OK, I'm pissed.
I just read a blog from a guy who was touting that he was a "real" journalist because his blog "broke a story." Then he chided an actual newspaper for "claiming to break the story.
Puhleeze.
The "story" that was broken was a link. No details -- just here it is, folks.
The newspaper, on the other hand, had a reporter who actually made phone calls and dug for facts. Furthermore, the reporter's name -- his REAL name -- was at the top of the story. Not some pseudonym or cutesy screen name to hide behind and to abandon when the heat's too hot in the kitchen.
I like blogs. Hell, here I am spouting off on one. And I won't deny for a minute that I'm using my own cutesy screen name.
Is this a news source? HELL NO. I'm not even going to pretend it is. It's my forum for letting it all out. Sometimes, I use it as a sounding board about current events. But breaking news on it? Hardly.
I've broken a few stories in my day -- using my name. My real name. Have I received criticism? Sure. If I put it on the line, I should take my licks like a big girl. In my real name.
There are some good blogging news sources. But there are more (and they're breeding like bunnies, folks) bad ones who want to play "journalist" without getting their hands dirty.
To give the devil his due, there are some bad journalists out there, too. (Jayson Blair or Jean Cooke, anyone?) But, believe it or not, they're a rarity.
Most journalists are underpaid and overworked. They care about getting the most accurate facts to you. They confront politicians on behalf of you.
Sometimes, what looks like a good news story just doesn't have the facts behind it to come together. The reputable journalist will recognize that. His real name and reputation are on the line, after all.
OK, this is disjointed and in all likelihood, not my best work. But there it is. And even without my real name on it, I'll take my licks.
After all, I'm on both sides.
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Monday, May 12, 2008
Sunday, October 14, 2007
With apologies to William Penn
I have a love-hate relationship with the AP Stylebook. It's my work bible.
Looking for shorthand for "until"? It's not "til." It's "till." I can back that up with Stylebook passage.
I'm well-versed in it, but like most followers, I still uncover surprises. And Norm, the AP god who deigns what is proper and improper in The Book for its annual publication, sometimes changes his mind. It drives me mad when he does that.
Here's an example: For years, Norm declared that "fund raising" was two words; "fundraiser," however, was one. Until 2005, when the AP god wed "fund" to "raising" and decreed it one word.
(I still wonder why it took him years to merge the words "teen" and "ager" to make one word. I think he finally did it when he realized that every editor, including me, ignored his edict and blended them anyway. Like some Christians, we editors can become rather cafeteria-minded when it comes to what we want to believe.)
One place I won't deviate, however, is in the case of state abbreviations. Norm, not the U.S. Postal Service, has it right. It's "Tenn.," not "TN" for my state of domicile. "Ohio" should be spelled out in its entirety (come on, people; it's only two more letters. Are we really that lazy?)
In one instance, USPS and Norm are in complete concert. "Pennsylvania," according to both PTB, is abbreviated "Pa."
I once had an editorial assistant who abbreviated it "Penn." It set my teeth on edge. We went round and round. I flung The Book at her, showing her the correct passage. She'd smile and nod ... then abbreviate it "Penn." the next time. Grrrrrrr.
So you can see why my teeth were set on edge when I read the article about the passing of Werner von Trapp, one of the von Trapps from Sound of Music fame. As I read about his life, I came across the following:
I don't even remember the rest of the article. I stumbled on that abbreviation and choked.
Do I even have to mention the article's source? The Associated Press. Yes -- the one and the same. The one that cuts Norm his paycheck for being its deity and editing its holy grail that we, the lowly editors of newspapers, must adhere.
What kind of editors are looking over AP copy? In my not-so humble opinion, the answer is either A) None; or B) Ones who suck.
Furthermore, why aren't the reporters checking their abbreviations? State abbreviations are taught in Copy Editing 101.
Go get 'em, Norm!
Looking for shorthand for "until"? It's not "til." It's "till." I can back that up with Stylebook passage.
I'm well-versed in it, but like most followers, I still uncover surprises. And Norm, the AP god who deigns what is proper and improper in The Book for its annual publication, sometimes changes his mind. It drives me mad when he does that.
Here's an example: For years, Norm declared that "fund raising" was two words; "fundraiser," however, was one. Until 2005, when the AP god wed "fund" to "raising" and decreed it one word.
(I still wonder why it took him years to merge the words "teen" and "ager" to make one word. I think he finally did it when he realized that every editor, including me, ignored his edict and blended them anyway. Like some Christians, we editors can become rather cafeteria-minded when it comes to what we want to believe.)
