when friendships end, but it seems to be a natural evolution in life; ebb and flow. I like to think that by at least remaining "linked in", he or she will see what they're missing in their lives when I've: a) won my Pulitzer; b) upgraded my status to Married; c) Obtained my PhD in Physics and d) bought the New York Times.
A girl can dream, can't she?
Now to go post this where everyone who is only marginally remaining my "friend" can find it ...
Sunday, May 19, 2013
It's not the media's role to be "conservative" or "liberal"
Scandal week.
If this past week has brought anything to light for the media, it's that everyone but Fox News understated the Benghazi situation.
This reporter, all along, was pushing for transparency and strongly suspected that President Obama and Secretary Clinton were covering up the truth. Suspecting is not the same as stating, conclusively, but it's the role of the press to follow curiosity as the clues unravel.
Instead, what the so-called "liberal" press did, mostly, was accuse Fox News, the Republicans and those crazy Conservatives of a witch hunt. Yet in hindsight, even the fair and balanced Grey Lady needs to be squirming this week.
Clearly, Obama wanted to be re-elected. What happened beyond that regarding the watered-down talking points indicates that his agenda was furthered before Susan Rice spoke on camera. Coincidence?
Further, regarding the AP scrutiny from the Department of Justice, there is no reasonable explanation for the latter to snoop on the former. AP cowtowed beyond what was required due to the government's investigation of a proposed al-Qaeda plot out of Yemen, a story the AP wanted to and did run. It would appear, and I suspect, that when the DOJ asked the AP to wait another day to run their story -- so the DOJ spin doctors could craft a saleable press release -- the US was pissed off at the lack of compliance.
I was at the New York AP offices on Apr. 18, 2012. It's creepy to imagine that around that time, DOJ was busy wire-tapping, or however the phone records snooping occurred. Getting into the AP itself requires a careful process of showing one's ID and going through an electronic gate.
As for the IRS, clearly there is no reasonable explanation for what they did other than the president was targeting them prior to the election. Win at all costs, even if an ambassador has died, conservatives' applications for non-profit status are unfairly targeted, and the world's oldest and one of the most respected news agencies is bugged.
In the midst of all this, we're seeing the once only liberal press -- the same press that chuckled at Obama's jokes at the White House Correspondents' Dinner just a few weeks ago -- call a spade a spade, or in this case, a liar a liar.
I would have more respect for Obama, Holder, Miller, et. al if for once, one of them could say, "We overstepped our authority. We were wrong."
But then, this is politics, after all.
If this past week has brought anything to light for the media, it's that everyone but Fox News understated the Benghazi situation.
This reporter, all along, was pushing for transparency and strongly suspected that President Obama and Secretary Clinton were covering up the truth. Suspecting is not the same as stating, conclusively, but it's the role of the press to follow curiosity as the clues unravel.
Instead, what the so-called "liberal" press did, mostly, was accuse Fox News, the Republicans and those crazy Conservatives of a witch hunt. Yet in hindsight, even the fair and balanced Grey Lady needs to be squirming this week.
Clearly, Obama wanted to be re-elected. What happened beyond that regarding the watered-down talking points indicates that his agenda was furthered before Susan Rice spoke on camera. Coincidence?
Further, regarding the AP scrutiny from the Department of Justice, there is no reasonable explanation for the latter to snoop on the former. AP cowtowed beyond what was required due to the government's investigation of a proposed al-Qaeda plot out of Yemen, a story the AP wanted to and did run. It would appear, and I suspect, that when the DOJ asked the AP to wait another day to run their story -- so the DOJ spin doctors could craft a saleable press release -- the US was pissed off at the lack of compliance.
I was at the New York AP offices on Apr. 18, 2012. It's creepy to imagine that around that time, DOJ was busy wire-tapping, or however the phone records snooping occurred. Getting into the AP itself requires a careful process of showing one's ID and going through an electronic gate.
As for the IRS, clearly there is no reasonable explanation for what they did other than the president was targeting them prior to the election. Win at all costs, even if an ambassador has died, conservatives' applications for non-profit status are unfairly targeted, and the world's oldest and one of the most respected news agencies is bugged.
In the midst of all this, we're seeing the once only liberal press -- the same press that chuckled at Obama's jokes at the White House Correspondents' Dinner just a few weeks ago -- call a spade a spade, or in this case, a liar a liar.
I would have more respect for Obama, Holder, Miller, et. al if for once, one of them could say, "We overstepped our authority. We were wrong."
But then, this is politics, after all.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Obamagate and the correspondents' dinner
I wasn't the biggest Obama supporter, but I came round. By the time he was elected, I'd joined the pandemonium, against the protestations of my one Republican friend: "He's up to something. I don't trust him."
I told her I wasn't quite sure if I did either, but I had to support his (wildly) liberal agenda.
However, ever since Benghazi or wait, maybe about the time all my friends started getting laid off, I began to question him again. Don't get me wrong: the alternative (Mitch Romney, as Letterman calls him) would have been national suicide. OK, that's dramatic.
But so many scandals, so much subterfuge, so much telling the American public he had nothing to do with it. What will it be this week? Hillary on the Hill asking, "What difference does it make?" was some convincing emotion. She had to have known darn well what difference it makes/made.
Shame on this president for all of these news items: Recession, Corexit in the Gulf of Mexico, Benghazi, IRS targeting Tea Partiers, the DOJ targeting the AP, drones killing civilians, even killing bin Laden before we knew, conclusively, whether he could be captured alive? I am not convinced.
