It can't be easy these days to be a White House reporter. It's hard enough to do the job when you work in a small town. But at the top level the pressure must be so much more intense -- either you get The Story or you could lose your job.
It must be even harder when the people you're trying to get your story from are clearly nuts.
It's one thing when the new President refuses to let a reporter ask a question and calls the reporter's news agency "fake news." It's another when the President's press secretary admonishes the media for pointing out that the crowd at the new President's inauguration was noticeably smaller than the attendance at the previous President's inauguration.
Now the new administration is trying to place a gag order on federal agencies. Staffers for the Environmental Protection Agency have been told not to express their opinions on social media -- possibly because the EPA's facing a shake-out under the new administration. Today, researchers for the Department of Agriculture were told to stop issuing news releases about any studies they're working on. A senior official with the Secret Service may face some sort of punishment for allegedly saying on Facebook that she wouldn't be willing to take a bullet for Donald Trump.
Awww, did my OPINION hurt the President's feelings?
Couldn't have. I'm not convinced that he HAS any feelings.
Here's the thing that bugs me most about our new President:
He lies. Almost every day.
He overstates. He makes claims that he knows aren't true. Constantly.
And he seems to expect that we're so dumb, or so involved with our own lives, or have such limited attention spans, that we either won't REMEMBER the facts he's distorting or we won't be bothered enough to go track them down.
Like when he said he won the election by the biggest margin in history. Just for an example.
Like when he compared the CIA releasing information -- on a dossier of compromising behavior the Russians apparently compiled about him -- to something the Nazis might have done. And then a few days later he denied that he'd said it. Apparently there's never been a rift between Trump and the intelligence agencies. That was something the media cooked up.
That media. Man, those guys are a pain in the ass.
So here's what we'll do. Anytime we don't like a question the media asks, we'll call them out as fake news. We won't take their questions. We'll have them thrown out of the press conference.
The other reporters will get the message quick. Either they play nice ... or they lose access to the White House. They won't be able to do their jobs. THAT'll shut them up. Either they'll publish the news we want ... or they'll have no news at all.
THAT'll keep 'em in line.
Cut off the media, dumb down the public, and keep that rock rolling downhill. And pretty soon we'll be getting all our "news" from the Ministry of Information.
In Newspeak.
To keep us all from thinking Unthinkable Thoughts.
That would be Double-Plus-Ungood.
I didn't vote for Trump. I voted for Hillary. I wasn't thrilled about it. But that's water under the bridge. So's the election. Hillary lost in the wrong states. Apparently.
But we've got bigger fish to fry now.
I was -- maybe until tonight -- still leaning 60/40 toward giving Trump a chance, seeing what he was going to do, seeing if he could maybe grow into the job, giving him time to mess up on his own.
I didn't watch the inauguration, but I read Trump's speech later, and heard parts of it on the radio while I was working. I read the media's analysis of the speech the same day, and was kind of shocked. Actually, I thought some of the media kind of went apeshit crazy.
Chris Matthews of MSNBC compared the speech to something Hitler might have said. George F. Will -- who's been covering politics for places like TIME Magazine for more than 40 years -- called it the worst inauguration speech in American history.
The speech was pretty short. And Trump used some fairly dark imagery in it. But he used that imagery to illustrate where he thinks America is RIGHT NOW -- NOT where he wants to take it.
I thought.
I didn't think his speech was that bad. But it wasn't an obvious attempt to unite the American people, or even to encourage us to pull together for the good of the country.
He could have done better. He could have made an appeal to the people who voted against him. He could maybe have shown he's not as bad as some people think, that people have no reason to worry. But he didn't even try.
He blew another chance at the Women's March on Washington a couple days ago. He could have embraced that huge, concerned audience. He could have said "I see you, I hear you -- and I'm with you."
But he was mending fences with the CIA at the time.
Now I read that Trump may order that border wall -- you know, the one Mexico's going to pay for -- to start construction on Wednesday. And you know who's going to pay for it -- we are.
That wall will be built for NO REASON. It will be built as a symbol. To keep illegal immigrants out so they won't take our jobs? How many of you Out There have lost your job to someone from somewhere else? Most jobs being done by immigrants are jobs Americans are either educationally unqualified for ... or jobs Americans refuse to do for less than $15 an hour. ...And by the way, where are YOU from?
Faced again with an administration that clearly feels the media is The Enemy, just like Nixon did, I hope the media will get tough, stand up for each other, hold Trump's feet to the fire, hold him accountable for everything he says. So far they've done OK. We need them to keep doing it.
It shouldn't be hard to hold him accountable. He'll say something stupid again tomorrow. Or there will be some fresh new outrage that he'll try to twist and spin to suit his own purposes.
As for me, I'd still like to see him grow into the job. Don't we all hope for the best for our country? I'm still willing to give him a chance.
But if -- no, WHEN -- he REALLY messes up, then I'll be jumping on him, just like the reporter I used to be.
Showing posts with label reporting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label reporting. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 24, 2017
Monday, December 23, 2013
#731: After words
Holy crap -- my 200-page newspaper memoir/e-book THE CONFESSOR is now available at Amazon.com's Kindle Store for $2.99. I just e-mailed the package to Amazon at 4:30 this morning and it's already Out There doing its good for humanity. These Kindle folks do NOT mess around.
A few words of explanation: This book covers some of my adventures during the 20 years I worked for newspapers in the Air Force and out here in The Real World. It includes some of my favorite funny newspaper stories, and some tragic stories that I haven't been able to get out of my head in the decade since I "retired."
There are also some behind-the-scenes stories of stress and overwork and outrage and incompetence and abuse. Turns out writing for newspapers in The Real World was even harder -- and stranger -- than putting up with the Air Force. You'll see what I mean.
I think you'll have a good time -- but I also think this book is a little less light and fun than GUARANTEED GREAT MUSIC! was. There's some really good funny stories in it -- there are stories in there that I've been telling people for YEARS. But I also learned some tough Life Lessons during my 20-year career, and they're also included.
And you can assume that there isn't a conventional Happy Ending, or else I'd still be writing for newspapers. But I survived it, and I'm still here writing about it. I gotta get SOMETHING out of the 20 years I wasted....
Not sure why all this stuff came pouring out so fast -- it only took me six weeks to write the book. Maybe because I had 20 years of experiences to draw from, so I had no trouble remembering things I wanted to write about.
So, give it a shot! You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll kiss three bucks goodbye....
Holy crap, I've written two 200-page books since August! Why couldn't I do this while I was in my 20's?
Not sure what I'll do next, probably take a break -- but I've been thinking over finally pulling together TAD'S GUIDE TO STRANGE MUSIC. I've been piling-up information for it for YEARS. And I've sort of got a built-in audience waiting for it, right...?
Let's face it: Everything I write is pretty much one big long book that I hope people might dip into and maybe enjoy little bits and pieces of. What's a blog, if not a big long book in chapters?
BTW, I will NOT be starting another new blog to mark the publication of this book....
Also: One thing being a reporter taught me is that EVERYONE has an interesting life story. There's a reason you're here today, and there are reasons why you've ended up this way. You ought to get writing on YOUR story while you've still got some time left. Your family, your children, your friends will appreciate it....
BTW, through Christmas Day you can still download GUARANTEED GREAT MUSIC! for FREE at Amazon.com's Kindle Store....
AHEAD: Coming Real Soon will be the end-of-the-year 4th Annual TAD Awards, my annual roundup of the best and worst stuff I heard and read over this past year -- I'm probably going to call the post "3rd Annual Pipe Dream" just to see if anybody's paying attention....
Also Coming Soon: Overused Rock&Roll words, Songs it took me years to like, a salute to Caravan (drummer Richard Coughlan, RIP), and more.
Over at the Guaranteed Great Music! blog, a review of Todd Rundgren and Utopia's rather good 1980 ADVENTURES IN UTOPIA album is now posted -- the least I could do, since I stupidly forgot about it and left the album out of my RECORD STORE DAZE playlist/discography.
Sheesh, I'm surprised I can remember ANYTHING anymore. That must be why I'm scrambling to write all this stuff down now -- before I forget everything....
Happy Holidays, all....
A few words of explanation: This book covers some of my adventures during the 20 years I worked for newspapers in the Air Force and out here in The Real World. It includes some of my favorite funny newspaper stories, and some tragic stories that I haven't been able to get out of my head in the decade since I "retired."
There are also some behind-the-scenes stories of stress and overwork and outrage and incompetence and abuse. Turns out writing for newspapers in The Real World was even harder -- and stranger -- than putting up with the Air Force. You'll see what I mean.
I think you'll have a good time -- but I also think this book is a little less light and fun than GUARANTEED GREAT MUSIC! was. There's some really good funny stories in it -- there are stories in there that I've been telling people for YEARS. But I also learned some tough Life Lessons during my 20-year career, and they're also included.
And you can assume that there isn't a conventional Happy Ending, or else I'd still be writing for newspapers. But I survived it, and I'm still here writing about it. I gotta get SOMETHING out of the 20 years I wasted....
Not sure why all this stuff came pouring out so fast -- it only took me six weeks to write the book. Maybe because I had 20 years of experiences to draw from, so I had no trouble remembering things I wanted to write about.
So, give it a shot! You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll kiss three bucks goodbye....
Holy crap, I've written two 200-page books since August! Why couldn't I do this while I was in my 20's?
Not sure what I'll do next, probably take a break -- but I've been thinking over finally pulling together TAD'S GUIDE TO STRANGE MUSIC. I've been piling-up information for it for YEARS. And I've sort of got a built-in audience waiting for it, right...?
Let's face it: Everything I write is pretty much one big long book that I hope people might dip into and maybe enjoy little bits and pieces of. What's a blog, if not a big long book in chapters?
BTW, I will NOT be starting another new blog to mark the publication of this book....
Also: One thing being a reporter taught me is that EVERYONE has an interesting life story. There's a reason you're here today, and there are reasons why you've ended up this way. You ought to get writing on YOUR story while you've still got some time left. Your family, your children, your friends will appreciate it....
BTW, through Christmas Day you can still download GUARANTEED GREAT MUSIC! for FREE at Amazon.com's Kindle Store....
AHEAD: Coming Real Soon will be the end-of-the-year 4th Annual TAD Awards, my annual roundup of the best and worst stuff I heard and read over this past year -- I'm probably going to call the post "3rd Annual Pipe Dream" just to see if anybody's paying attention....
Also Coming Soon: Overused Rock&Roll words, Songs it took me years to like, a salute to Caravan (drummer Richard Coughlan, RIP), and more.
Over at the Guaranteed Great Music! blog, a review of Todd Rundgren and Utopia's rather good 1980 ADVENTURES IN UTOPIA album is now posted -- the least I could do, since I stupidly forgot about it and left the album out of my RECORD STORE DAZE playlist/discography.
Sheesh, I'm surprised I can remember ANYTHING anymore. That must be why I'm scrambling to write all this stuff down now -- before I forget everything....
Happy Holidays, all....
Sunday, July 14, 2013
#695: My Worst Moment....
...as a newspaper reporter had nothing to do with reporting. Way more to do with interpersonal communication & overwork & stress.
This post is for you Out There who've somehow gotten the impression that I'm A Nice Guy. I'm not. Or at least I sometimes wasn't back in my reporting days. It's also offered as an extreme example of what stress & overwork can lead to. Here's what happened....
It's mid-May 1999 at the world's smallest weekly newspaper, somewhere on the Washington coast. After pulling together another stress-filled issue, the Editor -- let's call her Judith -- calls the four-member writing&layout staff together for a Friday planning meeting. Where she drops the bomb that the annual Tourism Special Edition -- a 24-page advertising-filled tourist brochure -- is due MONDAY, on top of the usual work required for the next normal issue of the paper.
Then she drops another bomb: Myself, the Sports Editor & the Layout chief (who is my wife, who worked for 6 stress-filled months at the paper with me) are going to pull the Tourism Edition together while The Editor spends her weekend across the state in Spokane. She's going to write and do NOTHING for the Tourism Issue.
And she just leaves it there. The meeting breaks up. & I'm furious.
Because this continues a pattern The Editor has had since she came aboard 8 months earlier. She does only what she wants, dumps all the work on everybody else, blames other people for her mistakes, and spreads stress like a plague carrier. When the paper is delivered to the printers late, she blames everybody else for her short-sightedness -- when the front page is usually waiting for her writing & layout work to get finished before it can be delivered.
Over the last 6 months I've been doing more & more writing. At the worst point I'm covering 4 nighttime meetings per week, then coming back into the office at 9 a.m., writing my ass off. I'm on salary so I collect no Overtime. I hardly ever see my kids. About the only time I see my wife is when we bump into each other in the office. & Judith keeps piling on the work. Every time she calls my name from inside her walled-in cubicle my stomach locks up in knots because I know it means More Work.
We've had words before. The last time was when she asked me to do a hatchet job on an overworked city employee -- a guy who was hired to do all the stuff the Mayor and City Engineer couldn't get to. "He just smells wrong," she said. "There's got to be something there." This guy had never hurt anyone as far as I knew. There was no reason for us to go after him. I told her to write the hatchet job herself. She never wrote it, of course. Because there was nothing there to write.
This time around I'm so angry that I'm shaking.
"Can we talk about this?" I ask gently.
"No!" she said, slamming stuff into her travel bag. "I'm outta here. I need a break."
"Yeah, but you're leaving all the work for us."
"I'm allowed a break. I'm going to Spokane."
"That's nothing new," I said. "You take EVERY weekend off. While we clean up behind you."
"You guys can handle it."
"You're counting on that to be true," I said, and I start following her around the office as she gathers stuff to put in her bag. "You always dump all the work on us so you can have the weekend off."
"I do not," she said.
"You DO," I said. My voice is getting louder. "You never do your share, you always leave the work for everyone else. When is enough enough? Where do you draw the line at?"
"Mind your own business," she said. "I'm leaving!"
She goes into the back room to grab her coffee cup. I follow her. By now I'm yelling. I'm full of anger because I know I'm right. This has been coming on for a long time.
"This IS my business!" I yell into her face. "When does it STOP?! How much work do you think you can dump on people before they freak out?! We're ALL overworked! We're ALL burned out! When do WE get to go to Spokane?!"
"Shut UP!"
"NO!" I yelled. "You don't GET it! You dump work on everybody! You do NOTHING! All you do is create stress! You don't know what the F you're doing!"
"Get the F away from me!" she yells.
"NO! Run away to Spokane! Who CARES?! Don't F'ing come back! WHO CARES?! YOU don't! Get the F outta here! We'll cover for you! We always DO!"
"Get the F away from me!" she repeats, this time lower, angrier. I have her backed into a corner as we yell into each other's faces. All the rest of the newspaper's employees are out front in the main office where I'm sure our voices are echoing. Our Publisher is upstairs, directly above us, and can hear every word. And no one is interrupting.
She makes a break for it and heads for the front office.
"You're F'ing NUTS!" she yells. "I'm F'ing outta here! Who CARES if you do the work?! It's YOUR F'ing JOB! Don't do it and you're FIRED! See ya!"
I scream gibberish at her as she runs out the office door. Something about how I hope she crashes and burns and ends up dead in a ditch. Something like that. I walk back to my desk and collapse.
So much for professionalism. I'm still shaking. It's VERY quiet in the office. I expect my Publisher to come downstairs and fire me. It doesn't happen.
Over the next half-hour or so, 3 or 4 of my co-workers swing by my cubicle and say thanks for putting The Editor in her place. They've wanted to say all that stuff for a long time.
"Sure," I tell them. "Next time YOU do it."
The Sports Editor, my wife & I pull together the Tourism Issue over the weekend. We recycle a lot of info from the year before. None of us get paid any overtime for the 12-hour days we put in writing, photographing, updating and laying-out the issue. But that's nothing new, and the package gets done on time. It's one of the last things my wife does for the paper -- 6 months later she decides to divorce me.
The Editor returns Monday morning, & checks to see that the Tourism Issue got done. I cringe in my chair wondering what she'll say to me, but instead she goes upstairs to see The Publisher. They talk for an hour behind closed doors. Then she comes back downstairs, goes into her cubicle, grabs her things, and leaves.
It's quiet in the office for a minute or two. Then our Receptionist says "Uh ... I think Judith just Left."
She didn't even tell the Publisher she was quitting. Later that afternoon, he offers the Editor's job to me. I've told him No twice before, but this time I think I couldn't possibly do a worse job than Judith. So I say Yes.
And immediately Judith gets her revenge from beyond the grave, so to speak.
Immediately I start doing 50-hour work weeks, or more. I continue writing my ass off. The stress is actually less because I'm in charge, but the same amount of writing I was doing as a reporter is still there.
The first issue comes off pretty well. A local alternative highschool holds a rather modest and secretive graduation ceremony -- bassist Krist Novoselic of Nirvana is the surprise guest speaker. One of the girl grads pauses to pose for me right after getting her diploma, and it makes a beautiful front-page picture.
After that it gets tougher. Much tougher. My wife takes the kids and a friend and goes off to Canada for a week. I still don't realize my marriage is in serious trouble. I still think Life Is Good as I approach 40. I even take a week off to celebrate my 40th birthday....
And when I come back to work after my first vacation in three years, by 9 a.m. I'm hyperventilating, and soon after I'm lying on my back on the floor, gasping for breath like a fish....
This post is for you Out There who've somehow gotten the impression that I'm A Nice Guy. I'm not. Or at least I sometimes wasn't back in my reporting days. It's also offered as an extreme example of what stress & overwork can lead to. Here's what happened....
It's mid-May 1999 at the world's smallest weekly newspaper, somewhere on the Washington coast. After pulling together another stress-filled issue, the Editor -- let's call her Judith -- calls the four-member writing&layout staff together for a Friday planning meeting. Where she drops the bomb that the annual Tourism Special Edition -- a 24-page advertising-filled tourist brochure -- is due MONDAY, on top of the usual work required for the next normal issue of the paper.
Then she drops another bomb: Myself, the Sports Editor & the Layout chief (who is my wife, who worked for 6 stress-filled months at the paper with me) are going to pull the Tourism Edition together while The Editor spends her weekend across the state in Spokane. She's going to write and do NOTHING for the Tourism Issue.
And she just leaves it there. The meeting breaks up. & I'm furious.
Because this continues a pattern The Editor has had since she came aboard 8 months earlier. She does only what she wants, dumps all the work on everybody else, blames other people for her mistakes, and spreads stress like a plague carrier. When the paper is delivered to the printers late, she blames everybody else for her short-sightedness -- when the front page is usually waiting for her writing & layout work to get finished before it can be delivered.
