Buttermilk & Molasses

YEAH, GREENSBORO

Link: The Editor's Log

I've been enjoying John Robinson's weblog for several months now, primarily because he's one of a handful of editors and journalists out there who are optimistic about the future of print journalism (which is careening over the cliff of the future). Robinson is editor of the Greensboro News-Record, which you shouldn't hold against him since he's certainly more awake than Sy Hirschfield when it comes to future trends.

As part of his own journey, and as a service to his readers, Robinson offers up some perspective of his own -- and of others grappling with the issue.

Jay Rosen rounds up the soul-searching that many newspaper journalists are doing about the future of news on paper. I hear that. It is a daunting time. Some say we're at a tipping point. Maybe. That's not bad.

As an industry, we don't lack the talent or vision to redirect the ship, as one letter writer suggests. We lack the will. The data is clear; the status quo is not an option. What are we waiting for? The changes in store should be embraced if we can reach new audiences with our journalism. No one is suggesting we abandon our core principles. Truth telling remains the key. And everything I read challenges us to make that principle stronger.

The top editors here are meeting on Friday to begin putting to work the lessons of the Readership Institute, Merrill Brown, our own Town Square and the "revolutionaries."

Who will carry the torches for us? Tim Porter guides us with his New Values for a New Age of Journalism. Jeff Jarvis with A new model for LOCAL NEWSpapers. Jay Rosen with many posts, most recently this one. Mark Glaser with the Media Company I want to work for.

FAVE SCRIBBLERS

Link: James River Writers Festival: Workshops and Other Events.

The James Rivers Writers have another event on the horizon -- The Writing Show #3 will be held on May 26 at C3, Richmond's center for creative change. The question-du-jour is whether writing can be taught, and the panelists-du-jour are Richmond writing senseis Susan Hankla, Leslie Shiel and Deirdra McAfee. Susan and Leslie have been instrumental in whatever success I've had with creative writing and poetry, which must say something about the polish a good teacher can apply to a rough stone.

Take thyself to the James River Writers website for details and registration. Chop, chop.

A Talking Tour of Beirut - "I don't want to leave." By Lee Smith

Link: A Talking Tour of Beirut

Between the photos Matt keeps sending me of cheerful fishermen on the Corniche and random articles -- like this one by Lee Smith at Slate -- I can barely wait to figure out when we're going to drag our sorry selves to Beirut. I've now officially put off a trip twice, so now I'm setting my sights for late September or October.

In the meantime, Lee Smith's five-day Slate journal account of his month in Lebanon paints a lovely picture of an amazing country swathed in its own historic moment.

POD MANIA

Link: iPodlounge | All Things iPod

Lost in the maze of iPod goodness? Wander through the 100+ page iPodlounge Buyers' Guide for 2005. Then go spend $1,400 on new accessories. Or download free music. Or turn your iPod into a croquet ball.

The iPodlounge Buyers' Guide. It's free. And really, really orange.

BOB MASSEY IS DREAMY

Link: THE GENA ROWLANDS BAND

And his band has a new recording out. Finally. Perusing the Gena Rowlands Band website today made me want to break my pencils. Damn, I really like Bob Massey; he's always been sexier with his words.

I think the Germans must also have a word for that hollow feeling you get when you're walking down the dark 1 a.m. street eating fig newtons that cost your last two dollars when your former (and possibly future?) girlfriend pulls up in her Honda and yells your name to ask if you want a ride home. Fuck I hate that feeling. And fuck the Germans for having a word for it. They deserve it.

It's a spiritual condition, that word. It's a failing, a weakness. All of these words. That certain joy. That inexact longing. That odd doubt. I really hope the Germans don't have a word for that because it would be like twenty-seven syllables long with a bunch of crazy umlauts, and they would use it once every two hundred years, and only in a Wagner opera. But I, of course, would miss the stupid opera because I didn't have my I.D. on me or something.

Did you know that when an Italian airliner lands at an Italian airport, the plane captain speaks to the control tower in English? It's true. And really, that's the problem, isn't it? A disproportionate number of Italian planes just crash. (That's not true.) For no reason. OR MAYBE...

But I guess we all make the most of what we've got. Me, I only own one item of clothing that has lasted since high school. It's a Joy Division t-shirt. I think it's some synthetic blend, which is why it hasn't disentegrated, unlike all those more organic cotton t-shirts. Clearly there's a lesson in there somewhere. But every time I wear it, which is disturbingly often, I think: wow, I've had this thing since high school. I'll probably have it when my (ostensible) kids are in high school. It will probably be here when the sun burns out.

MOMENT OF DORKINESS II

Link: Television Without Pity

Now that we're easing into the final (and decreasingly compelling) episodes of Homicide: Life on the Streets, we've asked Netflix to turn us onto Gilmore Girls. I suspect the only thing they have in common is good acting. Where Homicide gets points for edgy camera angles and insightful drama, Gilmore Girls definitely pairs well with the spring weather, and the hordes of tulips marching about our yard.

DEAR MR. PRESIDENT

Link: Gallup Organization

The Gallup Organization, wacky pollsters that they are, asked 1,003 Americans what they would say to President Bush if they had a chance to chat him up. And they've posted the results.

That the neo-conservatives are liars. They used 911 to attack Iraq. www.stopthelie.com would be useful to look at. Male, age 35

That he's an idiot because he turned the surplus to the deficit. Female, age 35

Stop the (swear word) war. Male, age 56

I don't know. Female, age 42

That if he is a real Christian that he should do what God would really want. Female, age 42

Retire. Female, age 52

Southern borders: watch the southern borders! Male, age 52

It should come as no surprise that Democrats questioned basically said, "You're doing a bad job and get out of Iraq;" Independents said, "Leave Social Security alone and get out of Iraq;" and Republicans said, "You're doing a great job and get out of Iraq."

PICTURE THIS

What do you wear to a photo shoot?

When I was about 12, the Richmond Times-Dispatch felt compelled to do a feature article in their Food section about me. I had spent the summer teaching a weekly cooking class for the residents of the retirement community where my mom worked. I can remember making pickled cucumber-and-onion salad, desert mints and ice cream. The ice cream making was the subject of the photo that ran with the article. We used tempura paint and water in a blender to create the visual impression for the readers that I was actually making ice cream.

Ten years later, I'm working at the Times-Dispatch as an intern. It's late at night, and I've finished the obituaries and the weather blurbs (Tomorrow: Partly cloudy and hazy. Highs 65.). I'm bored. I do the 1991 version of googling myself -- Hello, LexisNexis!

Next thing I know, I'm in the photo morgue staring at prints of my scrawny, bespectacled 12-year-old self. Realizing that I look like an 80-year-old woman, I cringe at the thought of dying and having this be the photo that runs with my obituary. Khaki pants, a polo shirt, a tremendously bad haircut, braces and oversized glasses. I could co-starred on "Rhoda."

Fast forward five years. Another day, another Times-Dispatch article. This time it's on The Only Alternative, a photocopied punk music zine I put out in high school. The photographer has an amazingly uninspired idea for the photo. It involves me sitting next to a typewriter in my bedroom with my friend Derek looking over my shoulder.

I suggest that Derek and I lie on the floor, covered with record albums. Only our heads would be exposed, surrounded by the likes of 7 Seconds, the Subhumans and Honor Role. My idea wins the prize.

Now my obituary will find me with a bad haircut, acne, oversized glasses and a bunch of punk rock albums no one has ever heard. Goodbye, Rhoda! Hello, Egon from Ghostbusters! Or Thomas Dolby on a good day.

Since then, it's been a photoless journey for me. Perhaps it's a result of moving to the other side of the lens, so to speak, actively pursuing an unprofitable career as a journalist -- the Commonwealth Times and VCU Voice, a stint at the Times-Dispatch (shunted aside to make room for holdovers from the much-better, afternoon daily, The News-Leader), a dodgy freelance career with blurbs in WIRED, The NYTimes and The Washington Post, and the reams of self-published material.

All this time, you'd think, would have given me the luxury of preparing for my next photo shoot. I only have 24 hours to find a bad pair of glasses.

BELIEVE THE HYPE

Link: The Globe and Mail: One very good, very big band

I bought Funeral, the Arcade Fire's highly celebrated CD, earlier this year after some hesitation. Critics were raving about the Canadian combo's first release, calling it the album of the year for 2004. I couldn't imagine it would live up to the hype -- my initial take was that, for me, it would be more like Hot Hot Heat's first CD, which is to say a bit like a torrid love affair: after three weeks it would be forgotten, discarded, relegated to a pile with the other predictably attractive music of the year.

My gut instincts were entirely wrong. The critics were absolutely right. Arcade Fire's stellar first release is a gem. Which led my inner critic to wonder if the live band could live up to its recorded image. Apparently, it can, or so says Toronto's Globe & Mail:

On taking the stage, the Arcade Fire charged into Funeral'smost anthemic song, Wake Up, while wearing formal attire more appropriate to a Mormon youth group.

The opening song set the template for the rest of the evening with its giant crescendos, epic-scale emotions and cryptic jumble of musical influences, everything from New Order's sleek dance-rock to Motown's most exuberant sixties hits to Michael Nyman's cyclical film scores. Though the nine band members often traded instruments -- Régine Chassagne, who shared lead vocals with her husband, Win Butler, constantly migrated from keyboards to accordion to drums -- the intensity rarely flagged.

Drawing its set list from Funeral, the EP that preceded it and a few judiciously selected covers like the Xavier Cugat chestnut Brazil, the Arcade Fire attacked their songs with such vigour they at times seemed bent on tearing them apart. Two songs into the show, Richard Perry broke a drumstick while pummelling a motorcycle helmet. Butler's brother William enjoyed nothing more than hammering away at a cymbal, which he proceeded to smash even after it fell to the floor. Yet strident songs like Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels) and Rebellion (Lies) were built to take the blows.

Though some have depicted the Arcade Fire as a unique phenomenon, it was clear from the performance how much the group is a product of a remarkably fruitful development in the Canadian indie scene: the rise of the very big band. The Montreal collective known as godspeed you! black emperor and the Toronto favourites Broken Social Scene and the Hidden Cameras all understand the value of filling a stage with excited, inventive young musicians. All these groups seek to unite emotional sincerity with a display of strength, and a sense of joyfulness with a high level of commitment. In the process, they create a temporary utopia for both artists and audience.

And even though leaving that sort of space isn't easy, the Arcade Fire did their best to ease the passage. The last song of the night was In the Backseat, a fraught childhood reverie sung with exquisite fragility by Chassagne. After reducing the song to silence then gently building it up again, the musicians finished the show by playing their way through the main floor, up into the balcony, then out into the street. This savvy piece of stagecraft was distinguished by its simplicity, directness and open-hearted sense of wonder. The rest of the Arcade Fire's live show had the same virtues.

NOTE TO SQUIRRELS

Hey guys -

I know my yard is filled with bulbs, acorns and other treats buried just below the surface. One reason I know this is because I planted a lot of the stuff. Another reason would be that the yard is now littered with small holes, indications that your developed strong hunger pangs in the middle of the night and wandered from your nests in search of a midnight snack.

A few tips for you, as the warm weather stirs your metabolism and makes you even more ravenous than usual:

1. I've dumped a few dozen old daffodil bulbs in the side bed. I know that nothing beats a summer bulb that's been nestled in moist earth for a few weeks, but think of it as an effort-vs-reward thing. The daffodils are easy pickings.
2. Anenomes are nasty, little nuggets. They are hardly worth your time. I think you know this, since you've been digging them up and leaving the barely gnawed shells next to the holes.
3. We're getting a dog in June. Enjoy your skulking while you can.

P.S. Pass this along to the rabbits, if you don't mind. The burrow they renovated last summer just beneath the vegetable garden is right next to the doghouse.