And yet, I still support my president. This is like finding out the man you married may be cheating on you, but you just aren't sure. But as "facts" roll in -- female hairs on his collar, hang ups at 3 a.m., etc, one is forced to confront evidence. Despite knowing he's the one we fell in love with, in our hearts, we also know he's letting us down.
Good lord, this is making me pine for a Lewinsky scandal. How much more innocent was the blue dress in the Oval Office than targeting American taxpayers, snooping on hardworking journalists and worst of all, not telling the American people on Sept 12 of last year: "We have been attacked by terrorists in Benghazi, and I wholeheartedly condemn these attacks. We will hold them accountable."
Telling someone in the Rose Garden that it was an "act of terror" -- come on, don't insult our intelligence -- is not the same thing. Words matter. Especially for a president who was elected on his eloquence with them.
Which brings me to: the White House Correspondents' Dinner.
The night it played (yes, it was a show), I told my mother I hadn't watched.
I said I sort of agreed with Tom Brokaw for not wanting to be in the frame with the latest celebrity, or whatever it was he said. I have nothing against celebrities, though; my reason was more practical.
"Mom, what would happen if the president was found to have done something really wrong, like, like--"
"Watergate?"
"Yeah, Watergate. Then if that happened, all the journalists who were schmoozing with him that night would be forced to be completely objective. Is this really possible under such circumstances? So even if I were a White House reporter, if I could, I would stay home. If I had to go, I'd leave early."
Obama has been schmoozing the American people from Day One. He's charming. He's the guy we'd like to have for dinner. We want to see his wife's haircut and biceps, his tall daughter and his shorter daughter, the adorable black and white dog. Heck, I think I made that dog on the snowy White House lawn my screen saver.
What we don't want to see is what we are seeing now: scandal after scandal, and it's getting far more serious.
This president better not take our vote for granted.
I told her I wasn't quite sure if I did either, but I had to support his (wildly) liberal agenda.
However, ever since Benghazi or wait, maybe about the time all my friends started getting laid off, I began to question him again. Don't get me wrong: the alternative (Mitch Romney, as Letterman calls him) would have been national suicide. OK, that's dramatic.
But so many scandals, so much subterfuge, so much telling the American public he had nothing to do with it. What will it be this week? Hillary on the Hill asking, "What difference does it make?" was some convincing emotion. She had to have known darn well what difference it makes/made.
Shame on this president for all of these news items: Recession, Corexit in the Gulf of Mexico, Benghazi, IRS targeting Tea Partiers, the DOJ targeting the AP, drones killing civilians, even killing bin Laden before we knew, conclusively, whether he could be captured alive? I am not convinced.
And yet, I still support my president. This is like finding out the man you married may be cheating on you, but you just aren't sure. But as "facts" roll in -- female hairs on his collar, hang ups at 3 a.m., etc, one is forced to confront evidence. Despite knowing he's the one we fell in love with, in our hearts, we also know he's letting us down.
Good lord, this is making me pine for a Lewinsky scandal. How much more innocent was the blue dress in the Oval Office than targeting American taxpayers, snooping on hardworking journalists and worst of all, not telling the American people on Sept 12 of last year: "We have been attacked by terrorists in Benghazi, and I wholeheartedly condemn these attacks. We will hold them accountable."
Telling someone in the Rose Garden that it was an "act of terror" -- come on, don't insult our intelligence -- is not the same thing. Words matter. Especially for a president who was elected on his eloquence with them.
Which brings me to: the White House Correspondents' Dinner.
The night it played (yes, it was a show), I told my mother I hadn't watched.
I said I sort of agreed with Tom Brokaw for not wanting to be in the frame with the latest celebrity, or whatever it was he said. I have nothing against celebrities, though; my reason was more practical.
"Mom, what would happen if the president was found to have done something really wrong, like, like--"
"Watergate?"
"Yeah, Watergate. Then if that happened, all the journalists who were schmoozing with him that night would be forced to be completely objective. Is this really possible under such circumstances? So even if I were a White House reporter, if I could, I would stay home. If I had to go, I'd leave early."
Obama has been schmoozing the American people from Day One. He's charming. He's the guy we'd like to have for dinner. We want to see his wife's haircut and biceps, his tall daughter and his shorter daughter, the adorable black and white dog. Heck, I think I made that dog on the snowy White House lawn my screen saver.
What we don't want to see is what we are seeing now: scandal after scandal, and it's getting far more serious.
This president better not take our vote for granted.
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Boston Bombings: News in Real Time
Last Thurs., Apr. 18 I was still watching CNN, horrified by the bombings on Boylston and now obsessed with the faces just shared by the FBI. I played those videos over and over again, as we all did.
Then, I heard there was a shooting and possibly an officer killed at MIT. Someone had the presence of mind to say that the Boston PD, Fire and EMS were on a live audio feed. I posted the following over the next hour:
Then, I heard there was a shooting and possibly an officer killed at MIT. Someone had the presence of mind to say that the Boston PD, Fire and EMS were on a live audio feed. I posted the following over the next hour:
-
Boston Police, Fire and EMS Live Audio Feed http://www.broadcastify.com/listen/feed/6254/web … via
@Broadcastify -
MIT campus police officer shot | Metro News - WCVB Home http://www.wcvb.com/news/local/metro/MIT-campus-police-officer-shot/-/11971628/19811308/-/yskq5q/-/index.html … via
@WCVB -
Now a
#shooting at#MIT: MIT says gunshots were reported near the Stata Center outside Kendall Square 24 minutes ago, reports Boston GlobeI knew immediately that it had to have been connected to the bombers, and was instinctively very worried about what would happen next. As I listened to the astonishingly clear audio feed, it felt like a movie:Laurie Wiegler @WriterWeegs
-
Other 137NZ1 Black Mercedes SUV from Memorial drive gas sta - second man has darker skin. Both with firearms.
#BostonPD, 1 went into Shell -
#BostonPD says 2 Middle Eastern males, with guns, carjacked a Black Mercedes in Cambridge: license no. 137NZ1 I think...1 is 5'7"
As a journalist, I'll take any source, anywhere, anytime that can prove credible. I will take that source not for attribution, on background, off or on the record. I will interview that source while bungee jumping, polka dancing or eating squid. I will interview her through a German translator or while running a 102-degree fever if this is her only free window.I get the story.Only a hermit ludite would deny the power of Twitter and real-time news sources like the Police, Fire and EMT feed.Yet, only a professional can verify details, make sense of the drama, and dig more deeply to add color.It will be interesting in the coming years to see how oldsters such as I (those of us who got through college writing essays on Selectrics) can adapt.Fortune will favor the versatile.Tweet on. -
Laurie Wiegler
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Boston bombings and media scrums: Let's keep it professional
While watching coverage of the police and FBI and several CNN anchors go after Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, my senses were so overly heightened that for a while, I took a (very uncharacteristic) nap, dreaming that my ex-boss told me my web site looked great, before springing to attention to continue watching the manhunt.
I was watching when CNN's reporter heard the gunfire in his earpiece around 7 p.m. Friday, then followed along as that middle-aged lady reporter with the pert hairdo was told to get out of the way by police. Sirens, screeching police cars, a populus told it's ok to come and then sorry, no it's not, go back in.
In the midst of all this drama, I wish the media had remembered that while it's important to inform the public, we neither expect nor want you to slither around the bushes behind that house where the suspect was holed up, bleeding from the head, in that poor guy's boat. ( By the way, why is there a fund to buy him a new boat? Shouldn't the cops and FBI already have cut that check? But I digress.)
Don't kid yourselves, broadcast media, you were tripping all over yourselves and your colleagues to get this story. It got sloppy at times, as when CNN's camera craned around quickly and got Lester Holt of NBC in its shot, albeit briefly.
At the media scrum, a militant conspiracy theorist reporter tried to interrupt proceedings, as he later did on Erin Burnett's show. Even after she told him to pipe down, he went on for awhile, distracting us, the viewer, from watching Ms. Burnett's perfectly poised presentation of the police activity.
I'm in the print media and don't typically cover manhunts and bombers and cities that close down, so maybe I don't really know what I'm talking about. But I do think less is more, more often than not, in most things. And in America, where bigger is always better and more is always better, aren't we just feeding the fire that these terrorists so despise? Why the need to raise American flags and brag about how we got 'em! We got 'em! As if this was a sporting event.
No, it was terror. The same kind of terror that rages in the Middle East, Africa, North Korea and many parts of the world most of us have never heard of, much less read about or explored.
The media needs to stand back, do its job, and not fight for ratings. And oh yes, I can do without the scary mood music and the graphic: "CITY UNDER SIEGE" visuals.
I was watching when CNN's reporter heard the gunfire in his earpiece around 7 p.m. Friday, then followed along as that middle-aged lady reporter with the pert hairdo was told to get out of the way by police. Sirens, screeching police cars, a populus told it's ok to come and then sorry, no it's not, go back in.
In the midst of all this drama, I wish the media had remembered that while it's important to inform the public, we neither expect nor want you to slither around the bushes behind that house where the suspect was holed up, bleeding from the head, in that poor guy's boat. ( By the way, why is there a fund to buy him a new boat? Shouldn't the cops and FBI already have cut that check? But I digress.)
Don't kid yourselves, broadcast media, you were tripping all over yourselves and your colleagues to get this story. It got sloppy at times, as when CNN's camera craned around quickly and got Lester Holt of NBC in its shot, albeit briefly.
At the media scrum, a militant conspiracy theorist reporter tried to interrupt proceedings, as he later did on Erin Burnett's show. Even after she told him to pipe down, he went on for awhile, distracting us, the viewer, from watching Ms. Burnett's perfectly poised presentation of the police activity.
I'm in the print media and don't typically cover manhunts and bombers and cities that close down, so maybe I don't really know what I'm talking about. But I do think less is more, more often than not, in most things. And in America, where bigger is always better and more is always better, aren't we just feeding the fire that these terrorists so despise? Why the need to raise American flags and brag about how we got 'em! We got 'em! As if this was a sporting event.
No, it was terror. The same kind of terror that rages in the Middle East, Africa, North Korea and many parts of the world most of us have never heard of, much less read about or explored.
The media needs to stand back, do its job, and not fight for ratings. And oh yes, I can do without the scary mood music and the graphic: "CITY UNDER SIEGE" visuals.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Is dumb the new cool? I ain't sure
What's happening to the English language?
A twinkly-eyed customs agent at Heathrow would say I don't even speak English. When I arrived at his station in 2008, fresh off a trip to Prague, I breathily spat that I was "so glad to be back where I could speak English."
He looked at me with an eye roll.
"So is that what you call what you speak in your country."
It was enough to bother me for, oh, since 2008.
It's a story I recant as often as it's appropriate, but lately whenever I'm explaining to my French ESL student why we speak and write the way we do and how this differs across the pond.
Unfortunately, I'm finding I have to also defend myself in my own country and outside the tutoring environment. Like when I'm watching a L'oreal Paris commercial and they brag that their product means "less wrinkles".
Less wrinkles?!
What happens when my student sees this, especially after one of our lessons on non-countable vs. countable nouns and when to use less versus fewer. The rule, of course, is that less goes with the non-countable nouns such as water, money, courage, etc. Fewer is used with everything one can count, from bridges to pimples to journalists.
When I explained to my student that he should also say "I am well" instead of "I am good" he responded that no one at his company talked like that.
Of course they don't.
They're engineers.
Why would professionals who scraped to get through eight years at Brown come out sounding anything like a proper English-speaking man or woman?
The answer? Because it's not cool. It's not cool to say "I am well" or "There are fewer wrinkles from using this product" or even, in some circles, "We don't have any use for that."
Trust me, plenty of the riders on the O bus into New Haven are saying they are good; they have less wrinkles; and they don't have no use for that.
It's becoming so common that I want to wear ear plugs when I walk outside or turn on the television.
Thank you, HBO for smart programming and thank you, New York Times for all your smart reporters. Thank you, Shakespeare, for ever existing and holding up the bar for all of us to reach -- or apparently spill over when we're blathering on about how we ain't gunna get none tonight and how gud we're feelin', all things considered.
And of course, texting just makes it worse. Why say boyfriend if one can text "bf"; but wait, that's best friend, right? By the way, who takes the time to say "One" when it's more common to say "You"?
Why are my grammar panties all in a wad over this, or as one journalist accused today, that I was going all #grammarpolice on him?
Because it matters.
Because if we don't speak and write correctly then one day, no one will even remember what it was to communicate properly. It matters especially for writers, journalists, teachers, scientists and other intellectuals to use the right words, proper punctuation and sound metaphors and similes. I used to be against clichés but you know what, why not. I use them when I speak so bring them on.
I choose my battles, and this week the battle is about "fewer" versus "less".
Yes, my great-great grandmother was a school marm. Grandma "Pink". She even had pink cheeks. I can picture her tottering into that one-room schoolhouse in West Texas, pounding the desk to get some upstart to shut up.
Then Grandma Pink asked the little weasel to come up, pop his gum out, and sit back down.
"The ABC's," she said, "are very important. After all, if you want to grow up to be President Lincoln, you may want to learn a thing or two."
Snickering.
Sure.
"Who's laughing?"
She'd saunter back to the offending student and ask him to please explain why it was laughable to insult her. Why was an English lesson funny?
The kid, of course, did not have an answer.
In modern times, this author would laugh at her very own English Honors teacher, Mrs. Woods, who, in the author's senior year of high school, would introduce her to classical music and Don Quixote before she (the student) had even lost her virginity.
Before the days of texting and iPads and Blackberries, before AR-15s on campus and the death knell of the English language here in America, Mrs. Woods would reign.
Naturally, most of her students didn't realize it at the time, but those lessons would last a lifetime.
A twinkly-eyed customs agent at Heathrow would say I don't even speak English. When I arrived at his station in 2008, fresh off a trip to Prague, I breathily spat that I was "so glad to be back where I could speak English."
He looked at me with an eye roll.
"So is that what you call what you speak in your country."
It was enough to bother me for, oh, since 2008.
It's a story I recant as often as it's appropriate, but lately whenever I'm explaining to my French ESL student why we speak and write the way we do and how this differs across the pond.
Unfortunately, I'm finding I have to also defend myself in my own country and outside the tutoring environment. Like when I'm watching a L'oreal Paris commercial and they brag that their product means "less wrinkles".
Less wrinkles?!
What happens when my student sees this, especially after one of our lessons on non-countable vs. countable nouns and when to use less versus fewer. The rule, of course, is that less goes with the non-countable nouns such as water, money, courage, etc. Fewer is used with everything one can count, from bridges to pimples to journalists.
When I explained to my student that he should also say "I am well" instead of "I am good" he responded that no one at his company talked like that.
Of course they don't.
They're engineers.
Why would professionals who scraped to get through eight years at Brown come out sounding anything like a proper English-speaking man or woman?
The answer? Because it's not cool. It's not cool to say "I am well" or "There are fewer wrinkles from using this product" or even, in some circles, "We don't have any use for that."
Trust me, plenty of the riders on the O bus into New Haven are saying they are good; they have less wrinkles; and they don't have no use for that.
It's becoming so common that I want to wear ear plugs when I walk outside or turn on the television.
Thank you, HBO for smart programming and thank you, New York Times for all your smart reporters. Thank you, Shakespeare, for ever existing and holding up the bar for all of us to reach -- or apparently spill over when we're blathering on about how we ain't gunna get none tonight and how gud we're feelin', all things considered.
And of course, texting just makes it worse. Why say boyfriend if one can text "bf"; but wait, that's best friend, right? By the way, who takes the time to say "One" when it's more common to say "You"?
Why are my grammar panties all in a wad over this, or as one journalist accused today, that I was going all #grammarpolice on him?
Because it matters.
Because if we don't speak and write correctly then one day, no one will even remember what it was to communicate properly. It matters especially for writers, journalists, teachers, scientists and other intellectuals to use the right words, proper punctuation and sound metaphors and similes. I used to be against clichés but you know what, why not. I use them when I speak so bring them on.