One place I won't deviate, however, is in the case of state abbreviations. Norm, not the U.S. Postal Service, has it right. It's "Tenn.," not "TN" for my state of domicile. "Ohio" should be spelled out in its entirety (come on, people; it's only two more letters. Are we really that lazy?)
In one instance, USPS and Norm are in complete concert. "Pennsylvania," according to both PTB, is abbreviated "Pa."
I once had an editorial assistant who abbreviated it "Penn." It set my teeth on edge. We went round and round. I flung The Book at her, showing her the correct passage. She'd smile and nod ... then abbreviate it "Penn." the next time. Grrrrrrr.
So you can see why my teeth were set on edge when I read the article about the passing of Werner von Trapp, one of the von Trapps from Sound of Music fame. As I read about his life, I came across the following:
After the Trapp Family Singers retired, von Trapp helped to found a music school in Reading, Penn., called the Community School of Music.
I don't even remember the rest of the article. I stumbled on that abbreviation and choked.
Do I even have to mention the article's source? The Associated Press. Yes -- the one and the same. The one that cuts Norm his paycheck for being its deity and editing its holy grail that we, the lowly editors of newspapers, must adhere.
What kind of editors are looking over AP copy? In my not-so humble opinion, the answer is either A) None; or B) Ones who suck.
Furthermore, why aren't the reporters checking their abbreviations? State abbreviations are taught in Copy Editing 101.
Go get 'em, Norm!
Friday, August 17, 2007
The Worst Day of the Year
Yep. It's today.
I almost ran out of gas on the way to work. I love my car, but like everything else in my life, it's got its quirks. Its most major one is that my gas tank can be virtually empty and the needle on the gas gauge points to a quarter of a tank.
Or more, as it was doing this morning. But when it gets low, the car starts sputtering. People on I-40 don't like it when sputtering cars are sharing their road. One trucker particularly didn't like it. He can kiss my ass.
After making a stop I wasn't necessarily planning to make and driving about a mile out of my way to get 3 gallons of gas, the car was happy. But I was late for work. Not good.
We were two people short in our department today. One of them was the supervisor. Guess who's the supervisor when the supervisor's not around?
Everyone in this county who ever thought the newspaper might be interested in their story showed up at my doorstep today. Most days, that's OK. Today it wasn't.
I had two jobs to perform today -- mine and the supervisor's. My end wasn't looking so good. Then the proverbial shit hit the fan. Major story. Must get in the paper ASAP. Must have already-stretched-thin staff on the story. Now.
After a few hours in the scorching heat, the already-stretched-thin staff straggles back in from newsgathering to put their work together. That's when my Very Loud Co-worker decided to pump it into high gear. Only this time she was joined by her dickhead friend.
Blahblahblahblahblahblah ... And so it went. Louder. And Louder. AND LOUDER. The already-stretched-thin staff was having trouble concentrating over their chatter. I was having trouble concentrating. So, I did what any quasi-supervisor would do. I got up, went to their Corner 'o Chat, explained what was going on, and asked them to keep it down.
Very Loud Co-worker was sincerely apologetic. I thought it was classy of her.
Dickhead said, in his most sarcastic voice, "Oh, we're sorry."
He can kiss my ass, too. No, wait. I don't want him anywhere near my ass. He can go fuck himself. With a white-hot fork. The size of a pitchfork. Sideways. Up his ugly anus. (Can you tell I really don't like this guy?)
Today was shitty all on its own, but it was destined to be that way.
Had she lived, today would have been my mother's 64th birthday.
Her birthday is always hard for me. It's when I miss her most.
So many things were left unresolved between us. There's no way, barring recovery from the mental illness that eventually led her to take her life, that things could have been resolved.
In the last few years of her life, our roles had changed. I was the mother, reminding her to take her medicine and keep her psychiatric appointments. She was the meek child with good intentions she rarely carried out.
I have yet to grieve for her properly. I have yet to shed a tear. I planned the funeral. Picked out the coffin and her attire. Chose the spray of flowers adorning her casket. Arranged for the pallbearers because her lazy-assed nephews couldn't be bothered with it. Made sure Daddy had his Xanex so he could get through the service. Held my daughter as she weeped for the grandmother who would never see her graduate from high school or attend her wedding. Drove all over East Tennessee shopping for funeral attire for both of us.
It's seldom slowed down since. I miss my mother on the anniversary of her death and major holidays, and I travel 60 miles from here each Memorial Day to place flowers on her grave. But it's her birthday -- the anniversary of the day she drew her first breath -- that I mourn her.
Happy birthday, Mommy. I love you.
I almost ran out of gas on the way to work. I love my car, but like everything else in my life, it's got its quirks. Its most major one is that my gas tank can be virtually empty and the needle on the gas gauge points to a quarter of a tank.
Or more, as it was doing this morning. But when it gets low, the car starts sputtering. People on I-40 don't like it when sputtering cars are sharing their road. One trucker particularly didn't like it. He can kiss my ass.
After making a stop I wasn't necessarily planning to make and driving about a mile out of my way to get 3 gallons of gas, the car was happy. But I was late for work. Not good.
We were two people short in our department today. One of them was the supervisor. Guess who's the supervisor when the supervisor's not around?
Everyone in this county who ever thought the newspaper might be interested in their story showed up at my doorstep today. Most days, that's OK. Today it wasn't.
I had two jobs to perform today -- mine and the supervisor's. My end wasn't looking so good. Then the proverbial shit hit the fan. Major story. Must get in the paper ASAP. Must have already-stretched-thin staff on the story. Now.
After a few hours in the scorching heat, the already-stretched-thin staff straggles back in from newsgathering to put their work together. That's when my Very Loud Co-worker decided to pump it into high gear. Only this time she was joined by her dickhead friend.
Blahblahblahblahblahblah ... And so it went. Louder. And Louder. AND LOUDER. The already-stretched-thin staff was having trouble concentrating over their chatter. I was having trouble concentrating. So, I did what any quasi-supervisor would do. I got up, went to their Corner 'o Chat, explained what was going on, and asked them to keep it down.
Very Loud Co-worker was sincerely apologetic. I thought it was classy of her.
Dickhead said, in his most sarcastic voice, "Oh, we're sorry."
He can kiss my ass, too. No, wait. I don't want him anywhere near my ass. He can go fuck himself. With a white-hot fork. The size of a pitchfork. Sideways. Up his ugly anus. (Can you tell I really don't like this guy?)
Today was shitty all on its own, but it was destined to be that way.
Had she lived, today would have been my mother's 64th birthday.
Her birthday is always hard for me. It's when I miss her most.
So many things were left unresolved between us. There's no way, barring recovery from the mental illness that eventually led her to take her life, that things could have been resolved.
In the last few years of her life, our roles had changed. I was the mother, reminding her to take her medicine and keep her psychiatric appointments. She was the meek child with good intentions she rarely carried out.
I have yet to grieve for her properly. I have yet to shed a tear. I planned the funeral. Picked out the coffin and her attire. Chose the spray of flowers adorning her casket. Arranged for the pallbearers because her lazy-assed nephews couldn't be bothered with it. Made sure Daddy had his Xanex so he could get through the service. Held my daughter as she weeped for the grandmother who would never see her graduate from high school or attend her wedding. Drove all over East Tennessee shopping for funeral attire for both of us.
It's seldom slowed down since. I miss my mother on the anniversary of her death and major holidays, and I travel 60 miles from here each Memorial Day to place flowers on her grave. But it's her birthday -- the anniversary of the day she drew her first breath -- that I mourn her.
Happy birthday, Mommy. I love you.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Her e-mail isn't working
Let me say it again: Her e-mail isn't working.
She has no e-mail. It's not working.
Irritating, isn't it?
Imagine hearing it, I swear to God, SEVENTEEN times. At least. In an hour. With the words rearranged. Or replaced. But the meaning's the same.
My e-mail isn't working.
Not working. I can't get e-mail.
People are sending me e-mail. I'm not getting it.
I have no e-mail.
I have a problem: I have no e-mail.
No e-mail ...
No e-mail ...
No e-mail.
Argh!
In case you haven't guessed, this is a co-worker. She's not in my department, thank God. But I can hear her over the people who are. Not only is she repetitive, she's VERY LOUD. And she talks. Constantly. And laughs. And snickers, in this really silly-sounding pssssssssssss-sss-sss that sounds like she's deflating. Only she's not. Unfortunately.
Our desks are separated by a very thin wall. A doorway leads from one department to another. A doorway -- with no door. Don't recommend that I see management about installing a door. Been there, done that. They want to try "other methods." Insert eyeroll here.
My therapist recommends buying a white-noise machine. I'm not against that, but it really chaps my ass that I have to be out $50-plus when these anemic managers could tell her to Just Shut Up.
They say they've told her to hush. I believe that, but it's doing no good. She's yet to cease and desist. Meanwhile, folks in my department who aren't nearly as loud are repeatedly told to keep it quiet. Insert another eyeroll.
You know what the bad thing is? Other than her annoyingly loud voice, tendency to bug the shit out of me with repetition and that idiotic hissing, I actually like her. (I know! It's like saying, "Other than that unfortunate shooting of your husband, how was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?")
She's friendly. She's good at her job. Unfortunately, she and I work the same hours. And. She. Won't. Shut. Up.
So, until I can spring for the machine, I've found my own version of White noise -- The White Stripes on my iTunes. Their music is the only thing I've found that will drown her out. Know the words to "Icky Thump"? I do.
Rock on, Jack. Bang those drums, Meg. And you on the other side of the wall, SHUT THE HELL UP!
She has no e-mail. It's not working.
Irritating, isn't it?
Imagine hearing it, I swear to God, SEVENTEEN times. At least. In an hour. With the words rearranged. Or replaced. But the meaning's the same.
My e-mail isn't working.
Not working. I can't get e-mail.
People are sending me e-mail. I'm not getting it.
I have no e-mail.
I have a problem: I have no e-mail.
No e-mail ...
No e-mail ...
No e-mail.
Argh!
In case you haven't guessed, this is a co-worker. She's not in my department, thank God. But I can hear her over the people who are. Not only is she repetitive, she's VERY LOUD. And she talks. Constantly. And laughs. And snickers, in this really silly-sounding pssssssssssss-sss-sss that sounds like she's deflating. Only she's not. Unfortunately.
Our desks are separated by a very thin wall. A doorway leads from one department to another. A doorway -- with no door. Don't recommend that I see management about installing a door. Been there, done that. They want to try "other methods." Insert eyeroll here.
My therapist recommends buying a white-noise machine. I'm not against that, but it really chaps my ass that I have to be out $50-plus when these anemic managers could tell her to Just Shut Up.
They say they've told her to hush. I believe that, but it's doing no good. She's yet to cease and desist. Meanwhile, folks in my department who aren't nearly as loud are repeatedly told to keep it quiet. Insert another eyeroll.
You know what the bad thing is? Other than her annoyingly loud voice, tendency to bug the shit out of me with repetition and that idiotic hissing, I actually like her. (I know! It's like saying, "Other than that unfortunate shooting of your husband, how was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?")
She's friendly. She's good at her job. Unfortunately, she and I work the same hours. And. She. Won't. Shut. Up.
So, until I can spring for the machine, I've found my own version of White noise -- The White Stripes on my iTunes. Their music is the only thing I've found that will drown her out. Know the words to "Icky Thump"? I do.
Rock on, Jack. Bang those drums, Meg. And you on the other side of the wall, SHUT THE HELL UP!
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Thursday haiku ... and other ramblings
I'm tired this Thursday
But there's laundry to do--
My closet's bare.
The other editor
Makes hateful accusations--
Her life must be sad.
***
Anyone who knows my bleeding-heart liberal leanings should bookmark this for future reference, because I'm about to jump to the defense of a conservative Republican.
We're in the midst of a war, at the end of the bloodiest and deadliest month in the years since Dubya decided to jump onto an innocent country because "they picked on mah Daddy." Health care in this country is a joke. If gas prices continue to escalate I'm going to have to get a second job in order to afford to drive to my first job, and I'm not alone.
Now why, in the midst of all that needs fixing in this country, are some people picking on Mitt Romney's faith? Admittedly, I know next to nothing about Romney. I know he was governor of Massachusetts. (Wasn't he? Maybe I'd better go look -- yeah, he was. Thank goodness for Wikipedia and a tip of my hat to Michael Scott.) I'm sure I could find something I didn't like about him, what with his right leanings and my left ones.
Why do many in America have a problem with a person's religious affiliation? I would have never known what Romney's denomination was if it hadn't been for all the "Oh, gosh, he's Mormon!" squeals. Hell, I've supported John Edwards in two presidential races now, and I wouldn't even begin to guess which church he drives to on Sunday, or even if he goes to church.
Nor do I care. I want to know what a future insert-elective-office-here can do to make our world better and how dedicated he or she is to the job at hand. Their faith is between them and their God, god, goddess, Magic Conch or whatever.
***
I am so freaking tired. A vacation isn't too far away, and I can't wait. I just want to rest; the hell with the rest of it.
Even though time off will be glorious, I can't help but worry a little bit. The first few days back at work usually consist of putting out fires. I say "I'm sorry" a lot to folks who call and want to know why their insert press release here didn't make it into the newspaper. Sigh.
Time to toss in some laundry. "Clothing optional" is not a dress-code option. Although ... it would be dressing down. Of course, I'd probably get a dressing down for it. Wonder if I could formulate a persuasive argument about Casual Fridays?!? ;)
But there's laundry to do--
My closet's bare.
The other editor
Makes hateful accusations--
Her life must be sad.
***
Anyone who knows my bleeding-heart liberal leanings should bookmark this for future reference, because I'm about to jump to the defense of a conservative Republican.
We're in the midst of a war, at the end of the bloodiest and deadliest month in the years since Dubya decided to jump onto an innocent country because "they picked on mah Daddy." Health care in this country is a joke. If gas prices continue to escalate I'm going to have to get a second job in order to afford to drive to my first job, and I'm not alone.
Now why, in the midst of all that needs fixing in this country, are some people picking on Mitt Romney's faith? Admittedly, I know next to nothing about Romney. I know he was governor of Massachusetts. (Wasn't he? Maybe I'd better go look -- yeah, he was. Thank goodness for Wikipedia and a tip of my hat to Michael Scott.) I'm sure I could find something I didn't like about him, what with his right leanings and my left ones.
Why do many in America have a problem with a person's religious affiliation? I would have never known what Romney's denomination was if it hadn't been for all the "Oh, gosh, he's Mormon!" squeals. Hell, I've supported John Edwards in two presidential races now, and I wouldn't even begin to guess which church he drives to on Sunday, or even if he goes to church.
Nor do I care. I want to know what a future insert-elective-office-here can do to make our world better and how dedicated he or she is to the job at hand. Their faith is between them and their God, god, goddess, Magic Conch or whatever.
***
I am so freaking tired. A vacation isn't too far away, and I can't wait. I just want to rest; the hell with the rest of it.
Even though time off will be glorious, I can't help but worry a little bit. The first few days back at work usually consist of putting out fires. I say "I'm sorry" a lot to folks who call and want to know why their insert press release here didn't make it into the newspaper. Sigh.
Time to toss in some laundry. "Clothing optional" is not a dress-code option. Although ... it would be dressing down. Of course, I'd probably get a dressing down for it. Wonder if I could formulate a persuasive argument about Casual Fridays?!? ;)
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Human-interest story
Want to know how to turn off a reporter and/or editor from your idea for an article?
Tell them you have a "human-interest" story.
I've been in the business for longer than I care to admit. I've seen babies whose births I typed up grow to be doctors and lawyers. I've typed up their children's births.
And in all that time, I've never heard an idea described as a "human-interest story" that would interest any human other than the one presenting the idea. Never. Not once.
Any interest I might have in what you're saying is out the door when you utter those three words. I hear nothing else. You might as well talk to a tree.
Over the years, "human-interest stories" pitched to me include:
-- Caller's divorce issues.
-- Caller's custody issues.
-- Caller went to bank for change for a $20. Bank wouldn't give change.
-- My granddaughter is prom queen/homecoming queen/insert-your-own-title-here queen.
-- A bailiff was rude to me.
Divorce sucks. Custody battles suck even more.
Banks have the right to make their own rules, including denying your change. Go to the convenience store down the road; I'll bet you your $20 they'll give you change.
There are a whole bunch of high schools out there. They all have prom queens, homecoming queens and probably real queens who I think are OK but you'd probably demand be kicked out of school not because they're causing problems, but because that's the kind of hateful in-the-name-of-Christianity pig you are.
Maybe the bailiff was having a bad day. Or maybe you're a rude bitch. My money lays with the latter.
Tell them you have a "human-interest" story.
I've been in the business for longer than I care to admit. I've seen babies whose births I typed up grow to be doctors and lawyers. I've typed up their children's births.
And in all that time, I've never heard an idea described as a "human-interest story" that would interest any human other than the one presenting the idea. Never. Not once.
Any interest I might have in what you're saying is out the door when you utter those three words. I hear nothing else. You might as well talk to a tree.
Over the years, "human-interest stories" pitched to me include:
-- Caller's divorce issues.
-- Caller's custody issues.
-- Caller went to bank for change for a $20. Bank wouldn't give change.
-- My granddaughter is prom queen/homecoming queen/insert-your-own-title-here queen.
-- A bailiff was rude to me.
Divorce sucks. Custody battles suck even more.
Banks have the right to make their own rules, including denying your change. Go to the convenience store down the road; I'll bet you your $20 they'll give you change.
There are a whole bunch of high schools out there. They all have prom queens, homecoming queens and probably real queens who I think are OK but you'd probably demand be kicked out of school not because they're causing problems, but because that's the kind of hateful in-the-name-of-Christianity pig you are.
Maybe the bailiff was having a bad day. Or maybe you're a rude bitch. My money lays with the latter.
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