Now that I have a particular type of, um, dataphone, I’ve been taking a lot more pictures. The camera on it isn’t high-quality (only 2 megapixels), but the light-adjustment is pretty good and I found a great suite of filters called CameraBag. Some of the filters are lame, and most are only good in certain instances. However, it’s making my walking-around life a bit more fun — I’d forgotten how much I enjoy taking photos. Here are a few of the keepers of the past month or so (click to see full-size):

About four-and-a-half years ago, I found myself at a crux: Quitting the only job I was qualified to do, jumping into a venture I knew nothing about, and giving relatively little thought to the potential downsides of what was to come.

Since that time, I’ve had two children; gone into great debt that I’m nowhere near out of; hired at least 15 people and fired five or six; and returned to the Only Job while keeping the Other Venture. (I’ve also learned that it’s no good to do the Only Job and hope the Other Venture runs itself; for the past few months I’ve been working 70+ hours a week between the two, and have even thrown in a third… more on that one in just a bit.)

As of this writing, I find myself at a similar turning point (the specifics of which I’ve already written of; you can catch up here): Leaving once again the world of journalism, which is what I was trained to do, and putting both feet into the slightly different world of marketing. Read the rest of this entry »

Philip Giraldi, who usually writes about the seemier side of foreign relations, has an interesting post up about speeding laws — and how safety has nothing to do with them.

Let it be known up front that I routinely warn other drivers about police speed traps by flashing my lights.  Back in my youth it New Jersey it would have been considered unchivalrous to do otherwise.  I will continue to engage in the practice as long as I drive.  I suspect that there is a philosophical issue underlying my desire to play cat and mouse with the police.  Some regard the police as stalwart men in blue who do no wrong and who uphold civic virtue.  Having worked in an intelligence agency, somewhat akin to police work, I have a different viewpoint.  Cops are guys holding down a job who do what they are told to do.  They are not necessarily heroes or martyrs.  If the local county is revenue shy and can work out some ingenious ways to fine the citizenry to raise money they will do so and the police will be tasked to pull in more miscreants and whack them with heavy fines.  It is my responsibility to deny the state my earnings, so I will do what I have to do to avoid that possibility. …

Which comes back to the central issue of state intrusion in people’s lives.  Passing a law prohibiting flashing lights on a car is clearly designed to make it easier for police to catch people, whether or not they are behaving recklessly.  It denies the people the right to have some pushback in a system which is heavily weighted against the individual. [Bold mine-R]

The comments are also worth reading, including this one:

My own home town is a notorious speed trap. Speed limits were lowered on our main thoroughfare until the desired number of enforcement actions (revenue) were produced. Shameless, obvious and loathed by the locals, this practice continues because no one is willing to appear in favor of speeding. And God help the politician who runs afoul of the Mothers Against Drunken Driving!

A BLANK SLATE: My office at E+F.

As of today, I have eight shifts left to work at the newspaper. Then it’s off for an entire week — off from the paper, the shop, the everything — on a trip to Barren River Lake. And then, just after we celebrate the nation’s birthday, I start my full-time gig at The Agency.

That’s what you call it when you work there: The Agency, always capitalized, always superlative. It’s a place where ideas are born — or, more appropriately, sculpted — and then pitched to those we’re looking to help (and who’re paying a pretty penny for it). Sometimes they bite the first hook sometimes you have to redo the bait, give a different cast or aim for a different spot. Anyway, the create-pitch-revise-sell is a process I’m looking forward to.

I’ve been part of it already, of course, but to do it everyday… it’s quite a departure from a day at the paper, which usually goes like this:

Initial meeting where news editor and photo editor explain what they’re already planning to do. Managing editor then decides on his own, generally without seeking input, what stories are worth putting on Page 1. The rest of us sit, silent, for all practical purposes asleep. (Otherwise, the process is quite random; “newsworthiness” is not something that comes up for discussion these days… all the news that fills the space!)

Hour or more of checking email, walking to the coffeeshop, surfing the net, rechecking the email… Similar to “wash, rinse, repeat.” Read the rest of this entry »

Today, Apple announced its newest iPhone, the “3GS” version. Basically, it’s the same, except with double the storage, and it can shoot video (not just stills).

Can you tell the difference? Then why be embarrased if yours is the "old" one?

Of course, everyone just HAS to have one. It’s going to be the same price as the current “3G,” which was $199. But since it doesn’t come out until July 17, that means a dismal week or two of iPhone sales leading up to the date.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I’ve been blessed with a brand-new job that’s going to be starting in just a few weeks. So today, I got a sort-of “congratulations” treat, so to speak: the OLD iPhone.

My friend Greg has already excoriated me: You dummy! Why would you do that? Do you watch the news??? Thing is, I honestly never thought too much about having one. Sure, I wanted one, but didn’t really have the need. (And, honestly, does anyone really NEED such a thing?) But circumstances have changed, and so now I have the iPhone. The “3G” one, not the “3GS” one.

