Monday last week started earlier than usual. Trinity had woken up at about 5:00 and had trouble getting back to sleep. I finally got her settled down, but there was no reason for me to go back to bed for another half hour. So I got up, made a pot of coffee and got online to check my email. I also checked in on my Twitter account to see what, if anything, was there. I saw a post from Laura Conaway at the Bryant Park Project that mentioned her affection for Hadlock Field in Portland, ME -- home of the Portland Sea Dogs. I "tweeted" back: "Good morning, Laura C! Nice to see a Portland reference (and Hadlock Field!). We were there for Sea Dogs' grand opening back in '94!"
Laura tweeted back: "You awake?"
"Since 5:00," I responded, thinking she was simply surprised to see someone up and tweeting so early. Laura and I have never met (or maybe we have back in Portland...you never know) so my response was simply informational since I imagined that's what she was wondering. Then I went to the Bryant Park Project blog and saw the following headline: "NYT: NPR is canceling the BPP." I was stunned. The BPP had become part of my morning ritual. It was a smart, funny, well-produced morning show that I got via one of NPR's satellite channels. It was on air only nine months before NPR decided to pull the plug. But it was more than a radio show. It was, by virtue of its multimedia platform (radio, blog, Twitter feeds, video segments), a virtual community, the likes of which I had never really experienced before. Unlike most radio or television programs, the BPP staff opened themselves up to their listeners: they responded to blog comments in an honest (read non-diplomatic) fashion. They posted about their lives sometimes (the birth of Allison Stewart's son, for instance). They talked back to their listeners on air, but not in the manner of call-in shows. Rather, they included their listeners in the show.
And now they were going to be gone.
"Just saw the news....damn," I tweeted back to Laura.
Laura then asked me if I would be willing to be interviewed about the news. Of course I said yes. Not only did I feel that I might have something to say, being a media studies professor, but this was my chance to be even more a part of the show and, well, community that I had come to truly enjoy.
We did the interview and it aired not long afterward. I ended being part of a little blooper when they played my soundbite after introducing it as the thoughts of another listener in Paris. But Laura caught the mistake right away, owned up to it, and then used it. That was one of the pleasures of the BPP: it was human, it was honest.
The last two weeks have been interesting to say the least. The show turned part of its attention to itself and its "immanent demise," a move that a few folks found off-putting and narcissistic, but which played more introspectively and humanely than that. The staffers were clearly coming to grips with the news that literally changed their lives, helping each other cope, and they were, once again, letting their listeners in on the process. For their part, the fans of the show started coming out of the woodwork. The blog post about the cancellation got more than 600 comments of which only a small handful (maybe less than 10) bid good riddance to the show. The vast majority of the comments spoke to the affection and loyalty listeners had come to have for the show. Most expressed utter disbelief that NPR -- so committed to intelligent, forward-thinking journalism and entertainment -- could be so short sighted with regard to the BPP. There was sadness and anger in many of the posts; but there was, more importantly, empathy. Many of the fans reached out to the staffers and took the opportunity to tell them just how much the show had meant to them day to day. And the staffers responded in kind.
You just don't see this kind of thing every day in the traditional media.
There were ideas about how to save the show, of course: format changes, on-line only "broadcasts," "money bombs" to NPR, letter writing, even a plan to inundate NPR headquarters with the fronts of cereal boxes sent as postcards.
None of these things worked, of course, NPR had made up its mind. And so it was that the final day came to pass...today.
Nancy and I took the kids to daycare and, before getting to work on the article that I am finishing, I took time to drive in the car, listening to the last ever BPP broadcast. Gliding through the streets of this little post-industrial mid-western city, listening to a show from New York on my satellite radio, I was struck by the contradictions of the modern media landscape. The old and the new exist together in an uneasy relationship. I cruise past the ugly low-rise storefronts -- the relics of a bygone era in Terre Haute -- pulling in distant signals from space. I conjure up my critical academic distance and think to myself: "There's something to be written about this. It really would make an interesting case study."
And then Alison Stewart, the show's host, introduces the show's editor and (she emphasizes) her friend, Tricia McKinney, who will be presenting the song of the day meant to represent the final stage of grief: acceptance (the show did the five stages over the past five days through songs). Tricia had chosen a song by Dan Zanes (late of the great Del Fuegos) called "Smile, Smile, Smile," because she said it would make a great funeral song, focusing on the good, simple, and happy things about the person -- or, in this case, the people -- we have loved and will miss. These are the things that end up mattering most: the way someone breaks into song at strange moments, the way one eats their toast in the morning, the way someone laughs. It's a cute little song and nicely captured the moment.
But then Tricia started to talk about it and her voice broke. She started to cry. She talked about the love she has for the people involved in the show, how much it's meant to her. Alison Stewart broke in: "You're my friend. You're not supposed to make me cry!" My critical distance failed me. My eyes welled up. Tricia McKinney, a friend of sorts (though we've never met), made me cry: right there, in my car, 1,200 miles away.
And there it was: the power of this show. It had managed to break down barriers that other shows work so hard to erect between itself and its audience. Those pretend points of connection -- called "interactivity" -- that we're all so used to, suddenly became painfully, beautifully real.
And maybe that's why the BPP really was "too beautiful to live."
Thanks folks! And to you all, I raise this virtual toast.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Friday, July 11, 2008
Make 'em Laugh
We're in a transitional phase around here. The tried and true bedtime routine has fallen apart and we must now find new ways to fool the kids into thinking that sleeping is a good thing. And, frankly, it's hard to argue with them when their waking life is filled with moments like this:
By the way, just so you know, Nancy thought that painting would be a good pre-bath activity to get them starting to calm down from the day. One thing we all love about Nancy is how (sometimes blindly) optimistic she is.
By the way, just so you know, Nancy thought that painting would be a good pre-bath activity to get them starting to calm down from the day. One thing we all love about Nancy is how (sometimes blindly) optimistic she is.
Friday, June 27, 2008
24 Hour Potty People
WARNING: This post contains language and subject matter that may be unsuitable for adults or anyone with refined sensibilities. Just watch:
Yes, poop is the theme of the day. Why? Because as the parents of two toddlers, and the owner of a cat and a dog, it's perhaps the defining feature of our lives right now.
We'll begin with "The Tale of the Blue Bucket" in which Nancy established herself as the Goddess of Jobs Too Revolting For Me To Do. As the title suggests, the latest job involved an old plastic blue pail
with a cover that served as the depository for all the plastic bags of dog poop from Peanut's daily walks. Well, we sort of forgot about the pail at one point. And then it started to rain. And it rained, and it rained, and it rained. In the meantime, the cover of the little plastic blue pail had fallen off. It rained some more. And then we remembered the little plastic blue pail full of dog poop. "What are we going to do about that?" asked Nancy. "I'll take care of it," was my non-committal reply. Finally, Nancy could stand the thought of it no longer. She went outside with a pair of latex gloves, a thick green garbage bag, and the hose.
When she finished the job she returned to the house, visibly shaken. "That was worse that cleaning the decomposed possum off the car port." And yet she ate lunch not long afterward.
I think her sturdy constitution comes -- at least in part -- from an early experience on her parents' dairy farm in Alaska. Apparently, she was riding her tricycle inside the barn where they housed the cows during the winter months when one of the back wheels caught the edge of the trough into which the cows' excrement flowed. Down she went in her little snowsuit: a little ray of sunshine in a small sea of shit. Luckily, her parents were in the barn at the time and fished her out. Her mother hosed her off and that was that.
I've had nothing so traumatic in my life, and so I am a little bit of a wimp when it comes to the dirty little realities of the human experience. But I soldier on.
Every couple of days, I go into the upstairs bathroom and begin the process of changing the bag in the diaper pail.
It's a dirty job, one that requires me to breath through my mouth as I tie the opening of the old garbage bag up and replace it with a fresh one. I keep breathing through my mouth all the way down the stairs and out to the driveway where I deposit said bag into our nice new 90-something gallon Republic-issued trash can (complete with rain-proof cover).
I can't wait for the diaper days to be over and done with.