Over the last 6 months I've been doing more & more writing. At the worst point I'm covering 4 nighttime meetings per week, then coming back into the office at 9 a.m., writing my ass off. I'm on salary so I collect no Overtime. I hardly ever see my kids. About the only time I see my wife is when we bump into each other in the office. & Judith keeps piling on the work. Every time she calls my name from inside her walled-in cubicle my stomach locks up in knots because I know it means More Work.
We've had words before. The last time was when she asked me to do a hatchet job on an overworked city employee -- a guy who was hired to do all the stuff the Mayor and City Engineer couldn't get to. "He just smells wrong," she said. "There's got to be something there." This guy had never hurt anyone as far as I knew. There was no reason for us to go after him. I told her to write the hatchet job herself. She never wrote it, of course. Because there was nothing there to write.
This time around I'm so angry that I'm shaking.
"Can we talk about this?" I ask gently.
"No!" she said, slamming stuff into her travel bag. "I'm outta here. I need a break."
"Yeah, but you're leaving all the work for us."
"I'm allowed a break. I'm going to Spokane."
"That's nothing new," I said. "You take EVERY weekend off. While we clean up behind you."
"You guys can handle it."
"You're counting on that to be true," I said, and I start following her around the office as she gathers stuff to put in her bag. "You always dump all the work on us so you can have the weekend off."
"I do not," she said.
"You DO," I said. My voice is getting louder. "You never do your share, you always leave the work for everyone else. When is enough enough? Where do you draw the line at?"
"Mind your own business," she said. "I'm leaving!"
She goes into the back room to grab her coffee cup. I follow her. By now I'm yelling. I'm full of anger because I know I'm right. This has been coming on for a long time.
"This IS my business!" I yell into her face. "When does it STOP?! How much work do you think you can dump on people before they freak out?! We're ALL overworked! We're ALL burned out! When do WE get to go to Spokane?!"
"Shut UP!"
"NO!" I yelled. "You don't GET it! You dump work on everybody! You do NOTHING! All you do is create stress! You don't know what the F you're doing!"
"Get the F away from me!" she yells.
"NO! Run away to Spokane! Who CARES?! Don't F'ing come back! WHO CARES?! YOU don't! Get the F outta here! We'll cover for you! We always DO!"
"Get the F away from me!" she repeats, this time lower, angrier. I have her backed into a corner as we yell into each other's faces. All the rest of the newspaper's employees are out front in the main office where I'm sure our voices are echoing. Our Publisher is upstairs, directly above us, and can hear every word. And no one is interrupting.
She makes a break for it and heads for the front office.
"You're F'ing NUTS!" she yells. "I'm F'ing outta here! Who CARES if you do the work?! It's YOUR F'ing JOB! Don't do it and you're FIRED! See ya!"
I scream gibberish at her as she runs out the office door. Something about how I hope she crashes and burns and ends up dead in a ditch. Something like that. I walk back to my desk and collapse.
So much for professionalism. I'm still shaking. It's VERY quiet in the office. I expect my Publisher to come downstairs and fire me. It doesn't happen.
Over the next half-hour or so, 3 or 4 of my co-workers swing by my cubicle and say thanks for putting The Editor in her place. They've wanted to say all that stuff for a long time.
"Sure," I tell them. "Next time YOU do it."
The Sports Editor, my wife & I pull together the Tourism Issue over the weekend. We recycle a lot of info from the year before. None of us get paid any overtime for the 12-hour days we put in writing, photographing, updating and laying-out the issue. But that's nothing new, and the package gets done on time. It's one of the last things my wife does for the paper -- 6 months later she decides to divorce me.
The Editor returns Monday morning, & checks to see that the Tourism Issue got done. I cringe in my chair wondering what she'll say to me, but instead she goes upstairs to see The Publisher. They talk for an hour behind closed doors. Then she comes back downstairs, goes into her cubicle, grabs her things, and leaves.
It's quiet in the office for a minute or two. Then our Receptionist says "Uh ... I think Judith just Left."
She didn't even tell the Publisher she was quitting. Later that afternoon, he offers the Editor's job to me. I've told him No twice before, but this time I think I couldn't possibly do a worse job than Judith. So I say Yes.
And immediately Judith gets her revenge from beyond the grave, so to speak.
Immediately I start doing 50-hour work weeks, or more. I continue writing my ass off. The stress is actually less because I'm in charge, but the same amount of writing I was doing as a reporter is still there.
The first issue comes off pretty well. A local alternative highschool holds a rather modest and secretive graduation ceremony -- bassist Krist Novoselic of Nirvana is the surprise guest speaker. One of the girl grads pauses to pose for me right after getting her diploma, and it makes a beautiful front-page picture.
After that it gets tougher. Much tougher. My wife takes the kids and a friend and goes off to Canada for a week. I still don't realize my marriage is in serious trouble. I still think Life Is Good as I approach 40. I even take a week off to celebrate my 40th birthday....
And when I come back to work after my first vacation in three years, by 9 a.m. I'm hyperventilating, and soon after I'm lying on my back on the floor, gasping for breath like a fish....
Monday, May 13, 2013
#669: The torture never stops
(No, this is not going to be a post about Frank Zappa, but thanks for playing....)
In these recent newspaper-reminiscences I've posted, I've left out one of the main reasons I don't do that kind of work anymore.
Because it's a high-stress job, & as a reporter it's VERY easy to get people angry at you without even trying.
You usually don't see it coming, but folks can go off about the craziest things.
I had one angry woman call me up after a domestic dispute she was involved in made the front page of the weekly paper I was working at. Her husband got charged with assault with a deadly weapon -- a kitchen knife.
She wasn't mad about the story -- which quoted her kids telling police that Daddy said he was "going to cut Mommy's head off." That didn't bother her.
What she was upset about was the HEADLINE, which covered all the cases that got into court that week -- which included some meth-possession cases -- & which she said made her sound like a meth freak.
"All my neighbors and friends think I'm methed out of my head now," she said.
I explained that the story didn't say that.... That wasn't good enough for her. She hadn't actually READ the story. So I READ THE STORY TO HER OVER THE PHONE, to make it clearer. She was still pissed about the headline. Finally I said I couldn't teach her friends & neighbors how to read....
After a downtown house fire on a Saturday evening destroyed an apartment building & set-off some ammunition somebody had stored there, when I got into work on Monday I called the Fire Chief for more details about what happened. He didn't have 5 minutes to talk to me -- he said he was too busy running water lines for the new Fire Hall. He didn't want any of the other firefighters to talk to me about it either, said I'd have to wait 'til he was available -- then hung up.
I called him back at 10 p.m. that night, & he STILL didn't have time to talk to me.
But we were a daily paper (published Tuesday through Saturday mornings). So I got what details I could from the Sheriff's Office & went ahead & wrote the story without the Fire Chief -- but left in quotes from him about how & why he avoided me.
& naturally, the next day when I got to work, the Fire Chief was in my Publisher's office, yelling at my Editor & my Publisher about what a backstabbing scumbag I was.
"I've lived here for 35 years and I don't have to take this kind of shit from you!" he yelled.
"I just want to know two things," I said. "Did I get any of the details wrong?"
"No!"
"Did I quote you accurately?"
"Well, yeah, but...."
"I'm outta here," I said, & left my bosses to argue with the Fire Chief -- who wanted to get me fired for not waiting to talk to him.
This kind of stuff happened ALL THE TIME. It was so stressful, the Publisher & I used to have closed-door meetings once a month so we could yell at each other & get all the stress out....
When we printed a photo on the front page of a fisherman's body that was fished out of the river after he'd been missing for a month, people called & yelled at us about that -- even though all you could see was a big gray bag being carried by four guys.
When a prominent local lawyer ran for Mayor -- then got arrested on a meth-possession charge, I wrote the story. & then the Editor & I sat on it for 3 days because we just weren't sure. This was a story that could ruin someone's life. Then our Publisher ordered us to get off the pot & print the story. We ran it on Page 2.
& the next day the Mayoral candidate called up crying. How could I DO this to her, she asked. I'd interviewed her, I'd been IN HER HOUSE! Her husband, also a lawyer, who was listening in on the phonecall, asked if they could've had a little advance warning about the story. I suggested that if they'd had any warning, they probably would've tried to stop the story from being printed.
He laughed & said I was probably right.
I apologized to his wife, who I thought was a good person, & said I was sorry for how things had gone, & that I hoped it would all work out in the end.
She lost the election & never spoke to me again. I'm not sure what happened with the meth charge.
When I was in the Air Force, I got used to defending my writing against people who didn't understand what I did -- but who outranked me, so what they wanted was what went. I got pretty good at it anyway, even convincing some that I was right.
But in the Real World, everybody outranked me. No amount of Good Work I did (& I think I did a LOT) ever made it any easier. No doors opened more easily just because I was good at my job. There was never any big payoff or reward. There were never any "better" jobs offered other than in-the-trenches reporter or small-town editor.
& I can't remember how many times people called at midnight or 4 a.m., spilled their guts to me for two hours, & then said "This is all off-the-record, you can't use any of this, I never called you" ... even AFTER I told them at the start of the phonecall that I'd be taking notes.... But I always tried to be A Good Guy....
When I was in the AF, my old buddy & fellow editor Phil Guerrero had a joke about the kind of long, involved stories I used to write: "Keep typing 'til it makes sense!" For years, that was my motto.