It cost, by the way, just $99 — a $100 price drop, today, as the new “3GS” was announced. In other words, I just got a really cool phone/gadget/thing, something far more advanced than the Sony Walkman phone I have been using, and it cost $100 less than it would have had I gotten it yesterday.

So, no. Come July 17, I won’t be drooling over your new iPhone, the one that shoots video and has twice as much space and comes with a built-in compass (I didn’t go camping pre-iPhone, I’m sure not going now). I’ll be perfectly happy with my old iPhone — because it’s incredibly new to me.

My story, while not as cool as Obama’s or Sotomayor’s — or even Bill O’Reilly’s! — is sort of interesting, particularly after I got to college. I decided to study journalism, but by the time I got to the college paper, the only spot left was on the copy desk.

A glimpse at the interior of my new career... the old newsroom has no windows! But I'm getting ahead of myself...

I didn’t even know what a copy editor did, but soon I was in charge of the thing, overseeing a revolving staff of 0-2 people in the proofreading of stories. I did a stint as opinion editor, where I really crafted my writing style, but soon took a part-time job at the town’s actual newspaper, the Bowling Green Daily News.

A few months later, part-time became full-time; a few months after that, I got promoted to weekend editor: basically, the guy who runs the show when no one else wants to because they have lives outside the office. Here I added to my knowledge, learning page design and news judgment and some management skills.

A couple years later, burnt out from all that jazz, I bought a coffeeshop. (Note, I had not — and still have not — returned to college). Which I still have, and which is cool, but it doesn’t quite “pay the bills” for a married dad of two kiddos, one of whom is special-needs. So I headed back to the newspaper, got my old job back, and kept the coffeeshop… thus making me a “beancounting journalist,” to paraphrase my friend Nathan’s astute observation, which links back to a Kurt Vonnegut quote.

Well, late last night the beancounting journalist made yet another stark departure: I accepted an offer to become the Creative Director of Earnhart+Friends, a boutique (read: small but good) marketing firm based here in Bowling Green.

It’s truly a blessing, for a number of reasons. The schedule is more flexible (this helps my family and my business), the job is more creative and less cyclical (new projects every day, few if any “rules” that have to be followed), and — let’s face it — journalism isn’t the field anyone wants to find him/herself stuck in these days. (It’s not a terrible gig, but an escape plan is a must.) A close friend of mine is the Art Director, which means he and I will essentially be the firm’s top-tier tag team (underneath the owner, of course). And to find a job like this in a town like this is a dream come true… I am certain it is the only one of its kind in a 90-mile radius, at least.

In the previous few months I’ve taken part in writing TV scripts, rebranding a widely available retail milk, conceptualizing a new restaurant, crafting a new direction for the company itself — and all freelance, while keeping the other flaming clubs of my life going up and down in this juggling routine. Come July, however, my days as a muckraker are over — at least for now. What the future holds, I can’t tell. But the present is looking pretty good.

Oh! And the millions of you reading this will be glad to know that I’ll probably be able to get a bit more blogging done too.

On Saturday, Shelley was having some girls over, so I decided that, when I got off work, I would go have a beer at Entourage (a weird upscale club stuck in Bowling Green) before I went home.

The best laid plans of men…

First, work took longer than usual; I got out at about 10 ’til midnight. I walked to Entourage, where I was informed there was a $5 cover — despite the fact that there was nothing special going on! Weird. Only slightly daunted, I decided to walk across the street to a place called Utley’s… not really my style, but it’s owned by a sales rep I deal with (he works for a local foodservice company), so I figured I’d give it a go.

I walk in, and there are at least 300 people crowded like sheep to slaughter inside this place. A bit more daunted, but determined nonetheless, I made my way through the circus and managed to get a Stella Artois, one of my favorite beers. Of course, I didn’t want to be inside with the clowns and clownettes inside — the boys dressed like they’d just finished mowing the grass, the ladies like they were planning to audition for Hugh Hefner — so I went to head outside.

Except it was midnight by then, and for some reason it’s unlawful to sit on the sidewalk with a beer at 12:01, but not at 11:59.

I finished my beer quickly — and didn’t much enjoy it with all the foolishness going on — and headed off to go home, thus completely daunted at this juncture. And that’s when I heard someone yelling my name.

I turned around, and it was this dude Tony. Tony is maybe 23, at most, and has been a huge Foxhole fan for many years; his bands have always kind of sucked, but at least he tries (?), and he’s got a decent heart. So I sat down on the sidewalk to talk with him for a moment; he and a friend were grilling me for Foxhole info: When will we play again? When will our new album come out?

I told him I had no idea if we’d ever play again, and highly doubted, against my best hopes, that another album would ever get finished. I told him how one-third of the band now live in Texas, how I have a wife and two kids, one with autism. I told him that there’s not much interest, since we never play shows and haven’t released a thing in more than three years. He and his friend wouldn’t hear it — “You gotta see it through!” they said, “You have to finish your dream!”

