The bulk of my day was spent down at Tom Lee Park covering the last day of Beale Street Music Festival. Rather than reblog about it here, let me just link to the two pieces I turned in to the paper. ONE and TWO. No, I guess it’s not Great Journalism, but it is something. I was a little thrown by not having a blog this year in which to deposit my brain droppings, so…
There comes a time every spring in the Mid-South when the outdoors just gets damned hostile. We had such a beautiful and mild and relatively dry April. Then here comes May, thrashing like an atmospheric adolescent, tantrum after tantrum after tantrum. It feels like we’ve been under siege from the outside for days, but it’s only been about 24 hours. Still, those 24 hours have brought, what, half a dozen tornado warnings in my ‘hood?…
The limb‘s on me, the insurance company says. (I inquired because it appears that I now have a leak in the ceiling in, curiously, the exact spot where that bastard hit the roof.) Just because it fell from a neighbor’s tree doesn’t make the neighbor responsible, seeing as how it was “an act of God” and all. Bokay. So begins my quest to find a roofer who will either come in way under my deductible…
The Daily What picked up a CA photo off some image dump post. The photo is by Mike Brown, if I’m not mistaken. (I’ll correct this when I get to the office if it’s wrong.)
I probably need to stop talking about work on my blog. I know. But work is basically all I do, and my identity as a journalist (albeit a lowly visual journalist, heh heh) is central to who I am. These questions of fairness and semantics and editing and community interaction are worth talking about. I don’t think journalists talk enough about why we make the decisions we make, or what happens when the people in…
That sound you hear is this week sucking the life out of me. It’s been … not great. Apparently my karmic retribution for being in a horrible mood midweek was to turn the tail end of the week into my own private failfest at work. I got called on the carpet for my participation in this conversation, and I can’t say I don’t see why. I’m an asshole! I don’t mince words! I speak to…
No, this isn’t a picture of Ralph Steadman’s pen ejaculating all over a Jackson Pollock painting. This is what it looks like when I work. I’ve been seeing internerd scuttlebutt (that was for you, Chris) around the web about Anatoliy Zenkov‘s awesome and awesomely weird little application that records the movement of your mouse for as long as you let it, and had to give in and do one of my own. Dots indicate a…
Completely forgot to post these back in December. Oops. It’s a pretty remarkable story, especially when you consider it’s about a young lesbian of color. How often does a story like that make it into the paper? And check out this little explainer video about the series, which was featured today at the annual H.F. Guggenheim Symposium on Crime in America in New York: The CA has nominated the series for a Pulitzer.
Me, aloud, on the car ride home: I argued the word “miraculous” off the front page today. Me, pretending to be someone else, in my skull: Why? Me, aloud: Because it’s not the fucking 700 Club.
Today I waged a word battle at work and I lost. It was over this story on The CA‘s site. The headline: “Third ex-Memphis police officer pleads guilty to forced sex with prostitutes.” “Forced sex,” huh? Like, sex you don’t want to have but that someone else makes you have? So … like … rape? After seeing my pal Amanda’s complaint about the euphemism on Twitter, I read the story and agreed totally with her.…
You must be logged in to post a comment.