I choose my battles, and this week the battle is about "fewer" versus "less".
Yes, my great-great grandmother was a school marm. Grandma "Pink". She even had pink cheeks. I can picture her tottering into that one-room schoolhouse in West Texas, pounding the desk to get some upstart to shut up.
Then Grandma Pink asked the little weasel to come up, pop his gum out, and sit back down.
"The ABC's," she said, "are very important. After all, if you want to grow up to be President Lincoln, you may want to learn a thing or two."
Snickering.
Sure.
"Who's laughing?"
She'd saunter back to the offending student and ask him to please explain why it was laughable to insult her. Why was an English lesson funny?
The kid, of course, did not have an answer.
In modern times, this author would laugh at her very own English Honors teacher, Mrs. Woods, who, in the author's senior year of high school, would introduce her to classical music and Don Quixote before she (the student) had even lost her virginity.
Before the days of texting and iPads and Blackberries, before AR-15s on campus and the death knell of the English language here in America, Mrs. Woods would reign.
Naturally, most of her students didn't realize it at the time, but those lessons would last a lifetime.
So take that to the bank next time some idiot's gone all ballastic on ya and you're thinkin' it's cooler to be cool than smart--it isn't.
I'm good and I've had less beers than you - Where has good grammar gone?
What's happening to the English language?
A twinkly-eyed customs agent at Heathrow would say I don't even speak English. When I arrived at his station in 2008, fresh off a trip to Prague, I breathily spat that I was "so glad to be back where I could speak English."
He looked at me with an eye roll.
"So is that what you call what you speak in your country."
It was enough to bother me for, oh, since 2008.
It's a story I recant as often as it's appropriate, but lately whenever I'm explaining to my French ESL student why we speak and write the way we do and how this differs across the pond.
Unfortunately, I'm finding I have to also defend myself in my own country and outside the tutoring environment. Like when I'm watching a L'oreal Paris commercial and they brag that their product means "less wrinkles".
Less wrinkles?!
What happens when my student sees this, especially after one of our lessons on non-count vs. countable nouns and when to use less versus fewer. The rule, of course, is that less goes with the non-countable nouns such as water, money, courage, etc. Fewer is used with everything one can count, from bridges to pimples to journalists.
When I explained to my student that he should also say "I am well" instead of "I am good" he responded that no one at his company talked like that.
Of course they don't.
And they're engineers.
Why would professionals who scraped to get through eight years at Brown come out sounding anything like a proper English-speaking man or woman?
The answer? Because it's not cool. It's not cool to say "I am well" or "There are fewer wrinkles from using this product" or even, in some circles, "We don't have any use for that."
Trust me, plenty of the riders of the O bus into New Haven are saying they are good, they have less wrinkles and they don't have no use for that.
It's becoming so common that I want to wear ear plugs when I walk outside or turn on the television.
Thank you, HBO for smart programming and thank you, New York Times for all your smart reporters. Thank you, Shakespeare, for every existing and holding up the bar for all of us to reach -- or apparently spill over when we're blathering on about how we ain't gunna get none tonight and how gud we're feelin', all things considered.
And of course, texting just makes it worse. Why say boyfriend if one can text "bf"; but wait, that's best friend, right? By the way, who takes the time to say "One" when it's more common to say "You"?
Why are my grammar panties all in a wad over this, or as one journalist accused today, that I was going all #grammarpolice on him?
Because it matters.
Because if we don't speak and write correctly then one day, no one will even remember what it was to communicate properly. It matters especially for writers, journalists, teachers, scientists and other intellectuals to use the write words, proper punctuation and sound metaphors and similes. I used to be against cliches but you know what, why not. I use them when I speak so bring them on.
I choose my battles, and this week the battle is about "fewer" versus "less".
Yes, my great-great grandmother was a school marm. Grandma "Pink". She even had pink cheeks. I can picture her tottering into that one-room schoolhouse in West Texas, pounding the desk to get some upstart to shut up.
Then Grandma Pink asked the little weasle to come up, pop his gum out, and sit back down.
"The ABC's," she said, "are very important. After all, if you want to grow up to be President Lincoln, you may want to learn a thing or two."
Snickering.
Sure.
"Who's laughing?"
She'd saunter back to the offending student and ask him to please explain why it was laughable to insult her. Why was an English lesson so funny?
The kid, of course, did not have an answer.
In modern times, this author would laugh at her very own English Honors teacher, Mrs. Woods, who, in the author's senior year of high school, would introduce her to classical music and Don Quixote before she even lost her virginity.
Before the days of texting and iPads and Blackberries, before AR-15s on campus and the death knell of the English language here in American, Mrs. Woods would reign.
Naturally, most of her students didn't realize it at the time, but those lessons would last a lifetime.
So take that to the bank next time some idiot's gone all ballastic on ya and you're thinkin' it's cooler to be cool than smart--it isn't.
A twinkly-eyed customs agent at Heathrow would say I don't even speak English. When I arrived at his station in 2008, fresh off a trip to Prague, I breathily spat that I was "so glad to be back where I could speak English."
He looked at me with an eye roll.
"So is that what you call what you speak in your country."
It was enough to bother me for, oh, since 2008.
It's a story I recant as often as it's appropriate, but lately whenever I'm explaining to my French ESL student why we speak and write the way we do and how this differs across the pond.
Unfortunately, I'm finding I have to also defend myself in my own country and outside the tutoring environment. Like when I'm watching a L'oreal Paris commercial and they brag that their product means "less wrinkles".
Less wrinkles?!
What happens when my student sees this, especially after one of our lessons on non-count vs. countable nouns and when to use less versus fewer. The rule, of course, is that less goes with the non-countable nouns such as water, money, courage, etc. Fewer is used with everything one can count, from bridges to pimples to journalists.
When I explained to my student that he should also say "I am well" instead of "I am good" he responded that no one at his company talked like that.
Of course they don't.
And they're engineers.
Why would professionals who scraped to get through eight years at Brown come out sounding anything like a proper English-speaking man or woman?
The answer? Because it's not cool. It's not cool to say "I am well" or "There are fewer wrinkles from using this product" or even, in some circles, "We don't have any use for that."
Trust me, plenty of the riders of the O bus into New Haven are saying they are good, they have less wrinkles and they don't have no use for that.
It's becoming so common that I want to wear ear plugs when I walk outside or turn on the television.
Thank you, HBO for smart programming and thank you, New York Times for all your smart reporters. Thank you, Shakespeare, for every existing and holding up the bar for all of us to reach -- or apparently spill over when we're blathering on about how we ain't gunna get none tonight and how gud we're feelin', all things considered.
And of course, texting just makes it worse. Why say boyfriend if one can text "bf"; but wait, that's best friend, right? By the way, who takes the time to say "One" when it's more common to say "You"?
Why are my grammar panties all in a wad over this, or as one journalist accused today, that I was going all #grammarpolice on him?
Because it matters.
Because if we don't speak and write correctly then one day, no one will even remember what it was to communicate properly. It matters especially for writers, journalists, teachers, scientists and other intellectuals to use the write words, proper punctuation and sound metaphors and similes. I used to be against cliches but you know what, why not. I use them when I speak so bring them on.
I choose my battles, and this week the battle is about "fewer" versus "less".
Yes, my great-great grandmother was a school marm. Grandma "Pink". She even had pink cheeks. I can picture her tottering into that one-room schoolhouse in West Texas, pounding the desk to get some upstart to shut up.
Then Grandma Pink asked the little weasle to come up, pop his gum out, and sit back down.
"The ABC's," she said, "are very important. After all, if you want to grow up to be President Lincoln, you may want to learn a thing or two."
Snickering.
Sure.
"Who's laughing?"
She'd saunter back to the offending student and ask him to please explain why it was laughable to insult her. Why was an English lesson so funny?
The kid, of course, did not have an answer.
In modern times, this author would laugh at her very own English Honors teacher, Mrs. Woods, who, in the author's senior year of high school, would introduce her to classical music and Don Quixote before she even lost her virginity.
Before the days of texting and iPads and Blackberries, before AR-15s on campus and the death knell of the English language here in American, Mrs. Woods would reign.
Naturally, most of her students didn't realize it at the time, but those lessons would last a lifetime.
So take that to the bank next time some idiot's gone all ballastic on ya and you're thinkin' it's cooler to be cool than smart--it isn't.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Journalism in the 22nd century
I woke up this morning -- yes, I am 141, which apparently I accomplished through mosturizer and my new vegan lifestyle -- to find that my boyfriend (a spry 92) had broken his Kindlette.
For those of you still reading this in the 21st century, that's Kindle gone all Jetsons on ya, so small that I can only see it when my fake eyeballs are lasered up with biojuice. Sometimes it's hard to pick the right pair in the dark, but I do my best.
Anyway, the news story we read today is about Britney Spears III inheriting a fortune from her best friend, Lindsay Lohan XI, and then blowing it all on, well, blow. I wasn't too happy when coke made a comeback, but at least it woke up the 200-year-olds at my mom's convalescent home.
I seem to recall vaguely that the US, all but California that is (which seceded from the Union in 2071, and shame on you for forgetting that), was going to war with Canada. I know you 21st century readers won't believe that, but gosh darn it's true. Do you honestly think a century of fighting over the Keystone XL pipeline would come to anything useful? Screw fracking and risks to the water supply. All that drilling set off the kind of seismic activity we haven't seen since 1906 in San Francisco, though admittedly, the fifty mile fissure in the Sierras made Cali's secession a tad easier. Sometimes I miss flying into LA, but oh well. Who needs a tan with so much radioactivity?
Well, after Bart (my 17th husband) handed me the Kindlette and I rummaged for what felt like hours (audio commands stuck), I finally found what I was looking for: we bomb Toronto tomorrow at noon. No more element of surprise. After all, our president can't take the stress: he's now 141, too. And good on you, Barack Obama, who made it into your 21st term with nary a broken hip! Though it doesn't help having Michelle---Moms gone wild--Obama still doin' the Dougie in the East Room. Let's move indeed!
I'm of mixed feelings about the tensions with Canada. I was equally disturbed when we told France to stuff it (all that socializing with Hollande made Obama really look like a socialist, especially when he started handing out $500 bills to nursery schoolers just to boost self-esteem). I just wish it was easier to find out about these things before the bloggers put out a reality show.
Ah, whoa is me. Who needed the five Ws and one H anyway. We still have Twitter, even though it bought Facebook in 2017 and gobbled up Instagram once Oscar Pistorius started posting pictures from the 2016 Olympics. Still amazed that his sponsors forgave him even though he was seen cruising Malibu with OJ.
Of course, I have no way of verifying any of this. It's been at least 80 years since the Gray Lady's last run. I sometimes see Nicholas Kristof at Magnolia Bakery rocking his baby in his arms. I still appreciate that story he did on male fertility kickin' it into one's triple digits.
For those of you still reading this in the 21st century, that's Kindle gone all Jetsons on ya, so small that I can only see it when my fake eyeballs are lasered up with biojuice. Sometimes it's hard to pick the right pair in the dark, but I do my best.
Anyway, the news story we read today is about Britney Spears III inheriting a fortune from her best friend, Lindsay Lohan XI, and then blowing it all on, well, blow. I wasn't too happy when coke made a comeback, but at least it woke up the 200-year-olds at my mom's convalescent home.
I seem to recall vaguely that the US, all but California that is (which seceded from the Union in 2071, and shame on you for forgetting that), was going to war with Canada. I know you 21st century readers won't believe that, but gosh darn it's true. Do you honestly think a century of fighting over the Keystone XL pipeline would come to anything useful? Screw fracking and risks to the water supply. All that drilling set off the kind of seismic activity we haven't seen since 1906 in San Francisco, though admittedly, the fifty mile fissure in the Sierras made Cali's secession a tad easier. Sometimes I miss flying into LA, but oh well. Who needs a tan with so much radioactivity?
Well, after Bart (my 17th husband) handed me the Kindlette and I rummaged for what felt like hours (audio commands stuck), I finally found what I was looking for: we bomb Toronto tomorrow at noon. No more element of surprise. After all, our president can't take the stress: he's now 141, too. And good on you, Barack Obama, who made it into your 21st term with nary a broken hip! Though it doesn't help having Michelle---Moms gone wild--Obama still doin' the Dougie in the East Room. Let's move indeed!
I'm of mixed feelings about the tensions with Canada. I was equally disturbed when we told France to stuff it (all that socializing with Hollande made Obama really look like a socialist, especially when he started handing out $500 bills to nursery schoolers just to boost self-esteem). I just wish it was easier to find out about these things before the bloggers put out a reality show.
Ah, whoa is me. Who needed the five Ws and one H anyway. We still have Twitter, even though it bought Facebook in 2017 and gobbled up Instagram once Oscar Pistorius started posting pictures from the 2016 Olympics. Still amazed that his sponsors forgave him even though he was seen cruising Malibu with OJ.
Of course, I have no way of verifying any of this. It's been at least 80 years since the Gray Lady's last run. I sometimes see Nicholas Kristof at Magnolia Bakery rocking his baby in his arms. I still appreciate that story he did on male fertility kickin' it into one's triple digits.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Saturday Girl - why I'll miss six-day-a-week postal delivery
Saturday Girl
Why I will miss the six-day-a-week postal service
Today's news that the U.S. Postal Service is cutting back to five-day delivery hit me kind of hard, even though it was not surprising.
I have to support it. I knew they were in the red, after all.
I just worry that this portends something a little bigger -- like no service.
For all the kids out there who don't care about this, let me explain why this hurts: bigger than the transition from albums to CDs to iTunes, bigger than landlines to mobiles and real-life pals to Facebook friends, the postal service transition could be dark, really dark.
Letters from my past
My grandmother Mimi used to send me letters (see photo). When she passed, I had access to her thoughts, how she wanted me to find a nice Jewish boy, keep reading, keep doing well in school, and when I had a moment read her latest proverb.
Mimi took proverbs and with her calligraphy, turned them into art for the Jewish Heritage of Los Angeles. These proverbs would later be a gift to me during times of questioning how to live my life.
Not only Mimi, but my other grandmother Mama Sue, wrote me countless missives about grades, South Texas, the Southern Baptist church where I was baptised, the family reunion, black-eyed peas, you name it.
Sadly, I no longer have Mama Sue's letters except in my memory.
I've also recited to memory letters from my first love, C., who once took the Pink Floyd song "Wish you Were Here" and turned it into a profession of love. He'd broken up the lyrics into binder paper puzzle pieces, mailed to me from U.C. Davis, and I had to piece it together by numbers.
After the full lyrics, I found Piece No. 48: "I love you."
I kept all of C's letters tied up in a brown shoelace, criss-cross style, and threw them into a woman's garage along with my old prom dresses and yearbooks when I moved to the east coast.
When I lost all of that stuff, a part of my heart was lost with it.
Letters.
Have.
Value.
Think of Christmas
I know of no more joyous rush than the one I get every season, flush with winter, racing to the post office, to mail my packages out west.
If it's a year I'm heading to California, the same rush is miniaturized by my mailing copious amounts of Christmas cards.
I whined about the e-card trend this year, telling everyone who cared (and many who didn't) that these were okay for birthdays or promotions but certainly not my hallowed Christmas.
Even so, I got them, thanked the senders and filed them away.
I am sure all of these e-cards will probably fall into the trash bin of my laptop's non-sentimental hard drive before you can say so much as "told ya so."
Meanwhile, the Christmas cards I've managed to collect in the 12 years since I've been on the east coast are now attractively gathering dust in my storage locker.
I visit them from time to time, their comments a touchstone on how far I've come (or haven't) in these many years. Sometimes the sender isn't even someone I'd talk to anymore. Other times it's a family member, congratulating me on a job I've just attained or a new home. Many times a friend's family photo falls out, and I am breathless, looking at how fast these babies grow up.