The conversation has stuck with me, obviously, but I have no way to explain to Tony that dreams are just that. They’re little glimpses of a perfection that won’t be found, and that even were we to record the album with our producer of choice — which strictly speaking is impossible at this point, since we’ve asked him three or four times and been rejected at every turn — the “dream” wouldn’t be nearly so sweet as we’d like to hope. It’s hard to write music… we manged to finish, mostly, that part. It’s hard to schedule six people in one place for a week or more, it’s hard to carve out the time even if you can schedule it. It’s hard to share a room with those people for so many hours, listening to/playing over and over and over (Glenda, are you reading this?) the same blanking guitar riff, waiting for it to come out just right.

Who would buy it? Not very many people, not now. Who would publish it? Maybe Scott at Burnt Toast, our label, would, but only because he’s a super nice guy with disposable income.

Yep, every question comes with an unsatisfactory answer. Every question, that is, except this one: What would it mean to me?

And that’s where Tony has it right. Because despite the fact that I have no time, no energy, no vibrant excitement about such an endeavor, and despite the fact that there are five other things in my life that are more important and which do and SHOULD take precedence… it would, if it were possible, mean the world to me.

“The world” is a big place… a dreamy place. When you get a glimpse at it, grab it. But we can’t just overboard, because it’s not only our world, but everyone else’s, too. And so the final Foxhole album remains a dream to me. And there’s nothing wrong with dreaming.

THINGS THAT WORK

Me, at least 70 hours a week at this point (and many times well over that)

Communion of the Saints

The espresso machine, thank God

Falafels

Hot baths

The stop lights in downtown Bowling Green… all the time, even when there’s not more than two cars driving within a ten-block radius of one another

Faith

My lawn mower, half the time

THINGS THAT DON’T WORK

My DVD player.

The big milk fridge at Spencer’s

Getting to bed before 11 p.m.

Reason

The preferences in iWork ‘08

My lawn mower, half the time

I’m a faithful fellow. I don’t blog about it too much, mostly because I’m no theologian or prophet (and because I don’t blog often in general). But I believe in God, and Jesus and his resurrection, all that good stuff. (And it is good stuff.)

Anyway, I haven’t always been a faithful person, nor did I throw off all my pre-Christian habits when I came into the fold. One of those is cursing/swearing/profanity — all of which, in my view, are loaded words. To be sure, my wife Shelley tries to discourage me; generally speaking, I’m not coarse in casual conversation. Truth be told, most of it goes on inside my head, though occasionally it spills onto the page (or the post), and when it does I’m pretty defensive and unapologetic. Read the rest of this entry »

The hero as a young man

He was born with a simple — and popular for the ’80s — name: Justin, meaning just, fair, righteous. His true first name was Roy — king — and the world could certainly use some just kings, both then and now. He was a bright child, but a dark cloud hung low in his skyline. He could never put a name to it, nor a meaning, nor a reason. But there it hung, all the same.

He grew into a wise (if not entirely success-driven) young man, but the cloud lingered still. It took various forms: despair, malice, apathy, conceit. Justin was never fully in its grasp, but he couldn’t escape the feeling that an encounter with true disaster lie swiftly ahead. He took up many careers: journalist, author, restauranteur. None fulfilled, and none did anything to shake the uncertain feeling that played the role of parasite in his tumultuous heart. He stayed near enough to his birthplace, an hour-and-a-half out, far enough to avoid constant contact with family, but close enough to allow him access when his soul needed repair or his belly needed that particular salve that comes only through a mother’s meals. This was his life, one which was discontented yet oddly comfortable.

The hero during dark days... but the worst was yet to come.

It came quickly: Out for a walk in the cool night air, he saw a mysterious light, peeking through a crack in the wall of the flophouse down the street. He feared to go in, knowing the time of night and the sordid affairs taking place within… but his curiosity knew no bounds. He turned the knob slowly, opened the door swiftly (this was his time-tested method of going into a place without causing a stir — nay, turning nary a head, even in the quietest jaunts).

The light knocked him to the ground, and as quickly as it came, the light went out.

***

He woke in another place, a metropolis filled with traffic and noise and smog and such neon that he’d never before seen. It was grim and gritty and full of souls like his.

Or, we should say, how his once was. Because when he arose, naked, from the hotel bed, he knew something had changed. He was different, he was utterly another.

He put on his clothes — jeans, casual-cool shoes and long-sleeve T, his veritable uniform as of late — and stepped into the hotel hallway. He reached out to the elevator’s call buttons, and was drawn to push the wrong one. He was going UP, not down, although he couldn’t have told you why.

Into the elevator, he kept going up: Penthouse floor, do not pass go, do not collect. When the bell rang and the carcass carrier opened its mouth to allow him passage, he walked directly to a set of steel doors — NO EXIT | NO ADMITTANCE. But still he went, and with the stealth he’d used throughout his troubled existence.

Up a flight of stairs, out onto a rooftop. This was a landscape completely foreign to him, but one he suddenly realized had been calling him his entire life.

And that’s when the light returned, the exact instant that Roy Justin became Quantum, the teleporter: