I drank a lot of gin that night

Browsing through some of my old writing, I found this post that I wrote while on the East side of the state and never finished, revised, or posted. So let's--here, now--do one of those things:

I'm writing to you today from the wilds of Kenniwick, at a meeting of the WNPA, the Washington Newspapers Publishing Association, where I am in the process of learning about how to adapt to a changing publication focus, audience, and technology.

The gist of the meeting I'm in now (entitled: Web sites: Static, Active, Boring?) is that websites--specifically, here, the community newspapers' websites; perhaps even more specifically, my community paper's website--need to be interactive and reflect the community to which it belongs. It needs constantly changing content, a consistent voice, and the ability for the township's citizens to increase their involvement in what gets reported and how.

I read the USA Today this morning, followed by a couple chapters of Lester Bangs' Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung, sitting out by the foot deep pool situated octagonal, listening to Old Crow Medicine Show. You know which was more interesting? Exactly. You know why? 'Cause Lester had soul, and you'd be hard pressed to find someone who could compare in any journalistic endeavor, let alone at the USA today.

What I'm getting at--haphazardly, interrupted as I've been by roundtables, awards, and trappings of power--is that any paper, every paper, is better when you give it all you've got, when you believe in what you do< and say, when you want to (and when you can) be artistically satisfied, personally vindicated, and emotionally fulfilled. That's not just journalism, that's anything. Master craftsmen are those who have dedicated their lives to perfection, to their art, to themselves, to their audience. They leave nothing behind.

That's the benchmark. That's high-water. It's the acme, the apogee, the zenith. It's the goal towards which we strive. What I'm slowly learning here is that the first step towards that goal is to post dynamic content to your webpage to drive up page views and better serve the ad reps. The devil, as ever, is in the details.

Illusions, Michael.

Today, for the first time in what feels like forever, but what is probably closer to three years, I did a magic trick. What's more, it worked. It's true, I thought, I can still amaze a child.

The trick is called the French Drop (named for its inventor, Albert French), and its purpose is largely utilitarian: to make something disappear out of your hand as if it had never been, to extinguish its form from the realm of the visible. What actually happens, of course, is that you pretend to take it (the "it" today being a coin) from one hand to the other, but don't. Magic, and the awesome subclass known as prestidigitation, is both essentially the art of make believe and completely useless on a resume.

Or so I thought. I may have happened upon the only job in this fair city where the ability to vanish a quarter can net me steady income without requiring that I dress up as a clown, or undress as one.

I'm tutoring, or to be more specific, I'm watching people tutor. There was a time, and that time was called college, where I tutored a lot: in writing centers, for Junior Achievement (I taught kids about the economy, which is hilarious as I am both unemployed and ignorant on the subject. Thank goodness they had a teacher's packet), and for random roommates and acquaintances. There's a real joy to be found in helping someone figure out what they want to say, study, or write; It's a good feeling, like successfully hiding a fugitive from the police.

That said, I'm still in the job market (It's right next to the Farmer's market on 42nd; apparently, they grow these things organically). I'm not watching enough tutor sessions to make rent yet, so I'm maintaining a lookout for job postings that might be right for me. So, keep your fingers crossed, and I'll keep out of the greasepaint.

Beanface is my new compliment.

This, perhaps irrationally, gives me hope for our future:



This strange phenomenon is given some context by the artist (Bean-arranger) here.

New years are beautiful. Let's have another.

Things I broke in 2007 by using them too hard:

1. A toothbrush.

Girlfriends and close relations can attest to my ability to brush my teeth so hard that even freshly purchased Bill Addis instruments will yield to my will. Do you know the kind of pressure it takes to bend the bristles on a brush? Neither do I, but I'm sure it takes uncommonly manly strength because I am: A) the only person I know who does that and B) uncommonly manly.

2. A glass slide.

Last year was an amazingly productive one for me in the realm of music. The End Times, Irrelevant Prophets, and The Christmas Belles all played shows to receptive and--dare I say--adoring audiences, and while no money was made (a trend I expect to continue throughout this year) in the doing, the creation and stage recreation was overwhelmingly fulfilling on the sort of levels talked about only in self-help books and heroic ballads.

Early on in ought seven, I was playing electric lapsteel with a glass slide and broke it, the bottom of the medicine bottle flopping like an impotent coin between the strings. I thought immediately that this would be the perfect anecdote to relate to an interviewer when the projects I was involved in got big. I'm, of course, a fool, a big one, but I still have the slide. My only regret is that my scrapbook has no place for broken pieces of glass.

3. My heart.

Jesus. I didn't know that thing even ticked anymore.