Journalism Tips (and an Ode to Caitlyn)

April 22, 2010: Let me start by saying this entry is dedicated to Caitlyn Hentenaar, whoever she is. She just joined as my 18th official blog follower, and while I'm thankful, it was a complete surprise, since I haven't done an entry in a month (and nobody else seems to care). Yet she took the time to subscribe (or whatever the hell it is you people do), and this loving gesture is prompting me to share more of my potent insights, interesting experiences and acute anger.

And yes, this is one of those angry entries because I'm so annoyed with the people I have to deal with in my journalism work. It's remarkable to me how out-of-control some people are, and since I have accumulated close to 25 years of experience doing that sort of stuff, I thought I'd take a moment to share some of my opinions and, hopefully in the process, move to dampen some of the dreadful habits these people exhibit.

For starters, if a reporter is doing a story on you (or your organization, or event), you are NOT doing him a favor, HE IS DOING YOU A FAVOR. Therefore, don't treat making contact with him (meaning ME) as if you were the queen consenting to daly with one of your subjects. Unless the reporter is doing a piece exposing you for the fraud you are, happily make yourself available at HIS convenience, and remain grateful!

Another annoying thing is the ridiculous proliferation of "media" go-betweens, who largely do nothing but annoy journalists by consuming more time. I can't say how often I receive press releases that require my calling someone who has absolutely no information to give, except the name of someone else you need to call to get information. It's bad enough that every business, college and government agency keeps a barbed-wire fence around itself with its stable of press-relation idiots, but to have little groups and gathering subscribe to that same stupid way of doing business is completely annoying, and merely makes the reporter (meaning ME) resent everybody involved.

I could go on, but I think it'll be best to ease back into this thing. And pending the response from my April entry, we'll see if I decide to ever do another ...

Seat Warmers

March 18, 2010: I wanted to take a moment and share about a remarkable discovery I made last month. After two years, I finally realized my car has these little tiny dials that make the seat heat up. Now, I know what you're thinking -- "What could the purpose possibly be?" I mean, we all know modern man has gotten along just fine for over a century with a cold seat. I was cynical too, believe me. But when I happened upon this switch -- you see, I was confused by the little drawing symbol and thought it had something to do with the ashtray -- my whole world was essentially changed. Suddenly the seat started getting warm, and not just hot, like the heater tends to do. (There's never a day, even the coldest, when I don't find the heat overpowering after a point, and I have to then go through multiple gyrations involving an open window, etc., to find my precarious comfort zone.) No, this seat heater just made me absolutely and comfortably toasty, and kept me so. It was dazzling, and I say without hyperbole that it took me to a level of comfort I'd heretofore only associated with a clean, well-lighted toilet.

Now, as the weather gets warm, I'm still finding I adore my seat warmer. I turn it up to 5 right away, and then let my mood and whims resettle the dial anywhere between 1 and 4. It's a lavish, dare I say decadent frill, and while I remain an old-fashioned man at heart, I still truly and wholeheartedly adore my "new" seat warmer.

Beware of the Irish!

March 17, 2010: So, I see the Irish are up to their old tricks again. I think we all saw that coming. But be honest -- can any of us really put trust in someone with red hair?

I remember the first time I saw a leprechaun. He wasn't happy and dancing, like in the movies. He was grumpy and hungover, which I saw firsthand accounted for a sickly green pallor. And when I asked him about the pot of gold lore had promised, he got all huffy, made some rude Celtic comment and tried to hit me with his Shillelagh.

No, the Irish are a dangerous lot. Don't be fooled by all those tearful songs about roses and lassies. These people would just as soon chase you down and stuff you full of shamrocks, than guide you to Dublin.

So now we're devoting yet another March 17 to the insane drunken escapades of people who can't keep their own country united. (I mean, are they Catholics or Protestants or what?!) Please understand, this had always been my favorite date on the calendar (not because Italy declared independence in 1861, but it's the same date Ringo released "Back Off Bugaloo" in the UK), until the Irish started honing in on it and ruined everything.