We're getting there. Thanks to a new comfy Dora the Explorer toddler toilet seat and a tasteful dish
filled with M&Ms (2 for pee, 4 for poop, 1 for the old college try), both Dave and Trin are well on their way to being diaper-free.
Of course, they are often diaper-free if left alone for more than a few seconds in the back yard. The new trend is for both kids to whip their clothes and diapers off and immediately pee on the plants. It's lovely. Really. Even better, on two occasions, Dave has come running into the house to tell us that Trin has pooped. Sure enough, on both occasions, Nancy and I were reduced to picking up after Trin in the same way that we might for Peanut.
Basically, we're living like animals at this point. Any hint of respectability is a mirage when dealing with toddlers.
And yet others seem to manage pretty well. We recently came upon a new (for us) band called Mates of State: a husband and wife combo with two small kids and a growing music career. Check out this video which features their kids (one in costume at the end, the other in utero it seems).
You can find out more about them at their fun blog: Band on the Diaper Run.
They remind me of my former grad school colleague, and all-around impressive guy, Jake Smith who, along with his very talented wife Freda (former drummer for the Blake Babies and Some Girls, among others), fronts Mysteries of Life, leads a successful academic life, and has raised two kids. How do they do it?
Beats the shit out of me.
Finally, I would be remiss were I not to include in a blog entry about poop, a clip of one of my heroes, Triumph the Insult Comic Dog. Triumph's existence is made possible by the likes of the great George Carlin, whose passing has left the world without its most accurate bullshit detector. But here's Triumph sniffing out the excrement in the most poop-laden profession in the world: the professional spin doctor.
Enjoy!
Yes, poop is the theme of the day. Why? Because as the parents of two toddlers, and the owner of a cat and a dog, it's perhaps the defining feature of our lives right now.
We'll begin with "The Tale of the Blue Bucket" in which Nancy established herself as the Goddess of Jobs Too Revolting For Me To Do. As the title suggests, the latest job involved an old plastic blue pail
with a cover that served as the depository for all the plastic bags of dog poop from Peanut's daily walks. Well, we sort of forgot about the pail at one point. And then it started to rain. And it rained, and it rained, and it rained. In the meantime, the cover of the little plastic blue pail had fallen off. It rained some more. And then we remembered the little plastic blue pail full of dog poop. "What are we going to do about that?" asked Nancy. "I'll take care of it," was my non-committal reply. Finally, Nancy could stand the thought of it no longer. She went outside with a pair of latex gloves, a thick green garbage bag, and the hose.
When she finished the job she returned to the house, visibly shaken. "That was worse that cleaning the decomposed possum off the car port." And yet she ate lunch not long afterward.
I think her sturdy constitution comes -- at least in part -- from an early experience on her parents' dairy farm in Alaska. Apparently, she was riding her tricycle inside the barn where they housed the cows during the winter months when one of the back wheels caught the edge of the trough into which the cows' excrement flowed. Down she went in her little snowsuit: a little ray of sunshine in a small sea of shit. Luckily, her parents were in the barn at the time and fished her out. Her mother hosed her off and that was that.
I've had nothing so traumatic in my life, and so I am a little bit of a wimp when it comes to the dirty little realities of the human experience. But I soldier on.
Every couple of days, I go into the upstairs bathroom and begin the process of changing the bag in the diaper pail.
It's a dirty job, one that requires me to breath through my mouth as I tie the opening of the old garbage bag up and replace it with a fresh one. I keep breathing through my mouth all the way down the stairs and out to the driveway where I deposit said bag into our nice new 90-something gallon Republic-issued trash can (complete with rain-proof cover).I can't wait for the diaper days to be over and done with.
We're getting there. Thanks to a new comfy Dora the Explorer toddler toilet seat and a tasteful dish
filled with M&Ms (2 for pee, 4 for poop, 1 for the old college try), both Dave and Trin are well on their way to being diaper-free.
Of course, they are often diaper-free if left alone for more than a few seconds in the back yard. The new trend is for both kids to whip their clothes and diapers off and immediately pee on the plants. It's lovely. Really. Even better, on two occasions, Dave has come running into the house to tell us that Trin has pooped. Sure enough, on both occasions, Nancy and I were reduced to picking up after Trin in the same way that we might for Peanut.
Basically, we're living like animals at this point. Any hint of respectability is a mirage when dealing with toddlers.
And yet others seem to manage pretty well. We recently came upon a new (for us) band called Mates of State: a husband and wife combo with two small kids and a growing music career. Check out this video which features their kids (one in costume at the end, the other in utero it seems).
You can find out more about them at their fun blog: Band on the Diaper Run.
They remind me of my former grad school colleague, and all-around impressive guy, Jake Smith who, along with his very talented wife Freda (former drummer for the Blake Babies and Some Girls, among others), fronts Mysteries of Life, leads a successful academic life, and has raised two kids. How do they do it?
Beats the shit out of me.
Finally, I would be remiss were I not to include in a blog entry about poop, a clip of one of my heroes, Triumph the Insult Comic Dog. Triumph's existence is made possible by the likes of the great George Carlin, whose passing has left the world without its most accurate bullshit detector. But here's Triumph sniffing out the excrement in the most poop-laden profession in the world: the professional spin doctor.
Enjoy!
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Life With Father
The recent storms here in the midwest did a number on the trees in our neighborhood. Everywhere you turned there were large fallen branches, and there were even a few sizable trees that came down all together. One of these -- a big elm in a neighbor's backyard -- took out a power line that served all the houses on our side of the street. When the city trucks rolled through alley to clear the tree and restore the power, they cut down anything and everything in their way and dumped it in our backyards.
And so it was that I fired up my chainsaw yesterday to cut up the large branches in our yard as well as that of our neighbor, Robin.
It made me feel like a real man.
Of course, it did take me two days to get the damn thing started after it had been sitting dormant for at least 8 months in our shed. I followed the directions exactly, but to no avail. I was ready to take it to a repair shop (I'd even called to verify that they were open and could, indeed, fix my brand of chainsaw). But then I just decided, "To hell with the directions. I'm just going to keep pulling that cord until it starts or my arm falls off, whichever comes first." And wouldn't you know it, 10 pulls later and I was off and running. I have no idea about the cause of the initial recalcitrance or why it finally started.
What I haven't told you yet is that before calling the repair shop, I had seriously considered calling my father, freshly returned from a two-week trip to Scandinavia with Mom. But we had just talked the day before, and I imagined they were tired still. Plus, I reasoned that the possible solutions to the problem were not within my powers as a mechanic. So I decided to spare him the call.
The point is that I am 41 years-old and I still think to call my father first when something goes wrong or if I have a "what's causing this phenomenon" sort of question. And it doesn't really matter what the category -- automotive, electrical, mechanical, nuclear, land-based, or on the water -- the dude knows his stuff. Want to know how to change the oil in your car, bleed the brakes, repair a distributor? Call Dad. Want to know how to solder, why your pipes are leaking, how to re-wire your house? Call Dad. Want to know how turbines work, what kinds of gears are best suited for different types of jobs, the physics and mechanics of a pulley system? Call Dad. Want to know how to remodel the basement, pour a concrete foundation, build a brick patio, repair a hold in the wall, hang a door properly? Call Dad. How it works, why it works, what it's for? Call Dad. Do you need to know about torque? Trouble with sine and cosine? Got a question about why a cup plunged upside down in water does not fill up with water? You know where to go.
And it's not just handyman stuff. There's a depth to his knowledge that goes beyond mere physical ability or experiential knowledge. We're talking theory and history here. For example, do you know what a "Hemi" is? After seeing enough Dodge commercials to convince me that this was an important thing to have, Dad told me that this was simply a term for a Hemispherical Combustion Chamber and that it's neither new nor necessarily desirable, and why. He knows more about a range of subjects that interest him than I do about the thing I do for a living. And I have a Ph.D.
He's a master sailor, plays piano, knows how to smoke a pipe, and can paint, too. He grills a mean steak. And he can win a Pinewood Derby.
I have managed to get something, though. While cutting through branch after branch of fallen timber, and feeling so Totally Useful, one phrase kept going through my head: "It's good to be a little afraid of power tools." Wisdom to live by. Thanks, Dad, for the continued existence of all my digits. And while we're at it: thanks for the entrance to the staircase that can now handle a box spring; thanks for the new plumbing all through the house; thanks for the new wiring; thanks for the garbage disposal; thanks for the new bathroom floor upstairs; thanks for liking Nancy and the kids; thanks for coaching my baseball teams; thanks for hanging a basketball hoop in our driveway in Chula Vista; thanks for worrying about when and how I was getting home; thanks for having such a fondness for little things, like a good bottle of cola, or the "goop" that you put on your hamburgers; thanks for sticking up for Peanut when I threaten to take her tags off and leave the gate open; thanks for being interested in all sorts of things.
Thanks most of all for just being a damn fine example of a father.
And so it was that I fired up my chainsaw yesterday to cut up the large branches in our yard as well as that of our neighbor, Robin.
It made me feel like a real man.
Of course, it did take me two days to get the damn thing started after it had been sitting dormant for at least 8 months in our shed. I followed the directions exactly, but to no avail. I was ready to take it to a repair shop (I'd even called to verify that they were open and could, indeed, fix my brand of chainsaw). But then I just decided, "To hell with the directions. I'm just going to keep pulling that cord until it starts or my arm falls off, whichever comes first." And wouldn't you know it, 10 pulls later and I was off and running. I have no idea about the cause of the initial recalcitrance or why it finally started.
What I haven't told you yet is that before calling the repair shop, I had seriously considered calling my father, freshly returned from a two-week trip to Scandinavia with Mom. But we had just talked the day before, and I imagined they were tired still. Plus, I reasoned that the possible solutions to the problem were not within my powers as a mechanic. So I decided to spare him the call.
The point is that I am 41 years-old and I still think to call my father first when something goes wrong or if I have a "what's causing this phenomenon" sort of question. And it doesn't really matter what the category -- automotive, electrical, mechanical, nuclear, land-based, or on the water -- the dude knows his stuff. Want to know how to change the oil in your car, bleed the brakes, repair a distributor? Call Dad. Want to know how to solder, why your pipes are leaking, how to re-wire your house? Call Dad. Want to know how turbines work, what kinds of gears are best suited for different types of jobs, the physics and mechanics of a pulley system? Call Dad. Want to know how to remodel the basement, pour a concrete foundation, build a brick patio, repair a hold in the wall, hang a door properly? Call Dad. How it works, why it works, what it's for? Call Dad. Do you need to know about torque? Trouble with sine and cosine? Got a question about why a cup plunged upside down in water does not fill up with water? You know where to go.
And it's not just handyman stuff. There's a depth to his knowledge that goes beyond mere physical ability or experiential knowledge. We're talking theory and history here. For example, do you know what a "Hemi" is? After seeing enough Dodge commercials to convince me that this was an important thing to have, Dad told me that this was simply a term for a Hemispherical Combustion Chamber and that it's neither new nor necessarily desirable, and why. He knows more about a range of subjects that interest him than I do about the thing I do for a living. And I have a Ph.D.
He's a master sailor, plays piano, knows how to smoke a pipe, and can paint, too. He grills a mean steak. And he can win a Pinewood Derby.
I have managed to get something, though. While cutting through branch after branch of fallen timber, and feeling so Totally Useful, one phrase kept going through my head: "It's good to be a little afraid of power tools." Wisdom to live by. Thanks, Dad, for the continued existence of all my digits. And while we're at it: thanks for the entrance to the staircase that can now handle a box spring; thanks for the new plumbing all through the house; thanks for the new wiring; thanks for the garbage disposal; thanks for the new bathroom floor upstairs; thanks for liking Nancy and the kids; thanks for coaching my baseball teams; thanks for hanging a basketball hoop in our driveway in Chula Vista; thanks for worrying about when and how I was getting home; thanks for having such a fondness for little things, like a good bottle of cola, or the "goop" that you put on your hamburgers; thanks for sticking up for Peanut when I threaten to take her tags off and leave the gate open; thanks for being interested in all sorts of things.
Thanks most of all for just being a damn fine example of a father.
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