But I got to the point where no amount of explaining made any difference, where everything was just too complicated, & I could no longer even find the main reason I was writing some things. For much of the last four years of my "career," I'd go into work on Monday morning, down a pot of coffee, write the entire front page of the paper, & go home that night not remembering anything I'd written.
Journalism is a career for a young person with lots of time & lots of energy & no social life. It's the kiss of death for marriages & families. You wouldn't believe how many divorced, alcoholic, unhappy reporters I met over the years....
& when I got to the point where I couldn't remember the basics, couldn't keep the facts straight, was making stupid mistakes, couldn't make any sense out of anything I was writing, no matter how much I tried to explain -- I knew it was time to retire.
That was 11 years ago, & I don't miss much of it.
In these recent newspaper-reminiscences I've posted, I've left out one of the main reasons I don't do that kind of work anymore.
Because it's a high-stress job, & as a reporter it's VERY easy to get people angry at you without even trying.
You usually don't see it coming, but folks can go off about the craziest things.
I had one angry woman call me up after a domestic dispute she was involved in made the front page of the weekly paper I was working at. Her husband got charged with assault with a deadly weapon -- a kitchen knife.
She wasn't mad about the story -- which quoted her kids telling police that Daddy said he was "going to cut Mommy's head off." That didn't bother her.
What she was upset about was the HEADLINE, which covered all the cases that got into court that week -- which included some meth-possession cases -- & which she said made her sound like a meth freak.
"All my neighbors and friends think I'm methed out of my head now," she said.
I explained that the story didn't say that.... That wasn't good enough for her. She hadn't actually READ the story. So I READ THE STORY TO HER OVER THE PHONE, to make it clearer. She was still pissed about the headline. Finally I said I couldn't teach her friends & neighbors how to read....
After a downtown house fire on a Saturday evening destroyed an apartment building & set-off some ammunition somebody had stored there, when I got into work on Monday I called the Fire Chief for more details about what happened. He didn't have 5 minutes to talk to me -- he said he was too busy running water lines for the new Fire Hall. He didn't want any of the other firefighters to talk to me about it either, said I'd have to wait 'til he was available -- then hung up.
I called him back at 10 p.m. that night, & he STILL didn't have time to talk to me.
But we were a daily paper (published Tuesday through Saturday mornings). So I got what details I could from the Sheriff's Office & went ahead & wrote the story without the Fire Chief -- but left in quotes from him about how & why he avoided me.
& naturally, the next day when I got to work, the Fire Chief was in my Publisher's office, yelling at my Editor & my Publisher about what a backstabbing scumbag I was.
"I've lived here for 35 years and I don't have to take this kind of shit from you!" he yelled.
"I just want to know two things," I said. "Did I get any of the details wrong?"
"No!"
"Did I quote you accurately?"
"Well, yeah, but...."
"I'm outta here," I said, & left my bosses to argue with the Fire Chief -- who wanted to get me fired for not waiting to talk to him.
This kind of stuff happened ALL THE TIME. It was so stressful, the Publisher & I used to have closed-door meetings once a month so we could yell at each other & get all the stress out....
When we printed a photo on the front page of a fisherman's body that was fished out of the river after he'd been missing for a month, people called & yelled at us about that -- even though all you could see was a big gray bag being carried by four guys.
When a prominent local lawyer ran for Mayor -- then got arrested on a meth-possession charge, I wrote the story. & then the Editor & I sat on it for 3 days because we just weren't sure. This was a story that could ruin someone's life. Then our Publisher ordered us to get off the pot & print the story. We ran it on Page 2.
& the next day the Mayoral candidate called up crying. How could I DO this to her, she asked. I'd interviewed her, I'd been IN HER HOUSE! Her husband, also a lawyer, who was listening in on the phonecall, asked if they could've had a little advance warning about the story. I suggested that if they'd had any warning, they probably would've tried to stop the story from being printed.
He laughed & said I was probably right.
I apologized to his wife, who I thought was a good person, & said I was sorry for how things had gone, & that I hoped it would all work out in the end.
She lost the election & never spoke to me again. I'm not sure what happened with the meth charge.
When I was in the Air Force, I got used to defending my writing against people who didn't understand what I did -- but who outranked me, so what they wanted was what went. I got pretty good at it anyway, even convincing some that I was right.
But in the Real World, everybody outranked me. No amount of Good Work I did (& I think I did a LOT) ever made it any easier. No doors opened more easily just because I was good at my job. There was never any big payoff or reward. There were never any "better" jobs offered other than in-the-trenches reporter or small-town editor.
& I can't remember how many times people called at midnight or 4 a.m., spilled their guts to me for two hours, & then said "This is all off-the-record, you can't use any of this, I never called you" ... even AFTER I told them at the start of the phonecall that I'd be taking notes.... But I always tried to be A Good Guy....
When I was in the AF, my old buddy & fellow editor Phil Guerrero had a joke about the kind of long, involved stories I used to write: "Keep typing 'til it makes sense!" For years, that was my motto.
But I got to the point where no amount of explaining made any difference, where everything was just too complicated, & I could no longer even find the main reason I was writing some things. For much of the last four years of my "career," I'd go into work on Monday morning, down a pot of coffee, write the entire front page of the paper, & go home that night not remembering anything I'd written.
Journalism is a career for a young person with lots of time & lots of energy & no social life. It's the kiss of death for marriages & families. You wouldn't believe how many divorced, alcoholic, unhappy reporters I met over the years....
& when I got to the point where I couldn't remember the basics, couldn't keep the facts straight, was making stupid mistakes, couldn't make any sense out of anything I was writing, no matter how much I tried to explain -- I knew it was time to retire.
That was 11 years ago, & I don't miss much of it.
Sunday, May 12, 2013
#667: The biggest missile base in the world
After three years in the Air Force spent coloring forms with yellow & purple markers at the Army and Air Force Hometown News Service in San Antonio, I begged to get out so I could get a real AF base-newspaper job -- & in June of 1986 I was sent to Francis E. Warren Air Force Base in Cheyenne, Wyoming -- at that time the biggest missile base in the world.
I was thrilled to be at a base where there was actually Something Happening. But as with several of my AF assignments, I couldn't really Talk about what was going on. Though the base controlled 200 ICBMs spread out over a 12,600-square-mile area covering southeastern Wyoming, northeastern Colorado & western Nebraska, we could neither confirm nor deny the presence of nuclear weapons in any particular location.
But everybody assumed those weren't just chewing-gum-warhead missiles sitting out there under the rolling hills of the Great Plains.
It took me awhile to find my footing. But soon I was writing & shooting photos for base-newspaper stories about security police patrolling isolated missile sites in the dead of winter as the gusty winds blew -60 degree wind-chill temps at them. We on the base newspaper (usually two staffers, rarely three) tried our best to write "mission feature" stories showing how each job on the base contributed to supporting the mission -- but it wasn't easy. There was so much we weren't allowed to talk about....
I finally got the chance to interview & hang-out with a missile launch crew while they were on-duty -- but it took a couple years of work & begging to do it, & I was only allowed to proceed after a reporter from the OMAHA WORLD-HERALD newspaper beat me to it. I tried to do a John McPhee/NEW YORKER-style atmosphere-piece on the crew & their surroundings....
...& naturally, after all that work & all that begging, I couldn't take all that I'd learned & turn it into a story of a reasonable size for a base newspaper. I was always too ambitious for my own good, back then. The story never got printed -- it was too freaking LONG, there was too much neat atmosphere & too many great quotes I wanted to cram in.
Months went by ... & finally I was told it would be better if I just gave up. I still have my 35 pages of notes. Not the last time I cracked under pressure....
One story I was proud of was when I got to be on the site when the last of the support crews "switched-on" the tenth Peacekeeper/MX missile, to reach what the AF called "initial operational capability" at the end of 1986. That story DID get printed, & helped win me an award. & eventually 50 of the 10-warhead Peacekeepers were deployed across the Wyoming plains.
But usually we on the base newspaper didn't get quite so up-close & personal with The Mission. We wrote about stuff that grabbed our attention -- folks from the base doing good & interesting volunteer work in the local community, interesting personalities, big base events, retirements, etc. I started reviewing strange music, movies & books.
After LOTS of encouragement, I started writing sports stories -- about a couple guys who ran in marathons, one AF doctor who competed in stair-climbing competitions & briefly got into the GUINNESS BOOK OF WORLD RECORDS (that story also made the front page of the local daily paper), the hilarious comedy of Youth T-Ball, & even the base's Chess Club.
& I found that writing sports gave me a freedom I usually didn't have in the rest of the paper -- the rest of the time we had to play it pretty straight.
But all the time I was looking for "light" stuff, more humor, because working at the world's biggest missile base was a serious business.
I wrote comedy pieces on Air Force Medals You Don't Want To Win, Fictional Air Force Bases You Wouldn't Want To Be Assigned To, & the comedy possibilities of Air Force jargon.
I even snuck through a piece about whether some of the older homes in Base Housing were haunted: Some of the houses dated back to the late 1890's when the base was a U.S. Army cavalry post. But it was a touchy subject, because the base commander wanted it known in no uncertain terms that he'd tolerate NO GHOSTS on base....
I tried to take stuff lightly, use the paper as a sort of escape from everyday AF grinds & demands.
& I had a great role-model to learn from -- an Air Force Technical Sergeant named Gary Pomeroy, who'd been Strategic Air Command's Journalist of the Year for three years in a row. Gary could write stuff that would make me cry from laughing so hard. But he was tough, he'd been around. Brutally realistic, he thought my laughing fits were silly & juvenile -- but he was a great writing coach ... if you could survive his critiques.
When I wasn't working on the base paper, I was writing at home. I still had dreams of being Stephen King when I grew up. The first draft of "On Tour With the Little Green Men" (which I posted here awhile back) came out during my three years at FEW. A 40-page science-fiction/music piece called "The Landscape Player" (probably too long to post here, though I think it's my best, most vivid piece of fiction ever) also came out while in Wyoming. Neither of them ever got published anywhere.
The wife & I loved Wyoming, & for the first time in years we weren't homesick for Idaho -- even when the snowdrifts piled up over the front door of our mobile home. I made the mistake of telling people I'd stay at FEW permanently, since few AF folks seemed to want to visit Wyoming -- they thought it was as brutal & boring as, say, North Dakota or Montana. Or South Korea. Or the Aleutian Islands. & they were wrong.
But saying I'd volunteer to stay was probably the kiss of death. At the end of 1989, the news came that I was "The Number One non-volunteer" in the AF's public affairs career field to be sent overseas. & there was a job waiting for me in Ankara, Turkey.
So in December 1989, that's where we went. At least I got to take my wife & my 2-year-old son. We were actually kind of excited about going. But it turned out to be two of the worst years of our lives....
I was thrilled to be at a base where there was actually Something Happening. But as with several of my AF assignments, I couldn't really Talk about what was going on. Though the base controlled 200 ICBMs spread out over a 12,600-square-mile area covering southeastern Wyoming, northeastern Colorado & western Nebraska, we could neither confirm nor deny the presence of nuclear weapons in any particular location.
But everybody assumed those weren't just chewing-gum-warhead missiles sitting out there under the rolling hills of the Great Plains.
It took me awhile to find my footing. But soon I was writing & shooting photos for base-newspaper stories about security police patrolling isolated missile sites in the dead of winter as the gusty winds blew -60 degree wind-chill temps at them. We on the base newspaper (usually two staffers, rarely three) tried our best to write "mission feature" stories showing how each job on the base contributed to supporting the mission -- but it wasn't easy. There was so much we weren't allowed to talk about....
I finally got the chance to interview & hang-out with a missile launch crew while they were on-duty -- but it took a couple years of work & begging to do it, & I was only allowed to proceed after a reporter from the OMAHA WORLD-HERALD newspaper beat me to it. I tried to do a John McPhee/NEW YORKER-style atmosphere-piece on the crew & their surroundings....
...& naturally, after all that work & all that begging, I couldn't take all that I'd learned & turn it into a story of a reasonable size for a base newspaper. I was always too ambitious for my own good, back then. The story never got printed -- it was too freaking LONG, there was too much neat atmosphere & too many great quotes I wanted to cram in.
Months went by ... & finally I was told it would be better if I just gave up. I still have my 35 pages of notes. Not the last time I cracked under pressure....
One story I was proud of was when I got to be on the site when the last of the support crews "switched-on" the tenth Peacekeeper/MX missile, to reach what the AF called "initial operational capability" at the end of 1986. That story DID get printed, & helped win me an award. & eventually 50 of the 10-warhead Peacekeepers were deployed across the Wyoming plains.
But usually we on the base newspaper didn't get quite so up-close & personal with The Mission. We wrote about stuff that grabbed our attention -- folks from the base doing good & interesting volunteer work in the local community, interesting personalities, big base events, retirements, etc. I started reviewing strange music, movies & books.
After LOTS of encouragement, I started writing sports stories -- about a couple guys who ran in marathons, one AF doctor who competed in stair-climbing competitions & briefly got into the GUINNESS BOOK OF WORLD RECORDS (that story also made the front page of the local daily paper), the hilarious comedy of Youth T-Ball, & even the base's Chess Club.
& I found that writing sports gave me a freedom I usually didn't have in the rest of the paper -- the rest of the time we had to play it pretty straight.
But all the time I was looking for "light" stuff, more humor, because working at the world's biggest missile base was a serious business.
I wrote comedy pieces on Air Force Medals You Don't Want To Win, Fictional Air Force Bases You Wouldn't Want To Be Assigned To, & the comedy possibilities of Air Force jargon.
I even snuck through a piece about whether some of the older homes in Base Housing were haunted: Some of the houses dated back to the late 1890's when the base was a U.S. Army cavalry post. But it was a touchy subject, because the base commander wanted it known in no uncertain terms that he'd tolerate NO GHOSTS on base....
I tried to take stuff lightly, use the paper as a sort of escape from everyday AF grinds & demands.
& I had a great role-model to learn from -- an Air Force Technical Sergeant named Gary Pomeroy, who'd been Strategic Air Command's Journalist of the Year for three years in a row. Gary could write stuff that would make me cry from laughing so hard. But he was tough, he'd been around. Brutally realistic, he thought my laughing fits were silly & juvenile -- but he was a great writing coach ... if you could survive his critiques.
When I wasn't working on the base paper, I was writing at home. I still had dreams of being Stephen King when I grew up. The first draft of "On Tour With the Little Green Men" (which I posted here awhile back) came out during my three years at FEW. A 40-page science-fiction/music piece called "The Landscape Player" (probably too long to post here, though I think it's my best, most vivid piece of fiction ever) also came out while in Wyoming. Neither of them ever got published anywhere.
The wife & I loved Wyoming, & for the first time in years we weren't homesick for Idaho -- even when the snowdrifts piled up over the front door of our mobile home. I made the mistake of telling people I'd stay at FEW permanently, since few AF folks seemed to want to visit Wyoming -- they thought it was as brutal & boring as, say, North Dakota or Montana. Or South Korea. Or the Aleutian Islands. & they were wrong.
But saying I'd volunteer to stay was probably the kiss of death. At the end of 1989, the news came that I was "The Number One non-volunteer" in the AF's public affairs career field to be sent overseas. & there was a job waiting for me in Ankara, Turkey.
So in December 1989, that's where we went. At least I got to take my wife & my 2-year-old son. We were actually kind of excited about going. But it turned out to be two of the worst years of our lives....
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
#622: The poster-child for stressing-out
Late August, 1999. Two days after my 40th birthday. After taking my first week off from work in 3 years, by 8:30 am Monday I'm back at my desk, trying to pull-together the next issue of the small weekly newspaper I've been editing since May.
It's an absolutely normal Monday. There's a lot of work to do, a big pile of paperwork in front of me, & nobody did much to prepare for the next issue while I was gone. But I've been working 50+ hours a week since May, so I'm getting used to it. Everything is going exactly as I expected.
But I'm having trouble with it.
By 9:30 am I start to hyperventilate. I can't relax. My hands and arms are getting all tingly. I can't stop panting for breath. I call a therapist I've been talking to about work-related stress and marriage problems. He recommends getting out of the building and getting something to eat.
But I can't leave -- there's too much work to do. I can't push it off on my co-workers, either -- they're wrapped-up in their own work. I try eating. It doesn't help. I try organizing a long schedule of events for a quickly-approaching town festival, the one thing that MUST be on the next front page. But I can't focus. I can't MAKE it make sense. I can't even get the list of happenings typed.
I drink some water. I try to walk around a little, but my legs are all wobbly. My arms are going numb. My heart is racing. And I can't slow down my breathing.
I call my therapist back. He ORDERS me to get out of the building. But it's too late.
At noon, I ask our receptionist if she could do me a favor and call my wife. And an ambulance. I can't seem to do it myself. I can't breathe. I can't get enough air. For some reason it seems like there will be more air on the floor, so I go there.
By 12:15 I'm stretched out on my back on the office floor, still hyperventilating. My arms are numb, my hands locked into fists. My legs are cramping and folding up. I moan for someone to help me, but nobody will even come talk to me.
At the edge of my vision, I can see the head of the reporter I just hired, standing nearby, watching, but she won't get closer. I'm scaring her. I'm scaring myself. I can hear phones ringing and people talking and Monday going on, but I'm stuck on the floor alone and I can't move. I'm left to gasp and flop like a fish. I'm helpless.
Finally an EMT appears & I try to tell her what's wrong. Another EMT appears, they put me on a gurney & I'm wheeled outside into an ambulance. I notice vaguely that a crowd has gathered. My co-workers are calling my name and telling me to hang in there. My wife has appeared and says she'll follow me to the hospital.
In the ambulance, the EMTs give me SOMETHING & try to determine if I'm having a heart attack. I'm SURE that's what's happening. I'm convinced that I'm gonna die, 2 days after my 40th birthday.
In the emergency room, they run tests & try to bring my breathing under control. They have to teach me how to breathe again. It takes awhile.
When I'm stable, they admit me to the hospital & put me in the cardiac critical care unit til they determine if I've had a heart attack. It looks like I'm gonna be there for awhile.
My wife appears, and we cry all over each other. We both note the timing of this "attack," & without trying 2 make Too Big A Deal out of it, we both wonder if I've been pushing things too hard & if somebody's trying to send me A Message.
She stays for awhile, then has to leave to go check on the kids. She sez she'll bring me back something to read in case I'm stuck here overnight.
And as soon as she leaves, I'm overcome by the most intense feelings of RELIEF that I've possibly ever felt -- as if this bed, in this place, is EXACTLY where I wanted to be, exactly where I was headed from the moment I woke up this morning. It's safe & quiet here. And someone else is gonna havta run the newspaper for me.
And then I cry like a baby.
Eventually, 1 of the ER docs comes in & tells me I DIDN'T have a heart attack -- I had an anxiety attack. A nurse tells me they can prescribe some anti-anxiety meds, but they won't solve my problem -- that my problem is whatever's kicking around in my head.
Then they release me.
I take a day off to think it over, then go to work on Weds & resign as the editor. But I offer to work as a full-time reporter to make up for it. This is a mistake, but I was always happier writing full-time anyway.
I try the anti-anxiety meds, & once I get used to the "zombie effect," they're not bad -- I feel like me with all the stress removed. It's sorta enjoyable.
But the stress continues -- there's just as much, if not more, with reporting full-time. & I knew that. But this is my 1st step in moving away from my 20-year career in journalism. & it takes me 2 more years to give up & get out of it entirely.
Don't let this happen to you. If you're in a high-stress job that overworks you to the point of breakdown, get away from it. Figure out some other way to pay your bills. Don't give your life to a career where nobody keeps score. Because the things you'll lose are things you might never get back -- spouse, children, possibly your health, maybe your life. It ain't worth it.
I was stupid. Looking back, I wish I hadn't sold myself so cheap. & I wish I'd known I was living The Good Life while I was IN it....
It's an absolutely normal Monday. There's a lot of work to do, a big pile of paperwork in front of me, & nobody did much to prepare for the next issue while I was gone. But I've been working 50+ hours a week since May, so I'm getting used to it. Everything is going exactly as I expected.
But I'm having trouble with it.
By 9:30 am I start to hyperventilate. I can't relax. My hands and arms are getting all tingly. I can't stop panting for breath. I call a therapist I've been talking to about work-related stress and marriage problems. He recommends getting out of the building and getting something to eat.
But I can't leave -- there's too much work to do. I can't push it off on my co-workers, either -- they're wrapped-up in their own work. I try eating. It doesn't help. I try organizing a long schedule of events for a quickly-approaching town festival, the one thing that MUST be on the next front page. But I can't focus. I can't MAKE it make sense. I can't even get the list of happenings typed.
I drink some water. I try to walk around a little, but my legs are all wobbly. My arms are going numb. My heart is racing. And I can't slow down my breathing.
I call my therapist back. He ORDERS me to get out of the building. But it's too late.
At noon, I ask our receptionist if she could do me a favor and call my wife. And an ambulance. I can't seem to do it myself. I can't breathe. I can't get enough air. For some reason it seems like there will be more air on the floor, so I go there.
By 12:15 I'm stretched out on my back on the office floor, still hyperventilating. My arms are numb, my hands locked into fists. My legs are cramping and folding up. I moan for someone to help me, but nobody will even come talk to me.
At the edge of my vision, I can see the head of the reporter I just hired, standing nearby, watching, but she won't get closer. I'm scaring her. I'm scaring myself. I can hear phones ringing and people talking and Monday going on, but I'm stuck on the floor alone and I can't move. I'm left to gasp and flop like a fish. I'm helpless.
Finally an EMT appears & I try to tell her what's wrong. Another EMT appears, they put me on a gurney & I'm wheeled outside into an ambulance. I notice vaguely that a crowd has gathered. My co-workers are calling my name and telling me to hang in there. My wife has appeared and says she'll follow me to the hospital.
In the ambulance, the EMTs give me SOMETHING & try to determine if I'm having a heart attack. I'm SURE that's what's happening. I'm convinced that I'm gonna die, 2 days after my 40th birthday.
In the emergency room, they run tests & try to bring my breathing under control. They have to teach me how to breathe again. It takes awhile.
When I'm stable, they admit me to the hospital & put me in the cardiac critical care unit til they determine if I've had a heart attack. It looks like I'm gonna be there for awhile.
My wife appears, and we cry all over each other. We both note the timing of this "attack," & without trying 2 make Too Big A Deal out of it, we both wonder if I've been pushing things too hard & if somebody's trying to send me A Message.
She stays for awhile, then has to leave to go check on the kids. She sez she'll bring me back something to read in case I'm stuck here overnight.
And as soon as she leaves, I'm overcome by the most intense feelings of RELIEF that I've possibly ever felt -- as if this bed, in this place, is EXACTLY where I wanted to be, exactly where I was headed from the moment I woke up this morning. It's safe & quiet here. And someone else is gonna havta run the newspaper for me.
And then I cry like a baby.
Eventually, 1 of the ER docs comes in & tells me I DIDN'T have a heart attack -- I had an anxiety attack. A nurse tells me they can prescribe some anti-anxiety meds, but they won't solve my problem -- that my problem is whatever's kicking around in my head.
Then they release me.
I take a day off to think it over, then go to work on Weds & resign as the editor. But I offer to work as a full-time reporter to make up for it. This is a mistake, but I was always happier writing full-time anyway.
I try the anti-anxiety meds, & once I get used to the "zombie effect," they're not bad -- I feel like me with all the stress removed. It's sorta enjoyable.
But the stress continues -- there's just as much, if not more, with reporting full-time. & I knew that. But this is my 1st step in moving away from my 20-year career in journalism. & it takes me 2 more years to give up & get out of it entirely.
Don't let this happen to you. If you're in a high-stress job that overworks you to the point of breakdown, get away from it. Figure out some other way to pay your bills. Don't give your life to a career where nobody keeps score. Because the things you'll lose are things you might never get back -- spouse, children, possibly your health, maybe your life. It ain't worth it.
I was stupid. Looking back, I wish I hadn't sold myself so cheap. & I wish I'd known I was living The Good Life while I was IN it....
Monday, November 5, 2012
#602: On becoming a news junkie
Before I became a reporter, I pretty-much hated the news. Never read it, watched it or listened to it. Had no real use for "current events." Closest I got to reading a newspaper was skimming thru some long non-fiction piece in ROLLING STONE.
But somewhere along the way I got hooked on the work of journalists like Hunter S. Thompson, John McPhee, Tim Cahill. & when I got to Journalism School, I hoped that -- if I had 1/2 the writing talent I THOT I had -- maybe I could figure-out some lighter, more personal, funnier approach to writing 4 newspapers.
"Personality features" were always my favorite assignments at J-school. Something where you could loosen the rules a little bit, let some of your subject's personality in -- have some FUN with the writing. Wasn't until YEARS later that I realized you could do the same thing with sportswriting -- practically ALL the time....
On my good days, when I could write some real-life comedy (33 Thanksgiving turkeys delivered to a local resident due to a computer glitch -- she donated them to the Senior Center; old couple gives up growing a lawn & replaces it with multi-colored carpets -- causing car wrecks in front of their house), I thot I DID contribute something new & unique 2 the newspapers I worked 4. It was a joy 2 share a laugh with readers on the front page. & every fun story was like a gift from God -- most of them practically wrote themselves. They were almost effortless.
I couldn't see why EVERY reporter didn't do them.
They were also a great break from the usual grind of car wrecks, murders, trials, council meetings, DWI arrests, drug busts & political stupidity that is the avg reporter's daily diet. Journalism is a great career 4 a young person with lotsa energy & no social life. If you're a little older, with a Significant Other & a family, the job will eat you up. Because it never stops.
I don't look at newspapers much anymore, because most of them just make me want to know MORE. Or I wonder why the reporter doesn't journey much past the just-the-facts approach. Why so few reporters seem 2 do the daily job with much STYLE. They may be accurate, but they aren't that much fun 2 read.
I DO read local newspaper COLUMNISTS. The FUNNY 1's. & I wish there were MORE....
I have a little more fun with TV news, tho it can B frustrating 2. I gave up on most TV political coverage months ago -- the way the national media were more intrested in Herman Cain's Women Problems or Rick Perry's Senior Moments than they were in Xplaining Romney's plan to save the country. Besides, I'm pretty-much sick of the prez election & grateful that by this time Tues nite our long national nightmare will be over. Or perhaps it will be just beginning....
In addition 2 being great waking-up TV, I'd agree that nothing unites us like the national news-media in times of crisis -- Hurricane Sandy (Proof that there's No God: The Atlantic City Boardwalk is destroyed, but Snooki's house is OK), Katrina, 9/11, the Challenger explosion, etc. I just wish they worked up 2 their potential more often.
On the night before Election Day, you may know where Obama & Romney stand on some of the issues, but do you know what their plans 4 the future are? Do they have any clear, substantial, detailed plans for saving this country?
I don't think turning the clock back 2 1980 is a vision 4 the future. But clearly there R millions of people who wouldn't mind going back there. Or who didn't learn anything the 1st time around.
My news addiction has even gotten in the way at work. I haven't been playing much music lately. (Still recovering from the batch of strange CDs Crabby sent me awhile back -- Cromagnon's CAVE ROCK may have scarred me 4 life....) I'll get back 2 it, of course -- but mainly over the past week or so I've been listening 2 Seattle's news-radio station, KOMO. Tho they have a definite format they repeat each hour, the great thing about the news is that it CHANGES -- unlike the playlists at all the local rock stations.
Have listened 2 a little music that's grabbed me, tho -- Aaron Copland's "Appalachian Spring," Beatles' "A Day in the Life," Who's "Love, Reign O'er Me," Led Zep's "When the Levee Breaks," Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone" & "I Want You," Cat Power's "He War" & "Speak for Me," part of a track off the new Neil Young album, "Walk Like a Giant" (which sounds a little like the return of "Like a Hurricane") -- & some great trax by classic late-'60s psychedelic band Love: "Alone Again Or," "Maybe the People Should Be the Times," "You Set the Scene," "Your Mind and We Belong Together."
These last replayed while reading Andrew Hultkrans's book-length look at Love's 1967 cult-classic album FOREVER CHANGES -- not sure I buy all Hultkrans' claims 4 what influenced Love-leader Arthur Lee 2 write the songs 4 FOREVER CHANGES, but the album turned out a mostly-gorgeous period piece anyway, a great forgotten companion 2 SGT. PEPPER and PIPER AT THE GATES OF DAWN (and DAYS OF FUTURE PASSED). Should have a review of the book posted soon....
But somewhere along the way I got hooked on the work of journalists like Hunter S. Thompson, John McPhee, Tim Cahill. & when I got to Journalism School, I hoped that -- if I had 1/2 the writing talent I THOT I had -- maybe I could figure-out some lighter, more personal, funnier approach to writing 4 newspapers.
"Personality features" were always my favorite assignments at J-school. Something where you could loosen the rules a little bit, let some of your subject's personality in -- have some FUN with the writing. Wasn't until YEARS later that I realized you could do the same thing with sportswriting -- practically ALL the time....
On my good days, when I could write some real-life comedy (33 Thanksgiving turkeys delivered to a local resident due to a computer glitch -- she donated them to the Senior Center; old couple gives up growing a lawn & replaces it with multi-colored carpets -- causing car wrecks in front of their house), I thot I DID contribute something new & unique 2 the newspapers I worked 4. It was a joy 2 share a laugh with readers on the front page. & every fun story was like a gift from God -- most of them practically wrote themselves. They were almost effortless.
I couldn't see why EVERY reporter didn't do them.
They were also a great break from the usual grind of car wrecks, murders, trials, council meetings, DWI arrests, drug busts & political stupidity that is the avg reporter's daily diet. Journalism is a great career 4 a young person with lotsa energy & no social life. If you're a little older, with a Significant Other & a family, the job will eat you up. Because it never stops.
I don't look at newspapers much anymore, because most of them just make me want to know MORE. Or I wonder why the reporter doesn't journey much past the just-the-facts approach. Why so few reporters seem 2 do the daily job with much STYLE. They may be accurate, but they aren't that much fun 2 read.
I DO read local newspaper COLUMNISTS. The FUNNY 1's. & I wish there were MORE....
I have a little more fun with TV news, tho it can B frustrating 2. I gave up on most TV political coverage months ago -- the way the national media were more intrested in Herman Cain's Women Problems or Rick Perry's Senior Moments than they were in Xplaining Romney's plan to save the country. Besides, I'm pretty-much sick of the prez election & grateful that by this time Tues nite our long national nightmare will be over. Or perhaps it will be just beginning....
In addition 2 being great waking-up TV, I'd agree that nothing unites us like the national news-media in times of crisis -- Hurricane Sandy (Proof that there's No God: The Atlantic City Boardwalk is destroyed, but Snooki's house is OK), Katrina, 9/11, the Challenger explosion, etc. I just wish they worked up 2 their potential more often.
On the night before Election Day, you may know where Obama & Romney stand on some of the issues, but do you know what their plans 4 the future are? Do they have any clear, substantial, detailed plans for saving this country?
I don't think turning the clock back 2 1980 is a vision 4 the future. But clearly there R millions of people who wouldn't mind going back there. Or who didn't learn anything the 1st time around.
My news addiction has even gotten in the way at work. I haven't been playing much music lately. (Still recovering from the batch of strange CDs Crabby sent me awhile back -- Cromagnon's CAVE ROCK may have scarred me 4 life....) I'll get back 2 it, of course -- but mainly over the past week or so I've been listening 2 Seattle's news-radio station, KOMO. Tho they have a definite format they repeat each hour, the great thing about the news is that it CHANGES -- unlike the playlists at all the local rock stations.
Have listened 2 a little music that's grabbed me, tho -- Aaron Copland's "Appalachian Spring," Beatles' "A Day in the Life," Who's "Love, Reign O'er Me," Led Zep's "When the Levee Breaks," Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone" & "I Want You," Cat Power's "He War" & "Speak for Me," part of a track off the new Neil Young album, "Walk Like a Giant" (which sounds a little like the return of "Like a Hurricane") -- & some great trax by classic late-'60s psychedelic band Love: "Alone Again Or," "Maybe the People Should Be the Times," "You Set the Scene," "Your Mind and We Belong Together."
These last replayed while reading Andrew Hultkrans's book-length look at Love's 1967 cult-classic album FOREVER CHANGES -- not sure I buy all Hultkrans' claims 4 what influenced Love-leader Arthur Lee 2 write the songs 4 FOREVER CHANGES, but the album turned out a mostly-gorgeous period piece anyway, a great forgotten companion 2 SGT. PEPPER and PIPER AT THE GATES OF DAWN (and DAYS OF FUTURE PASSED). Should have a review of the book posted soon....
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
#528: The smallest Air Force base in the world
I've bn stuck in some pretty small places. Ankara Air Station in Turkey (where I was assigned by the US Air Force in 1990-91) was about 4 blocks long & 3 blocks across -- a home 10,000 miles from home 4 the 2,000 or so Americans assigned there. It's all closed up now.
Onizuka Air Station in Sunnyvale, Calif., was even smaller. Not counting the 3-story parking garage, you could almost throw a baseball from 1 side of the base 2 the other.
But that'd B leaving out "The Blue Cube" -- a 4-story, windowless high-tech block, "shrouded in secrecy" (as the local newspapers put it), that was the whole reason the base was there.
Unfortunately, the Blue Cube sat right next 2 US Highway 101, where hundreds of thousands of cars passed by every day, possibly with 1,000s of people inside them wondering what went on inside that huge light-blue building....
Onizuka's whole mission was satellite tracking -- including GPS satellites that I assume were used 4 enemy surveillance & target-spotting during the 1st Gulf War. But in 1992, when I was there, We Couldn't Talk About Any Of That. It was all still Top Secret. This was LONG B4 everybody & his brother had a GPS system in their car.
I'd bn in other places where we Couldn't Talk About Our Mission -- in the 3 years I was at Francis E. Warren AFB in Wyoming, I could never Confirm or Deny the existence of nuclear missiles at any particular location. Everybody just knew they were Out There ... somewhere. That's about as detailed as I could get.
Onizuka AS was even MORE secretive. Imagine being a public-affairs guy at a place like that. Sure you could talk 2 the local media -- you just couldn't tell them what the base DID.
Imagine being a base newspaper guy at such a place. What the hell could you write about?
Well, somehow I found SOMETHING to fill the 8-pages-per-week of the Xerox-copier-reprinted typing-paper-sheet-sized ONIZUKA ORBITER. Since I couldn't talk much about the mission, I tended 2 write lots of humorous pieces, & focused on base intramural sports & people with intresting off-duty hobbies -- the 1's who'd talk 2 me about those. 1 guy wouldn't talk about being a member of a local rap group (when he was off-duty) Bcos he thot it would signal 2 his superiors that he didn't take his job seriously.
I had 2 put up with this heavy-handed Big Brother take-your-job-deadly-seriously stuff EVERY DAY. It was the kiss of death 4 a reporter who tried 2 have fun with his job. & it helped me decide 2 get out of the Air Force that much sooner.
In an AF base newspaper, 1 of a reporter's highest callings was sposta B 2 write a "mission feature" -- a slice-of-daily-life-style piece that would vividly show how 1 person's or 1 unit's job helped get the mission (national defense) done. In a place as secretive as "Oz," mission features were tough 2 write. Impossible, even.
1 unit didn't like the fact that I led off a story by focusing on the 9 empty 3-pound coffee cans they had stacked up in their break room. I thot the coffee cans showed the kind of demanding, ongoing, routine kind of job they did -- as important as it was. They wouldn't let me print the story with that description in it. I was able 2 convince their section chief of my reasons behind including such an image -- she even agreed with me. But she said publishing it would cost her her job. So I backed off.
Another unit (as close as I could get 2 the satellite-tracking center of the base's mission) was offended when I pointed out that their main work area (a cluster of huge satellite dishes that sometimes had 2 B climbed out on 2 B cleaned) included a "Pigeon Attack Zone" -- this area ID'd by big signs next 2 the door out 2 the dishes.
The guys thot the signs were hilarious -- so did I -- but they didn't want the signs (or the kind of "attacks" the pigeons often dive-bombed them with) mentioned in the base newspaper. We talked it over, & I held on. & the story ended-up winning an award.
But after that, fewer offices & work areas around the tiny base would talk 2 me in NE depth. Mission features got tougher 2 find. So much so, that 4 an April Fool's Day edition, I wrote a mission feature on the base's janitors -- a dozen guys who spent hours each nite vacuuming carpets & mopping miles of tile floors. I thot the story was hilarious -- so did the janitors. & when I printed the story under a "Mission Feature" banner, nobody could miss the joke. That story also won an award.
I fought the overly-secretive silliness every way I knew how -- not always good-naturedly. & I told every1 I knew there that I couldn't see why everything was so hush-hush -- we hadn't bn THAT secretive during those 3 years I served at the biggest missile base in the world (which I promise 2 write more about soon).
...It wasn't all bad. Tho I wasn't there 4 the very 1st issue of the ORBITER, they let me re-design it a little with the 2nd issue. Since the Sunnyvale/San Jose area was even then known as a high-tech mecca 4 computers & such, I chose a modern, high-tech look 4 the paper, with a sorta computerized-looking sans-serif typeface that let me squeeze even more info in2 every issue's 8 (or sometimes more) pages.
& despite the frustrations, I wrote some stuff I was pretty happy with. 1 piece was on 1/2adozen base guys who had up&coming parts in the Bay Area rap music scene. I wish I coulda done more of that stuff. I hadda lotta fun with base intramural sports -- usually attracted 2 the losers, but trying pretty conscientiously 2 get everything covered. It was a small base & pretty EZ 2 keep up with.
Possibly the best story ever while I was there was on a base golf tournament -- & naturally, I followed around some REALLY BAD golfers, including R base Chaplain who was still learning how 2 play. He was hilarious -- after he scored a 9 on the 1st hole & a 10 on the 2nd, we were all crying from laffing so hard. & luckily the comedy came over in the story.
But all the stuff I Couldn't Talk About left me with a lotta stuff I Couldn't Write About -- & sometimes if I tried, people I'd never met would rewrite me 4 reasons unknown. Certainly not Bcos of National Security. I was able 2 convince most of these folks that I Knew What I Was Doing. But their rewrites would always stand. I started taking my name off of lots of stuff -- the only way I could noticeably protest.
I'd bn planning on getting out of the AF since B4 coming 2 Oz. When things started going bad, I started sending out a dozen resumes a week 2 Real Newspapers, begging 4 a writing job. Finally, in Sept 1992, The Smallest Daily Newspaper In The World -- located in Worland, Wyoming -- offered 2 hire me as a managing editor. It was the beginning of a whole new adventure.
After 10 years of service, the AF did at least let me out when I asked nicely. & I left Oz with a couple of end-of-the-year awards, 4 AF Space Command's Best Feature Writing & Best News Writing of 1992. (The 2nd of these was kinda a joke. There was no "news" at R base. Not Officially.)
...Oh, music was important in all this, 2. The cheapest house we could find 2 rent was 45 mins away from the base in San Jose (which then had the most Xpensive rent prices in the nation, we were told). 2 dare California's freeways (101, 680, 880, etc), music was ESSENTIAL. It was while driving these freeways that I realized Madonna was an Artist -- a mix-tape of her songs that I could actually STAND ("Open Your Heart," "Live to Tell," "The Look of Love," "Oh Father," "Dear Jessie," "Dress You Up," etc.) probly kept me from wrecking the car a dozen times. On the way 2&from work I also played the HECK outta mix tapes I'm still playing 2day.
& that 45-minute commute was on the Good Days. When it rained -- which it seemingly always did each Fri aft -- the drive home could stretch in2 3 hours....
Onizuka Air Station in Sunnyvale, Calif., was even smaller. Not counting the 3-story parking garage, you could almost throw a baseball from 1 side of the base 2 the other.
But that'd B leaving out "The Blue Cube" -- a 4-story, windowless high-tech block, "shrouded in secrecy" (as the local newspapers put it), that was the whole reason the base was there.
Unfortunately, the Blue Cube sat right next 2 US Highway 101, where hundreds of thousands of cars passed by every day, possibly with 1,000s of people inside them wondering what went on inside that huge light-blue building....
Onizuka's whole mission was satellite tracking -- including GPS satellites that I assume were used 4 enemy surveillance & target-spotting during the 1st Gulf War. But in 1992, when I was there, We Couldn't Talk About Any Of That. It was all still Top Secret. This was LONG B4 everybody & his brother had a GPS system in their car.
I'd bn in other places where we Couldn't Talk About Our Mission -- in the 3 years I was at Francis E. Warren AFB in Wyoming, I could never Confirm or Deny the existence of nuclear missiles at any particular location. Everybody just knew they were Out There ... somewhere. That's about as detailed as I could get.
Onizuka AS was even MORE secretive. Imagine being a public-affairs guy at a place like that. Sure you could talk 2 the local media -- you just couldn't tell them what the base DID.
Imagine being a base newspaper guy at such a place. What the hell could you write about?
Well, somehow I found SOMETHING to fill the 8-pages-per-week of the Xerox-copier-reprinted typing-paper-sheet-sized ONIZUKA ORBITER. Since I couldn't talk much about the mission, I tended 2 write lots of humorous pieces, & focused on base intramural sports & people with intresting off-duty hobbies -- the 1's who'd talk 2 me about those. 1 guy wouldn't talk about being a member of a local rap group (when he was off-duty) Bcos he thot it would signal 2 his superiors that he didn't take his job seriously.
I had 2 put up with this heavy-handed Big Brother take-your-job-deadly-seriously stuff EVERY DAY. It was the kiss of death 4 a reporter who tried 2 have fun with his job. & it helped me decide 2 get out of the Air Force that much sooner.
In an AF base newspaper, 1 of a reporter's highest callings was sposta B 2 write a "mission feature" -- a slice-of-daily-life-style piece that would vividly show how 1 person's or 1 unit's job helped get the mission (national defense) done. In a place as secretive as "Oz," mission features were tough 2 write. Impossible, even.
1 unit didn't like the fact that I led off a story by focusing on the 9 empty 3-pound coffee cans they had stacked up in their break room. I thot the coffee cans showed the kind of demanding, ongoing, routine kind of job they did -- as important as it was. They wouldn't let me print the story with that description in it. I was able 2 convince their section chief of my reasons behind including such an image -- she even agreed with me. But she said publishing it would cost her her job. So I backed off.
Another unit (as close as I could get 2 the satellite-tracking center of the base's mission) was offended when I pointed out that their main work area (a cluster of huge satellite dishes that sometimes had 2 B climbed out on 2 B cleaned) included a "Pigeon Attack Zone" -- this area ID'd by big signs next 2 the door out 2 the dishes.
The guys thot the signs were hilarious -- so did I -- but they didn't want the signs (or the kind of "attacks" the pigeons often dive-bombed them with) mentioned in the base newspaper. We talked it over, & I held on. & the story ended-up winning an award.
But after that, fewer offices & work areas around the tiny base would talk 2 me in NE depth. Mission features got tougher 2 find. So much so, that 4 an April Fool's Day edition, I wrote a mission feature on the base's janitors -- a dozen guys who spent hours each nite vacuuming carpets & mopping miles of tile floors. I thot the story was hilarious -- so did the janitors. & when I printed the story under a "Mission Feature" banner, nobody could miss the joke. That story also won an award.
I fought the overly-secretive silliness every way I knew how -- not always good-naturedly. & I told every1 I knew there that I couldn't see why everything was so hush-hush -- we hadn't bn THAT secretive during those 3 years I served at the biggest missile base in the world (which I promise 2 write more about soon).
...It wasn't all bad. Tho I wasn't there 4 the very 1st issue of the ORBITER, they let me re-design it a little with the 2nd issue. Since the Sunnyvale/San Jose area was even then known as a high-tech mecca 4 computers & such, I chose a modern, high-tech look 4 the paper, with a sorta computerized-looking sans-serif typeface that let me squeeze even more info in2 every issue's 8 (or sometimes more) pages.
& despite the frustrations, I wrote some stuff I was pretty happy with. 1 piece was on 1/2adozen base guys who had up&coming parts in the Bay Area rap music scene. I wish I coulda done more of that stuff. I hadda lotta fun with base intramural sports -- usually attracted 2 the losers, but trying pretty conscientiously 2 get everything covered. It was a small base & pretty EZ 2 keep up with.
Possibly the best story ever while I was there was on a base golf tournament -- & naturally, I followed around some REALLY BAD golfers, including R base Chaplain who was still learning how 2 play. He was hilarious -- after he scored a 9 on the 1st hole & a 10 on the 2nd, we were all crying from laffing so hard. & luckily the comedy came over in the story.
But all the stuff I Couldn't Talk About left me with a lotta stuff I Couldn't Write About -- & sometimes if I tried, people I'd never met would rewrite me 4 reasons unknown. Certainly not Bcos of National Security. I was able 2 convince most of these folks that I Knew What I Was Doing. But their rewrites would always stand. I started taking my name off of lots of stuff -- the only way I could noticeably protest.
I'd bn planning on getting out of the AF since B4 coming 2 Oz. When things started going bad, I started sending out a dozen resumes a week 2 Real Newspapers, begging 4 a writing job. Finally, in Sept 1992, The Smallest Daily Newspaper In The World -- located in Worland, Wyoming -- offered 2 hire me as a managing editor. It was the beginning of a whole new adventure.
After 10 years of service, the AF did at least let me out when I asked nicely. & I left Oz with a couple of end-of-the-year awards, 4 AF Space Command's Best Feature Writing & Best News Writing of 1992. (The 2nd of these was kinda a joke. There was no "news" at R base. Not Officially.)
...Oh, music was important in all this, 2. The cheapest house we could find 2 rent was 45 mins away from the base in San Jose (which then had the most Xpensive rent prices in the nation, we were told). 2 dare California's freeways (101, 680, 880, etc), music was ESSENTIAL. It was while driving these freeways that I realized Madonna was an Artist -- a mix-tape of her songs that I could actually STAND ("Open Your Heart," "Live to Tell," "The Look of Love," "Oh Father," "Dear Jessie," "Dress You Up," etc.) probly kept me from wrecking the car a dozen times. On the way 2&from work I also played the HECK outta mix tapes I'm still playing 2day.
& that 45-minute commute was on the Good Days. When it rained -- which it seemingly always did each Fri aft -- the drive home could stretch in2 3 hours....
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