As we speak, millions of them are probably swarming down Fifth Avenue in New York, like fervent homosexuals on Harvey Milk Day, smiling Irish eyes and painting the streets green with their vomit, carrying on like the whole world had been scripted by John Huston.

And I'll do you one further -- I have a very plausible theory that the Irish are really just ordinary Englishmen. In fact, I don't believe anyone over in the UK can really tell anyone else apart, and that they even confuse Australians and South Africans with Scotsmen.

Well, I've said my piece, but I warn you to beware. Watch the roads with one careful eye shut for the goings-on of little green men. They're out there, I swear it, and you never know what these "lucky" people are going to try next ...

Why I Hate My Blog

March 11, 2010: The fun's been slipping with this stupid Blah-ugh! Now, every time I open the site to see if anyone's been reading this dreck, I get a familiar cramp that tells me I hate being responsible for producing regular content that has to not only be intelligent and informative, but also funny.

Granted, there are little tastes of hope and satisfaction -- seeing Terry and S. recently join filled my heart ... for like a minute, then I realized they were just like the rest of you -- a horrible band of bloodsucking fanatics bent on pulling the life right out of my soul (or is it the soul right out of my life) with your merciless insistence that I be funny and wise and tasteful all at the same! Please, people, I can't be all three! Can't you just pick two?!

Anyway, I started this Blah-ugh! to share some of my hopes about life, including revelations around my sexual prowess and hatred of people who wear loafers without socks. (I also wanted to show Matt and Shannon up by beating them to the top of the Internet, but instead they both chose to steal my thunder with their own wordy rant sites.) Now, months later, I'm finding I have less and less to say, even though my mind still rattles on uncontrollably, like a runaway train. And in truth, it's not even really sure I'm doing my best part to improve humanity. To be honest, I've become torn between practicing an evergrowing enlightened awareness involving the spirituality of non-judgment, and simply wanting to be funny.

Anyway, anyway, I guess the real point is that I'm getting more and more lazy about bothering to write things out ... And that's why, going forward, I intend to devote more energy into nurturing the sexual prowess ...

Still More on Toilets

March 8, 2010: It's a sincere treat when the toilet flushes at work. This because my place of business features these automatic flush toilets, which make the bathroom-going experience a variable and often adventurous one.

I'm still not completely sure why sometimes it flushes and other times it does not. I've developed a few theories, including one involving fast motion. Therefore, after I've peed, I try to make a series of very quick moves in order to trigger the flush mechanism, which hides behind a dark plastic cover in the form of an all-seeing electric eye.

The worst thing is when I'm forced to sit down. Here, the automatic flusher seems to take on a life of its own, flushing willy-nilly throughout my time, frightening me into rushing in order to avoid another bottom-soaking splash of sanitary conscientiousness.

For my money, I'd appreciate an old-fashioned handle, wherein I could control my own fate. I'm not sure if it's that they expect I might not flush for some strange reason. I like to think they're trying to save me that arduous effort of having to reach my hand out to pull the trigger.

Whatever the reasoning, I merely wish I could hold it all in until the day was done!

Ash Wednesday Believers, Don't Read This!

February 21, 2010: I knew it wouldn't last. Reporting emotional memories is fine for some people, but a nasty-minded cur like myself can't quell the compulsion to simply observe and criticize.

That said, how ridiculous is Ash Wednesday?! I mean, really. These people are all walking around with soot on their foreheads. It's comical. Belief is one thing, but how do you convince yourself it's in your best interests to put soot on your face and walk around in public. Doesn't that strike anyone as particularly strange?

It got me to thinking that if the Catholic church -- (these people are Catholics, right? I can't keep them straight) -- ordered everyone to rub dog feces on their foreheads, they'd do that too. Given the directive, they'd bow solemnly before the head honcho and offers words of thanks in Latin while a schmeer of foul excrement was rubbed ceremoniously below the hairline. "Go in peace ..."

Of course, to be fair, other religions do ridiculous things too, and believe me, I think they're just as stupid. One group still won't let women show their faces in public -- even the pretty ones! One group makes the children shave their heads and grow long, dangling sideburns. There are many others, but I can't think of them, nor do I possess the energy to find out about them, so you'll just have to trust me on this -- almost all religions are precariously built upon some kind of ridiculous ritual or another, and anyone who adheres to these weird practices has some small degree of moron in their soul. (No offense. You know I love all of you unconditionally.)

Someone once asked my friend Rick M. about religion. "I'll show ya my religion," he barked between pulls on a cigarette. "It's on a mountaintop."

I don't know why I find this funny, but I do. Perhaps if more people took the rituals of religion less seriously and the spirituality of humor more so, the world would be a less weird place.

Westport & Me (Part I)

February 13, 2010: In an effort to be more like Shannon (and perhaps Dan Woog as well), I've decided to focus more frequent entries on the community around me -- Westport, and Fairfield County -- and the many memories I've garnered there -- both pleasant and stomach-curdling -- ones which helped shape this dysfunctional lad and make him the frustrated, under-employed clod you see before you. (Of course, this is only until I become bored with it and decide to write about something else).

Westport, Connecticut, as many of you know (and yet refuse to believe) is my hometown. While I was born at Norwalk Hospital on a salty day in September, my parents quickly saw to it that I was transported back over the border before I developed any kind of small inner-city habits, like a penchant for boccie. Ironically, the Westport News -- I think it was the News, but it may have been the Town Crier, or some now-defunct variation -- actually ran my picture and a cutline announcing that I was the only baby born there that week. This was, of course, largely because it was a slow news week, but at the very least clearly debunks my parents' later claim that there was some kind of mix-up in the maternity ward.

We lived on Easton Road, which even then was a busy thoroughfare. Our home was a 200-year old former tollhouse that still stands today, and remains one of the few dwellings in the area not grotesquely compromised by modern man's fear-driven need to make everything bigger and tackier.

Life was good and simple, at least for me, being only a baby. We had a dog named Pepper, although his full name was Maximillian Pepper Liotta -- an old English sheepdog, the kind that doesn't have any eyes. Some of my earliest memories involve my evil brother locking me in his outdoor pen, where I'd cry and scream until someone -- usually my grandfather -- came and retrieved me. (Since he lived in New York, imagine how long I sometimes had to wait.)

My neighbor across the street was my best friend, Debbie Gilbertie. She was a beautiful, spirited little blonde with a dog of her own named Chipper. How I ever managed to get across Route 136 to visit her at age three I'll never known, although I think my mother may have occasionally brought me. Debbie and I used to take baths together (although I'm sure she'd deny this, despite what a gentleman I always was). I have great memories of us building with these giant orange cardboard box-blocks she had, on her family's kitchen floor, and us running back and forth around my house with my grandfather chasing us with his cane.

One story I often tell my children was of the time Debbie got a cat. I don't remember its name, but when I went over to see it, she explained that cats always land on their feet. She then proceeded to pick it up several times and, standing up on one of those bright-colored beanbag-like footrests so popular in the late '60s, drop it upside down on the floor. "See?!" she proclaimed each time it flipped over. "They always land on their feet!"

I remember her kind father, Mike (who I don't think was any relation to Westport celebrity Mickey Gilbertie), cutting their lawn with his dark-green Locke mower. It seemed like the biggest lawn in the world -- a rolling meadow that disappeared into the distant trees and late-afternoon sun, which set over the rambling little river miles below in that valley just the other side of their lawn ... In the summer there were honeysuckle blossoms and Debbie taught me how to taste the sap from them ... I also remember playing with Debbie's Barbie doll, which had one of those cars, and we'd have her drive to the store naked as a jaybird and shop, and we'd laugh hysterically ... I remember us riding in the back of Mrs. Gilbertie's station wagon, bouncing around in the days before seatbelts, staring out at the quick-passing pavement, "Watching the road go fast," we called it ... I remember her sister, Karen, had those '60s sunflower stickers in her room, and the four portrait pictures of the Beatles from the White Album hung on her ceiling -- a room not far unlike Greg Brady's in the episode when he took over Mike's den ... I remember Debbie and I intended to get married, but somehow it never worked out ...

NEXT TIME: A visit to downtown Westport in 1969 ...