When you're gone
I cherish most the cards I've gotten from my parents over the years, and lately, fewer and fewer. We're all chatting on e-mail, quickly, not bothering with Spellcheck.
I would hug these cards and marry them if I could. I love a postcard from my dad's business trip back in the day or Mom's European adventure with my brother in the mid-90s. I love checking to see which address these were sent to, and sometimes can barely remember where it was I lived at the time.
Letters.
Are.
A Touchstone.
We open them and we are reminded not only of how much someone loves/loved or likes/liked us, but more importantly, who we were at that point in time. On this journey called life.
And I know, yes I know, that things do change. I get it. I am writing this blog entry on a laptop. I rarely write by hand anymore unless I'm scribbling in a leather-bound journal that was a gift for my birthday or traveling. I love sending postcards.
So I would urge all of you who read this to send one letter this week to someone you love. Do it for the postal service, Valentine's Day, and the understanding that life is as fleeting....as today's price on that stamp.
Saturday, February 2, 2013
Piers Morgan is a journalist? Piers Morgan is a journalist.
I don't know if he is or he isn't. A journalist.
I know he's got his own show on CNN, but some nights he's like the ongoing Ridiculist of Anderson Cooper's.
Some days I like Piers, and other times I just bristle at his mere existence on the telly.
I'm not one of those Anglos who get all hot and bothered hearing a British man speak my name. I've been to London many times, and plan to return in a few months. I am fully aware that they aren't so taken by our accent, so I do my best to keep my fascination with theirs under wraps.
My latest issue with Mr. Morgan is his treatment of my girl Chelsea Handler. I call her "my girl" because were it not for her book "Hello Vodka, it's Me Chelsea" I might have stopped drinking vodka altogether. I was beginning to worry that it wasn't natural to enjoy Greyhounds (the drink) alone anymore.
It's one thing to call oneself a slutty alcoholic -- which, to my recollection, Handler has done more sparingly of late -- but quite another for an older, tongue-wagging male Brit to come on one's show and insult the marachino cherry out of you.
I didn't like it, not one bit.
I had fantasized about winning a trip out to LA so I could see the taping this week, too. Now, watching the footage of her deriding him for having "mollester eyes" and hearing her say he could suck her ass when he offered to coach her on interviewing, it's a sight viewed best from afar. I'd hate to have been one of those live audience members laughing effusively at the lovely Handler while over-egoed Morgan took the credit.
I watched their interview from two years ago, just before he started with CNN. Then, he had a whiff of humility about him, Chandler seemed even taken by him, and I didn't watch the show wanting to vomit. The footage I watched from E! last night made me wish Handler could have spat not just insults his way but spit-balls.
Back to Morgan.
I'm happy he's taken a tough stance against the insane NRA and the semi-automatic weapons that are now more ubiquitous it seems than Mickey D's burgers. I've even supported him when he has called guests things like "idiots" because they were, even though I realize this is straddling the journalism line very loosely.
Where he fails, though, is when he constantly reverts attention back to himself. Handler doesn't do this. She is the Queen of Self-Deprecation, much like Jimmy Kimmel and David Letterman, and that's why we love her.
Morgan can't seem to decide what he is: serious journalist or star-struck turbo-testosteroned twerp.
I'd never sign the petition to deport him, but then again, I've never been the victim of his "molester" once-overs.
I know he's got his own show on CNN, but some nights he's like the ongoing Ridiculist of Anderson Cooper's.
Some days I like Piers, and other times I just bristle at his mere existence on the telly.
I'm not one of those Anglos who get all hot and bothered hearing a British man speak my name. I've been to London many times, and plan to return in a few months. I am fully aware that they aren't so taken by our accent, so I do my best to keep my fascination with theirs under wraps.
My latest issue with Mr. Morgan is his treatment of my girl Chelsea Handler. I call her "my girl" because were it not for her book "Hello Vodka, it's Me Chelsea" I might have stopped drinking vodka altogether. I was beginning to worry that it wasn't natural to enjoy Greyhounds (the drink) alone anymore.
It's one thing to call oneself a slutty alcoholic -- which, to my recollection, Handler has done more sparingly of late -- but quite another for an older, tongue-wagging male Brit to come on one's show and insult the marachino cherry out of you.
I didn't like it, not one bit.
I had fantasized about winning a trip out to LA so I could see the taping this week, too. Now, watching the footage of her deriding him for having "mollester eyes" and hearing her say he could suck her ass when he offered to coach her on interviewing, it's a sight viewed best from afar. I'd hate to have been one of those live audience members laughing effusively at the lovely Handler while over-egoed Morgan took the credit.
I watched their interview from two years ago, just before he started with CNN. Then, he had a whiff of humility about him, Chandler seemed even taken by him, and I didn't watch the show wanting to vomit. The footage I watched from E! last night made me wish Handler could have spat not just insults his way but spit-balls.
Back to Morgan.
I'm happy he's taken a tough stance against the insane NRA and the semi-automatic weapons that are now more ubiquitous it seems than Mickey D's burgers. I've even supported him when he has called guests things like "idiots" because they were, even though I realize this is straddling the journalism line very loosely.
Where he fails, though, is when he constantly reverts attention back to himself. Handler doesn't do this. She is the Queen of Self-Deprecation, much like Jimmy Kimmel and David Letterman, and that's why we love her.
Morgan can't seem to decide what he is: serious journalist or star-struck turbo-testosteroned twerp.
I'd never sign the petition to deport him, but then again, I've never been the victim of his "molester" once-overs.
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